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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«  0  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! 

0  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  0  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  —  0  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. 

0  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 :  0  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, 
0  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, 
0  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.] LAR 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, 
0  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  Runic  copy  of  the  Soulh's  sublime. 
Thou  art  the  ciuse  ;  and  howsoever  I 
Fall  short  of  his  immortal  harmony. 
fhy  gentle  heart  will  pardon  me  the  crime. 


Thou,  in  the  pride  of  Beauty  and  of  Youth, 

Spakest ;  and  for  thee  to  speak  and  be  obey'd 
Are  one  ;  but  only  in  the  sunny  South 

Such  sounds  are  utter'd,  and'such  charms  display'd, 
So  sweet  a  language  from  so  fair  a  mouh  — 

Ah  I  to  what  effort  would  it  not  persuade? 

Ravenna,  Tune  21,  1819. 


a  Written  at  Ravenna,  in  the  summer  of  1819,  «nd  j 
lUtwd  io  May   1821. 


In  the  course  of  a  visit  to  the  city  of  Ravenna  m  tbt 
summer  of  1819,  it  was  snsgested  to  the  author  that 


!  Canto  I.J 


THE    PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


163 


having  composed  something  on  the  subject  of  Tasso's 
eonfiiiernenr,  he  should  do  the  same  on  Dante's  exile, 
—  the  tomb  of  'be  poel  formins  oue  of  the  principal 
objects  of  intereit  in  that  city,  both  to  the  native  and 
to  the  stranger. 

"  On  this  hint  I  spike,"  and  the  result  has  been  the 
following  four  canto<,  in  lerza  i  im  ■,  now  oti'ered  to  the 
reader.  If  they  are  understood  and  approved,  it  is  my 
purpose  to  continue  the  poem,  in  various  o.ber  cantos, 
to  its  natural  conclusiun  in  the  present  age.  The 
reader  is  requested  to  suppose thit  Unite  addresses  him 
in  the  interval  between  the  conclusion  of  the  Divina 
Commedia  and  his  death,  ind  shortly  before  the  latter 
event,  foretelling  the  fortunes  of  Italy  in  general  in  the 
ensuing  centuries.  In  adopting  this  plan  I  have  had  in 
my  mind  the  Cassandra  of  Lycophron,  and  the  Pro- 
phecy of  Nereus  by  Horace,  as  well  as  the  Prophecies 
of  H>ly  Writ.  The  measure  adopted  is  the  lerza  rimi 
of  Dante,  which  I  am  not  aware  to  have  seen  hitherto 
tried  in  our  language,  except  it  may  be  by  Mr.  Hayley, 
of  whose  translation  I  never  saw  but  one  extract, 
quoted  in  the  notes  to  Caliph  Vathek ;  so  that  —  if  I 
do  mt  err —  Ibis  poem  may  he  considered  as  a  metrical 
experiment.  The  cantos  are  short,  and  about  the  same 
length  of  those  of  the  poet,  whose  name  I  have  bor- 
rowed, and  most  probably  taken  in  vain. 

Amongst  the  inconveniences  of  authors  in  'he  pre- 
sent day,  it  is  difficult  for  any  who  have  a  name,  good 
or  bad,  lo  escape  translation.'  I  have  had  the  fortune 
to  see  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold  translated  into 
Italian  versi  sciolti, —  that  is,  a  poem  written  in  the 
Spettserean  stanza  into  blank  verse,  without  regard  to 
the  natural  divisions  of  the  stanza  or  of  the  sense.  If 
the  present  poem,  being  on  a  national  topic,  should 
chance  to  undergo  the  same  fate,  I  would  request  the 
Italian  reader  to  remember  that  when  I  have  failed  in 
the  imitation  of  his  great  "Padre  Alighier,"  I  hive 
failed  in  imitating  that  which  all  study  and  few  under- 
stand, since  to  this  very  day  it  is  not  yet  settled  what 
was  the  meaning  of  the  allegory  in  the  first  canto  of 
the  Inferno,  unless  Count  MarchettTs  ingenious  and 
probible  conjecture  may  be  considered  as  having  de- 
cided the  question. 

He  may  also  pardon  my  f  lilure  the  more,  as  I  am 
not  quite'sure  that  he  would  be  pleased  with  my  suc- 
cess, since  the  Italians,  with  a  pardonable  nationality, 
are  particularly  jealous  of  all  that  is  left  them  as  a 
nation, —  their  literature  ;  and  in  the  present  bitterness 
of  the  classic  and  romai;tic  war,  are  but  ill  disposed  to 
permit  a  foreigner  even  to  approve  or  imitate  them, 
without  finding  some  fault  wi;h  his  ultramontane  pre- 
sumption. I  can  easily  enter  into  ail  this,  knowing 
what  would  be  thought  in  Kniland  of  an  Italian  imi- 
tator of  Milton,  or  if  a  translalian  of  Monte,  or  Pinde- 
monte,  or  Arici,  should  be  held  up  to  the  rising  gene- 
ration as  a  model  for  their  future  poetical  essays.  But 
I  perceive  that  I  am  deviating  into  an  address  to  the 
Italian  reader,  when  my  business  is  with  the  English 
one ;  and  be  they  few  or  many,  I  must  take  mv  leave 
of  both. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


CANTO   THE    FIRST. 

Once  more  in  man's  frail  world  !  which  1  had  left 
So  long  thit  't  was  forgotten  ;  and  I  feci 
The  weight  of  clay  again, —  too  soon  bereft 

Of  the  immortal  vision  which  could  heal 

1  Dante  Alighieri  was  bun  in  Florence,  in  May,  1265, 
or  an  ancient  and  hnniiurablc  tHinily.  In  the  eailypart  of 
his  life  tie  gained  some  credit  in  a  military  character,  and 
distinguished  him«elf  by  his  bravery  in  an  action  where 
the  Florentines  obtaiued  a  signal  victory  over  the  citizens 
of  Arezzo.  He  became  still  more  eminent  by  the  acqui- 
sition of  court  honours;  and  at  the  nge  of  Ihirly-live,  he 
rose  to  be  one  of  the  chief  magistrates  of  Florence,  when 
that  dignity  was  conferred  by  the  suflfrages  of  the  people. 


I      My  eirthly  sorrows,  and  to  God's  own  skies 

!      Lift  me  from  thit  deep  gulf  without  repeal. 

Where  late  my  ears  rung  with  the  damned  cries 

j      Of  souls  in  hopeless  bale;  and  from  that  place 
I      Of  lesser  torment,  whence  men  may  arise 
.  Pure  from  the  fire  to  join  the  angelic  race; 

'Midst  whom  my  own  bright  Beatrice  bless'd  3 
I      My  spii  It  with  her  light ;  and  to  the  base 

Of  the  eternal  Triad  1  lirst,  last,  best, 
Mys  eri  us,  three,  sole,  infinite,  great  God ! 
Si-.ul  universal  1  led  the  mortal  guesi, 

Unbl.as'ed  by  the  glory,  though  he  trod 
I      From  star  to  star  to  reach  II. e  almighty  throne. 
I      Oh  Beatrice  '  whose  sweet  limbs  ttie  sod 

So  long  hath  press'd,  and  the  cold  m  irbie  stone, 
'I  hnu  sole  pure  seraph  of  my  earliest  love. 
Love  so  inctr.ible,  and  so  alone. 

That  nought  on  earth  could  more  my  bosom  move, 
And  meeting  thee  in  heaven  was  but  to  meet 
Tliat  without  which  my  soul,  like  the  arkless  dove, 

Had  wander'd  still  in  search  of,  nor  her  feet 
Relieved  her  wing  till  found  ;  without  thy  light 
My  par.idise  had  still  be..n  incomplete.3 

Since  my  tenth  sun  gave  summer  to  my  sight 
Thou  wert  my  life,  the  essence  of  my  thoujht, 
Loved  ere  I  knew  the  name  of  love,4  and  bright 

Still  in  these  dim  old  eyes,  now  overwrought 

With  the  world's  war,  and  years,  and  banishment, 
And  tears  for  thee,  by  other  woes  untaught; 

Fur  mine  is  not  a  nature  to  be  bent 
By  tyrannous  faction,  and  the  brawling  crowd, 
Aj)d  though  the  long,  long  conflict  hath  been  spent 

In  vain,  and  never  more,  save  when  the  cloud 
Which  overhangs  the  Apennine,  my  mind's  eye 
Pierces  to  fancy  Florence,  once  so  proud 

Of  me,  can  I  return,  though  but  to  die, 
Unto  my  native  soil,  they  have  not  yet 
Quench'd  the  old  exile's  spirit,  stern  and  high. 

But  the  sun,  though  not  overcast,  must  set, 
And  the  night  comet h  ;  I  am  old  in  days, 
And  deeds,  and  contemplation,  and  have  met 

Destruction  face  to  face  in  all  his  ways. 

The  world  hath  left  me,  what  it  found  me,  pure, 
And  if  I  have  not  gather'd  yet  its  praise, 

I  sought  it  not  by  any  baser  lure  ; 
Man  wrongs,  and  Time  avenges,  and  my  name 
May  form  a  monument  not  all  obscure. 


From  this  exaltation  the  poet  himself  dated  his  principal 
misfortunes.  Italy  was  at  that  time  distr.nctcd  by  the 
contending  faclioneof  theGhibelines  and  Guelphs,— among 
the  latter  Dante  took  an  active  part.  In  one  of  the  pro- 
scriptions he  was  banished,  his  p.issessions  confiscated, 
and  he  died  in  exile,  in  1321.  Boccaccio  thus  describes 
his  person  and  manners:  — "  He  was  of  the  middle  sta- 
ture, of  a  mild  disposition,  and,  from  the  time  he  arrived 
at  manhood,  grave  in  his  manner  and  deportment.  His 
clothes  were  plain,  and  his  dre^a  always  conformable  lo 
his  years:  his  face  was  long;  liis  nose  aquiiine;  his  eyes 
ra'her  large  than  otherwise.  His  complexion  was  dark, 
melinchiily,  and  pensive.  In  bis  meals  he  was  extremely 
moderate;  in  his  manners  most  courteous  and  civil;  and 
both  in  public  and  private  life  he  was  admirably  decor- 
ous." —  E. 


"  Che  sol  per  le  belle  opre 
Che  fanno  in  Cielo  it  sole  e  !'  altre  stells 
Dentro  di  lui'  si  crede  il  Paradiso, 
Cosi  se  guardi  fiso 
Pensar  ben  dei  ch'  ogni  terren'  piacere." 


4  According  to  Boccaccio,  Dante  was  a  lover  long  before 
he  was  a  soldier,  and  his  passion  fir  Ihe  Bnalrice  whom  he 
has  immortalized  commenced  while  he  was  in  his  ni 
year,  and  she  in  her  eighth  year.  It  is  said  that  their 
first  meeting  was  at  a  banquet  in  the  house  of  Foico  Por- 
tinaro,  her  father;  and  certain  it  is,  that  the  impressioo 
then  made  on  the  susceptible  and  constant  heart  of  Dante 
was  not  obliterated  by  her  death,  which  happened  after  U 
interval  of  sixteen  years.— CARY. —  E. 


164 


THE   PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


[Canto  I. 


Tjough  such  was  not  my  ambition's  end  or  aim, 
To  add  to  the  vain-glorious  list  of  those 
Who  dabble  in  the  pet  iuess  of  fame, 

And  make  men's  fickle  breath  the  wind  that  blows 
Their  sail,  and  deem  ii  glury  to  be  class'J 
With  couquerori,  and  virtue's  other  foes, 

In  bloody  chronicles  of  ages  past. 
I  would  have  h  'd  my  f  I  jrence  great  and  free ; « 
Oh  Florence  !  Florence  !  unto  ii,e  Ihou  wast 

Like  tha;.  Jerusalem  which  the  Almighty  He 
VVep*  jver,  "  but  thou  wouldst  not ;"'  as  the  bird 
Gathers  \U  young,  I  would  have  gathe:'d  thee 

Beneath  a  parent  pinion,  hads  liiou  heard 
My  voice ;  but  as  llie  adder,  de:if  ai:d  fierce, 
AgaiusI  the  breast  that  cherish'd  thee  was  slirr'd 

Thy  venom,  and  my  stale  thou  didst  amerce. 
And  doom  this  body  forfeit  to  the  fire. 
Alas  !  how  bitter  is  his  country's  curse 

To  him  w  ho  Jor  that  country  would  expire. 
But  did  not  merit  to  expire  In/  her. 
And  loves  her,  loves  her  even  in  her  ire. 

The  d.iy  may  come  when  she  will  cease  to  err, 
The  day  may  come  she  would  be  proud  to  have 
The  dust  she  dooms  to  scalier,  and  transfer  a 

Of  him,  whom  she  denied  a  home,  the  grave. 
But  this  shall  not  be  granted  ;  let  my  dust 
Lie  wiieie  it  falls  ;  nor  shall  the  soil  which  gave 

Me  breath,  but  in  her  sudden  fury  thrust 
Me  forth  to  brea'he  elsewhere,  so  renssume 
My  indignant  bones,  because  lier  angry  gust 

Forsooth  is  over,  and  repeal'd  her  doom  ; 
No, —  she  denied  me  what  was  mine —  my  roof,. 
And  shall  not  have  what  is  not  hers  —  my  lomb. 

Too  long  her  armed  wrath  hath  kept  aloof 
The  breast  which  would  have  bled  for  her,  the  heart 
That  beat,  the  mind  thit  was  temptation  proof. 

The  man  who  fought,  toil'd,  tnvell'd,  and  each  part 
Of  a  true  citizen  fulfiil'd.  and  saw 
For  his  reward  the  Guelfs  ascendant  art 

Pass  his  destruction  even  into  a  law. 
These  things  are  not  made  for  forgelfulnesa, 
Florence  >hill  be  forgotten  first ;  too  raw 

The  wound,  too  deep  the  wrong,  and  the  distress 
Of  such  endurance  too  prolong'd  to  make 
My  pardon  grea  er,  her  injustice  less. 

Though  late  repented  ;  yet  —  yet  for  her  sake 
I  fee!  some  fonder  yearnings,  and  for  thine, 
My  own  Beatrice,  I  would  hardly  take 

Vengeance  upon  the  land  which  once  was  mine, 
And  still  is  haliO'.vM  bv  thy  dust's  return. 
Which  would  protect  the  murderess  like  a  shrine, 

And  save  ten  thousnnri  foes  by  thy  sole  urn. 

Thouili,  like  old  Marius  from  Minturnse's  marsh 
And  Carthage  ruins,  my  lone  breast  may  bum 

At  times  with  evil  feelings  hot  and  harsh. 
And  sometimes  the  last  pangs  of  a  vile  foe 
Writhe  in  a  dream  before  me,  and  o'erarch 

My  brow  with  hopes  of  triumph,—  lei  them  go  ! 
Such  are  the  last  infirmities  of  those 
Who  long  have  suffer'd  more  than  mortal  woe, 

And  yet  being  mortal  still,  have  no  repose 


l"I.'Esilio  che  m'e  date  onnr  i 


i IrgDO 


CaJer  tra'  boiini  e  pur  di  liide  degno." 

Sur.net  of  Dante, 
in   which  he  rppresents  Right,  Generosity,  and  Temper- 
ance 39  banished    from    among  men,  and    becking  refuge 
fium  Love,  who  inhabits  his  boscra. 

2"l,'l  si  quis  prcdiotorum  ullo  tempore  in  fortiam  dicti 
communis  perveneril,  tatit  perveniens  i>n?  comburatur, 
tie  ijuod  moriatur.**  Second  sentence  of  Florence  against 
Dante,  and  the  fourteen  accused  with  L-ra.  The  Laiin  is 
worthy  of  the  sentence.— [On  the  i!Tlh  of  January.  1302. 
DaDle  waa  mulcted  eight  thousand  lire,  and  condemned  lo 
tw.i  years  banishment ;  and  in  case  the  fine  was  not  paid, 
his  goods  were  to  t>e  confiscated.  On  the  eleventh  of 
March,  lbs  same  year,  he  was  sentenced  to  a  punishment 
due  only  to  the  most  defp?rate  of  malcfictors.  The  de- 
cree that  he  and  h  s  associates  in  exile  should  be  burneii. 
If  Ihey  fell  into  the  handn  of  their  enemies,  was  first  dis- 
coverwl,  in  1772,  by  the  Conte  Ludovic.j  SsTioli.  See 
Tlraboscbi,  where  the  sentence  is  given  at  length.]  —E. 


But  on  the  pillow  of  Revenge —  Revenge, 

Who  sleeps  to  dream  of  bhiod,  and  waking  glows       [ 
With  the  oft-baSled,  slakeless  thir;>i  ol  change,  | 

When  »e  shall  mount  again,  and  they  thit  trod  i 

Pe  trampled  on,  while  De.ith  ai.d  Ate  ranze 
O'er  humbled  heads  and  sever'd  necfo Great  God 

'1  ake  these  thoughts  from  me  —  to  thy  hands  I  yield 

My  many  wrongs,  and  thine  almighty  rod 
Will  fill  on  those  who  smote  me, —  be  my  shield  ! 

As  thou  hast  been  in  peril,  and  in  pain, 

In  turbulent  cities,  and  the  tented  beld  — 
In  toil,  and  many  troubles  borne  in  vain 

For  Florence, —  I  appeal  from  her  lo  Thee  ! 

Thee,  whom  I  late  saw  in  thy  loftiest  reign, 
Even  in  that  glorious  vision,  which  to  see 

And  live  was  never  gianted  until  now. 

And  yet  thou  hat  permitted  this  to  me. 
Alls  !  « ith  w  hat  a  weight  upon  my  brow 

1  he  sense  of  earth  and  earthly  things  comes  back, 

Corrosive  passions,  feelings  diill  and  low, 
The  heart's  quirk  Ihrcb  upon  the  mental  rack, 

Long  day,  and  dreaiy  night  ;  the  letrospect 

Of  half  a  century  bloody  and  bl»ck, 
And  the  frail  few  years  I  may  yet  expect 

Hoary  and  hopeless,  but  lelshard  to  bear. 

For  1  have  been  loo  long  and  deeply  wreck'd 
On  the  lone  rock  of  desolate  Despair, 

To  lift  my  eyes  more  to  the  p.-issing  sail 

Which  shuns  that  reef  so  horrible  and  bare  ; 
Nor  raise  my  voice —  for  who  would  heed  my  wail? 

1  am  not  of  this  |peo|.le,  nor  this  age. 

And  yet  my  harpings  will  unfold  a  tale 
Which  shall  preserve  these  limes  when  not  a  pago 

Of  their  perturbed  annals  could  attract 

An  eye  to  gaze  upon  their  civil  rage, 
Did  not  my  verse  embalm  full  many  an  act 

Worthless  as  Ihey  who  wrought  it :   't  is  the  doom 

Of  spirits  of  my  order  to  be  rack'd 
In  life,  to  wear  their  hearts  out,  and  consume 

Their  days  in  endless  strife,  and  die  alone  ; 

Then  future  thousands  crowd  arjund  their  lomb. 
And   pilgrims   come   from   climes  where   they  haw 
known 

The  name  of  him  —  who  now  is  but  a  name. 

And  w.asting  homage  o'er  the  sullen  stone. 
Spread  his —  by  him  unheard,  unheeded  —  fame; 

And  mine  at  least  hath  cost  me  dear  :  to  die 

Is  nothing  ;  but  to  w  ither  thus  —  to  tame 
My  mind  down  from  its  own  infinity  — 

To  live  in  narrow  ways  with  little  men, 

A  common  sight  lo  every  common  eye, 
A  wanderer,  while  even  wolves  can  find  a  den, 

Ripp'd  from  all  kindred,  from  all  home,  all  things 

That  mike  communion  swee',  and  solien  pain  — 
To  feel  me  in  the  solitude  of  kings 

Without  the  power  that  m.akes  them  bear  a  crown  — 

To  envy  every  dove  his  nest  and  wings 
Which  waft  him  where  the  Apennine  looks  down 

On  Arno.  til)  he  perches,  it  may  be. 

Within  my  al!  inexoiatle  town. 
Where  yet  n'ly  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she,  3 


tlThis  lady,  whose  name  was  Gemma,  sprang  from  one 
of  the  moet  powerful  Guelf  families,  named  Donali.  Corso 
Doo.nti  was  the  principal  adversary  of  the  Ghibelliors. 
She  is  described  as  being  **  Admodum  morcsa,  nt  de  Xan- 
tippt  Socratis  philosophieonjuge  teriplum  rise  legimus," 
accordins  to  Giannozzo  Manelli.  But  Lionarrto  Aieiino  is 
scandalised  with  Boccace,  in  his  life  of  Danle,  frr  saying 
thai  literary  men  should  not  many.  "Qui  il  Bocaciio 
non  ha  pazienza.  e  dice,  le  m»sli  essercnntrane  agli  studj; 
e  non  si  ricoida  che  Socrale  il  piu  nobile  fihisofo  che  mai 
fosse,  ebbe  moglie  e  figliuoli  e  ufhci  delta  Repubblica  Bella 
sua  Cilta;  e  .Vrislotele  che,  ^c.  &c.  ebhe  due  mogli  in 
varj  tempi,  ed  ebbe  figliuoli,  e  ricchezzc  assai. — E  Marco  | 
Tulllo— e  Calone— e  Varrone— e  Seneca— ehbcro  moglie," 
ice,  ice.  It  is  odd  that  honest  Lionardn's  examplt-s  with 
the  exception  of  8.-neca,  and.  for  any  thing  1  know,  of 
Aristotle,  are  not  the  most  felicitous.  Tully's  Terentia, 
and  Sccrstes'  Xantippe,  by  no  means  contributed  to  their 
husbands'  hsppness,  whatever  Ihey  might  do  to  rheir  phi- 
losophy—Calo  gave  away  bis  wife— of  Varro's  we  know 
nolhing— and  of  SSeneca's,  only  Ihat  she   was   dispcwd  to 


Canto  II.] 


THE   PROPHECY  OF   DANTE. 


1(>5  j 


Their  mother,  llie  cold  partner  who  hath  brought 
Destruction  for  a  dowry  —  ihis  to  see 

And  feel,  an  J  knew  withou-  repair,  hath  taught 
A  bitter  le>soii ;  b  it  it  leaves  me  free  : 
I  have  uoi  vilely  ftund,  nor  basely  sought, 

They  made  an  Exile  —not  a  slave  of  me. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 

The  Spirit  of  the  fervent  days  of  Old, 

When   words   were  things  that  came  to  pass,  and 
thought 

FlashM  o'er  the  future,  bidding  men  behold 
Their  children's  children's  cioom  already  brought 

forth  from  the  abyss  of  time  which  is  to  be, 

The  chaos  of  events,  where  lie  haliwrought 
Shapes  that  must  undergo  mortality  ; 

What  the  great  Seers  of  Israel  wore  within, 

Thai  spirit  was  on  them,  and  is  on  me, 
And  if,  Ca^saiidra-like.  amidst  the  din 

Of  contiict  none  will  bear,  or  hearing  heed 

This  voice  from  out  the  Wilderness,  the  sin 
Be  llieir-,  and  my  own  feelings  be  my  meed, 

The  only  guerdon  I  have  ever  kntiwn. 

Hasi  thiu  not  bled  ?  and  hast  thou  still  to  bleed, 
Italia  ?  Ah  1  to  me  such  things,  foreshown 

With  dim  sepulch  al  light,  bid  me  forget 

In  thine  irrepirable  wrongs  my  own  ; 
We  can  have  but  one  country,  and  even  yet 

'I  hnu  'rt  mil  e  —  my  bones'shall  be  within  thy  breast. 

My  soul  »  ithin  thy  languase,  which  once  set 
With  our  old  Roman  sway  in  the  wide  west; 

But  I  will  make  ^mother  tongue  arise 

As  lolty  and  more  sweet,  in  which  express'd 
The  hero's  ardour,  or  the  lover's  sighs. 

Shall  find  alike  such  sounds  for  every  theme 

That  every  word,  as  brilliant  as  thy  skies, 
Shall  lealise'a  poe'.'s  proudest  dream, 

And  make  thee  Europe's  nightingale  of  song ; 

So  that  all  present  speech  to  thine  shall  seem 
The  no'e  of  meaner  biids,  and  every  tongue 

Confess  its  birbari  m  when  compared  with  thine. 

This  Shalt  thou  owe  to  him  Ih'U  didst  so  wrong, 
Thy  Tuscan  brd,  the  banish'd  Ghibelline. 

Wne  ;  woe  1  the  veil  of  coming  centuries 

Is  rent, —  a  thousand  yeais  w  liich  >et  supine 
Lie  like  the  ocean  waves  ere  winds  arise, 

Heaving  in  dark  and  sullen  undulation, 

Float  from  eternity  inio  these  eyes  ; 
The  storms  yet  sleep  the  clouds  still  keep  their  station. 

The  unborn  earthquake  yet  is  in  the  womb. 

The  bloody  chaos  yet  expects  crention, 
But  all  thing's  are  disposing  for  thy  dcnni ; 

The  elements  await  but  for  the'word, 

"  Let  there  be  darkness  !  "  and  thou  grow"st  a  tomb  ! 
Yes  1  thou,  so  beautiful,  shall  feel  the  sword. 

Thou,  Italy  '.  so  fair  that  Paradise. 

Revived  in  thee,  bio  'nis  forth  to  man  restored  : 
Ah  !  niust  the  sons  of  Adam  lose  it  twice  ? 

Thou,  Italy  !  whose  ever  golaen  fields, 

Pliugh'd  by  the  sunbeams  solely,  would  suffice 
For  the  world'-'  granary  ;  thou,  who«e  sky  heaven  gilds 

Wi!h  brighter  stars, "and  robes  with  deeper  blue  ; 

Thou,  in  wh^se  pleasant  jilaces  Summer  builds 
Her  palace,  in  whose  cradle  Empire  grew. 

And  form"d  the  Eternal  Ciy's  orniments 

From  spoils  of  kings  w  bom  freemen  overthrew  : 
Birth|)lace  of  heroes,  sanctuary  of  saints, 

VV'he^e  earthly  first,  then  heaven'y  glory  made 

Her  home;  'hou,  all  which  fondest  fmcy  paints. 
And  finds  her  prior  vision  but  portray'd 

In  feel.le  colours,  when  the  eve— from  the  Alp 

Of  horrid  snow,  and  rock,  and  shaggy  -hade 
Of  desert-loving  pine,  whose  emerald  scalp 


die  with  him,  but  rerover«*d  and  livrd  sevfraJ  years  aftpr- 
wiirUs.  Knt  eays  Lionarito,  •'  L'uomo  e  animale  ciaile, 
eecondo  piace  a  tutti  i  filosofi."  And  thence  loniludes 
(hat  the  greatest  proo(  of  the  animal's  civUm  i«  "  la  prima 
coogiuniione,  ilalla  quale  multiplirata  oasce  la  Citta." 


Nods  to  the  storm  —  dilates  and  dotes  o'er  thee, 
And  ^vistlully  implores,  as  't  were,  for  help 

To  see  thy  sunny  fields,  my  Itnly, 

Nearer  and  nearer  yet,  and  dearer  still 

1  he  more  approjcli'd,  and  dearest  were  they  free. 

Thou  —  thou  must  wither  to  each  tyrant's  w  ill : 
The  Goth  hith  been, —  the  German,  Frank,  and  Hun 
Are  .\et  to  come, —  and  on  the  imperial  hill 

Ruin,  already  proud  of  the  deeds  done 

By  the  old  barbarians,  there  awai's  the  new. 
Throned  on  the  Palatine,  while  lost  and  won 

Rome  at  her  feet  lies  bleeding;  and  the  hue 
Of  human  sacrilxo  and  Roman  slaughter 
Troubles  the  clotted  air,  of  late  so  blue, 

And  deepens  into  red  the  satfron  water 

Of  Tiber,  thick  with  dead;  the  helpless  priest. 
And  still  more  helpless  nor  less  holy  daughter, 

Vow'd  to  their  God,  have  shrieking  fieJ,  and  ceased 
Their  ministry  :  the  nations  take  their  prey, 
Iberian,  Almain,  Lombard,  and  the  beast 

And  bird,  wolf,  vuhuie,  more  humane  tlpn  they 
Are;  these  but  gorge  the  flesh  ard  lap  the  gore 
Of  the  depailed,  and  then  go  their  way; 

But  those,  ihe  hjnnn  savages,  explore 
All  pattis  of  torture,  and  insatiate  yet, 
With  Ugolino  hunger  prowl  for  more. 

Nine  mo  ins  shall  rise  o'er  scenes  like  this  and  set;> 
The  chiefless  army  of  the  dead,  which  late 
Bene  th  the  iraitor  Prince's  banner  met, 

Hath  left  its  leader's  ashes  at  Ihe  gate; 
Had  but  the  loyal  Rebel  lived,  perchance 
Thou  hadst  been  spared,  bu:  his  involved  thy  fats. 

Oh  !  Rome,  the  spoiler  or  the  spoil  of  France, 
From  Brennu.  to  Ihe  Bourbon,  never,  never 
Shall  foreign  s'andard  to  thy  walls  advance, 

But  Tiber  shall  become  a  mournful  river. 

Oh  !  when  the  strangers  pass  the  Alps  and  Po, 
Crush  them,  ye  rocks !  floods  whelm  them,  and  for 

Why  sleep  the  idle  avahnches  so. 

To  topple  on  the  lonely  pilgrim's  head? 
Why  doth  Eridanus  but  overflow 

The  peasant's  harvest  fiom  his  turbid  bed  ? 
Were  not  each  barbarous  horde  a  nobler  prey? 
Over  Cambyses"  host  the  desert  spread 

Her  sandy  ocean,  and  Ihe  sea  waves'  sway 
Roll'd  over  Pharaoh  and  his  thousands, —  why, 
Mountains  and  waters,  do  ye  not  as  they  ? 

And  you.  ye  men  I  Romans,  w  ho  dare  not  die, 
Sons  of  the  conquerors  who  overthrew 
Those  who  overthrew  proud  Xerxes,  where  yet  lie 

The  dead  «  hose  tomb  Oblivion  never  knew, 
Are  the  Alps  weaker  than  Thermopylae? 
Their  passes  more  alluring  to  the  view 

Of  an  invader?  is  it  they,  or  ye. 
That  to  each  host  the  mountain-gate  unbar, 
And  leave  the  march  in  peace,  the  passage  free  ? 

Why,  Nrifure's  self  detains  the  victor's  cir. 
And  makes  your  land  impregnable,  if  eaith 
Could  be  so  ;  but  alone  she  will  not  war, 

Yet  aids  the  warrior  worthy  of  his  birth 

In  a  soil  where  the  mothers  brinr  fi>rlh  men  ; 
Not  so  with  those  whase  souls  are  little  worth  ; 

For  them  no  fortress  can  avail, —  Ihe  den 
Of  the  poor  reptile  which  preserves  its  sling 
Is  more  secure  than  walls  of  adamant,  when 

The  hearts  of  those  within  are  quivering. 
Are  ye  not  brave  ?   Yes,  yet  the  Ausonian  soil 
Hilh  hearts,  and  hands,  and  arms,  and  hosts  to  bring 

Against  Oppression  ;  but  how  vain  the  toil, 
While  still  Division  sows  Ihe  seeds  of  woe 
And  weakness,  till  the  stranger  reaps  the  spoil. 

Oh  '  my  ow  n  beiu  eous  land  !  so  long  laid  low. 
So  long  the  grave  of  thy  own  children's  hopes, 
When  there  is  but  required  a  sinsle  Mow 

To  break  the  chain,  yet  —yet  the  Aver/rer  stops. 
And  Doubt  ai  d  Discord  s'ep  'In  ixt  thine  and  thee. 
And  join  their  strength  to  that  w  hich  with  thee  copes; 


t66 


THE   PROPHECY  OF  DANTE.         [Canto  lil.  ! 


What  is  there  wanting  the  i  to  set  thee  free, 
And  show  thy  beauty  in  its  fullest  light? 
To  make  the  Alps  impassable ;  and  we, 

Her  sons,  may  do  this  with  one  deed Unite. 


CANTO    THE    THIRD. 

Froir  out  the  mass  of  never-dying  ill, 
The    Plazue,   the   Prince,   the    Stranger,  and  the 

Sword, 
Vials  of  wrath  but  emptied  to  refill 

And  flow  aiain,  1  cannot  all  record 

That  crowds  on  my  prophetic  eye  :  the  earth 
And  ocean  written  o'er  would  not  afllbrd 

Space  for  the  annal,  yet  it  shall  go  foith  ; 
Yes,  all,  though  not  by  human  pen,  is  graven. 
There  where  the  farthest  suns  and  stars  have  birth, 

Spread  like  a  banner  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
The  bloody  scroll  of  our  millimnial  wrongs 
Waves,  and  the  echo  of  our  groans  is  driven 

Athwart  the  sound  of  archingelic  songs. 
And  Italy,  the  mirtyr'd  nation's  gnie, 
Will  not  in  vain  arise  to  where  belongs 

Omnipotence  and  mercy  evermore  : 

Like  to  a  harpstring  stricken  by  the  wind. 
The  sound  of  her  lament  shall,  rising  o'er 

The  seraph  voices,  touch  the  Almighty  Mind. 
Memtime  I,  humblest  of  thy  s  >ns,  and  of 
Earth's  dust  by  immor  alily  refined 

To  sense  and  suffering,  though  the  vain  may  scoff. 
And  tyrants  threat,  and  meeker  victims  bow 
Refore  the  storm  because  its  breath  is  rough, 

To  tliee,  my  country  !  whom  before,  as  now 
I  loved  and  love,  aevots  tiie  mournful  lyre 
And  melancholy  gifi  high  powers  allow 

To  read  the  fu'ure  ;"and  if  now  my  fire 
Is  not  as  01  ce  it  shone  o  er  thee,  forgive  ! 
I  but  foretell  thy  firtune'  —  then  expire; 

Think  not  that  I  would  lock  on  them  and  live. 
A  spirit  forces  me  to  see  and  speak. 
And  f  r  my  guerdon  grants  iwt  to  survive  ; 

Mv  heart  shall  be  ponr'd  over  th^e  and  break. 
Vet  for  a  mnmeDt.  ere  I  must  resume 
Thy  sable  web  of  sorrow,  let  me  take 

Over  the  gleams  that  flash  a:hvvart  thy  gloom 
A  softer  glimpse ;    some  stars  shine  through  thy 

night. 
And  ma  v  meteors,  and  above  thy  tomb 

Leans  sculptured  Beauty,  whirh  Death  cannot  blightj 
And  from  thine  ashes  boundless  spirits  rise. 
To  give  thee  honour,  and  the  earth  delight ; 

Thy  soil  shall  still  be  i)regnant  wih  the  wise. 
The  giy,  the  learn'd.  the  generous,  and  the  brave, 
Native  to  'hoe  as  summer  to  thy  skies. 

Conquerors  on  foreign  shores,  and  the  far  wave,i 
Discoverers  of  new  worlds,  which  take  their  name;<2 
For  thee  alone  they  have  no  arm  to  save, 

And  all  thy  recompense  is  in  their  fame, 
A  noble  one  to  iheni,  but  not  to  thee  — 
Shall  (hey  be  glorious,  and  thou  still  the  same  ? 

Oh  '.  more  ihan  these  illustrious  far  shall  be 
The  being—  and  even  ye'  he  may  be  born  — 
The  mortal  saviour  who  shall  set  thee  free, 

And  see  thy  diadem,  so  changed  and  worn 
By  fresh  barbarians,  on  thy  brow  replaced; 
And  the  sweet  sun  replenishing  Ihy  morn. 

Thy  moral  morn,  too  lonj  with  clouds  defaced. 
And  noxious  vapours  from  Avernus  risen. 
Such  as  all  thev  must  breathe  who  are  debased 

By  servitude,  and  have  'he  mind  in  prison. 
Yet  through  this  centuried  eclipse  of  woe 
Some  voices  shill  be  heard,  and  earth  shall  listen; 

Poets  shall  follow  in  the  path  I  show, 
And  make  it  broader:  the  same  brillimt  sky 
Which  cheers  the  birds  to  song  shall  bid  them  glow, 


r  Alpxander  of  Parma,  Spinola,  Pesiara,  Eugene  of  Sa- 
voy Monlecucco. 
S  Columbus,  Americus  Vespuclus,  Setiastian  Cabot. 


And  raise  their  notes  as  natural  and  high  ; 

Tuneful  shall  be  their  numbers;  they  shall  sing 

Many  of  love,  and  some  of  liberty. 
But  few  shall  soir  upon  that  eagle's  wing, 

And  look  in  the  sun's  face  wi;h  eagle's  gaze, 

All  free  and  fearless  as  tlie  feilher'd  king. 
But  fly  more  iieir  the  earth  ;  how  many  a  phrase 

Sublime  shall  livish'il  be  on  some  small  prince 

In  all  the  prodigality  of  praise  \ 
And  language,  eloquently  faise,  evince 

The  harlotrj-  of  genius,  which,  like  beauty, 

Too  oft  forgets  its  own  self  reverence. 
And  looks  on  prostitution  as  a  duty. 

He  who  once  enters  in  a  tyrant's  hall  s 

As  guest  is  slave,  his  thoughts  become  a  booty, 
And  the  first  day  which  sees  the  chain  en  hral 

A  captive,  sees  his  half  of  manhood  gone  4  — 

The  soul's  emasculation  saddens  all 
His  spirit ;  thus  the  Bard  too  near  the  throne 

Quails  from  his  inspiration,  bound  to  p(eaje,— 

How  servile  is  the  task  to  please  alone  ! 
To  smooth  the  verse  to  suit  his  sovereign's  ease 

And  royal  leisure,  nor  too  much  prolong 

Auiht  save  his  eulogy,  and  find,  and  seize, 
Or  force,  or  forze  fit  argument  nf  soj.g  ! 

Thus  trammell'd,  thus  condemu'd  to  Flattery's  tre- 
bles, 

He  toils  through  ah.  still  trembling  to  be  wrong: 
For  fear  some  i.oble  though'?,  like  heavenly  rebels, 

Should  rise  up  in  high  treason  to  his  brain. 

He  sings,  as  the  Athenian  spoke,  wi  h  pebbles 
In  's  mou'h,  lest  truth   should  stammer  through  his 
strain. 

But  out  of  the  long  file  of  sonneteers 

There  shall  be  some  who  will  not  sins  in  vain. 
And  he,  their  prince,  shall  rank  among  my  peers,* 

And  love  shall  be  his  torment  ;  but  his  grief 

Shall  make  an  immortality  of  tears. 
And  Italy  shtll  hA\\  him  as  the  Chief 

Of  Poet-lovers,  and  his  higher  song 

Of  Freedom  wreathe  him  with  as  green  a  leat 
But  in  a  farther  age  shall  rise  along 

The  banks  of  Po  two  greater  still  than  he  ; 

The  world   which  smiled  on  him  shall  do  them 

Till  they  are  ashes,  and  repose  with  me. 
The  first  will  make  an  epoch  with  his  lyre, 
And  fill  the  earth  wiih  feats  of  chivalry  : 

His  fancv  like  a  rainbow,  and  his  fire. 
Like  that  of  Heaven,  immortal,  and  his  thought 
Borne  onward  with  a  wing  that  cannot  tire; 

Pb-isure  shall,  like  a  butterfly  new  caught. 
Flutter  her  lovely  pinions  o'er  his  theme. 
And  Art  i'self  seem  into  Nature  wrought 

Bv  the  transparency  of  his  brizht  dream. — 
'The  second,  of  a' teinlerer,  sadder  mood. 
Shall  pour  his  soul  out  o'er  Jerusalem  ; 

He,  too,  shall  •  ins  of  arms,  and  Chris'iin  blood 
Shed  where  Christ  bled  for  man  ;  and  his  high  harp 
Shall,  by  the  willow  over  Jordan's  flood. 

Revive  a  song  of  Sion.  ar:d  the  sharp 
Conflict,  and  final  triuniph  of  'he  brave 
And  pious,  and  the  strife  of  hell  to  warp 

Their  hearts  from  their  great  purpose,  until  wave 
The  red-cro  s  banners  where  the  first  red  Cross 
Was  crinison"d  from  his  veins  who  died  to  save, 

Shill  be  his  sicred  argument ;  the  loss 

Of  vears.  of  favour,  freedom,  even  of  fame 
Corites'ed  for  a  lime,  whilj  the  smooth  gloss 

Of  courts  would  slide  o'er  his  forgotten  name  ; 
And  cill  captivity  a  kindi.ess,  meant 
To  -hield  him  from  insuiiiy  or  shame. 

Such  shall  be  his  meet  zuerdon  !  who  was  sent 
To  be  Christ's  Liureite—  they  reward  him  well . 
Florence  dooms  me  but  death  or  bauishment, 

3  K  ver«»  from  the  Greek  tra^ertians,  with  which  Pnm- 
pey  took  leave  of  Cornelia  on  entering  the  t>oat  to  which 
he  waK  slain. 

4  The  verse  and  sentiment  are  taken  from  Homer. 
6  Petrarch. 


CantoIV.]         the   prophecy  of  DANTE. 


167 


Ferrara  him  a  pittance  and  a  ceH, 
Harder  to  bear  and  less  deserved,  for  I 
Had  stung  the  faclions  which  I  strove  to  quell ; 

But  this  meek  man,  who  with  a  lover's  eye 

Will  look  oil  earth  and  heaven,  and  who  will  deign 
To  embilm  with  his  celestial  flattery, 

As  poor  a  thing  as  e'er  was  spawn'd  to'  reign, 
What  will  he  do  to  merit  such  a  doom  ?" 
Perhaps  be  HI  Zone,— and  is  not  love  in  vain 

Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb  ? 
Yet  it  will  be  so  — he  and  his  compeer, 
The  Bard  of  Chivalry,  will  both  consume 

In  penury  and  pain  too  many  a  year. 
And,  dying  in  despondency,  bequeath 
To  the  kind  world,  which  scarce  will  yield  a  tear, 

A  heritage  enriching  all  who  breathe 
With  the  wealth  of  a  genuine  poet's  soul, 
And  to  their  country  a  redoubled  wreath, 

Dnmatch'd  by  time ;  hot  Hellas  can  unroll 
Through  her  olympiads  two  such  names,  though  one 
Of  hers  be  mighty  ;  —  and  is  this  the  whole 

Of  such  men's  destiny  beneath  the  sun  ? 

Must  all  the  finer  thoughts,  the  thrilling  sense, 
The  electric  blood  with  which  their  arteries  run. 

Their  body's  self-tuned  soul  with  the  intense 
Feeling  of  that  which  is,  and  fancy  of 
That  which  should  be,  to  such  a  recompense 

Conduct  ?  shall  their  bright  plumage  on  the  rough 
Storm  be  still  scalter'd?    Yes,  and  it  must  be  j 
.For,  form'd  of  far  too  penetrable  stiiff, 

These  birds  of  Paradise  but  long  to  flee 
Back  to  their  native  mansion,  soon  they  find 
Earth's  mist  with  their  pure  pinions  not  agree, 

And  Gie  or  are  degraded  ;  for  the  miuj 
Succumbs  to  long  infection,  and  despair. 
And  vulture  passions  flying  close  behind. 

Await  the  moment  to  assail  and  tear; 
And  when  at  length  the  winged  wanderers  stoop, 
Then  is  the  prey-birds'  triumph,  then  they  share 

The  spoil,  o'erpowered  at  lensth  by  one  fell  swoop. 
Yet  some  have  been  unlouch'd  who  learn'd  to  bear. 
Some  whom  no  power  could  ever  force  to  droop, 

Who  could  resist  themselves  even,  hardest  care  ! 
And  task  most  hopeless ;  but  some  such  have  been, 
And  if  my  name  amongst  the  number  were, 

That  destiny  austere,  and  yet  «erene, 

Were  prouder  than  more  dazzling  fame  unbless'd  ; 
The  Alp's  snow  summit  nearer  heaven  is  seen 

Than  the  volcano's  fierce  eruptive  crest, 

Whose  splendour  from  the  black  abyss  is  flunr, 
While  the  scorch'd  mountain,  from  whose  burning 
breast 

A  temporary  torturing  flame  is  wrunj. 
Shines  for  a  night  of  terror,  then  repels 
Its  fire  back  to'the  hell  from  whence  it  sprung. 

The  hell  which  in  its  entrails  ever  dwells. 


CANTO   THE    FOURTH. 

Many  are  poets  who  have  never  penn'd 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance  Ihe  be^t: 
They  felt,  and  loved,  and  died,  but  would  not  lend 

Their  thoughts  to  meaner  being's  ;  they  compress'd 
The  god  within  them,  and  rejoin'd  the  stars 
Unlaurell'd  upon  earth,  but  far  more  bless'd 

Than  those  who  are  degraded  by  the  jars 
Of  passion,  and  their  frailties  link'd  to  fame 
Conquerors  of  high  renown,  but  full  of  scars. 

Many  are  poets  but'withnut  the  name, 
For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 
From  overfeeling  eood  or  ill ;  and  aim 

At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate. 

And  be  the  new  Prometheus  of  new  men, 
Bestowing  fire  from  heaven,  and  then,  too  late, 

Finding  the  pleisure  given  rejiaid  with  pain, 
And  vultures  to  Ihe  heirt  of  the  bestower, 
Who,  having  hvish'd  his  high  gift  in  vain. 

Lies  chain'd  to  his  lone  rock  by  the  sea-shore  ? 
So  be  it :  we  can  bear.—  But  thus  all  they 
Whose  intellect  is  an  o'ermastering  power 


Which  still  recoils  from  its  encumbering  clay 
Or  lightens  it  to  spirit,  whalsfie'er 
The  form  which  their  creations  may  essay. 
Are  baids  ;  the  kindled  marble's  bust  may  wear 
More  poesy  upon  its  speaking  brow 
Than  aught  less  than  the  Homeric  page  may  beal  ; 
One  noble  stroke  with  a  whole  life  may  glow, 
Or  deify  the  canvass  till  it  shine 
With  beauty  so  surpassing  all  below, 
.  That  they  who  kneel  to  idols  so  divine 
I     Breik  m  commandment,  for  high  heaven  is  there 
'•■     Transfused,  transfiguraled  :  and  the  line 
Of  poesy,  which  peoples  but  the  air 
I     With  thought  and  beinsrs  of  our  thought  reflected, 

Can  do  no  more  :  then  let  the  artist  share 
The  palm,  he  shares  the  peril,  and  dejected 
I      Faints  o'er  the  labour  unapproved  —  Alas! 
'      Despair  and  Genius  are  too  oft  connected. 
Within  the  ages  which  before  me  pass 
Art  shall  resume  and  equal  even  the  sway 
Which  with  Apelles  and  old  Phidias 
She  held  in  Hellas'  unforgolten  day. 
Ye  shall  be  taught  by  Ruin  to  revive 
The  Grecian  forms  at  least  from  their  decay, 
And  Roman  souls  at  last  again  shall  live 
In  Roman  works  wrought  by  Italian  bands, 
And  temples,  loftier  than  the  old  temples,  give 
New  wonders  to  the  world  ;  and  while  still  stands 
The  austere  Pantheon,  into  heaveu  shall  soar 
A  dome,'  its  image,  while  the  base  expands 
Into  a  fane  surpassing  all  before. 
Such  as  all  fiesh  shall  flock  to  kneel  in  :  ne'er 
Such  sight  hath  been  unfolded  by  a  door 
As  this,  to  which  all  nations  shall  repair 
And  lay  their  sins  at  this  huge  gate  of  heaven. 
And  the  bold  Archi'ect  unto  who.e  care 
The  daring  charge  to  raise  it  shall  be  given. 

Whom  all  hearts  shall  acknowledge  as  their  lord, 
Whether  into  the  marble  chaos  driven 
,  His  chisel  bid  the  Hebrew, 3  at  whnse  word 
I      Israel  left  Esypt,  stop  the  waves  in  stone, 
I      Or  hues  of  Hell  be  by  his  pencil  pour'd 
Over  the  damn'd  before  the  Judgment-throne,' 

Such  as  I  saw  them,  such  as  all  shall  see, 
I      Or  fanes  be  built  of  grandeur  yet  unknown, 
Th«rstream  of  his  great  thoughts'shall  spring  frMn  me,* 
I     The  Ghibelline,  who  traversed  the  three  realms 

Which  form  the  empire  of  eternity. 
Amidst  the  clish  of  swords,  and  clang  of  helms, 
!      The  age  which  I  anticipate,  no  less 

Shall  be  the  Age  of  Beauty,  and  while  wbelma 
Calamity  the  nations  with  distress, 
i     The  genius  of  my  country  shall  arise, 
1     A  Cedar  towering  o'er  the  Wilderness, 
Lov?ly  in  all  its  branches  to  all  eyes. 
Fragrant  as  fair,  and  recognised  afar. 
Wafting  its  native  incense  through  the  skies. 

1  The  Cupola  of  St.  Peter's. 

3  The  statue  of  Moses  on  the  mcDament  n(  Julina  H. 
SONETTO 
Di  Giovanni  Batiitta  Zappi. 
Chi  e  lostui.  che  i.'.  dura  pietra  scolto, 
Siede  giganle;  e  le  piu  illustre,  e  confe 
Prove  dell'  arte  avvanza,  e  ha  vive,  e  pronte 
Le  labbia  ei,  che  le  panile  ascolto  7 
Quest"  e  Mose  ;  ben  me  "I  iliceva  il  folto 
Onor  ilel  mento,  e  M  doppio  raggio  in  rrnntci, 
Qnegt'e  Mnpe,  quando  Bcendea  del  monte, 
E  gran  parte  del  W  ume  area  nel  »olto. 
Tal  era  nllor,  che  le  eonanii,  e  »aste 
Acque  ei  sospese  a  se  d*  intorno,  e  tal« 
Quando  il  mar  rhiuse,  e  ne  fe  tomba  ultmi. 
Evfii  sue  t'.irbe  un  no  vitello  alzasle  ? 
Alzala  aveste  imni!o  a  quesia  eguale  ! 
Ch'  era  men  falla  I'  adorar  costui. 
3  The  Last  Judgment,  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 
4 1  have  read  Bomewhere  (if  I  do   not  err.  for  I  ranDot 
recollect  where.)  Ihat  Daule  was  no    great  a    favourite  of 
Mich.nel  Aneelo's,  that  he  had  deeigDed  the  whole  of  Ihe 
Divina  Commedia;  but  that  Ihe  volume  containiDg  the«e 
atudies  was  lost  by  sea. 


168 


THE  BLUES. 


Sovereigns  shall  pause  amidst  their  sport  of  war, 
Weau'd  for  an  hour  from  blood,  to  turn  and  ^ze 
Ou  canvass  or  on  stone  ;  and  they  who  mar 

All  beauty  upon  earlh,  compell'd  lo  praise, 

Shall  feel  the  power  of  that  which  they  destroy; 
And  Art's  misiaken  gratitude  shall  raise 

To  tyrants  who  but  take  her  for  a  t  ly, 
Emblems  and  monuments,  and  prostitute 
Her  charms  to  pontitfs  proud,'  who  but  employ 

The  man  of  genius  as  the  meanest  brute 
To  bear  a  burthen,  and  to  serve  a  need, 
To  sell  his  labours,  and  his  soul  lo  boot. 

Who  toils  for  nations  may  be  poor  indeed, 
But  free ;  who  sweats  for  nionirchs  is  no  more 
Than  the  gilt  chamberlain,  who,  clothed  and  fee'd, 

Stands  sleek  and  slavish,  bowine  at  his  door. 
Oh,  Power  that  rulest  and  inspiresi !  how 
Is  it  that  they  on  earth,  who^e  earthly  power 

Is  likest  thine  in  heaven  in  outward  show, 
Least  like  to  thee  in  attributes  divine, 
Tread  ou  the  universal  necks  that  bow. 

And  then  assure  us  that  their  lights  are  thine? 
And  how  is  it  that  they,  Ihe  sons  of  fame. 
Whose  inspiration  seems  to  them  to  shine 

From  high,  they  whom  he  nations  oftest  name, 
Must  pass  their  days  in  penury  or  pain. 
Or  step  to  grandeur  through  the  paths  of  shame, 

And  wear  a  deeper  brand  and  giudier  chain? 
Or  if  their  destiny  be  born  aloof 
From  lowliness,  or  templed  thence  in  vain, 

In  their  own  souls  su>lain  a  harder  proof. 
The  inner  war  of  passions  deep  and  fierce  ? 
Florence :  when  thy  harsh  sentence  razed  my  roof, 

I  loved  thee ;  but  ihe  vengeance  of  my  verse, 
The  hale  of  injuries  which  every  year 
Makes  greater,  and  accumulates  my  curse, 

Shall  live,  outliving  all  thou  boldest  dear. 
Thy  pride,  thy  wealth,  ihy  freedom,  and  even  that, 
Ttie  most  infernal  of  all  evils  here. 

The  sway  of  petty  tyrants  in  a  s;ale  ; 
For  such  sway  is  not  limited  to  kings, 
And  demagogues  yield  to  them  but  in  date. 

As  suept  olt'  sooner  ;  in  all  deadly  things 
Which  make  men  hate  themselves,  and  one  another, 
In  discord,  cowardice,  cruelty,  all  that  springs 

From  Death  the  Sinborn's  incest  with  his  mother,. 
In  rank  oppres:>ioa  in  its  rudest  shape, 


The  faction  Chief  is  but  the  Sultan's  brother, 
And  the  worst  despot's  far  less  human  ape  : 

Florence  :  when  this  lone  spirit,  which  so  lonj 

Yearu'd.  as  the  captive  toiling  at  escape, 
To  fly  back  to  thee  in  despite  of  wrong. 

An  exile,  saddest  of  all  prisoners, 

Who  has  Ihe  whole  world  for  a  dungeon  strong, 
Seas,  mountains,  and  the  horizon's  verge  for  bars. 

Which  shut  him  from  the  sole  small  spot  of  earth 

Where  —  h  batsoe'er  his  fate  —  he  slill  were  heii. 
His  country's,  and  might  die  where  he  had  birtU  — 

Florence  I  when  Ihis  lone  spirit  shall  return 

To  kindred  spirits,  thou  wilt  feel  my  worth, 
And  seek  to  honour  with  an  empty  urn 

The  a.hes  thou  shall  ne'er  obtain  — Alas ! 

"  What  have  i  done  lo  thee,  my  people  ?  "*  Stem 
Are  all  thy  dealings,  but  in  this  they  pass 

The  limits  of  man's  common  malice,  for 

All  that  a  citizen  could  be  I  was ; 
Raised  by  thy  will,  all  thine  in  peace  or  war. 

And  for  this  thou  hast  warr'd  » ith  me. —  T  .»  done  : 

I  miy  not  overleap  the  eternal  bar 
Built  up  be'weeu  us,  and  will  die  alone. 

Beholding  with  the  dark  eye  of  a  seer 

The  evil  days  to  gifled  souls  foreshown. 
Foretelling  them  to  those  who  will  not  hear. 

As  in  the  old  time,  till  the  hour  be  come 

When  Truth  shall  strike  their  eyes  through  many  a 
tear. 
And  make  them  own  the  Prophet  in  his  tomb.' 


2"  E  scrisse  piu  volte  non  solamente  a  particolari  citta- 
dini  del  reggimtnto,  ma  ai.toia  al  i-opolo  e  inlia  1'  altre 
una  EpisKila  asaai  luugaclie  comincia  :— •Poyu/e  mi,  quid 
feci  tibi?'" 

Vita  di  Dante  acritta  da  Lionatdo  Aretino. 

SDantediedat  Kavenna  in  1321,  in  the  pal.ce  tif  his 
patron,  Guido  Novello  da  Polenta,  who  testified  his  sorrow 
and  respect  by  the  sumpluuusness  of  his  obsequies,  and  by 
giving  orders  to  erect  a  monument,  which  he  did  not  live 
to  coniplele.  His  countrymen  showed,  too  late,  that  they 
knew  the  value  of  what  they  had  lost.  At  the  beginning 
of  the  next  century,  they  entreated  that  the  mortal 
rt  mains  of  their  illustrious  citizen  niight  be  restored  lo 
them,  ar.d  deposited  among  the  tombs  of  their  fathers. 
But  the  p»'ople  of  Ravenna  were  unwilling  to  part  with  the 
sad  and  honourable  memorial  of  their  own  hospitality.  No 
better  success  attended  the  subsequent  negotiations  of  the 
Florentines  for  the  same  purpose,  though  renewed  under 
the  auspices  of  Leo  X.,  and  conducted  thiough  the  power- 
ful mediation  of  Michael  Angelo.—  E. 


THE  BLUES:^ 

A   LITERARY   ECLOGUE. 


ECLOGUE  FIRST. 
London  —  Before  the  Door  of  a  Lecture  Room. 

Enter  Tracy,  meeting  Inkel. 
Tnk.  You're  too  late. 
Tra.  Is  it  over  ? 

Ink.  Nor  will  be  this  h( 

But  the  benches  are  cramm'd,  like  a  garden 
With  the  pride  of  our  belles,  who  have  u 

fashion  ; 
So,  instead  of  "  beaux  arts,"  we  may  say  "  la  belle 
passion" 


For  learning,  which  lately  has  taken  the  lead  in 
The  world,  and  set  all  Ihe  hne  gentlemen  reading. 

Tra.  1  know   it   too   well,  and  have  woin  out  my 
j  patience 

i  With  studying  lo  study  your  new  publications. 
;  There's  Vamp,  Scimp,  and  Mouthy,  and  Wordswordi 
,.  •.  ;,„„_  '             and  Co. 
this  tiour.   -^yj,^  „^gj_.  j3,„nji,,p 

'°  "°"  .  '        Ink.  Hold,  my  good  friend,  do  vou  know 

ladeitthe    whom  vou  speak  to  ? 

Tra.  Right  well,  boy,  and  ''  so  does  the  Row  : "  » 
You're  an  aulhor  — a  poet  — 


4  Written  in  1820,  and  first  published  in  '  Tbi 


I     6  Paternoster- Row  — long  and  still  celebrated  I 
Liberal.*'  ,  bazaar  of  booksellerii. 


THE   BLUES. 


169 


Ink.  And  think  you  that  I 

Can  stand  tamely  in  silence,  to  hear  you  decry 
The  Muses  ? 

Tra.  Excu3eme:  I  roeint  no  offence 

To  the  Nine;  though  the  number  who  make  some 

pretence 
To  their  favours  is  such ^^  but  the  subject  to  drop, 
I  am  just  piping  hot  from  a  publisher's  simp, 
(Next" door  to  the  pistry-co  k's  ;  so  that  wh^n  I 
Cannot  find  ihe  new  volume  I  wanted  to  buy 
On  the  bibliopole's  shelves,  it  is  only  two  pices, 
As  one  finds  every  author  in  one  of  those  places  :) 
Where  I  just  had  been  skimming  a  charming  critique. 
So  studded  with  wit,  and  so  sprinkled  with  Greek  I 
Where  your  friend  —  you  know  who  —  has  just  got 

such  a  threshing. 
That  it  is.  as  the  phrase  goes,  extremely  *^  refreahing."^ 
What  a  beautiful  word  ! 

Ink.  Very  true  ;  't  is  so  soft 

And  so  coDling  —  they  use  it  a  little  too  oft ; 
And  the  papers  have  got  it  at  last  —  but  no  matter. 
So  they  've  cut  up  our  friend  then  ? 

Tra.  Not  left  him  a  tatter  — 

Not  a  rag  of  his  present  or  past  reputitioo,  I 

Which  they  call  a  disgrace  to  the  a^e,  and  the  nation.   I 

Ink.  I  'ill  sorry  to  hear  this !  for  friendship,  you 

know 

Our  poor  friend  '.  —  but  I  thought  it  would  terminate  so. 
Our  friendship  is  such,  I  '11  read  nofhing  lo  shock  it. 
Tou  do  n't  hippen  to  have  rhe  Review  in  your  pocket  ? 

Tra.  No;  I  left  a  round  dozen  of  authors  and  others 
(Very  soriy,  no  doubt,  since  the  cause  is  a  brother's) 
All  scrambling  and  jostling,  like  so  many  imps, 
And  on  fire  w'vh  impatience  to  get  ihe  next  glimpse. 

Ink.  Let  us  join  them. 

Tra.  What,  won't  you  return  to  the  lecture  ? 

Ink.  Why,  the  place  is  so  cramni'd,  there's  not  room 
for  a 'sped  re. 
Besides,  our  friend  Scamp  is  to-day  so  absurd  — 

Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  (ill  you  hear  him  ? 

Ink.  I  heard 

Quite  enousrh  ;  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  retreat 
Was  from  his  vile  nonsense,  no  less  than  the  heat 

Tra.  I  have  had  uo  great  loss  then  ? 

Ink.  Loss :  —  such  a  palaver  ! 

I  'd  inocula'e  sooner  my  wife  with  the  slaver 
Of  a  doz  when  gone  rabid,  than  listen  two  hours 
To  the  torrent  of  trash  which  around  him  he  pours, 
Pump'd  up  with   such  effort,  disgorged  with   such 
labour. 

That come  —  do  not  make  me  speak  ill  of  one's 

neighbour, 

Tra.  I  make  you  ! 

Ink.                          Yes,  vou  :  I  said  nothing  until 
You  compell'd  me,  by  speaking  the  truth 

Tra.  Ti  speak  ill? 

Is  that  your  deduction  ? 

Ink.  When  speaking  of  Scamp  ill, 

I  certainly  follow,  not  set  an  example. 
The  fellow  's  a  fool,  an  impostor,  a  zany. 

Tra.  And  the  crowd  of  to-day  shows  that  one  fool 
makes  many. 
But  we  two  will  be  wise. 

Ink.  Pray,  then,  let  us  retire. 

Tra.  I  would,  but i 

Ink.  There  must  be  attraction  much  higher  ^ 

Than  Scamp,  or  the  Jew's  harp  he  nicknames  his  lyre,  j 
To  call  you  to  this  hotbed.  I 

Tra.  I  own  it  — 't  is  true  — 

A  fair  lady | 

Ink.  A  spinster? 

Tra.  MissLihc!  i 

Ink.  The  Blue! 

The  heiress  ? 

Tm.  The  angel! 

Irik.  The  devil !  why,  man  ! 

Pray  get  out  of  this  hobble  as  fast  as  you  can. 
Tou.  wed  with  Miss  Lilac  !  't  would  be  your  perdition 
She 's  a  poet,  a  chymist,  a  mathematician. 


15 


Tra.  I  say  she's  an  angel. 

Ink.  Say  rather  an  angU 

If  you  and  she  marry,  you  'II  cer  ainly  wrangle. 
I  sav  she's  a  Blue,  man,  as  blue  as  !he  ether. 

Tra.  And  is  that  any  cause  fir  not  coming  together? 

Ink.  Humph  !  I  can't  siy  1  know  any  hapi  y  alliance 
Which   has  lately  sprung  up   from  a  wedlock  with 

science. 
She  's  so  learned  in  all  things,  and  fond  of  concerning 
Herself  iu  all  matters  connected  with  leaiuing. 
That 

Tra.        What  ? 

Ink.  I  perhaps  may  as  well  hold  my  tongue  ; 

But  there's  five  hundred   people  can  tell  you  you 're 
wr-ing. 

Tra,  You  forget  Lady  Lilac's  as  rich  as  a  Jew. 

Ink.  Is  it  miss  or  the  cash  of  mamma  you  pursue? 

Tia.  Why.  J  ck,  I'll   be  frank  with  you  — some- 
thing of  both. 
The  ?irl  's  a  tine  girl. 

Ink.  And  you  feel  nothing  loth 

To  her  good  lady-mother's  reversion  ;  and  yet 
Her  life  is  as  good  as  your  own,  I  will  bet. 

Tra.  Let  her  live,' and  as  long  as  she  likes;  I  de- 
mind 
Nothing  more  than  Ihe  heart  of  her  daughter  and  hand. 

Ink.  Why,  that  heart's  in  Ihe  inkstand  —  that  hand 
on  the  pen. 

Tra.  A  propos  —Will  you  write  me  a  song  now  and 
then  ? 

Ink.  To  what  purpose? 

Tra.            You  know,  my  dear  friend,  that  in  prose 
My  talent  is  decent,  as  far  as  it  goes  ; 
But  in  rhyme 

Ink.  You  're  a  terrible  stick,  to  be  sure. 

Tra.  I  own  it;  and  yet,  in  these  times,  there's  no 
lure 
For  the  heart  of  the  fai-  like  a  stanza  or  two; 
And  so,  as  I  can't,  will  you  furnish  a  few? 

Ink.  In  your  name  ? 

Trn.  Ill  my  name.    I  will  copy  them  out, 

To  slip  into  her  hand  at  the  very  next  rout. 

Ink.  Are  you  so  far  advanced"  as  to  hazard  this? 

T,a.  Why, 

Do  you  think  me  subdued  by  a  Blue-stocking's  eye, 
So  far  as  lo  tremble  to  tell  her  in  rhvme 
What  I  've  fold  her  in  prose,  at  the  feast,  as  sublime? 

Ink.  As  sublime  !  If  it  be  so,  no  need  of  my  Muse. 

Tra.  But  consider,  dear  Inkel,  she's  one  of  the 
"  Blues." 

hik   As  sublime  !  —  Mr.  Tracy  —  I  've  nothing  to 
say. 
Stick  to  prose  —  As  sublime  II  —  but  I  wish  you  good 
day. 

Tra.  Nay,  stay,  my  dear  fellow  —  consider  —  I'm 
wrong ; 
I  own  if :  but.  prithee,  compose  me  the  song. 

Ink.  As  sublime  !  I 

Tra.  I  but  used  the  expression  in  h.aste. 

Ink.  That  may  be,  Mr.  Tracy,  but  shows  damu'd 
bid  taste. 

Tra.  I  own  it  —  I  know  it  —  acknowledge  it  —  what 
Can  I  say  to  you  more  ? 

Ink.  I  see  what  you  'd  be  at ; 

You  disparage  my  parts  with  insidious  abuse, 
Till  you  think  you  can  turn  ihem  best  to  your  own  use. 

Tra.  And  is  that  not  a  sign  I  respect  Ihem  ? 

Ink.  Why  that 

To  be  sure  irakes  a  difference. 

Tra.  I  know  what  is  what : 

And  you,  who  're  a  man  of  the  gay  world,  no  less 
Thm  a  poet  of  t'  o'her,  may  ea>ily  guess 
That  I  never  could  mean,  by  a  wo'rd,  to  offend 
A  genius  like  you,  and  moreover  my  friend. 

Ink.  No  doubt ;  you  by  this  time  should  know  wha 
is  due 
To  a  man  of but  come—  let  us  shake  hands. 

Tra.  You  knew. 

And  you  know,  mv  dear  fellow,  how  heartily  I, 
Whatever  you  publish,  am  ready  to  buy.  [sale; 

Ink.  That's  my  bookseller's  business;  I  care  not  for 
Indeed  the  best  poems  at  first  rather  fail. 


170 


THE   BLUES. 


There  were  Renegade's  epics,  and  Botherby's  plays,i 
And  mv  own  grand  lomance 

Tra.'  Had  its  full  share  of  praise. 

I  myself  saw  it  puff'd  in  the  '"Old  Girl's  Review. "2 

Ink.   What  Review? 

Tra.  T  is  ihe  Kngllsh  "Journal  de  Trevoux  ;  "  3 
A  clerical  work  of  our  Jesuits  at  home. 
Have  you  never  yet  seen  it  ? 

Ink.  That  pleasure's  to  come. 

Tra.  Make  haste  then. 

Ink.  Why  so  ? 

Tra.  I  have  heard  people  say 

Th  it  it  threaten'd  to  give  up  the  ghost  t'other  day. 

ink.  Well,  that  is  a  sign  of  some  spirit. 

Tia-  No  doubt. 

Shall  you  be  at  the  Countess  of  Fiddlecome's  rout  ? 

Ink.  I  've  a  card,  and  shall  go :  but  at  present,  as 
soon 
As  friend  Scamp  shall  be  pleased  to  step  down  from 

the  moou 
(Where  he  seems  to  be  soaring  in  search  of  his  wits), 
And  an  interval  grants  from  his  lecturins  fits, 
I  'm  engaged  to  the  Lady  Bluebottle's  collation. 
To  pariake  of  a  luncheca  and  learn'd  conversa'ion  : 
'T  is  a  sort  of  re  union  for  Scamp,  on  the  days 
Of  his  lecture,  to  treat  him  with  cold  tongue  and  praise. 
And  I  own,  for  my  own  part,  that 't  is  not  unpleasmt. 
Will  you  S.0  ?  There 's  Miss  Lilac  will  also  be  present. 

Tra.  That  "  metal 's  attractive." 

Ink.  No  doubt  —  to  the  pocket. 

Tra.  Vou  should  rather  encourage  my  passion  than 
shock  it. 
But  let  us  proceed  ;  for  I  think,  by  the  hum 

Ink.  Very  true ;  let  us  go,  then,   before  they  can 
come. 
Or  else  we  'II  be  kept  here  an  hour  at  their  levy, 
On  the  rack  of  cross  questions,  by  all  the  blue  bevy. 
Hark  !  Zounds,  they  'II  be  on  us ;  I  know  by  the  drone 
Of  old  Bollierby's  spouting  ex  cithedri  'one. 
Ay  !  there  he  is  .it  it.    Poor  Scamp  i  better  join 
Your  friends,  or  he  '11  pay  you  back  in  your  ow  n  coin. 

Tra.  All  fiir  ;  'tis  but  lecture  for  lecture. 

Ink  That 's  clear, 

But  for  God's  sake  let's  go,  or  the  Bore  will  be  here. 
Come,  come:  nay,  I'm  off.  [Exit  lukel 

Tra.  You  are  right,  and  I  '11  follow  ; 

'T  is  high  time  for  a  ^'^Sic  me  servavit  Apollo.^' 
And  yet  we  shall  have  the  whole  crew  on  our  kibes. 
Blues,  dandle-,  and  dowagers,  and  second-hand  scribes, 
All  flocking  to  m^isten  their  exquisite  Ihroltles 
With  a  glass  of  Madeira  at  Lady  Bluebottle's. 

[Exit  Tracy. 


ECLOGUE  SECOND. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Huuse  of  Lady  Bluebottle. —  A 
Table  prepared. 
Sir  Richard  Bluebottle  solv.i. 
Was  there  ever  a  man  who  was  married  so  sorry  ? 
Like  a  fool,  I  mus'  needs  do  the  thing  in  a  hurry. 
My  life  is  reversed,  and  my  quiet  destroy'd  ; 
Mv  days,  which  once  pass'd  in  so  gentle  a  void, 
Must  now,  every  hour  of  the  twelve,  be  employ'd  ; 
The  twelve,  do  I  say  ?  —  of  the  whole  twenty-four. 
Is  there  one  which  I  dare  call  my  own  any  more  ? 
What  with  driving  and  vl-iting,  dancing  and  dining. 
What  with  learning,  and  teaching,  and  scribbling,  and 

shinin?. 
In  science  and  art,  I  'II  be  cursed  if  I  know 
Myself  from  my  wife  j  for  although  we  are  two. 


I  Messrs.  Southpy  and  Sothtfby.— E. 

2 "My  Grandmntlier's    Review,    the    British." 


3  The  "Journal  de  Trevoux"  (in  fifiy-six  volumeR)  i 
one  of  Itie  most  curious  coIIertinnB  of  literary  pnesip  i 
(be  world,— and  l)ir  Poet  paid  llif  Britieli  Review  en  ex 
travagaot  compliinent  wtieo  lie  made  this  comparieon. — H 


Yet  she  somehow  contrives  things  that  all  shall  be 

done 
In  a  style  which  proclaims  us  eternally  one. 
But  the  thing  of  a  1  things  which  distre!ses  me  more 
Than  the  bills  of  the  w'eek  (though  they  trouble  me 

sore) 
Is  the  numerous,  humorous,  backbiting  crew 
Of  scribblers,  wits,  lecturers,  while,  black,  and  blue, 
Who  are  hi  ought  to  my  house  as  an  inn,  to  my  cost  — 
For  the  bill  here,  it  seems,  is  defray'd  by  Ihe  host  — 
No  pleasure  !  no  leisure  '.  no  thought  for  jny  paia«, 
But  to  hear  a  vile  jargon  which  addles  my  brains; 
A  smalter  and  chatter,  glean'd  out  of  reviews, 
By  the  rag,  lag,  and  bobtail,  of  those  they  call  "  Elxtes  ;'■ 

A  rabble  w  ho  know  not Bui  sofl.  here  thev  come  ! 

Would  to  God  I  were  deaf;  as  I  'm  not,  1  '11  be  dumb. 

Enter  Lady  Bluebottle,  Miss  Lilac,  Lady  Bluemount, 
Mr.  Botherby,  Inkel,  Tracy,  Miss  Alazarine,  and 
others,  with  Scamp  the  Ltcturcr,  &c.  ice. 

Lady  Blueh.  Ah  !  Sir  Richard,  good  morning :  I  've 
brought  you  some  fiiends. 

Sir  Rich,  (lows,  and  afterwards  aside.)  If  friends, 
ihey  're  the  first. 

Lady  Bluth.  But  the  luncheon  atCends. 

I  pray  ye  be  seated,  "  saiis  ccremonie." 
Mr.  Scamp,  you're  fatigued;  take  your  chair  there, 
next  nie.  [They  all  sit. 

Sir  Rich,  {aside)  If  he  does,  his  fatigue  is  to  come. 

Lady  Btueb.  Mr.  Tracy  — 

Lady  Bluemount  —  Miss  Ll^ac  —  be  pleased,  pray,  to 

pl.»re  ye ; 
And  you.  Mi.  Betherby  — 

Beth.  Oh,  my  dear  Lady, 

I  obey. 

La'dy  Blueh.  Mr.  Inkle,  I  ought  to  upbraid  ye . 
You  »  ere  not  at  the  lecture. 

Ink.  Excuse  me,  I  was ; 

But  the  heat  forced  roe  out  in  the  best  part  — alas  ! 
And  when 

Lady  Btueb.  To  be  sure  it  was  broiling;  but  theD 
You  haie  lost  such  a  lecture  ! 

Both.  The  best  of  the  ten. 

Tra.  How  can  you  kuow  that .'  there  are  two  mort- 

Both.  Because 

I  defy  him  to  beat  this  day"s  wondrous  applause. 
The  very  walls  shook. 

Ink.  Oh,  if  that  be  the  test, 

I  allow  our  friend  Scamp  has  th's  day  done  his  best 
Miss  Lilac,  permit  me  to  help  you  ;  — a  wing  ? 

Miss  Lil    No  more,  sir,  I  thank  you.    Who  lectures 
next  spring? 

Both.  UickUunder. 

Ink.  That  is,  if  he  lives. 

Miss  Lil.  And  why  not  ? 

Ink.  No  reason  whatever,  save  that  he 's  a  sot. 
Ladv  Bluemount !  a  glass  of  Madeira  ? 

Lady  Bluem.  With  pleasure. 

Ink.  How  does  your  friend  Wordswords,  that  Win- 
dermere treasure  ? 
Does  he  slick  to  his  lakes,  like  the  leeches  he  sings. 
And   Iheir  gatherers,  as  Homer  sung   warriors  and 
kings? 

Lady  Blucb.  He  has  just  got  a  place. 

Ink.  As  a  footman  ? 

Ladv  Bluem.  For  shame  ! 

Nor  profane  with  your  sneers  so  poetic  a  name. 

Ink.  Nay,  I  meant  him  no  evil,  but  pilied  his  mas- 
ter ; 
For  the  pnet  of  pedlars  't  were,  sure,  no  disaster 
To  wear  a  new  livery  ;  the  more,  as  't  is  not 
The  first  time  he  has'lurn'd  bolh  his  creed  and  his  coat 

Lady  Bluem.  For  shame  !  I  repeat.     If  Sir  George 
could  but  hear 

Lady  Blucb.  Never  mind  our  friend  Inkel ;  we  all 
know,  my  deir, 
'T  is  his  «  ay. 

Sir  Rich.  But  this  place 

Ink.  Is  perhaps  like  fnend  Scamp's, 

A  lecturer's. 


THE   BLUES. 


171 


Lady  Blueh.  Excuse  me  —  't  is  one  io  "  Ihe  Stamps :" 
He  is  made  a  collector.^ 

TVa-  Collector ! 

Sir  R'ch.  How  ? 

Miii  Lil.  What  ? 

Ink.  I  shall  think  of  him  oft  when  I  buy  a  new  hat : 
There  hi*  works  will  appear 

Lady  Blxum.  Sir,  they  reach  to  the  Ganges. 

Ink.  I  sha  'n't  go   so  far  —  \  can  have  them    at  | 
Grause's.  * 

Lady  Bltleb.  Oh  fie  !  | 

Miai  Lil.  And  for  shame !  I 

Lady  Bluem.  You  're  too  bad. 

Bolli.  Very  good  ! 

Lady  Bluem.  How  good  ? 

Lady  B'ueb.  He  means  nought  —  't  is  his  phrase. 

Lady  Bluem.  He  grows  rude. 

Lnd'y  Blutl.  He  means  nothing ;  nay,  ask  him. 

Lady  Bluem.  P^y,  sir'!  did  you  mean 

Whit  you  say  ? 

Ink.  Never  mind  if  he  did  ;  't  will  be  seen 

That  whatever  he  means  won't  alloy  what  he  says. 

Both.  Sir  ! 

Ink.  Pray  be  content  with  your  portion  of  praise ; 
'T  was  in  your  defeuce. 

Both.  If  you  please,  with  submission, 

I  can  m  ike  out  my  owu. 

Ink.  It  would  be  your  perdition. 

While  you  live,  my  dear  Bolherby,  never  defend 
Yourself  or  your  works;  but  leave  both  to  a  friend. 
Apropos  —  Is  vour  play  then  accepted  at  last  ? 

Both.  At  last  ? 

Ink.  Why  I  thought  — that 's  to  say  — there  had 
pa-s'd 
A  few  ereen  room  whispers,  which  hinted, —  you  know 
That  Ihe  laste  of  ihe  nctors  at  Ijest  is  so  so. 

Both.  Sir,  Ihe  greeu-room  's  in  rapture,  and  so's  the 
comniiltee. 

Ink.  Ay  —  yours   are   the   plays   for  exciting  our 
"pily 
And  fear."  as   the  Greek   says:    for  "purging  the 

•  mind," 
I  doubt  if  you  '11  leave  us  an  equal  behind. 

Both.  I  have  written  the  prologue,  and  meant   to 
have  pray'd 
For  a  spice  of  your  wit  in  an  epilogue's  aid. 

Ink.  Well,  lime  enough  yet,  when  the  play  's  to  be 
play-d. 
Is  it  cast  yet } 

Bo  h.  The  actors  are  fi»hling  for  parts. 

As  is  usu.tI  in  thai  most  liliiious  of  arls. 

Lady  Blueb.  We  '11  all  'make  a  party,  and  go  the 
fir!,t  night. 

Tra.  And  you  promised  the  epilogue,  Inkel.  j 

Ink.  Not  quite,  j 

However,  to  save  my  friend  Bolherby  trouble,  i 

I  Ml  do  what  I  can,  though  my  pains  must  he  double. 

Tra.  Why  so?  I 

Ink.  To  do  justice  to  what  goes  before. 

Both.  Sir,  I  'm  happy  to  say,  I  've  no  fears  on  that 
score. 
Your  parts,  Mr.  Inkle,  are 

Ink,  Never  mind  rnine  ; 

Stick  to  those  of  your  play,  which  is  quite  your  own 
line. 

Lady  Bluem.  You  're  a  fugitive  writer,  I  think,  sir, 
of  rhymes  ? 

Ink.  Yes.  ma'am  ;  and  a  fugitive  reader  sometimes. 
On  Wordswords,  for  instance,  I  seldom  alight. 
Or  on  Mouthey.  his  friend,  wihout  taking  to  flight. 

Lady  Bluem   Sir,  your  taste  is  too  common;  but 
time  and  posterity 
Will  right  these  great  men,  and  this  age's  severity 
Become  its  reproach. 


Ink.  I  've  no  sort  of  objection. 

So  I  'm  not  of  the  party  to  take  the  infection. 
Lady  B  ueb.  Perhaps  you  have  doubts  that  they  ever 

will  take? 
Ink.  Not  at  all  ;  on  Ihe  contrary.  thos<;  of  the  lake 
Have  :3ken  already,  and  slill  will  continue 
To  take  —  what  they  can,  from  a  groat  to  a  guinea, 
Of  pension  or  place  ;  —  but  the  subject  's  a  bore. 
Lady  Bluem.   Well,  sir,  the  lime  's  coming. 
Ink.  Scamp !  don't  you  feel  sore  ? 

What  say  you  to  this  ? 

Scamp.  They  hive  merit,  I  own  ; 

Though  their  system's  absurdity  keeps  it  unknown. 
Ink.  Then  why  not  unearlh  it  in  one  of  your  lec- 
tures .' 
Scamp.  It  is  only  time  past  which  comes  under  my 

strictures. 
Lady  Blueb   Come,  a  truce  with  all  tartness :  —  the 
joy  of  my  heart 
Is  to  see  Nature's  triumph  o'er  all  that  is  art 
Wild  Nature  !  —  Grand  Shakspeare  '. 
Both.  And  down  Aristotle. 

Lady  Bluem.  Sir  George  3  thinks  exactly  with  Lady 
Bluebottle: 
And  mv  Lord  Seventy-four,*  who  protects  our  dear 

Bard, 
And  who  gave  him  his  place,  has  the  greatest  regard 
For  the  poel,  who,  singing  of  pedlars  and  asses, 
Has  fnuDit  out  the  way  to  dispense  with  Parnassus. 
Tra.  And  you.  Scamp  I  — 

Scamp.  I  needs  must  confess  I  'm  embarrass'd. 

Ink.  Don't  call  upon  Scamp,  who's  already  so  har- 
rass'd 
With  old  schools,  and  new  schools,  and  no  schools,  and 
all  schools. 
Tra.  Well,  one  thing  is  certain,  that  some  must  be 
fools. 
I  should  like  to  know  who. 

Ink.  And  I  should  not  be  sorry 

To  know  who  are  net :  —  it  would  save  us  some  worry. 
Lady  Blueb.  A  truce  with  remark,  and  let  nothing 
control 
This  "  feast  of  our  reason,  and  flow  of  the  soul." 
Oh  !  my  dear  Mr.  Botlierby  I  sympathise  !  —  I 
Now  feel  such  a  rapture,  I'm  ready  to  fly, 
I  feel  so  elastic  —  "  «o  bui/yant  —  io  buoyant'.^  » 
Ink.  Tracy!  open  the  window. 
Tra.  I  wish  her  much  joy  on  t. 

Both.  For  God's  sake,  my  Lady  Bluebottle,  check 

This  gentle  emotion,  so  seldom  our  lot 
Upon  earth.     Give  it  way  :  'I  is  an  impulse  which  lifts 
Our  spirits  from  earth  ;  the  sublimest  of  gifts  ; 
For  which  poor  Prometheus  ivas  chain'd  to  his  moun- 
tain : 
'T  is  the  source  of  all  sentiment  —  feeling's  true  foun- 
tain ; 
'T  is  the  Vision  of  Heaven  upon  Earth  :  't  is  the  gas 
Of  Ihe  soul  :  '1  is  the  seizing  of  shades  as  they  pass. 
And  making  them  substince  :  "t  is  something  divine:  — 
Ink.  Shall  I  help  you,  my  friend,  to  a'lillle  more 

nine? 
Both.  I  thank  you  ;  not  any  more,  sir,  till  I  dine. 
Ink.  Apropos  — Do  you  dine  with  Sir  Humphry* 

to  day  ? 
Tra.  I  should  think  with  Duke  Humphry  was  more 

ill  your  way. 
Ink.  It  might  be  of  yore  ;  but  we  authors  now  Dok 
To  Ihe  Knight,  as  a  landlord,  much  more  that  the 
Duke. 


Cumber- 


4  It  wa»  not  Ihe  present  Earl  of  Lonniale,  "-ut  James, 
the  first  earl,  who  oRernl  Io  build,  and  completely  fuiDisb 
and  man.  a  nhip  of  seventy-four  guns,  towards  the  clone 
of  Ihe  American  w.nr,  for  the  service  of  hix  country,  at 
his  own  expense;  — htnce  Ihe  JOii(>riv«e<  in  the  text.  —  E 

6  Fact  from  life,  with  the  irords. 

6  The  late  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  President  of  the  Boyai 
Society.— E. 


172 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


The  (ru'h  is,  each  writer  now  quite  at  his  ease  is, 
And   (except   with   his    pnblislicr)  dines    where   he 

pleases. 
But  'I  Is  DOW  nearly  five,  and  I  must  to  the  Park. 

Tra.  Aid  1  '11  take  a  luru  wilti  you   there  till  'tis 
d,irk. 
And  you.  Scamp  — 

Scamp.  Excuse  me  '.  I  mu:-t  to  my  notes, 

For  my  lecture  next  weeR. 

Ink.  He  must  mind  whom  he  quotes 

Out  of  •'  Elejant  Ex:racts." 

Lady  Bliitb.  Well,  now  we  break  up ; 

But  rememt)er  Miss  Diddle '  invites  us  to  sup. 

ITtie  late  Mie8  LydiaWliite,  whose  hospitable  f;inclions 
have  not  yet  txjen  supplifd  lo  the  circlt^s  of  lAindnn  arli»ts 
and  literati  — an  acopiiiplished,  clever,  and  truly  arciabie, 
but  very  c(ceiiirii-  lady.  The  name  in  the  lext  cuuld 
Oflly  have  been  su^gealed  by  the  jiugliiig  rcsemblauce  il 
beara  to  Lydta. — 1^. 


Iiih.  Then  at  two  hours  past  midnight  we  all  meet 
ajtin, 
For  the  sciences,  sandwiches,  hock,  and  champaigne  ! 
Tra.  And  the  sweet  lobster  saiad  I 
Both.  I  honour  that  meal ; 

for  't  is  then  that  our  feelings  most  genuinely  —  feel. 
Ink.  True;  feeling  is  truest  t/ieri,  far  beyond  ques- 
tion : 
I  wish  10  the  gods  't  was  the  sime  with  digestion  ! 
I     Lady  Bliitb.  pshaw!  — never  mind  that;  (or  one 

monieiit  of  feeling 
Is  worth  — God  knows  what. 
Ink.  T  is  at  least  worth  concealing 

For  itself,  or  what  follows But  here  comes  your 

carriage. 
Sir  Rich,    (aside).    I  wish  all   these   people  were 
d d  with  my  marriage  1  [Exemit. 


THE  VISION   OF  JUDGMENT, 

BYaUEVEDO   REDIVIVUS. 
SUGGESTED  BV  THE  COMPOSITION  SO  FNTITLED  BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  WAT  TYLER." 


PREFACE. 

It  hath  been  wisely  said,  thif  "One  fooi  makes 
many  ;"  and  it  hath  been  p  >etically  observed, 
"That  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread."— Pope. 
If  Mr.  Soulhey  had  not  rushed  in  where  he  had  no 
business,  and  where  he  never  was  before,  and  never 
will  be  again,  the  following  poem  would  not  have  been 
written.  It  is  not  inipr<ssible  that  it  may  be  as  good  .as 
his  own,  seeing  that  it  cannot,  by  any  species  of  stu- 
pidity, natural  or  acquired,  be  worse.  The  gross  flat- 
tery, the  dull  impudence,  the  renegado  inloler.nce,  and 
impious  cant,  of  the  poem  by  the  author  of  •'  Wat 
Tyler  "are  something  so  stupendous  .as  to  form  the 
sublime  of  himself— containing  the  quintescence  of 
his  own  attributes. 

So  much  for  his  poem  —  a  word  on  his  preface.     In 
this  preface  it  haspleised  the  niasnanimous  Laureate 
to  draw  the  picture  of  a  supposed  "  Sitanic  School," 
the   which   he  doth   recommend  to  the  nntice  of  the 
legislature  ;  thereby  .adding  to  his  other  laurels  the  am- 
bition of  those  of'an   informer.     If  there  exists  any 
where,  excepting  in  his  imiginarion,  such  a  School,  is 
he  not  sufficiently  armed  against  it  by  his  own  intense 
vani  y  ?    The  truth  is,  that  there  are  certain  writers 
whom  Mr.  S.  imagines,  like  Scrub,  to  have  "talked  of 
i '  Aim  ;  for  they  laughed  consuniedly." 
'      I  think  I   know  enough  of  most  of  the  writeis  to 
'  t.-h'^m  he  is  supposed  lo  allude,  to  assert,  that  they,  in 
I  frieir  individinl  capici'ies.  hnve  done  more  good,  in  the 
charities  of  life,  to  their  fellow-creatures,  in  any  one 
year,  than  Mr.  Southey  has  done  harm  to  himself  hy 
his  absurdities  in  his  whole  life  ;  and  this  is  saying  a 
great  deal.     But  I  have  a  fe'v  questions  to  a  k. 

Istly,  Is  Mr.  Southey  the  author  of  "  Wat  Tyler  ?" 
2dlv,  Was  he  not   refu-ed  a  remedy  at  law  by  the 
I    highest  juJie  of  his  beloved  Ensland,  ijecause  it  was  a 
blasphemous  and  seditiou=  publication? 

3dly,  Was  he  not  entitled  by  William  Smith,  in  full 
parliament,  '-a  rancorous  rene'gado?" 

4thly,  Is  he  not  poet  laureate,  with  his  own  lines  on 
Martin  the  legicide  staring  him  in  the  face? 
I      And,  5lhly,  Putting  the  four  preceding  items  toge- 


ther, with  what  conscience  dare  he  call  the  attention  of 
the  laws  to  the  publications  of  others,  be  they  what 
they  may  ? 

I'siy  nothing  of  the  cowardice  of  such  a  proceeding  ; 
its  meanness  speaks  for  itself;  but  I  wish  to  touch  0  on 
the  rnolice.  which  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  that 
Sir.  S.  has  been  laughed  at  a  little  in  some  leceut  pub- 
lications, as  he  w  s  of  yore  in  the  •' Aii'ijac  ■bin,"  by 
his  present  paTons.  Hence  all  this  '•  skimble  scamble 
stuff"  about  "  Satanic,"  and  so  forth.  However,  it  is 
worthv  of  him  — "  qual'S  ab  incepto." 

If  there  is  any  thing  obnoxious  to  the  political  opi- 
nions of  a  portion  of  the  public  in  the  following  poem, 
they  miy  thank  Mr.  Southey.  He  might  have  written 
hexameters,  as  he  has  written  every  thing  else,  for 
aught  that  the  writer  cared  —  had  they  been  upon  an- 
o  her  subject.  But  to  attempt  to  canonise  a  monarch, 
who,  whatever  were  his  hnu-ehold  virtues,  was  nei  her 
a  successful  nor  a  patriot  king, —  inasmuch  as  several 
j  years  of  his  reign  passed  in  war  with  America  and 
Ireland,  to  say  nothing  of  the  agsressioii  upon  France 
—  like  all  other  exaggeration,  necessarily  begets  oppo 
I  sition.  In  whatever  manner  he  may  be  spoken  of  ir 
1  this  new  "  Vision,"  his  public  career  w  ill  not  be  more 
I  favourably  transmitted  by  history.  Of  his  private  vir 
tues  (allhourh  a  little  expensive  to  the  nation)  ther« 
can  be  no  doubt. 

I  With  regard  to  the  supernatural  personages  treated 
'  of.  I  can  only  say  thrt  1  know  as  much  atwut  them 
and  (as  an  honest  man)  have  a  better  right  to  talk  of 
them  than  Robert  Souhey.  I  have  also  treated  them 
more  tolerantly.  The  way  in  which  tint  po;>r  insane 
creature,  the  Laureate,  deals  about  his  judgments  in 
1  the  next  worl.l,  is  like  his  own  judgment  in  this.  If 
I  it  was  not  completely  ludicrous,  it  would  be  something 
worse.  1  don't  think  that  there  is  much  more  to  say  at 
!  present.  QUEVEUO  REDIVIVUS. 

I  P.  S.— It  is  pos,sibIe  that  some  reiders  may  object, 
\  in  these  objectionable  limes,  to  the  freedom  with  which 
saints,  angels,  and  spiritual  persons  discourse  in  thij 
I  "  Vision  "  But,  for  precedents  upon  such  points,  I 
must  refer  him  to  Fielding's  "Journey  from  this 
World  to  the  next,"  and  to  the  Visions  of  myself,  tba 
said  Quevedo,  in  Spanish  or  translated.    The  reader  it 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


173 


alto  requested  to  observe,  thif  no  doctrinal  tenets  are 
insisted  upon  or  discussed  ;  that  the  person  of  the 
Deity  is  carefully  withheld  from  sight,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  snid  for  the  Laureate,  who  hath  thougtt 
proper  to  make  him  tilk,  not  "  like  a  schonl  divine," 
but  like  Ihe  unscholarlike  Mr.  Sou  hey.  The  whole 
action  passes  on  the  outside  of  heaven  ;  and  Chmcer's 
Wife  of  Rath,  Pulci's  Mor^nte  Ma^giore,  Swift's 
Tale  of  a  Tub,  and  the  other  works  above  referred  to, 
are  cases  in  point  of  the  freedom  with  which  saints,  &c. 
may  be  permitted  to  converse  in  works  not  intended  to 
be  serious,  Q.  R. 

*^*  Mr.  Southey  being,  as  he  says,  a  good  Christian 
and  vindictive,  threatens,  I  understand,  a  reply  to  this 
our  answer.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  his  visionary  facul- 
ties will  in  the  meantime  have  acquired  a  little  more 
judgment,  properly  so  called:  otherwise  he  will  get 
himself  in'o  new  dilemmas.  These  apostate  jacobins 
furnish  rich  rejoinders.  Let  him  take  a  specimen. 
Mr.  Southey  laudelh  grievously  "one  Mr.  Landor," 
who  cultivates  much  private  renown  in  the  shape  of 
Latin  verses;  and  not  long  ago,  the  poet  laureate  dedi- 
cated to  him,  it  appeareth,  one  of  his  fugitive  lyrics, 
upon  the  strength  of  a  poem  called  Gebir.  Who  could 
suppose,  that  in  this  same  Gebir  the  aforesaid  Savage 
Landor  (for  such  is  his  grim  cognomen)  putleth  into 
the  infernal  regions  no  less  a  person  than  the  hero  of 
his  friend  Mr.  Soulhey's  heaven, —  yea.  even  George 
the  Third  !  See  also  how  personal  Savage  becometh, 
when  he  hath  a  mind.  The  f  lUowing  is  his  portrait 
of  our  late  gracious  sovereign :  — 

(Prince  Gebir  having  descended  into  the  infernal  regions, 
the  shades  of  liis  riyal  am  eslors  are,  at  his  rfque»t, 
called  up  to  his  view;  and  he  exclaims  to  his  ghostly 
guide)- 

"  Aroar,  what  wretch  that  nearest  us?  what  wreti-h 
Is  that  with  eyebrows  white  and  slanting  brow  ? 
Listen  1  hini  yonder  who,  bound  down  supine, 
Shrinks  yelliug  from  that  sword  there,  engine-hang. 
He  too  amongst  my  ancestors  !  I  hate 
The  despot,  but  the  dastard  1  despise. 
Was  he  our  countryman  2  " 

'•Alas,  O  king  ! 
Iberia  bore  him,  but  the  breed  accural 
Inclement  winds  blew  blighting  from  northeast." 
"  He  was  a  warrior  then,  nor  fear'd  the  eods  ?  " 
"Gebir,  he  fear'd  the  demons,  not  the  gods. 
Though  them  indeed  his  daily  face  adortd: 
And  was  no  warrior,  yet  the  thousand  lives 
Squander'J,  as  stones  to  exercise  a  sling, 
Aud  the  tame  cruelty  and  cold  caprice  — 
Oh  madness  of  mankind!  addtess'd,  adored'"  — 

Gebir,  p.  28. 

1  omit  noticing  some  edifying  Ithyphallics  of  Sava- 
gius,  wishing  to  keep  the  proper  veil  over  them,  if  his 
grave  but  somewhat  indiscreet  worshipper  will  sufter 
it  i  but  certainly  these  teachers  of  "  great  moral  les- 
sons "  are  apt  to  be  found  iu  strange  company. 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


I. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gale; 

His  keys  were"  rusty,  and  the  lock  wis  dull, 
So  little  trouble  had  been  given  of  late  ; 

Not  that  the  place  by  any  means  was  full, 
But  since  the  Gallic  era  "eighty-eight" 

The  devils  had  ta'eii  a  longer,  stronger  pull, 
And  '-a  pull  altogether,'"  as  they  say 
At  sea —  which  drew  most  soul's  another  way. 

n. 

The  angels  all  were  singing  out  of  tune. 
And  hoarse  with  having  little  else  to  do. 

Excepting  to  wind  up  the  sun  and  moon, 
Or  curb  a  runaway  youn?  star  or  two. 

Or  wild  colt  of  a  comet,  which  too  soon 
Broke  out  of  bounds  o'er  the  ethereal  blue, 


Splitting  some  planet  with  its  playful  tail, 
As  boats  are  sometimes  by  a  wanton  whale. 

III. 
The  guardian  seraphs  had  retired  on  high, 

Findmi  their  charges  past  all  care  below  ; 
Terrestrial  busii.ess  hll'd  nought  in  the  sky 

Save  the  recordmg  angel's  black  bureau  ; 
Who  found,  iudeed,  the  "facts  to  multiply 

Wi  h  such  rapidity  of  vice  and  woe. 
That  he  had  siripp'd  oft'  both  his  wings  in  quills, 
And  yet  was  in  arrear  of  human  ills. 

IV. 
His  business  so  augmented  of  late  years. 

That  he  was  forced,  against  his  will  no  doubt, 
(Just  like  those  cherubs,  earthly  ministers,) 

For  some  resouice  to  turn  hiniself  about. 
And  claim  the  help  of  his  celestial  peers. 

To  aid  him,  ere  he  should  be  quite  worn  out 
By  the  increased  demand  for  his  remarks  : 
Six  aogels  and  twelve  saints  were  named  bis  clerks. 


This  was  a  handsome  board  —  at  least  for  heaven; 

And  yet  they  had  even  then  enough  to  do, 
So  many  conquerors'  cars  were  daily  driven, 

So  many  kingdoms  fitted  up  anew  ; 
Each  day  loo  slew  its  thousands  six  or  seven, 

Till  at  the  crowning  carnag-e,  Waterloo, 
They  threw  their  pens  down  in  divine  disgust 
The  page  was  so  besmear'd  with  blood  aud  dust. 

VI. 

This  by  the  way  ;  't  is  not  mine  to  record 

What  angels  shrink  from  :  even  the  very  devil 

On  this  occasion  his  own  work  abhorr'd, 
So  surfeited  with  the  infernal  revel : 

Though  he  himself  had  sharpen'd  every  swnrd. 
It  almost  quench'd  his  innate  thirst  of  evil. 

(Here  Satan's  sole  good  work  deserves  insertion  — 

'T  is,  that  he  has  both  generals  in  reversion.) 

VII. 

Let 's  skip  a  few  short  years  of  hollow  peace. 
Which  peopled  eirth  no  better,  hell  as  wont. 

And  heaven  none  —  they  form  the  tyrant's  lease. 
With  nothing  but  new  names  subscribed  upon  't; 

'T  will  one  day  finish:  meantime  they  increase, 
"  With  seven  heads  and  ten  horns,"'  and  all  in  front, 

Like  Saint  John's  foretold  beast ;  but  ours  are  born 

Less  formidable  iu  the  head  than  horn. 

VIIL 

In  the  first  year  of  freedom's  second  dawn  » 

Died  George  Ihe  Third  ;  although  no  tyrant,  one 
Who  shielded  tyrants,  till  each  sense  withdrawn 

Left  him  nor  mental  nor  external  sun  : 
A  better  farmer  ne'er  brush 'd  dew  from  lawn, 

A  worse  king  never  left  a  realm  undone  ! 
He  died  —  but  left  his  subjects  slill  behind, 
One  half  as  mad  —  aud  t'  o'.her  no  les3  blind. 

IX. 
He  died  !  his  death  made  no  great  stir  on  earth  : 

His  burial  made  some  pomp  ;  there  was  profusion 
Of  velvet,  gilding,  brass,  and  no  great  dearth 

Of  aught  but  tears  —  save  those  shed  by  collusion. 
For  these  things  may  be  bought  at  their  true  worth  ; 

Of  elegy  there  was  the  due  infusion  — 
Bought  also  ;  and  the  torches,  cloaks,  and  banners, 
Heralds,  and  relics  of  old  Gothic  manners, 

X. 
Form'd  a  sepulchral  melodrame.    Of  all 

The  fools  who  flock'd  to  swell  or  see  the  show. 
Who  cared  about  the  corpse  ?    The  funeral 

Made  the  attraction,  and  Ihe  black  the  woe. 

1  George  III.  died  the  29th  of  .Tannary,  1620,— «  year  in 
which  the  revolutionary  spirit  broke  out  all  cvertb*  loath 
of  Europe.  —  E. 


15 


174 


THE  VISION  OF  ^UDGMENT. 


There  throbb'd  not  there  a  thought  which  pierced  the 
pall  : 
And  when  the  gorgeous  coffin  was  laid  low, 
It  seem'd  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 
The  rotteuneas  of  eighty  years  iii  gold. 

XI. 

So  mix  his  body  with  the  dust !    It  might 
Reiurn  to  what  it  mu't  far  sooner,  were 

The  natural  compound  left  along  to  fight 
Its  way  bick  into  earth,  and  fire,  and  air ; 

But  the  unnatural  balsams  merely  blight 
What  nature  made  him  at  his  birth,  as  bare 

As  the  mere  million's  base  unmummied  clay  - 

Yet  all  his  spices  but  prolong  decay, 

XII. 
He's  dead  —  and  upper  earth  with  him  has  done; 

He  's  buried  ;  save  the  undertaker's  bill, 
Or  lipidary  scrawl,  the  world  is  gone 

For  him,  unless  he  left  a  German  will ; 
But  where  's  the  proctor  who  will  ask  his  son  ? 

In  whom  his  qualities  are  reigning  slill, 
Except  that  household  virtue,  most  unconmion. 
Of  cousUncy  to  a  bad,  ugly  woman. 

XIII. 

"  God  save  the  king !  "     It  is  a  large  economy 
In  God  to  save  the  like  ;  but  if  he  will 

Be  saving,  all  the  belter;  far  not  one  am  I 
Of  those  who  think  damnation  belter  still: 

I  hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I 
In  this  small  hojie  of  bettering  future  ill 

By  circumscribing,  wiih  some  slight  restriction, 

The  eternity  of  hell's  hot  jurisdiction. 

XIV. 
I  know  this  is  unpopular  ;  I  know 

'T  is  blasphemous ;  I  know  one  may  be  damn'd 
For  hoping  no  one  else  m  ly  e'er  be  so'; 

I  know  my  otechism  ;  I  know  we're  cramm'd 
With  the  best  doctrines  Mil  we  quite  o'erfiow  ; 

I  know  that  all  save  Eng'and's  church  have  shamm'd, 
And  that  the  other  twice  two  hundred  churches 
And  synagogues  have  made  a  damned  bad  purchase. 

XV. 
God  help  us  all !  God  help  me  too !  I  am, 

God  knows,  as  helpless  as  the  devil  can  wish, 
And  not  a  whit  more  difficult  to  damn. 

Than  is  to  bring^  to  land  a  late-hook'd  fish. 
Or  to  the  bu'cher  to  purvey  the  lamb  ; 

Not  that  I  'ni  fit  for  such  a  noble  dish, 
As  one  day  will  be  that  immortal  fry 
Of  almost  every  body  born  to  die. 

XVI. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate. 

And  nodded  o'er  his  keys  ;  when,  lo  !  there  came 
A  wondrous  noise  he  had  not  heard  of  late  — 

A  rushing  sound  of  wind,  and  stream,  and  flame; 
In  short,  a  roar  of  things  extremely  great. 

Which  would  have  made  aught  save  a  saint  exclaim  ; 
But  he,  with  first  a  start  and  then  a  wink. 
Said,  "  There 's  another  star  gone  out,  I  think !  " 

XVII. 
But  ere  he  could  return  to  his  repose, 

A  cherub  flapp'd  his  right  wing  o'er  his  eyes  — 
At  which  Saint  Peter  yawn'd.  and  rubb'd  his  nose: 

"Saint  porter,"  said'ihe  angel,  "  prithee  rise!" 
Waving  a  goodly  wing,  which  glow'd,  as  glows 

An  e-inhly  pencock's  tail,  with  he:ivcnly  dyes: 
To  which  the  s:iint  i-eplied,  "  Well,  what's  the  matter  ? 
Is  Lucifer  come  back  with  all  this  clatter?'' 

XVIII. 

"No,"  quoth  the  cherub;    "George    the  Third    is 
dead." 
«And   who  a  George  the  Third?"   replied    the 
I  apostle : 


"  fVhat  George  ?  what  Third  ?  "   "  The  king  of  Bag    ( 
bnd,"  said 

The  angel.     "  Well !  he  won't  find  kings  to  jostle 
Him  on  his  way  ;  but  does  he  wear  his  head  ? 

Because  the  I'.st  we  saw  here  had  a  tustle. 
And  ne'er  would  have  got  into  heaven's  good  graces. 
Had  he  not  fluug  his  head  iu  all  our  faces. 

XIX. 

"  He  was,  if  I  remember,  king  of  France ;  » 
That  head  of  his,  which  could  not  keep  a  crown 

On  earth,  yet  vnluied  in  my  lace  to  advance 
A  claim  lo  tb^se  of  marly  s  —  like  my  own : 

If  I  had  had  my  sword,  as  i  h.ad  once 

When  I  cut  ears  otf,  I  had  cut  him  down ; 

But  having  but  my  fcti/s,  and  not  my  brand, 

I  only  knock'd  his  head  from  out  his  hand. 

XX. 

"  And  then  he  set  up  such  a  headless  howl, 
That  all  the  saints  came  out  and  look  him  in ; 

And  there  he  sits  by  St.  Paul,  cheek  bv  jowl ; 
1  hat  fellow  Paul  —  the  parvenu  :     The  skia 

Of  Saint  Bartholomew,  which  makes  his  cowl 
In  heaven,  and  upon  earth  redeem'd  his  sin, 

So  as  to  make  a  martyr,  never  sped 

Belter  than  did  this  weak  and  wooden  bead. 

XXI. 

"  But  had  it  come  up  here  upon  its  shoulders, 
There  would  have  been  a  ditferent  tale  to  tell  • 

The  fellow-feeling  in  the  saints  beholders 
Seems  lo  have  .acted  on  them  like  a  spell ; 

And  so  this  very  foolish  head  heaven  solders 
Back  on  its  trunk:  it  may  be  very  well, 

And  seems  the  custom  here  to  overthrow 

VVhatever  has  been  wisely  done  below." 

XXII. 

The  angel  answer'd,  "  Peter  I  do  not  pout : 
The  king  who  conies  has  head  and  all  entire. 

And  never  knew  much  whit  it  was  about  — 
He  did  as  doth  the  puppet  —  by  its  wire, 

And  will  be  judged  like  all  the  rest,  no  doubt : 
My  business  and  your  own  is  not  to  inquire 

Into  such  matters,  but  to  mind  our  cue  — 

Which  is  to  act  as  we  are  bid  to  do." 

XXIII. 

While  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  caravan, 

Arriving  like  a  rush  of  mighty  wind, 
Cleaving  the  fields  of  space,  as  doth  the  swan 

Some  silver  s'reim  (say  Ganges,  Nile,  or  Inde, 
Or  Thames,  or  Tweed),  and  'midst  them  an  old  man 

With  an  old  soul,  and  both  extremely  blind, 
Hailed  before  the  gate,  and  in  his  shroud 
Seated  their  fellow-traveller  on  a  cloud. 

XXIV. 

But  bringing  up  the  rear  of  this  bright  host 

A  Spirit  of  a  ditferent  aspect  waved 
His  wings,  like  thunder  clouds  above  some  coast 

Whose  barren  beach  with  frequent  wrecks  is  paved] 
His  brow  was  like  the  deep  when  lempesi-tos«'J; 

Fierce  and  unfathomable  thoughts  engraved 
Eternal  wrath  on  his  immortal  face. 
And  -whLTt  he  gazed  a  gloom  pervaded  space. 

XXV. 

As  he  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  the  gate 

Ne'er  to  be  enter'd  more  by  him  or  Sin, 
VViih  such  a  glance  of  superi.atiiral  hate, 

As  m.ade  Sainr  Peter  wish  himself  within; 
He  patter'd  with  his  keys  at  a  greit  rate, 

And  sweated  through  his  apostolic  skin: 
Of  course  his  perspiration  w.as  but  ichcr, 
Or  some  such  other  spiritual  liquor. 


I  I.ouls  XVI.,  guillotined  in  January  1191— B> 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


175 


XXVI. 

The  very  cherubs  huddled  all  together, 

Like  birds  when  soars  the  falcon  ;  and  they  felt 

A  tinjIiDg  to  the  tip  of  every  feather, 
And  form'd  a  circle  like  Orion's  belt 

Around   their  poor  old    charge;   who   scarce  knew 
whither 
His  guards  had  led  him,  though  they  gently  dealt 

With  royal  manes  (for  by  many  stories, 

And  true,  we  learu  the  angels  all  are  Tories;. 

XXVII. 

As  things  were  in  this  posture,  the  gate  flew 

Asunder,  and  the  flashing  of  its  hinges 
Flung  over  space  an  universal  hue 

Of  many-colour'd  flame,  until  its  tinges 
Reach'd  even  our  speck  of  earth,  and  made  a  new 

Aurora  borealis  spread  its  fringes 
O'er  the  North  Pole  ;  the  same  seen,  when  ice-bound, 
By  Captain  Parry's  crew,  in  "  Melville's  Sound." 

XXVIII. 

And  from  the  gate  thrown  open  issued  beaming 
A  beautiful  and  mighty  Thing  of  Light, 

Radiant  with  glory,  like  a  banner  streaming 
Victorious  from  some  world -o'erthrovving  fight: 

My  poor  comparisons  must  needs  be  teeming 
With  earthly  likenesses,  for  here  the  night 

Of  clay  obscuies  our  best  conceptions,  saving 

Johanna  Southcote,'  or  Bob  Southey  raving. 

XXIX. 

T  was  the  archangel  Michael :  all  men  know 
The  make  of  angels  and  archangels,  since 

There's  scarce  a  scribbler  has  not  one  to  show, 
From  the  fiends'  leader  to  the  angels'  prince. 

There  also  are  some  altar-pieces,  though 
I  really  cin't  say  that  they  much  evince 

One's  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits  ; 

But  let  the  connoisseuis  expl  lin  tneir  merits. 

XXX. 

Michael  flew  foith  in  glory  and  in  good  ; 

A  gtxxlly  work  of  him  from  whom  all  glory 
And  good  arise  ;  the  portal  pass'd —  he  stood  ; 

Before  him  the  young  cherub-i  and  saints  hoary  — 
(I  say  yning,  bejging  to  be  understood 

By  looks,  not  j  ears  ;  and  should  be  very  sorry 
To  sate,  they  were  not  older  ihan  St.  Peter, 
But  merely  that  they  seem'd  a  little  sweeter). 

XXXI. 

The  cherubs  and  the  saints  bow'd  down  before 

That  arch-angelic  hierarch,  the  first 
Of  essences  angelical,  who  wore 

The  aspect  of  a  god  ;  but  this  ne'er  nursed 
Pride  in  his  heavenly  bo^oni,  in  whose  core 

Nt  thought,  save  for  his  Makers  service,  durst 
Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high  ; 
He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  of  the  sky. 

XXXII. 

He  and  the  sombre  silent  Spirit  met  — 
They  knew  each  other  both  for  good  and  ill  ; 

Such  was  their  power,  that  neither  could  forget 
His  former  friend  and  future  foe  ;  but  still 

There  was  a  high,  immortal,  proud  regret 
In  cither's  eye,  as  if  't  were  less  their  w  ill 

Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 

Their  date  of  war,  and  their  "  chainp  clos"  the  spheres. 

XXXIIL 

But  here  they  were  in  neutral  space :  we  know 
From  Job,  that  Satan  halh  the  power  to  pay 

A  heavenly  visit  thrice  a  year  or  so  ; 
And  that  the  •'  sons  of  God,"  like  those  of  clay, 


1  Johanna  Southcnte.  the  aged  lunatic,  who  faDiied  her- 
•elf,  aixl  was  belinvt-d  by  many  fotlowera.  to  be  with  child 
of  a  Dew  Messiati,  di^d  in  1815.  Ttiere  is  a  full  account 
Of  ber  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  vol.  xxiv.  p.  496.— E. 


Must  keep  him  company  ;  and  we  might  show 

From  the  same  book,  in  how  polite  a  way 
The  dialogue  is  held  between  the  Powers 
Of  Good  and  Evil  —  but 't  would  take  up  boon. 

XXXIV. 

And  this  is  not  a  theologic  tract, 

To  prove  with  Hebrew  and  with  Arabic, 

If  Job  be  allegory  or  a  fact. 
But  a  true  narrative  ;  and  thus  I  pick 

From  out  the  whole  but  such  and  such  an  act, 
As  sets  aside  the  slightest  thought  of  trick. 

'T  is  every  little  true,  beyond  suspicion, 

And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 

XXXV. 

The  spirits  were  in  neutral  space,  before 
The  gate  of  heaven ;  like  eastern  thresholds  it 

The  place  where  Death's  grand  cause  is  argued  o'er 
And  souls  despatched  to  that  world  or  to  this; 

And  therefore  Michael  and  the  other  wore 
A  civil  aspect :  though  they  did  not  kiss. 

Yet  s!jll  between  his  Darkness  and  his  Brightness 

1  here  pass'd  a  mutual  glance  of  great  politeness. 

XXXVI. 

The  Archangel  bow'd,  not  like  a  modem  beau, 

But  with  a  graceful  oriental  bend. 
Pressing  one  radiant  arm  just  where  below 

'I  he  heart  in  good  men  is  supposed  to  tend, 
He  turn'd  as  to  an  equal,  not  loo  low, 

But  kindly  ;  Satan  met  his  ancient  friend 
With  more  hauteur,  as  might  an  old  Caslilian 
Poor  noble  meet  a  mushroom  rich  civilian. 

XXXVII. 

He  merely  bent  his  diabolic  brow 

An  instant ;  and  then  raising  it,  he  stood 
In  act  to  assert  his  right  or  wrong,  and  show 

Cause  why  King  George  by  no  means  could  or  should 
Make  out  a  case  to  be  exempt  from  woe 

Eternal,  more  than  other  kings,  endued 
With  better  sense  and  hearts,  whom  histcrr  mentions, 
Who  long  have  "  paved  hell  with  their  good  inten- 
tions." 

XXXVIII. 
'  Michael  began :  "  What  wouldst  thou  with  this  man, 
■     ^■o^v  dead,  and  brought  before  the  Lord  ?  What  ill 
Hath  he  wrought  fince  his  mortal  race  began, 
!     I'hat  thou  canst  claim  hini?  Speak  !  and  do  thy  will, 
If  it  be  just :  if  in  this  earthly  span 

He  hath  been  greatly  failing  to  fulfil 
His  duties  as  a  king  and  mortal,  say. 
And  he  is  thine  ;  if  not,  let  him  have  way." 

XXXIX. 

"  Michael !  "  replied  the  Prince  of  Air,  "  even  here. 
Before  the  Gate  of  him  thou  servest,  must 

I  claim  my  subject:  and  will  make  appear 
That  as 'he  was  my  worshipper  in  dust, 

So  shall  he  be  in  spirit,  although  dear 
To  thee  and  thine,  because  nor  wine  nor  lust 

VVere  of  his  weaknesses ;  yet  on  the  ihione 

He  reign'd  o'er  millions  to  "serve  me  alone. 

XL. 

"  Look  to  our  earth,  or  rather  mine  ;  it  wag, 
0?icf,  more  thy  master's  :  but  I  triumph  not 

In  this  I  oor  planet's  conquest ;  nor,  alas  ! 
Need  he  thou  servest  envy  me  my  lot : 

With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  worlds  which  paM 
In  worship  round  him,  he  may  have  fo.got 

Yen  neik  creation  of  such  paltry  things: 

I  think  few  wor.h  damriation  save  their  king*,- 

XLI. 
"And  these  but  as  a  kind  of  quit-rent,  to 

Assert  my  right  as  lord  ;  and  even  bad 
I  such  an  inclination,  't  were  (as  you 

Well  know)  superfluous ;  they  are  grown  r)  tai 


ne 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


That  hell  has  nothing  better  left  to  do 

Than  leave  them  to  themselves:  so  much  more  mad 
And  evil  by  their  own  internal  cuise, 
Heavea  cannot  make  them  belter,  nor  1  worse. 

XLII. 

"Look  to  the  earth,  I  said,  and  say  ajain  : 
When  this  old,  blind,   mad,  helpless,  weak,  poor 
worm 

Began  in  youih's  first  bloom  and  flush  to  reign, 
The  world  and  he  both  wore  a  dilferent  form, 

And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 
Of  ocean  call'd  him  k'mi :  through  niany  a  storm 

His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time ; 

For  the  rough  virtues  chose  them  for  their  clime. 

XLIII. 
"  He  came  to  his  sceptre  young ;  he  leaves  it  old  ; 

Look  to  the  stale  in  which  he  found  his  realm, 
And  left  it ;  and  his  annals  too  behold, 

How  to  a  million  fir^t  he  gave  the  helm; 
How  grew  upon  his  heart  a  thirst  for  gold, 

The  beggar's  vice,  which  can  but  overwhelm 
The  meanest  hearts ;  and  for  the  rest,  but  glance 
Thine  eye  along  America  and  France. 

XLIV. 
"  'T  is  true,  he  was  a  tool  from  firs'  to  bst 

(I  have  the  workmen  safe)  :  but  as  a  tool 
So  let  him  be  consumed.     From  out  the  past 

Of  ages,  sii:ce  mar.kmd  have  known  the  rule 
Of  monarchs  —  from  'he  bloody  rolls  amass'd 

Of  sin  and  slaughter  —  from  the  Csesars'  school, 
Take  the  worst  pypil;  and  produce  a  reign 
More  drench'd  with  gore,  more  cumber'd  with  the 
slain. 

XLV. 
«'  He  ever  warrM  with  freedom  and  the  free  : 

Nations  as  men,  home  subjects,  foreign  foes, 
So  that  thev  utter'd  the  word  'Liberty  !' 

Found  George  the  1  hird  Iheir  first  opponent  Whose 
History  was  ever  stain'd  a^;  his  will  be 

Wi'h  nalioml  and  iiidividual  woes? 
I  grant  his  household  nbs'ineuce  ;  I  grant 
His  neutral  virtues,  which  most  monarchs  want; 

XLVL 
« I  know  he  was  a  constant  consort ;  own 

He  was  a  decent  sire,  and  middling  lord. 
All  this  is  much,  and  most  upon  a  throne ; 

As  temperance,  if  at  Apicius'  board. 
Is  more  than  at  an  anchorite's  supper  shown. 

I  grant  him  all  the  kindest  can  accord ; 
And  this  was  well  for  him,  but  not  for  those 
Millions  who  found  him  what  oppression  chose. 

XLVH. 

"  The  New  World  shook  him  off:  the  Old  yet  groans 

Beneath  what  he  and  his  prepared,  if  not 
Completed  :  he  leaves  heirs  on  many  thrones 

To  all  his  vices,  without  what  begot 
Compassion  for  him  —  his  tame  virtues  ;  drones 

Who  sleep,  or  despots  who  hsve  now  forgot 
A  lesson  which  shall  be  re-taught  them,  wake 
Dpon  the  thrones  of  earth  ;  but  let  them  quake ! 

XLMII. 
"Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who  hold 

The  feith  which  mnkes  ve  great  on  eirth,  implored 
A  pari  of  that  vast  rll  they  held  of  old,— 

Freedom  to  worship —  not  alone  your  Lord, 
Michael,  but  you,  and  you.  Saint  Peter!  Cold 

Mus'  be  vour  souls,  if  you  have  not  abhorr'd 
Tlie  foe  to  C  'tholic  pirlicipnion 
In  all  the  license  of  a  Christiin  nation. 

XLIX. 
"  True  I  he  allow'd  them  to  pray  God  ;  but  as 

A  consequence  of  prayer,  refused  the  law 
Which  would  have  placed  them  upon  the  same  base 

With  those  who  did  not  hold  the  saints  in  awe." 


But  here  Siint  Peter  started  from  his  place. 

And  cried,  'Yiu  may  the  prisoner  withdraw; 
Ere  heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this  Guelph, 
While  I  am  guard,  may  I  be  danm'd  myself! 


"  Sooner  will  I  with  Cerberus  exchange 

My  office  {and  his  is  no  sinecure) 
Than  see  this  roval  Bedlam  biaot  range 

The  azure  fields  of  heaven,  of  that  be  sure ! " 
"  Saint !  "  leplied  Satan,  "  you  do  well  to  avenge 

The  wrongs  he  made  your  satellites  endure;  * 
And  if  to  this  exchange  you  should  be  given, 
I  'II  try  to  co.ax  our  Cerberus  up  to  heaven  ! 

LI. 

Here  Michael  interposed  :  "Good  saint!  and  devil ! 

Pray,  not  so  fast;  ycu  both  outrun  discretion. 
Saint  Peter  '  you  were  wont  to  be  more  civil . 

Satan!  excuse  this  warmth  of  his  expiession. 
And  condescension  to  the  vulgar's  level : 

Even  saints  sometimes  forget  themselves  in  session. 
Have  you   got   more   to    say  ?  "  —  "  No."  —  "  If  yon 

please, 
I  '11  trouble  you  to  call  your  witnesses." 

LII. 

Then  Satan  lurn'd  and  waved  his  swarthy  hand, 
Which  stirr'd  with  its  electric  qualities 

Clouds  farther  ofl'  than  we  can  undersand, 
Although  we  find  him  sometimes  in  our  skies, 

Infernal  thunder  shook  both  sea  and  land 
In  all  the  planets,  and  helPs  batteries 

Let  off  the  artillery,  which  Milton  mentions 

As  one  of  Satan's  most  sublime  inventions. 

LIII. 

This  WIS  a  signal  unto  such  damn'd  snuls 
As  have  the  privilege  of  their  damnation 

Extended  far  beyond  the  mere  controls 
Of  worlds  past,  present,  or  to  come ;  no  station 

Is  theirs  particularly  in  the  rolls 
Of  hell  assign'd  ;'but  where  their  inclination 

Or  business  carries  them  in  search  of  enme. 

They  may  range  freely  —  being  damn'd  the  same. 

LIV. 
They  are  proud  of  this  —  as  very  well  they  may, 

It  being  a  sort  of  knighthood,  or  gilt  key 
Stuck  in  Iheir  loins  ;  2  cr  like  to  an  •'  enire  " 

Up  the  back  stairs,  or  such  free-masonry. 
I  borrow  my  comparisons  from  clay, 

Being  clay  myself.     Let  not  those  spirits  be 
Offended  with  such  base  low  likenesses; 
We  know  their  posts  are  nobler  far  than  these. 

LV. 

When  the  great  signal  ran  from  heaven  to  hell  — 

About  ten  million  limes  the  distance  reckon'd 
From  our  sun  to  its  e.trth,  as  we  can  tell 

How  much  time  il  takes  up.  even  to  a  second, 
For  every  rav  that  travels  to  dispel 

The  fogs  of  London,  throueh  which,  dimly  beaconM, 
The  weathercocks  are  gill  some  thrice  a  year, 
If  that  the  summer  is  not  too  severe :  3 

LVL 
I  sav  that  I  can  tell  —  't  was  half  a  minute  ; 

I  'know  the  solar  beams  take  up  more  time 
Ere,  pnck'd  up  for  'heir  journey,  they  begin  i(; 

But  then  their  telegraph  is  less  sublime, 
And  if  thev  ran  a  race,  they  would  not  win  it 

'Gainst  Satan's  couriers  bound  for  their  own  clime. 


George    III.' 


determinatinn    against   the    CathoUc 


2  A  Eold  or  gilt  key,  peeping  from  Jielow  the  (kirts  of 
the  coal,  marks  a  lord  chamberlain.— E. 

3  An  allUBion  to  Horace  Walpnle'd  exprewion  In  ■  let 
ter  — "the  auramer  has  Kt  in  witli  its  vmal  me 
r.(,.."-E. 


THE   VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


TiT' 


The  sun  takes  up  some  years  for  every  ray 
Tc  '•ach  its  goal  —  the  devil  not  half  a  diy. 

LVII. 

Dpon  the  verge  of  space,  about  the  size 
Of  half-a-crown,  a  little  speck  appear'd  — 

;I  've  seen  a  somethins  like  it  in  the  skies 
In  the  JEgean,  ere  a  squall) ;  it  near'd, 

And,  growing  bigger,  look  another  guise ; 
Like  an  aerial  ship  it  tack'd,  and  sleer'd, 

Or  too*  steer'd  (I  am  doubtful  of  the  grammar 

Of  the  lasl  phrase,  which  makes  the  stanza 

LVIII. 
But  take  your  choice)— and  then  if  grew  a  cloud; 

And  so  it  was  —  a  cloud  of  witnesses. 
But  such  a  cloud  !  No  land  eVr  saw  a  crowd 

Of  locusts  numerous  as  the  heivens  saw  these; 
They  shadow'd  with  their  myriads  space ;  their  loud 

And  varied  cries  were  like  those  of  wild  geese 
(If  nations  may  be  liken'd  to  a  goose). 
And  realised  the  phrase  of  "  hell  broke  loose  " 

LIX. 
Here  crash'd  a  sturdy  oath  of  stout  John  Bull, 

Who  dimn'd  away  his  eyes  as  heretofore : 
There  Paddy  brogued  "  By  Jasus  ; »  —  "  What  'a  your 

The  temperate  Scot  exclaim'd:   the  French  ghost 
swore 
In  certain  terms  I  sha'n't  translate  in  full, 

As  the  first  coachman  will ;  and  'midst  the  war, 
The  voice  of  Jonathan  was  heard  to  express, 
"  Our  president  is  going  to  war,  I  guess." 

LX. 

Besides  there  were  the  Spaniard,  Dutch,  and  Dane ; 

In  short,  an  universal  sh^al  of  shades, 
From  Otaheite's  isle  to  Salisbury  Plain, 

Of  all  climes  and  professions,  years  and  trades, 
Ready  to  swear  against  the  good  king's  reign, 

Bitter  as  clubs  in  cards  are  agiinst  spades  : 
All  summon'd  by  this  grand  "subpoena,"  to 
Try  if  kings  mayn't  be  damn'd  like  me  or  you. 

LXI. 

When  Michael  saw  this  host,  he  first  grew  pale, 
As  angels  can  ;  next,  like  Italian  twilight. 

He  turn'd  all  colours  —  as  a  pe:<cock's  tail, 
Or  sunset  streaming  through  a  Gothic  skylight 

In  some  old  abbey,  or  a  trout  not  stale. 
Or  distant  lightning  on  the  horizon  by  night. 

Or  a  fresh  rainbow,  or  a  grand  review 

Of  thirty  regiments  in  red,  green,  and  blue. 

LXIi. 

Then  he  address'd  himself  to  Satan  :  "  Why  — 
My  good  old  friend,  for  such  I  deem  you,  though 

Our  different  parties  make  us  fight  so  shy, 
I  i:e'er  mistake  you  for  a  personal  foe  ; 

Our  difference  is  political,  and  I 
Trust  that,  whatever  may  occur  below, 

Tou  know  my  great  resfiec't  for  you  :  and  this 

Makes  me  regret  whate'er  you  do  amiss  — 

LXIII. 

"  Why,  my  dear  Lucifer,  would  you  abuse 
My  call  for  witnesses  ?    I  did  riot  metn 

That  you  should  half  of  earth  and  hell  produce ; 
T  is  even  superfluous,  since  two  honest,  clean, 

True  testimoaies  are  enough  :  we  lose 
Our  time,  nay,  our  eternity,  between 

The  accusation  and  defence  :  if  we 

Hear  both,  'I  will  stretch  our  immortality." 

LXIV. 
Satan  trplied,  "  To  me  the  matter  is 

Indi/Te!  ^ot,  in  a  personal  point  of  view: 
lean  ^JlYe  fifty  better  souls  than  this 
.       With  far  less  trouble  than  we  have  gone  through 


Already  ;  and  I  merely  argued  his 

Late  majesty  of  Brit  lin's  case  with  you 
Upon  a  point  of  form  :  you  may  dispose 
Of  him ;  I  've  kings  enough  below,  God  knows  I " 

LXV. 

Thus  spoke  the  Demon  (lale  call'd  "  multifaced  " 
By  niulto  scribbling  Southey).    "  Then  we'll  call 

One'or  two  persons  of  the  myriads  placed 
Around  our  congress,  and  dispense  with  all 

The  rest,"  quoth  Michael :  "  Who  may  be  so  graced 
As    to   speak  first  ?  there 's  choice  enough  —  who 
shall 

It  be  ?"    Then  Satan  answer'd,  "  There  are  man}  ; 

But  you  may  choose  Jack  Wilkes  as  v/ell  as  any," 

LXVI. 

A  merry,  cock-eyed,  curious-looking  sprite 
Upon  the  instant  started  fiom  the  throng, 

Dress'd  in  a  fashion  now  forgotten  quite  j 
For  all  the  fashions  of  the  fiesh  stick  long 

By  people  in  the  next  world;  where  unite 
All  the  costumes  since  Adam's,  right  or  wrong, 

From  Eve's  fig-leaf  down  to  the  petticoat. 

Almost  as  scanty,  of  days  less  remote. 

LXVII. 

The  spirit  look'd  around  upon  the  crowds 
Assembled,  and  exclaim'd,  "My  friends  of  all 

The  spheres,  we  shall  catch  cold  amongst  these  cloadt ; 
So  let 's  to  business:  why  this  goneral  cill  i 

If  those  are  freehulders  I  see  in  shrouds. 
And  't  is  for  an  election  that  they  bawl, 

Behold  a  candidate  with  untum'd  coat! 

Saint  Peter,  may  I  count  upon  your  vote  ? " 

LXVIII. 
"  Sir,"  replied  Michael,  "  you  mistake ;  these  thing! 

Are  of  a  former  life,  anil  what  we  do 
Above  is  more  august;  to  judiC  of  kings 

Is  the  tribunal  met:  so  now  you  know." 
'•  Then  I  preume  those  gentlemen  with  wings," 

Said  Wilkes,  "  are  cherubs  ;  and  that  soul  belovr 
Looks  much  like  George  the  Third,  but  to  my  mind 
A  good  deal  older  —  Bless  me !  is  he  blind?" 

LXIX. 

"  He  is  what  you  behold  him,  and  his  doom 
Depends  upon  his  deeds,"  the  Ansel  said. 

"  If  you  have  aught  to  arraign  in  him,  the  tomb 
Gives  license  to  the  humblest  beggar's  head 

To  lift  itself  against  the  loftiest."  —  "  Some," 
Said  Wilkes  "  don't  wait  to  see  them  laid  in  lead, 

For  such  a  liberty  —and  I,  for  one. 

Have  told  them  what  I  thought  beneath  the  sun." 

LXX. 

"Above  the  sun  repeat,  then,  what  thou  hast 

To  urge  against  him."  said  the  Archangel.  "  Why,- 

Replied  the  spirit,  "  since  old  scores  are  past, 
Must  I  turn  evidence?    In  faith,  not  I, 

Besides,  I  beat  him  hollcw  at  the  last, 

With  all  his  Lords  and  Commons:  in  Ibe  sky 

I  don't  like  ripping  up  old  stories,  since 

His  conduct  was  but  natural  in  a  prince. 

LXXL 

"  Foolish,  no  doubt,  and  wicked,  to  oppress 
A  poor  unlucky  devil  without  a  shilling; 

But  then  I  blame  the  man  himself  much  less 
Than  Bute  and  Grafton,  and  shall  be  unwilling 

To  see  him  punish"d  here  for  their  excess. 

Since  they  were  both  damn'd  long  ago,  and  still  in 

Their  place'  below  :  for  me,  I  have  forgiven. 

And  vote  his  '  habeas  corpus '  into  heaven." 

LXXII. 

"Wilkes,"  said  the  Devil,  "  I  understand  all  thit. 
You  turn'd  to  half  a  courtier  ere  yon  died,* 


1  For  the   political   history  of  .tohn  Wilkes,  who 


12 


178 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


Lihl  leem  to  think  it 
T<  grow  a  whole  e 


voald  not  be  amiss 
e  ou  ihe  other  !>ide 


Of  C  laron's  ferry  ;  you  forget  that  nil 

BeigD  is  coucluded  ;  whatsoe'er  Letide, 
He  wol'i  \ie  scveieign  more  :  you  've  lo<t  your  labour, 
For  at  the  best  he  w  ill  but  be  your  neighbour. 

LXXIII. 
■However,  I  knew  what  to  think  of  it, 

Wbeo  I  beheld  jou  in  your  jes  ias  way, 
Flittiug  and  wbi:|>eriQ;  round  about  the  spit 

Where  Belial,  upon  duty  for  the  day, 
With  Fox's  lard  was  basting  William  Pitt, 
His  pupil ;  I  knew  what  to  thiiik,  I  say  : 
That  fellow  even  in  hell  breeds  far.her  ills ; 
1  '11  have  him  gaig'd  — 't  was  one  of  his  own  bills. 

Lxxrv. 

"  Call  Junius  ! "    From  Ihe  crowd  a  shadow  stalk'd, 
And  at  the  name  there  was  a  general  Eque&2£, 

So  that  the  very  ghosts  no  longer  w;;lkd 
In  comfort,  at  their  own  aerial  ease, 

Bit  were  all  ramm'd,  and  janim'd  (but  to  be balkd, 
As  we  shall  see),  and  jostled  hands  and  knees. 

Like  n  ind  cnmpress'd  and  pent  within  a  bladder, 

Or  like  a  human  colic,  which  is  sadder. 

LXXV. 

The  shadow  came  —  a  tall,  thin,  grey-bair'd  figure, 

That  look'd  as  it  had  been  a  shade  on  earth  j 
Quick  in  its  motions,  with  an  air  of  vigour. 

But  nought  to  mark  its  breeding  or  its  birth; 
Now  it  wax'd  little,  then  again  grew  bigger, 

With  now  an  air  of  gloom,  or  savage  mirth; 
But  a;  you  gazed  upon  its  features,  they 
Changed  every  instant  —  to  what,  none  could  say, 

LXXVI. 
The  more  intently  the  ghos's  gazed,  the  less 

Could  they  dis'inguish  whose  the  features  were; 
The  Devil  himself  seem'd  puzzled  even  to  guess  ; 

They  v.iried  l.ke  a  dream  —  now  here,  now  there; 
And  several  people  swore  from  out  the  press. 

They  knew  him  perfectly;  and  one  could  swear 
He  was  his  father:  U|)On  which  another 
Was  sure  he  was  his  mother's  cousin's  brother: 

LX.VSII. 
Another,  that  he  was  a  duke,  or  knight, 

An  orator,  a  lawyer,  or  a  priest, 
A  nabob,  a  nian-mfd  wife ; »  but  Ihe  wight 

Mysterious  changed  his  countenance  ai  least 
As  oh  as  they  their  minds :  though  in  full  sight 

He  stood,  the  puzzle  only  was  increased ; 
The  man  was  a  phantasma'goria  in 
Himself  — he  was  so  vola'ile  and  thin. 

LXX%III. 
The  moment  that  you  had  pronounced  him  (/nr. 

Presto  '.  his  face'changed,  and  he  was  another; 
And  when  that  change  was  hardly  well  put  on, 

It  varcl.  till  I  don't  think  his  own  mother 
(If  that  he  had  a  mo'her)  would  her  sou 

Have  known,  he  shifted  so  from  one  to  t'other; 
Till  euessins  from  a  pleasare  grew  a  task,  _ 
At  this  epistolary  "  Iron  Mask." » 


LXXIX. 

For  sometimes  he  like  Cerberus  would  seem  — 
i      '•  Three  gentlemen  at  once"  (as  sagely  says 

Good  Mrs.  Malapro;;) ;  then  you  might  deem 
That  be  was  not  even  o;ie;'  now  many  rays 
I  Were  flishing  round  him  ;  and  now  a  th:ck  sream 
Hid  liini  from  sight  —  l.ke  fogs  on  Lo(>don  days: 
I  Now  Burke,  now  'J  ooke.  he  grew  lo  peeple's  f 
I  And  carles  often  like  Sir  Phiiip  Francis.3 
j  LXXX. 

I  've  an  hypothesis  — "t  is  quite  my  own  ; 
I  I  never  let  it  out  till  now,  for  fear 
:  Of  doing  \ieop\e  harm  about  the  ihrone, 
I  ArJ  injuring  some  mini-ler  or  peer, 
'  On  whom  the  siigma  mi;hi  perha|«  be  blown  ; 
I  It  is  —  my  senile  public,  lend  thine  ear ! 
i  'Tis,  that  what  Junius  we  are  wont  to  call 
I  Was  reaity,  truly,  nobody  at  alL 

LXXXL 

I  don't  see  wherefore  letters  should  not 

Written  wi.h.iut  hands,  since  we  daily  view 

Them  written  without  heads;  and  books,  we  see, 
Are  find  as  well  without  the  latter  too: 

And  really  till  we  fix  on  somebody 

For  certain  sure  to  claim  them  as  his  due. 

Their  author,  like  the  Niger  s  mouth,  will  bother 

The  world  to  say  if  there  be  mouth  or  author. 

LXXXII. 

•'And  who  and  what  art  thou  ?"  ihe  Archangel  said. 

'•  For  thai  you  may  consult  my  title-page," 
Replied  this  mighty  shadow  of  a  sh-ade  : 

'•  If  I  have  kept  my  secret  half  an  age, 
I  scarce  shall  tell  it  now."'— -Cai.st  thou  upbraid," 

Continued  Michael,  '•  George  Rex,  or  allt^e 
Aught  further?"  Junius  answered,  "You  had  better 
Firat  ask  him  for  hit  answer  to  my  letter  : 

LXXXIIL 
"  My  charges  upon  record  will  outlast 

The  brass  of  both  his  epitaph  and  tomb." 
"  Repeiit'sl  thou  not,"  said  Michael,  -'of  some  past 

Exaggeration?  something  which  may  doom 
Thyself  if  false,  as  him  if  true?    Thou  wast 

Too  bitter —  is  it  no'  so  ?  —  in  thy  gloom 
Of  passion ? " — '•  Passion  1 "  cried  Ihe  phantom  dim, 
"  I  loved  my  countr}',  and  I  bated  him. 

LXXXIV. 
"  What  I  have  written,  I  have  written  :  let 

The  res!  be  on  his  head  or  mine  ! "    So  spoke 
Old  '■  .Nominis  Umbra ;"  <  and  w  hile  speaking  yet, 

Away  he  melted  in  celestial  smoke. 
Then  *itan  said  lo  Michael,  "Don't  forget 

To  call  George  Washington,  and  John  Home  Tooke, 
And  Franklin  ;" —  but  at  this  time  there  was  beard 
A  cry  for  room,  though  not  a  phantom  stirr'd. 


LXXXV. 

At  length  with  jostling,  elbowing,  and  the  aid 

Of  cherubim  appointed  to  that  post, 
The  devil  Asmodeus  to  the  circle  made 
His  way,  and  W'k'd  as  if  his  jonmey  cost  _ 
I  Some  trouble.    When  his  burden  down  he  laid^ 

••  What's  this?"  cried  Michael;  "why,  'tis  not  a 
I  ghost  ?  " 

"  I  know  it,"  quolh  the  incubus  ;  "  but  he 


chtrab«rlaiD 

•ooal  rharart^r  i»  ah'iDda'ntly  di»play«i'in  Ihe  colleciion  of   Shall  be  one,  if  you  leave  the  affair  to  me. 
bii  leltcre,  publi»hrtl  by  Ai»  rfauf  */<r .'  aicce  bin  death. — E.  ] 
1  Among    the    various    persons  to  whom  Ihr  l.ellrre  nf 


JuDJDS  have  hren  nltribulrd  wr  fiixl  the  Duke  of  Ponland, 
LordGeoree  Sarljville.  Sir  Philip  Fiancis.  Mr.  Birke.  .Mr. 
Dooning.  lb.-  Rrv.  Jehu  Home  Ta<>k<-,  Mr.  Hugh  Boyd. 
Dr.  W.lmol,  Ac— E. 


RI%H« 


the 


2The    mystery  of  "rhn 
eTerlntini!    pozzle  of  the    la..t    cenl-jry.  has  at  leDgth,  in 
geoeral  o;.inii»o,  l>een  cleared  up.  by  a  Freorh  work  pub- 
lished in  imS.  aod  «hi>'h  formed  ihe  basis  of  an  eoleriaio- 

jDg  one    in    English    by  Lord  Doter.     See  the  Qiiar(cr/|i  {      4  The  well  knnwo   motto  of  J 
Mniea,  »oL  xxxiv.  p.  19.—  E.  nmbr:"—  K. 


3 That  the  work  enliiled  "The  Identity  of  Jonina  with 
a  di«tiu?ui»h>-d  Liring  Chara.  ler  eslablished"  prove*  Sir 
Philip  Frauiis  lo  be  Junius,  we  will  ni.l  afflrm;  but  Ibis 
we  can  sa.'ely  assert,  that  it  accnmalales  such  a  max  of 
circumstantial  eTideoie.  as  renders  it  extremely  difflcult 
Id  believe  be  is  net,  and  that,  if  lo  many  coincidences  shall 
be  found  lo  have  misled  us  in  this  ca.-^,  our  faitb  id  tU 
conclosioDs  drawn  from  prr/ifs  of  a  similar  kind  bmt 
tenceforlh  be  shaken.— MACKINTOSH.— E. 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


179 


LXXXVI. 

"  Confound  the  rene^ado !    1  hive  sprain'd 
My  left  wing,  he's  so  heivy  ;  one  wonid  think 

Some  of  his  works  about  his  neck  were  chain'd. 
Bui  to  ihe  p  lint ;  while  hove  in?  o'er  the  brink 

Of  Skiddaw  i  (where  as  usual  it  slill  rain'd), 
I  saw  a  taper,  far  below  me,  wink, 

And  stooping,  caught  this  fellow  at  a  libel  — 

No  less  on  history  than  the  Holy  Bible 

LXXXVII. 

"  The  former  is  the  devil's  scripture,  and 
The  latter  yours,  good  Michael :  so  the  affair 

Belongs  to  all"  of  us,  you  understand. 

I  snatch'd  him  up  just  :is  )0u  see  him  there, 

And  brought  him  off  for  sentence  out  of  hand  : 
I  've  scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  the  air  — 

At  least  a  quarter  it  can  hardly  be: 

]  dare  say  tliat  his  wife  is  still  at  tea." 

Lxxxviir. 

Here  Satan  said,  "  I  know  this  man  of  old, 
And  have  expected  him  for  some  lime  here; 

A  sillier  fellow  you  will  scarce  behold. 
Or  more  conceited  in  his  petty  sphere  : 

But  surely  it  was  not  worth  while  to  fold 
Such  trash  below  your  wing,  Asmodeus  dear; 

We  had  the  poor  wretch  safe  (without  being  bored 

With  carriage)  coming  of  his  own  accord. 

LXXXIX. 

"  Bui  since  he 's  here,  let 's  see  what  he  has  done." 
"  Done  ;  "  cried  Asmodeus,  "  he  anticipates 

The  very  business  you  are  now  upon. 

And  scribbles  as  if  head  clerk  to  Ihe  Fates. 

Who  knows  to  wha'  his  ribaldry  may  run, 

When  such  an  ass  as  this,  like  Balaam's,  prates?" 

"  Let 's  heir,"  quoth  Michiel,  "  whit  he  has  to  say  : 

You  know  we  're  bound  to  that  in  every  way." 

XC. 
Now  the  bard,  glad  to  get  an  audience,  vhich 

By  no  means  of  en  »vas  his  case  below. 
Began  to  cough,  and  hiwk,  and  hem,  and  pitch 

His  voice  into  that  awful  note  of  woe 
To  all  unhappy  hearers  within  reich 

Of  pneU  when  the  tide  of  rhyme's  in  flovv  ; 
But  stuck  fast  wiih  his  first  hexameter. 
Not  one  of  all  whose  gouty  feet  would  stir. 

XCI. 
But  ere  Ihe  spivin'd  dac'yis  cnu'd  be  spurr'd 

Into  recilaii.e,  in  great  dismay 
Bo!h  cherubim  and  seraphim  were  heard 

To  murmur  loudly  through  their  Ions  array  ; 
And  Michael  rose  ere  he  c  luld  eel  a  word 

Of  all  his  foiinder'd  verses  under  way. 
And  cried,  "  For  God's  sake  stop,  my  friend  !  't  were 

best  — 
ffon  Di,  lion  komine-i —  you  know  the  rest." 

XCH. 

A  general  bustle  spread  (hroughout  the  throng. 
Which  seem'd  to  hold  all  verse  in  detestation; 

The  angels  hid  nf  course  enough  of  song 
When  upon  service  ;  and  the  jeiieration 

Of  ghosts  had  heard  too  much  in  life,  not  long 
Before,  to  profit  \iy  a  new  occasion  : 

The   monarch,   mule   till    then,   eiclaim'd,   "  What ! 
what :  5 

Pye  3  come  again  ?    No  more  —  no  more  of  thit ! " 

1  Mr.  Sniilhpy'n  rosideni  <■  is  on  Ihe  shore  of  Dcrwrnt- 
waller,  near  Ihr  mfunlain  of  i^Kiild'tw. —  E. 

2Th«  king'H  tri'  k  of  rppmlin:  hiR  wnriln  in  this  way 
wa»  a  fertile  sourep  of  ridicule  lo  Peter  Findar.— E. 


xcm. 

The  tumult  grew  ;  an  universal  cough 
Convulsed  the  skies,  as  during  a  debate. 

When  Cas'iereagh  has  been  up  long  enough 
(Before  he  was  first  minister  of  stale, 

I  mean  —  the  slaots  hear  now)  ;  some  c:  ied  "  Off.  Iff'!'* 
As  at  a  f-rce  ;  till,  grown  quite  desperate, 

The  bard  Saint  Peter  pray'd  to  iiiterpo  e 

(Himself  an  author)  ouly  for  his  prose. 

XCIV. 

The  varlet  was  not  an  ill-favour'd  knave ; 

A  good  deal  like  a  vulture  in  Ihe  face. 
With  a  ho>  k  nose  and  a  hawk's  eye,  which  gave 

A  smart  and  sharper-looking  son  of  grace 
To  his  whole  aspect,  which,  though  rather  grave, 

Was  by  no  means  so  ugly  as  his  case ; 
But  that,  indeed,  was  hopeless  as  can  be, 
Quite  a  poe  ic  felony  "  de  se." 

XCV. 
Then  Michael  blew  his  irump,  and  still'd  the  noise 

With  one  still  greater,  .is  is  yet  the  mode 
On  earth  besides  ;  except  some  grumbling  voice, 

Which  now  and  then  will  maKe  a  slight  inroad 
Upon  decorous  silence,  few  will  ttvice 

Lift  up  their  lungs  when  fiirly  overcrow'd  ; 
And  now  the  bard  could  plead  his  own  bad  cause, 
With  all  the  attitudes  of  self-applause. 

XCVI. 

He  said  —  (I  only  give  the  heads)  — he  said. 
He  meant  no  harm  in  scribbling ;  't  was  his  way 

Upon  all  tfi|)ics  ;  't  was.  besides,  his  bread. 
Of  which  he  butter'd  both  sides  ;  't  would  delay 

Too  long  the  assembly  (he  was  pleased  to  dread), 
And  take  up  raiher  more  time  than  a  day. 

To  name  his  works  —  he  would  but  cite  a  few  — 

"  Wat  Tyler"—"  Rhymeson  Blenheim"-"  Waterloo." 

XCVH. 
He  had  written  praises  of  a  reiieide  ; 

He  had  wrilien  praises  nf  al!  kings  whatever; 
He  had  written  for  republics  far  and  wide. 

And  ihen  against  Iheni  bitterer  than  ever; 
For  panlisocracy  he  once  had  ciied 

Aloud,  a  scheme  less  moral  than  't  was  clever; 
Then  grew  a  he.arly  anii  jacobin  — 
Had  turn'd  bis  coat  —  and  would  have  tuni'd  bis  ikiii. 

xcvni. 

He  had  sung  against  all  battles,  and  again 
In   heir  high  praise  and  glory  ;  he  had  call'd 

Review  ing  *  "  the  uneenile  craft,"  and  then 
Became  as  b  ise  a  critic  as  e'e;  crawl'd  — 

Fed.  paid,  and  pamperd  by  the  very  men 

By  whom  his  mu-e  and  hiorals  had  been  maul'd  : 

He  h.ad  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker  proae^ 

And  more  of  bolh  than  any  body  knows. 

I  XCIX. 

He  had  written  Wesley's  life:  —  here  turning  roond 

To  Sajan,  "  Sir,  1  'ni  ready  to  write  yours, 
In  two  o'clavo  volumes,  nicely  bound. 

With  notes  and  preface,  all  thai  most  allures 
The  pious  purchaser  ;  and  there's  no  ground 

For  fear,  for  I  can  choose  my  own  reviewers: 
So  let  me  have  the  proper  documents. 
That  I  may  add  you  to  my  other  saints." 


Satan  bow'd,  and  was  silent.     "  Well,  if  yon. 

With  amiable  modesty,  decline 
My  offer,  «  hat  savs  Michael  ?    There  are  few 

Whose  memoirs  could  tie  render'd  more  divine. 
Mine  is  a  pen  of  all  work  ;  nni  so  new 

As  it  was  once,  but  I  would  make  you  shine 

tare  "  Life  of  Heory  Kirke  White." 


180 


THE   AGE  OF  BRONZE. 


Like  ycui  omi  trumpet.    By  the  way,  my  own 
Hag  nifire  of  brass  iu  it,  and  is  as  well  blown. 

CI. 
"But  talking  about  trumpets,  here's  my  Vision  ! 

Now  you  sh  ill  judje,  ail  people  ;  yes,  you  shall 
Judge  with  my  judgment,  and  by  my  decision 

Be  guided  who  shill  enter  heueu  or  fall. 
I  settle  all  thee  things  by  intuition. 

Times  present,  past,  to  come,  heaven,  hell,  and  all, 
Like  King  Alfonso.i     When  I  thus  see  double, 
I  save  the  Deily  some  worlds  of  trouble." 

cn. 

He  ceased,  and  drew  forth  an  MS.  ;  and  no 
Persuasion  on  the  part  of  devils,  or  saints, 

Or  angels,  now  could  stop  the  torrent ;  so 
He  le.id  Ihe  first  ihree  lines  of  the  contents  ; 

But  at  the  fourth,  the  whole  spiritual  shovv 
Had  vanish'd,  with  variety  of  scents. 

Ambrosiiil  and  sulphureous,  as  they  sprang. 

Like  lightning,  olf  from  his  "  melodious  twang."  3 

cm. 

Those  ?rand  heroics  acted  as  a  spell ; 

The  :iugels  stopp'd  their  ears  and  plied  their  pinions ; 
The  deiils  ran  howling,  deafen'd,  down  to  hell; 

The  ghosts  fled,  gibbering,  for  their  own  domin- 
ions— 
(For  't  is  not  yet  decided  where  they  dwell, 

And  I  leave  every  mau  to  his  opinions); 


wuuld  have  spared  the  Maker  some  absurdities." 

2  See  Aubrey '8  account  nf  the  apparilion  which  dieap- 
peared,  **with  a  curious  perftime,  and  a  moU  melodiouB 
tuang  ;  "  or  see  the  "  Antiquart,"  vol.  i.  p.  225. 


Michael  took  refuge  in  his  tmmp — but,  lo! 
His  teeth  were  set  on  edge,  he  could  not  blow! 

CIV. 
Saint  Peter,  who  has  hitherto  been  known 

For  an  impetuous  saint,  upraised  his  key», 
And  at  the  fifth  line  knock'd  the  poet  down  j 

Who  fell  like  Phaeton,  but  more  at  ease. 
Into  his  lake,  for  there  he  did  not  drown  ; 

A  ditfereiit  web  being  by  the  Destinies 
Woven  for  Ihe  Liureate's  final  wreath,  whene'er 
Reform  shall  happen  either  here  or  there. 

CV. 

He  first  sank  to  the  bottom  —  like  his  works, 
But  soon  ro^e  to  Ihe  surface—  like  himself; 

For  all  corrupted  things  are  buoy'd  like  corks,* 
Bv  their  own  rottenness,  light  as  an  elf, 

Or  wisp  that  tills  o'er  a  morass :  he  lurks. 
It  may  be,  still,  like  dull  books  on  a  shelf, 

In  his  own  di-n,  to  scrawl  some  "  Life  "  or  "Vision," 

As  VVelbom  says —  '•  the  devil  turu"d  precisian," 

CVL 

As  for  the  rest,  to  come  to  the  conclusion 
Of  this  true  dre-im,  the  telescope  is  gone 

Which  kept  my  optics  free  from  all  delusion. 
And  show'd  mc  what  I  in  my  turn  have  shown  ; 

All  I  saw  farther,  in  the  last  confusion, 

Was,  that  King  George  slipp'd  into  heaven  for  one; 

And  when  the  tumult  dwindled  lo  a  calm, 

I  left  him  practising  the  hundredth  psalm. 

3  A  drowned  l>ody  lies  at  the  bottom  till  rotten;  it  ihei 
Soals,  as  most  people  know. 


THE    AGE    OF    BRONZE; 

OR,  CARMEN    SECULARE    ET  ANNUS    HAUD   MIRABILIS.* 


I  Impai  Congrfitu  AchiUi." 


I. 

The  "good  old   times"  —  all  times  when   old    are 

good  — 
Are  gone  ;  the  present  might  be  if  they  would  ; 
Great  things  have  been,  arid  are,  and  greater  still 
Want  little  of  mere  mortals  but  their  will : 
A  wider  space,  a  greener  field,  is  given 
To  those  »  ho  pi  ly  iheir  '•  tricks  before  high  heaven." 
I  know  not  if  the  angels  weep,  but  men 
Have  wept  enough  —  for  w  hat  ?  —  to  weep  again  ! 

II. 

All  is  exploded  —  be  it  good  or  bad. 
Reader  !  remember  when  thou  wert  a  lad. 
Then  Pitt  was  all;  or,  if  not  all,  so  much. 
His  very  rival  almost  deem'd  him  such. 
We,  we  have  seen  the  intellectual  race 
Of  giants  stand,  like  Ti'aiis,  face  to  face  — 
Alhfis  and  Ida,  with  a  dashing  sea 
Of  eloq  lence  between,  which  flow'd  all  free. 
As  the  deep  billows  r,f  Ihe  JExeM  roar 
Betwixt  Ihe  Hellenic  and  the  Phrygian  shore. 
But  where  are  ihcv  —  Ihe  rivals  ".  a  few  feet 
Of  sullen  earth  divide  each  winding  sheet.* 


4  This  poem  was  wiitten  bv  Lord  Byron,  at  Genoa,  in 
theearlv  |iart  of  the  year  l>-73:  and  pTihlished  in  Londo.i, 
by  Mr.  John  Hunt.  It«  auHieiiticily  was  much  disputed 
■t  the  time.  — li. 

5  The  grB»#  of  .Mr.  Fox,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  I* 
within  cishteen  itches  of  that  of  Mr.  Pitt.  —  E. 


How  peaceful  and  how  powerful  is  Ihe  grave, 
'  Which  hushes  all  1  a  calm,  unslormy  w-ive, 
Which  oversweeps  the  world.     The  theme  is  old 
Of  '•  dust  lo  dust ;  "  but  half  its  tale  untold  : 
Time  tempers  not  its  terrors  —  still  the  worm 
Wiiids  its  cold  folds,  the  tomb  preserves  its  form. 
Varied  above,  but  still  alike  tielow  ; 
The  urn  may  shine,  the  ashes  will  not  glow, 
I  Though  Cleopatra's  mummy  cross  the  sea 
I  O'er  which  from  empire  she  lured  Anthony ; 
!  Though  Alexander's  urn  a  show  be  grown 
On  shores  he  wept  to  conquer,  though  unknown  — 
How  vain,  how  worse  than  vain,  at  length  appear 
The  madman's  wish,  the  Macedonian's  tear  ! 
He  wept  for  worlds  to  conquer  —  half  Ihe  earth 
Knows  not  his  name,  or  but  his  deith,  and  birth, 
And  desolation  ;  while  his  native  Greece 
Hath  all  of  desolation,  save  its  peace. 
He  "  wept  for  worlds  to  conquer  !  "  he  who  ne'er 
Conceived  the  globe,  he  panted  not  to  spare! 
With  even  Ihe  busy  Northern  Isle  unknown. 
Which  holds  his  urn,  and  uever  knew  bis  throne. 

III. 
But  where  is  he,  the  modern,  mightier  fer. 
Who,  born  no  king,  mnde  monarchs  draw  his  car; 
The  new  Sesos'ris,  whose  unharness'd  kings. 
Freed  from  Ihe  bit.  believe  themselves  with  winn. 
And  spurn  the  dust  o'er  which  'hey  crawi'd  of  late, 
Chain'd  lo  the  chariot  of  the  chieftain's  stale? 
Yes  I  where  is  he,  the  champion  and  the  child 
Of  all  that 's  great  or  little,  wise  or  wild ; 


THE    AGE    OF    BRONZE. 


161 


Vi'bose  game  was  empires,  and  whose  stakes  were 

llirones; 
Whose  table  eaith  —  whose  dice  were  human  bones? 
Behold  the  grand  result  in  yon  lone  isle,i 
And,  as  thy  nature  ur^es,  weep  or  smile. 
Sigh  lo  behold  the  eigle's  lofty  rage 
Reduced  to  nibble  at  his  narrow  cage  ; 
Smile  to  survey  the  queller  of  the  naiions 
Now  dnily  sqmbbling  o'er  disputed  rations; 
Weep  to  perceive  him  mourning,  as  he  dines, 
O'er  curt.iil'd  dishes  and  o'er  siinled  wines; 
O'er  petty  quarrels  upon  peiiy  things. 
Is  this  the  man  wh)  scourged  or  feasted  kings? 
Behold  the  scales  m  which  his  fortune  hangs, 
A  surgeon's  1  statement,  and  an  earl's  3  harangues  ! 
A  bust  dclay'd,*  a  br)ok  refi.sed  can  shake 
The  sleep  of  him  who  kept  ihe  world  awaka. 
Is  Ibis  indeed  the  lamer  of  Ihe  great, 
Now  slave  of  all  could  tease  or  irriiate 
The  pal  ry  gaoler  5  and  the  pr\  ing  spy, 
The  staring  stranger  with  hii  uole  book  nigh?s 
Plunged  in  a  dungeon,  tie  hid  still  been  great; 
How  low,  how  little  was  this  middle  stale. 
Between  a  prison  and  a  palace,  where 
How  few  could  feel  for  what  he  had  to  bear  ! 
Vain  his  complaint,— my  lord  presents  his  bill, 
His  food  and  wit.e  were  doled  out  duly  still ; 
Vain  was  his  sickness,  never  was  a  clime 
So  free  from  homicide  —  to  doubt 's  a  crime  ; 
And  Ihe  slitF  surgeon,  who  maintain'd  his  cause. 
Hath  lost  his  place,  and  gam'd  the  world's  apphuse. 
Rut  smile  —  though  all  the  pangs  of  brain  and  heart 
Disdain,  defy,  Ihe  tardy  aid  of  ai  I ; 
Though,  save  Ihe  few  fond  friends  and  imaged  face 
Of  that  fair  boy  his  sire  shall  ne'er  embrace. 
None  slaiid  by  his  low  bed  —  though  even  Ihe  mind 
Be  wavering,  which  long  awed  and  awes  mankind » 
Smile  —  for  the  fetler'd  eagle  breaks  his  chain. 
And  higher  worlds  than  this  are  bis  agaiu.i 


IV. 

How,  if  that  soaring  spirit  still  retain 

A  conscious  twilight  of  his  blazing  reign, 

How  must  he  smile,  on  looking  down,  to  see 

The  little  that  he  was  and  sought  lo  be'. 

What  though  his  name  a  wider  empire  found 

Than  his  ambition,  th^llgh  with  scarce  a  bound  j 

Though  first  in  glory,  deepest  in  reverse, 

He  lasted  empire's  blessings  and  its  curse  ; 

Though  kings,  rejoicing  in  their  hie  escape 

From  chains,  would  gladly  be  their  tyrant's  ape; 

How  must  he  smile,  and  turn  to  yon  lone  grave, 

The  proudest  sea-mark  that  o'ertojis  the  wave  ! 

What  though  his  gaoler,  duteous  (o  the  last. 

Scarce  deem'd  the  coffin's  lead  could  keep  him  fast, 

Refusing  one  poor  line  along  Ihe  lid, 

To  dale  the  birth  and  death  of  all  it  hid  ; 

That  name  shall  hallow  the  ignoble  shore, 

A  talisman  to  all  save  him  who  bore  : 

The  fleels  that  sweep  before  the  eastern  blast 

Shall  hear  their  sea-boys  hail  it  from  the  mast ; 

When  Victory "s  Gallic  column  shall  but  rise, 

Like  Pompev's  pillar,  in  a  desert's  skies. 

The  rocky  isle  that  holds  or  held  his  dust 

Shall  crown  the  Atlanlic  like  the  hero's  bust. 

And  mighty  nature  o'er  his  obsequies 

Do  more  than  niggard  envy  still  denies 

But  what  are  these  to  him?    Can  glory's  lust 

Touch  Ihe  freed  spirit  or  the  fetter'd  dust  ? 

Small  care  hath  he  of  what  his  tomb  consists  ; 

Nought  if  he  sleeps  —  nor  more  if  he  exists : 


1  St.  Helena.  —  E.  2  Mr.  Barry  O'Meara.  —  E. 

3  Earl  Bnthcirst.  —  E.         4  The  bust  of  his  son.  —  E. 

6  Sir  HiiJaon  Lowe.  —  E. 

6  Captain  Basil  Hall's  interesting  account  of  his  inter- 
view with  the  ex-einperor  occurs  in  his  "  Voyage  to  Loo- 
choo."—  E. 


7  Buonafarte  died  the  6th  of  May,  1821. 
_ 


Alike  the  be  ter-seeing  shade  will  smile 

On  Ihe  rude  cavern  of  Ihe  rocky  isle. 

As  if  his  ashes  found  their  latest  home 

In  Rome's  Pantheon  or  Gaul's  mimic  dome. 

He  wants  not  this;  bu   France  shall  feel  the  want 

Of  this  last  consolation,  though  so  scant ; 

Her  honour,  fame,  and  faith  demand  his  bones 

To  rear-  above  a  pyramid  of  thrones  ; 

Or  carried  onward  in  the  battle's  van. 

To  form,  like  Guesclin's  dust,  her  talisman. 

But  be  it  IS  it  is  —  the  time  may  come 

His  name  shall  beat  the  alarm,  like  Ziska's  drum. 

V. 

Oh  heaven  !  of  which  he  was  in  power  a  feature; 

Oh  earth  !  of  which  he  was  a  noble  creature  ; 

Thou  isle !  to  be  remembered  long  ind  well, 

i'hat  saw'st  Ihe  unriedgd  eaglet  chip  his  shell  ! 

Ve  Alps,  which  view'd  him  in  his  dawning  flights 

Hove'    the  victor  of  a  hundred  fights  ! 

Thou  Rome,  who  saw'st  thy  Caesii's  deeds  outdone! 

Alas  ;  why  pass'd  he  too  the  Rubicon  — 

'1  he  Rubicon  of  man's  awaken'd  rights. 

To  herd  with  vulgar  kings  and  parasites  ? 

Egypt :  from  whose  all  dateless  tombs  arose 

Furgotlen  Pharaohs  from  their  long  repose, 

And  shook  within  their  pyramids  to  hear 

A  new  Cambyses  thundering  in  their  ear  ; 

While  the  dark  shades  of  forly  ages  stood 

Like  startled  giants  by  Nile's  famous  flood  j 

Or  from  the  pyramid's  till  pi>,iiacle 

Beheld  the  desert  peopled,  as  from  hell. 

With  clashing  hosis,  who  strew'd  the  barren  sand. 

To  re  manure  the  uncultivated  I  iid  ! 

Spain  !  which,  a  moment  mindless  of  the  Cid, 

Beheld  his  banner  flouting  thy  Madrid  ! 

Austria!  which  saw  thy  Iwiceta'en  capital 

Twice  spared  to  be  the  traitress  of  his  fall ! 

Ye  race  of  Frederic  !  —  Frederics  but  in  name 

Arid  falsehood  —  heirs  to  all  except  li«s  fame  ; 

Who,  crush'd  at  Jena,  crouch'd  at  Berlin,  fell 

First,  and  but  rose  to  follow  !    Ye  who  dwell 

Where  Kosciusko  dwelt,  remembering  yet 

The  unpaid  amount  of  Catherine's  bloody  debtS 

Poland  !  o'er  which  Ihe  avenging  angel  past. 

But  left  thee  as  he  found  thee,  still  a  was  e. 

Forgetting  all  thy  still  enduring  claim. 

Thy  lotted  people  and  extinguish'd  name. 

Thy  sigh  for  freedom,  thy  long-fiowing  tear. 

That  sound  that  crashes  in  the  tyrant's  ear  — 

Kosciusko!  On  —  on  — on  —  Ihe  thirst  of  war 

Gasps  for  the  gore  of  serfs  and  of  their  czar. 

The  half  barbaric  Moscow's  minarets 

Gleam  in  Ihe  sun,  but 't  is  a  sun  'hat  sets  ! 

Moscow  !  thou  limit  of  his  long  career, 

For  which  rude  Charles  had  wept  his  frozen  tear 

To  see  in  vain  —  he  saw  thee  —  how  ?  with  spire 

And  pal  ice  fuel  to  one  common  fire. 

To  this  the  soldier  lent  his  kindling  match, 

To  this  the  peasant  gave  his  cottage  thatch. 

To  this  the  me: chant  fiung  his  hoarded  store. 

The  prince  his  hall  —  and  Moscow  was  uc  more! 

Sublimes!  of  volcanos!  Etna's  flame 

Pales  before  thine,  and  quenchless  Hecia  's  tame; 

Vesuvius  shows  his  blaze,  an  usual  sight 

For  gaping  tourists,  from  his  hackney'd  height: 

Thou  stand's!  alone  unrivall'd,  till  the  fire 

To  come,  in  which  all  empires  shill  expire! 

Thou  other  element !  as  strong  and  stern. 
To  teach  a  lesson  conquerors  will  not  learn  !  — 
Whose  icy  wing  flapp'd  o'er  the  faltering  foe, 
Till  fell  a  hero  w  ith  each  fiake  of  snow  ; 
How  did  thy  numbing  beak  and  silent  fang, 
Pierce,  till  hosts  perish'd  with  a  single  pang  ! 
In  vain  shall  Seine  look  up  along  his  banks 
For  Ihe  gay  thousands  of  his  dashing  ranks'. 
In  vain  shall  France  recall  beneath  her  vines 
Her  youth  —  their  blood  flows  faster  than  her  wiaes; 
Or  stagnant  in  their  human  ice  remains 
In  frozen  mummies  on  the  Polar  plaius. 


182 


THE   AGE  OF   BRONZE. 


In  vain  will  Italy's  l)road  sun  awaken 

Her  cffspriBg  chili'U  ;  its  beams  are  now  forsaken. 

Of  all  the  trophies  gather'd  from  the  war. 

What  shdl  return?— the  conqueror's  br  ken  carl 

The  conquerors  ycl  unbroken  heart !  Again 

The  horn  of  Roland  sounds,  and  not  in  vain. 

Lutzen,  where  fell  the  Swede  of  victory,' 

Beliolds  him  conquer,  but,  alas  1  not  d.e  : 

Ilresden  surveys  three  despots  fly  once  more 

Before  their  sovereign, —  sovereign  as  before; 

But  there  exhiusled  Fortune  quits  the  field, 

And  Leipsic  s  treason  bids  the  uiivanquish  d  yield, 

Tiie  Saxon  jackal  leaves  the  lion's  side 

To  turn  the  beir's.  and  moICs,  and  fox's  guide; 

And  bickwaid  to  the  den  of  his  despair 

The  forest  monarch  shi  inks,  but  tiuds  no  lair ! 

Oh  ye !  and  e  ich,  and  all  !     Oh  France  !  who  found 

"i  hv  long  fair  fields  plough'd  up  as  hostile  ground, 

Disputed  foot  by  foot,  till  treason,  s  ill 

His  only  victor,  fr  mi  Monlmirtre's  hill 

Look'd  down  o'er  trampled  Paris!  and  thou  Isle,a 

Which  sees!  Eiruria  from  ihy  ramparts  smile. 

Thou  momentarv  shelter  ol  his  pride. 

Till  woo'd  by  danger,  his  yet  weeping  bride  ! 

Oh,  France  '.'  retaken  by  a  single  march. 

Whose  path  was  through  one  long  triumphal  arch  ! 

Oh,  bloody  and  most  bootless  Waierloo  ! 

Whi-:h  proves  how  fools  may  have  their  fortune  too, 

Won  half  bv  blunder,  half  by  treachery  : 

Oh,  dull  S.iiht  Helen  !  with  thy  g«oler  nigh  — 

Hear  ;  hear  Prometheus  ^  f.om  his  rock  appeal 

To  earth,  air,  ocean,  all  that  felt  or  feel 

His  power  and  glory,  all  who  yet  shall  hear 

A  name  eternal  as  the  ro'.ling  year; 

He  leaches  them  the  lesson  taught  so  long, 

So  oft,  so  vainly  —  learn  to  do  no  wrong  ! 

A  single  step  into  the  right  had  made 

This  man  the  Washington  of  worlds  betray'd  : 


A  single  sep 


into  the  wiong  has  give 


en, 


His  name  a  doubt  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven  ; 
The  reed  of  Fortune,  and  of  thrones  the  rod. 
Of  Fame  the  Miloch  or  ibe  demigod  ; 
His  country's  C!esar,  Europe's  Hannibal, 
Without  their  decent  digni  y  of  fall. 
Yet  Vanity  herself  had  belter  taught 
A  surer  path  even  to  the  fame  he  sought, 
By  pointing  out  on  history's  fruitle  s  page 
'I  en  thousand  conquenrs' for  a  single  ^age. 
While  Franklin's  i|uiet  memory  climbs  to  heaven, 
Calming  Ibi-  lightning  which  he  thence  halli 
Or  drawing  from  Ihenn  less  kindled  earth 
Freednm  and  peace  to  that  which  boasts  his  birth  ; 
While  Washington's  a  waschwoid.  such  as  ne'er 
Sh'll  sink  while  there  's  an  echo  left  to  air  : 
While  even  the  Spiniard's  thirst  of  gold  and  war 
Forgets  Fizarro  to  shout  Bolivar  ! 
Alas  !  whv  must  the  same  Atlantic  wave 
Which  wafted  freedom  gird  a  tyrant's  grave  — 
Tlie  king  of  kings,  and  yet  of  slaves  the  slave. 
Who  burst  the  chains  of  millions  to  renew 
The  very  fetters  which  his  arm  broke  through. 
And  crush'd  the  rights  nf  Europe  and  his  own, 
To  flit  between  a  dungeon  and  a  throne? 

VI. 

But 't  will  not  he  —  the  spark  's  awaken'd  —  lo ! 
T  he  swarthv  Spaniard  feels  his  former  glow  ; 
The  same  high   pirit  which  beat  :a:x  the  Moor 
Through  eight  Ions  ages  of  alternate  gore 
Revive^  —  and  where?  in  that  avenging  clime 
Where  Spain  was  once  svnonymous  with  crime, 
Where  Cortes'  and  Pizar'ro's  banner  flew, 
The  infant  world  redeems  her  name  of  "  Aieic." 


2  The  i»le  <  f  Eltw.  - 

8  I  refer  the  reailer 

in  EsihyliH,  when  he  i 

bvloie  the  arri»al  of  Ih 


0  the  first  adilrega  r,(  Prometheus 

1  lefl  nlnne  hy  hia  altendanl8,  and 
chorus  of  Sea-nymphs. 


'T  is  the  old  aspiration  breathed  afresh, 
To  kindle  souls  within  degr.-ded  flesh. 
Such  as  repulsed  the  Persian  Irom  the  shore 
I  Where  Greece  vuas  —  :sol  she  sliU  is  Greece  ooa 

more. 
!  One  common  cau  e  makes  myriads  of  one  breast, 
'  Slaves  of  the  Easi,  or  helots  of  the  West : 
i  On  Andes'  and  on  Alhos'  peaks  unfuri'd, 
'  the  selfsame  standard  streams  o'er  either  world : 
;  The  Athenian  wears  again  HarmodiUs'  sword ; 
;  The  Chili  cfiief  abjures  his  foreign  lord  ; 
The  Spartan  knows  himself  once  more  a  Greek, 
Young  Freedom  plumes  the  crest  of  each  cacique ; 
'  Debating  despots,  hemni'd  on  either  shoie, 
Shrink  vainlv  from  the  roused  Atlantic's  roar; 
Through  Cal'pe's  strait  the  rolling  tides  advance. 
Sweep  slightlv  by  the  h  lf-;amed  land  of  France, 
!  Dish  o'er  the  old  Spaniard's  cradle,  and  would  fain 
I  Unite  Ausonia  to  the  mighty  main  : 
I  But  driven  fiom  thence  awhile,  yet  not  for  aye, 
'  Break  o'er  th'  ^gean,  mindful  of  the  d.ay 
Of  Salamis  '.  —  there,  there  the  waves  arise. 
Not  to  be  lull  d  by  tyrant  victories. 
Lo:  e,  lost,  abandon'd  in  their  utniost  need 
By  Christians,  unto  w  horn  they  gave  their  creed. 
The  desolated  linds,  the  ravaged  isle. 
The  fos'er'd  feud  encouraged  to  beguile. 
The  aid  evaded,  and  the  cold  delay, 
Prolons'd  but  in  the  hope  to  make  a  prey  ;— 
These," these  shall  tell  the  tale,  and  Greece  can  show 
I  The  false  fiiend  worse  than  the  iufuri  ile  foe. 
1  But  this  is  well :  Greeks  only  should  free  Greece, 
Not  the  barbariir.,  with  his  mask  of  peace. 
How  should  the  autocrat  of  bondage  be 
The  kin?  of  serfs,  and  set  the  nations  free  ? 
Better  still  serve  the  haughty  Mussulman, 
Than  swell  the  Cossaque's  prowling  caravan  ; 
I  Belter  still  toil  for  masters,  than  await, 
The  slave  of  slaves,  before  a  Russian  gate,— 
Number'd  by  hordes,  a  human  capital, 
A  live  estate,  existing  but  for  thrall, 
Loited  by  thousands,  as  a  meet  reward 
For  the  first  courtier  in  the  Czar's  regard  ; 
While  their  immediate  owner  never  tastes 
His  sleep,  tain  dreaming  of  Siberia's  wastes. 
Better  succumb  even  to  their  own  despair, 
And  drive  the  camel  than  purvey  the  bear. 

VII. 

But  not  alone  within  the  hoariest  clime 

Where  Freedom  dates  her  biith  with  that  of  Time, 

And  not  alone  where,  plunged  in  night,  a  crowd 

Of  Incas  darken  to  a  dubious  cloud, 

The  dawn  revives  :  renown'd,  romantic  Spain 

Holds  back  the  invader  from  her  soil  again. 

Not  now  the  Roman  tribe  nor  Punic  horde 

Demand  her  fields  as  lists  to  prove  the  sword; 

Not  now  the  Vandal  or  the  Visigoth 

Pollute  the  plains,  alike  abhorring  both  ; 

Nor  old  Pelayo  on  his  mountain  rears 

The  warlike  fathers  of  a  thousand  years. 

That  seed  is  sown  and  leap'd,  as  oft  the  Moor 

Sighs  to  remember  on  his  dusky  shore. 

Long  in  the  peasant's  song  or  poet's  page 

Has  dwelt  the  memory  nf  Abencerraje  ; 

The  Zegri,  and  the  cptive  victors,  flung 

Back  to  the  barbarous  realm  from  whence  they  sprung. 

But  these  are  gone  — their  faith,  their  swords,  their 

sway, 
Yet  left  more  anti  christian  foes  than  they  : 
The  bigot  monarch  and  the  bu'cher  priest. 
The  Inquisition,  v  ilh  her  burning  feast. 
The  faith's  red  "  auto,"  led  with  human  fuel, 
While  sate  the  ca'holic  Moloch,  calmly  cruel, 
Enjosina,  with  inexorable  eye, 
That  fiery  festival  of  agony  ! 
The  stern  or  feeble  snvereign,  one  or  both 
By  turns;  the  haughtiness  whose  pride  was  doth 
The  long  degenerate  noble  ;  the  debased 
Hidalgo,  and  the  peasant  less  disgraced, 


THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE. 


183 


But  more  desiraJeJ  ;  the  unpeopled  realm  ; 

The  once  proud  navy  wliich  forgot  the  helm  ; 

The  once  impervious  ph.ilans  disarr  ly'd  j 

The  idle  forge  that  fonii'd  Toledo's  blade  ; 

The  foreign  wealth  that  flow  d  on  ev'ry  shore, 

Save  hers  who  earn'd  it  with  the  natives'  gore  ; 

The  very  langu:<ge  which  might  vie  w  ith  Rome's, 

And  once  w,\s  known  to  nations  like  their  homes, 

Neglected  or  forgotten  :  —  such  was  Spain ; 

But  such  she  is  not,  nor  shall  be  again. 

These  worst,  these  home  invaders,  felt  and  feel 

The  new  Numantine  soul  of  old  Castile, 

Up  !  up  again  !  undaunted  Tauridor  1 

The  bull  of  Phalaris  renews  his  roar; 

Mount,  chivalrous  Hidalgo  1  not  in  vain 

Revive  the  cry  — "  lago  '.  and  close  Spain  '. "  » 

Yes,  close  her  with  your  armed  bosoms  round, 

And  form  the  barrier  which  Napoleon  found, 

The  exterminiting  war,  the  desert  plain. 

The  streets  without  a  tenant,  save  the  slain ; 

The  wild  sierra,  with  its  wilder  troop 

Of  vulture-plumed  guerrillas,  on  the  stoop 

For  their  incessant  prey  ;  the  desperate  wall 

Of  S.iragossa,  mightiest  in  her  fall ; 

The  man  nerved  to  a  spirit,  and  the  maid 

Waving  her  more  than  Amazonian  blade  j* 

The  knife  of  Arragou,3  Toledo's  steel  ; 

The  famous  lance  of  chivalrous  Castile  ; 

The  unerring  rifle  of  the  Catalan  ; 

The  Audalusian  courser  in  the  van  ; 

The  torch  lo  make  a  Moscow  of  Madrid  ; 

And  in  each  heirt  the  spirit  of  the  Cid  :  — 

Such  have  been,  such  sh  ill  be,  such  are.    Advance, 

And  win  —  not  Spain :  but  thine  own  freedom,  France ! 

VIII. 
But  lo !  a  Congress !  «    What !  that  hallow'd  name 
Which  freed  the  Atlantic  ?    May  we  hope  the  same 
For  outworn  Europe  ?     With  the  sound  arise. 
Like  Simuel's  shade  to  Saul's  monarchic  eyes, 
The  prophets  of  young  Freedom,  summon'd  far 
From  climes  of  Washington  and  Bolivar; 
Henry,  the  forest-born  Demosthenes, 
VVhose  thunder  shook  the  Philip  of  the  seas ;  » 
And  stoic  Franklin's  energetic  shade. 
Robed  in  the  lightnings  which  his  hand  allay'd ; 
And  Washington,  the  tyrant-tamer,  wake. 
To  bid  us  blush  for  these  old  chains,  or  break. 
But  who  compr  se  this  senate  of  the  few 
That  should  redeem  the  many  ?     IVho  renew 
This  consecra'ed  name,  till  now  assign'd 
To  councils  held  to  benefil  mankind  ? 
Who  now  assemble  at  the  holy  call? 
The  blest  Alliance,  which  says  three  are  all ! 
An  earthly  trinity  !  which  wears  the  shape 
Of  heaven's,  as  man  is  niimick'd  by  the  ape. 
A  pious  unity  !  in  purpose  one  — 
To  melt  three  fools  to  a  Napoleon. 
Why,  Egypt's  gods  were  rational  to  these; 
The'ir  dngs  and  oxen  knew  their  own  degrees, 
And,  quiet  in  their  kennel  or  their  shed, 
Cared  lit  le,  so  that  they  were  duly  fed  ; 
But  these,  more  hungrv,  must  have  something  more  — 
The  power  to  bark  and  bite,  to  toss  and  gore. 

1"  Santiago  jr  serra  Espana ! "  the  old  Spanish  war 
cry.—  E. 

2  Sec  Childc  Harold,  r.  i.  s.  liv.— E. 

3Tlie  Arragonians  are  p.-culiarly  dexterous  in  the  use 
of  this  weapon,  and  displayed  it  particularly  in  former 
French  wars. 

4The  Congress  of  the  Sovereigns  of  Russia,  Austria, 
Prussia,  ic.  <fcc.  &c.,  which  assembled  at  Verona,  io  the 
■utumnot  )&2a.— E. 

6  Patrick  Henry,  of  Virginia,  a  leading  member  of  the 
Americaii  Congress,  died  in  June,  1797.  Lord  Byion 
alludes  to  his  famous  speech  in  1765,  in  which,  on  saying, 
«  Cesar  h..J  his  Brutus— Charles  the  First  had  his  Crom- 

\»ell— and  George   the  Third "    Henry  was   inier- 

•  Tupled  wiih  a  shout  of  "Treason!  treason  !!"— but 
I  coolly  finished  the  sentence  with— "George  the  Thiid 
;!  mti  profit  by  their  example."— E. 


Ah,  how  much  happier  were  good  .Slsop's  frog» 
Than  we  '.  for  ours  are  animated  logs. 
With  ponderous  malice  sivayii.g  to  and  fro, 
And  crushing  nations  with  a  stupid  blow  ; 
All  dully  anxious  to  leave  little  work 
Unto  the  revolutionary  itork. 

IX, 

Thrice  blest  Verona !  since  the  holy  three 

With  their  imperial  presence  shine  on  thee  ; 

Honoui'd  by  them,  thy  treacherous  site  forgets 

The  vaunted  tomb  of  "  all  the  Capulels  ;" 

Thy  Scaligers  —  for  what  was  '•  Uog  the  Great  " 

"  Can  Grande,"  (which  I  venture  to  ti-anslate,) 

To  these  sublimer  pugs  ?    Thy  poe:  too, 

Catullus,  whose  old  laurels  yield  to  new  ; 

Thine  amphitheatre,  where  Romans  sate; 

And  Dan  e's  exile  sheller'd  by  Ihy  gale  ; 

Thy  good  old  man,  whose  world  was  all  within 

Thy  wall,  nor  knew  the  country  held  him  in  : 

Would  that  the  royal  guests  it  girds  about 

Were  so  far  like,  as  never  to  get  out ! 

Ay,  shout !  inscribe !  rear  monuments  of  shame, 

To  tell  Oppression  that  the  world  is  tame  1 

Crowd  to  the  theatre  with  loyal  rage, 

The  comedy  is  not  upon  the  stage  ; 

The  show  is  rich  in  ribindry  and  stars, 

Then  gaze  upnii  it  through  thy  dungeon  bars ; 

Clap  thy  p"rniitted  palms,  kind  Italy, 

For  thus  much  still  thy  fetter'd  hands  are  free ! 

X. 

Resplendent  sight !    Behold  the  coxcomb  Czar,« 

The  autocrat  of  waltzes  and  of  war  ! 

As  eager  for  a  plaudit  as  a  realm. 

And  just  as  fit  for  flirting  as  the  helm  ; 

A  Calmuck  beauty  with  a  Cossack  wit. 

And  generous  spirit,  when  't  is  not  frost-bit; 

Now  half  dissolving  to  a  liberal  thaw, 

Kut  harden'd  back  whene'er  the  morning  's  raw  ; 

With  no  objection  to  true  liberty, 

Except  th(t  it  would  make  the  nations  free. 

How  well  the  imperial  dandy  prates  of  peace ! 

How  fain,  if  Greeks  would  be  his  slaves,  free  Greece! 

How  nobly  gave  he  back  the  Poles  their  Diet, 

Then  told  pugnacious  Poland  to  be  quiet ! 

How  kindly  would  he  send  the  mild  Ukraii  e, 

With  all  her  pleasant  pulks,  lo  lecture  Spain  ! 

How  royally  show  of!"  in  proud  Madrid 

His  goodly  person,  from  the  South  long  hid  ! 

A  blessing  cheaply  purchased,  ihe  world  knows. 

By  having  Muscovites  for  friends  or  foes. 

Proceed,  thou  namesake  of  great  Philip's  son  1 

La  Harpe,  thine  Aristotle,  beckons  on  ; 

And  that  which  Scythia  was  to  him  of  yore 

Find  with  (hy  Scy'hians  on  Iberia's  shore. 

Yet  think  upon,  thou  somewhat  aged  youth, 

Thy  predecessor  on  the  banks  of  Truih  ; 

Thou  hast  to  aid  thee,  should  his  lot  be  thine. 

Many  an  old  woman,  but  no  Catherine.'' 

Spain,  too,  hath  rocks,  and  rivers,  arid  defiles  — 

The  bear  mav  rush  into  the  lion's  toils. 

Fa'al  to  Goth's  are  Xeres'  sunny  fields  ; 

Thiiik'st  thou  to  ihee  Nipoleon's  victor  yields? 

Better  reclaim  thv  deserts,  turn  thy  swords 

To  ploughshares.'shave  and  wash  thy  Bashkir  1 

Redeem   hy  realms  from  slavery  and  Ihe  kno  it, 

1  han  follow  headlong  in  Ihe  fatal  route. 

To  infest  the  clime  whose  ^kies  and  laws  are  pure 

With  Ihy  foul  legions.     Spain  wants  no  manure  : 

Her  soil'is  fertile,  but  she  feeds  no  foe  : 

Her  vultures,  too,  were  gorged  not  long  ago; 

And  wouldst  thou  furnish  them  with  fresher  prey? 

Alas  !  thou  wilt  not  conquer,  but  purvey. 

6 The  Emperor  Alexander;  who  died  in  182j>.  — E. 
7The   dexterity  of  Catherine   extricated    P 
the  Great   by  courtesy),  w 

river  Prutb.      i ^ 

Peter   the  Great," 


(called 

rounded  hy  the  Mussol- 

the  banks  of  the  river  Prutb^    [For  parliculara 

his    transaction,   see   Barrow*:  -.      «       . 


p.  220.)  — E. 


184 


THE   AGE  OF  BRONZE. 


I  am  Diogenes,  Ihough  Russ  and  Hun 
Stand  between  mine  and  many  a  myriad's  sun; 
But  were  I  not  Diogenes,  I  "d  wander 
Rather  a  worm  than  such  an  Alexander  ! 
Be  slaves  who  will,  the  cynic  shall  be  free ; 
His  tub  hath  tougher  walls  than  Sinope : 
Still  will  he  bold  his  lantern  up  to  scan 
The  face  of  monaichs  for  an  "  honest  man." 

XI. 

And  what  doth  Gaul,  the  all-prolific  land 
Of  Tie  plus  ultra  ultras  and  their  band 
Of  mercenaries  ?  and  her  noisy  chambers 
And  tribune,  which  each  orator  first  chmbers 
Before  he  finds  a  voice,  and  when  't  is  found, 
Heirs  "  the  lie  "  echo  for  his  answer  rou;id  ? 
Our  British  Commons  sometimes  deign  lo  "  hear ! " 
A  Gallic  senate  hath  more  tongue  than  ear; 
Even  Constant,  iheir  sole  master  of  debate, 
Must  fight  next  day  his  speech  lo  vindica!e. 
But  tills  cosis  litlle  to  true  Franks,  who'd  rather 
Combat  than  listen,  were  it  to  their  father. 
Wh  it  is  the  simple  standing  of  a  shot, 
To  listening  long,  and  inleirup'ing  not  ? 
Though  this  was  not  the  method  of  old  Rome, 
When  TuUy  fulmined  o'er  each  voc\l  dome, 
Demosthenes  has  sanction'd  the  transaction. 
Id  saying  eloquence  meant  "  Action,  aciion  I  " 

XII. 

But  where 's  the  monarch  ?  hath  he  dined  ?  or  yet 

Groans  beneath  indijestion's  heavy  debt  ? 

Have  revolutionary  pales  risen, 

And  turn'd  I  he  royal  en!  rails  to  a  prison  ? 

Have  discontented  movements  stirr'd  the  troops  ? 

Or  have  nj  movements  follow'd  traitorous  soiips  ? 

Hive  Carbonaro  i  co.ks  nM  carbonadoed 

Each  ciurse  enough  ?  or  doctors  dire  dissuaded 

Repletiin  ?  Ah  I  in  thy  dejected  looks 

I  reid  all  Frince's  treason  in  her  cooks  ! 

Good  classic  Louis!  is  ii,  canst  thou  say, 

Desirable  to  be  the  "  Desire  ?  " 

Why  wouldsl  thou  leave  calm  Hartwell's  green  abode,^ 

Apician  table,  and  Horatian  ode. 

To  rule  a  people  who  will  not  be  ruled. 

And  love  much  rather  to  be  scourged  than  school'd  ? 

Ah  !  thine  was  not  the  temper  or  the  taste 

For  thrones  ;  the  table  sees  thee  better  placed  : 

A  mild  Epicurem,  form'd.  at  best. 

To  be  a  kind  host  and  as  good  a  guest, 

To  talk  of  letters,  and  to  know  by  heart 

One  half  the  poei's,  all  Ihe  gourmand's  art ; 

A  scholar  always,  now  and  then  a  w  it. 

And  gentle  when  rligeslion  may  permit ;  — 

But  not  to  govern  lands  enslaved  or  free  ; 

The  gout  was  martyrdom  enough  for  thee. 

XIII. 

Shall  noble  Albion  piss  withont  a  phrase 

From  a  bold  Briton  in  her  wonted  praise? 

"Arts  — arms  —  ard  George  — and  glory  —  and    the 

isles  — 
And  happy  Britain  —  wealth  —  and  Freedom's  smiles — 
White  clitf",  that  held  invasion  far  aloof  — 
Conlenied  subjects,  all  alike  tax-proof  — 
Prou-i  Wellington,  with  eajle  beak  so  curl'd. 
That  nose,  the  hook  where  he  suspends  the  world  !  3 

And  Waterloo  —  and  trade  —  and (hush !  not  yet 

A  syllable  of  imposts  or  of  debt) 


1  According  to  Bntta,  Ihe 
during  tlip  rfign  <if  King  Jr 
the  Abnizzi,  and  Itii-re  fnrn 
the  fir^t  tliat  aHstimed  ll)e  « 
over  Italy,  .if  ••Carbniian  "  (luMiers. )  — E. 

2  Hariwell,  in  Btukinghamshire  —  Ihe  residence  of 
Louis  XVIII.  during  the  latter  years  of  the  Euiigra- 
tioo.—  E. 


Neapolitan  republicans  who, 
■him,  fled  to  the  recesses  of 
d  a  secret  confederacy,  were 
•  ifnaliiin,  sine  familiar   all 


3  "  Naso  Kuspendit  adunro. 

The  Roman  applies  it  to  one  who  merely 
to  hia  acquaintance. 


HORACE. 

imperious 


And  ne'er  (enough)  lamented  Casllereagh, 
Wh.ise  penknife  slit  a  goose-quill  t'  other  day  — 
And  'pilots  who  have  weather'd  every  storm'  —  4 
(But,  no,  not  even  for  rhyme's  sake,  name  Reform),'' 
These  are  the  themes  thus  sung  >o  oft  befo'e, 
Melhinks  we  need  not  sing  them  any  more  ; 
Found  in  so  many  volumes  far  and  near, 
There 's  no  occasion  you  should  find  them  here. 
Yet  something  may  remain  perchince  to  chime 
With  reason,  and,  what 's  stranger  slill,  wi  h  rhyme. 
Even  I  his  thy  genius,  Caiming  !  miy  permit, 
Who,  bred  a  sla  esman,  still  wast  born  a  wrt. 
And  never,  even  in  that  dull  House,  couldst  tame 
To  uuleaven'd  prose  thine  own  |  oelic  flame  j 
Our  last,  our  best,  our  only  orator. 
Even  I  can  praise  tliee  —  Tories  do  no  more : 
Nay,  not  so  much  ;  —  they  hate  thee,  man,  because 
Thy  spirit  less  upholds  them  than  it  awes. 
The  hounds  will  gather  to  Iheir  huntsman's  h'llo, 
And  where  he  leads  the  duteous  pick  will  follow; 
But  not  for  love  mistake  their  yelling  cry  ; 
Their  yelp  for  game  is  not  an  eulogy  ; 
Less  faithful  far  than  Ihe  four-footed  pick, 
A  dubious  scent  would  lure  the  bipeds  back. 
Thy  saddle-girths  are  not  yet  quite  secure. 
Nor  royal  stallion's  feet  extremely  sure; 
The  unwieldy  old  white  horse  is  apt  at  last 
To  stumble,  kick,  and  now  -tad  then  stick  fast 
With  his  gieat  self  and  rider  in  the  mud  ; 
But  what  of  that  ?  the  animal  shows  blood. 

XIV. 

Alas,  the  country  !  how  shall  tongue  or  pen 
Bewail  her  now  uwcountry  gentlemen? 
The  last  to  bid  the  cry  of  warfare  cease, 
The  first  to  make  a  malady  of  peace. 
For  what  were  all  these  country  patriots  bom  } 
To  hunt,  and  vole,  and  raise  the  price  of  corn  ? 
But  corn,  like  every  mortal  thing,  must  fall, 
Kings,  conquerors,  and  markets  most  of  all. 
And  must  ye  fall  with  every  ear  of  grain? 
Why  would  you  trouble  Buonaparte's  reign  ? 
He  was  your  great  'I'riptolemus;  his  vices 
Destroy'd  but  realms,  and  still  maintain'd  your  pricei 
He  amplified  to  every  lord's  content 
The  grand  agrarian  alchymy,  high  rent. 
Why  did  the  tyrant  s'umble  on  the  Tartars, 
And  lower  wheat  to  such  desponding  quarters? 
Why  did  you  chain  him  on  yon  is'e  so  lone? 
The  man  was  worth  much  more  upon  his  throne. 
True,  blood  and  treasure  boundlessly  were  spilt. 
But  what  of  thai  ?  the  Gaul  may  bear  the  guilt; 
But  bread  was  high,  the  farmer  paid  his  way, 
And  acres  told  upon  the  appointed  day. 
But  where  is  now  the  goodly  audit  ale? 
The  purse-proud  tenant,  never  known  to  fail  ? 
jTlie  farm  which  never  yet  was  left  on  hand  ? 
The  marsh  reclaimed  to  most  improving  land? 
The  impatient  hope  of  the  expiring  lease? 
I  The  doubling  rental  ?  What  an  evil 's  peace ! 
In  vain  Ihe  prize  excites  the  ploughman's  skill, 
;  In  vain  the  Commons  pass  their  patriot  bill ; 
jThe  landed  inlenst  — (you  may  understand 
The  phrase  much  belter  leaving  out  the  laud)  — 
The  land  self-interest  groms  from  shore  to  shore, 
!  For  fear  that  plenty  should  attain  the  poor. 
Up,  up  agiin.  ye  rents  I  exalt  your  notes, 
,0r  else  the  ministry  will  lose  their  votes, 
[And  patriotism,  so  delicately  nice. 
Her  loaves  will  lower  to  the  m  irket  price ; 
For  ah  !  "  the  loaves  and  fishes,"  once  so  high. 
Are  gone  —  their  oven  closed,  their  ocean  dry, 
And  nnusht  remains  of  nil  the  millions  spent, 
I  Excepting  to  grow  moderate  and  content. 
I  They  who  are  not  so,  had  their  turn  —  and  turn 
I  About  still  flows  from  Fortune's  equal  urn  ; 
Now  let  their  virtue  be  its  own  reward. 
And  share  the  blessings  which  themselves  prepared 


THE    AGE    OF    BRONZE. 


185^ 


See  these  inglorious  Cincinnati  swarm, 

Farmers  of  war,  dictators  of  the  farm  ; 
I  Their  ploughsh  >re  was  the  sword  in  hireling  bands, 
'  Tlitir  fields  manured  by  gore  of  other  lands; 
I  Safe  in  their  barns,  the>e  Sabine  tillers  sent 
I  Their  brethren  out  lo  balile  —  why  ?  foi  rent ! 
I  \eir  after  year  they  voted  cent,  per  ceiil.. 

Blood,  sweat,  and  tear-wrun?  millions  —  why  ?  for 
rent ! 

They  roar'd,  they  di  led,  they  drank,  they  swore  they 
meant 

To  die  for  England  —  why  then  live  ?  —  for  rent ! 

The  pe,ice  has  made  <  ne  general  malcontent  1 

Of  these  high-market  patriots  ;  war  was  rent  !  | 

Their  love  of  coun.ry,  millions  all  mis-spent, 

How  reconcile  ?  by  reconciling  rent ! 

And  will  Ibey  not  repiy  the  treasures  lent  ? 

No  :  down  with  every  thing,  and  up  with  rent ! 

Their  good,  ill,  health,  weillh,  joy,  or  discontent, 

Being,  end,  aim,  religion  —  rent,  rent,  rent ! 

Thou  sold'st  thy  birthright.  Esau  ;  for  a  mess  ; 

Thou  shouldst  have  gotten  more,  or  ealen  less ; 

Now  thou  hast  sw  ili'd  thy  pottage,  thy  demands 

Are  idle ;  Israel  says  the  bargain  stands. 

Such,  landlords !  was  your  appetite  for  war, 

And,  gorged  with  blood,  you  grumble  at  a  scar  ! 

What !  would  they  spread  their  earthquake  even  o'er 
cash? 

And  when  land  crumbles,  bid  firm  paper  crash  ? 

So  rent  may  rise,  bid  bank  and  nation  fall. 

And  found  on  "Chinge  a  Fundline:  Hospital  ? 

Lo,  Mother  Church,  while  all  reUgion  writhes, 

Like  Niobe,  weeps  o'er  her  offspring.  Tithes  ; 

The  prelates  go  to  —  where  the  saints  have  gone. 

And  proud  pluralities  subside  to  one  ! 

Church,  sla'e,  and  fiction  wrestle  in  the  dark, 

Toss'd  by  the  deluge  in  th-ir  common  ark. 

Shorn  of  her  bishops,  banks,  and  dividends, 

Another  Babel  soars  —  but  Britain  ends. 

And  why?  to  pamper  the  self-seeking  wants, 

And  prop  the  hill  of  these  agrarian  ants. 

"Go  to  these  ants,  thou  sluggard,  and  be  wise;" 

Admire  their  patience  through  each  sacrifice. 

Till  taught  to  feel  the  lesson  of  their  pride, 

The  price  of  taxes  and  of  homicde  ; 

Admire  their  justice,  which  would  fain  deny 

The  debt  of  nations :  —  pray  who  made  il  high  ? 

XV. 

Or  turn  to  sail  between  those  shifting  rocks, 

The  new  Symplegades  —  the  crushing  Stocks, 

Where  Midas  might  again  his  wish  behold 

tn  real  pnper  or  imagined  gold. 

That  magic  palace  of  Alcina  shows 

More  wealth  than  Britain  ever  had  to  lose, 

Were  all  her  atoms  of  unleaven'd  ore, 

And  all  her  pebbles  from  Pactolus'  shore. 

There  Fortune  plays,  while  Rumour  holds  the  stake, 

And  the  world  trembles  to  bid  brokers  break. 

How  rich  is  Britain  I  not  indeed  in  mines. 

Or  peace  or  plenty,  corn  or  oil,  or  wines  ; 

No  land  of  C  naan,  full  of  milk  and  honey, 

Nor  (save  in  paper  shekels)  ready  money  : 

But  let  us  not  to  own  the  truth  refuse. 

Was  ever  Christiin  land  so  rich  in  Jews? 

Those  parted  with  their  teeth  to  good  King  John, 

And  i!ow,  ye  kings  !  they  kindly  draw  your  own  ; 

All  states,  all  things,  all  -overeigns  they  control, 

And  waft  a  loan  "from  Indus  to  the  pole." 

The  banker  —  broker  —  baron  >  —  brethren,  speed 

To  aid  these  bankrupt  tyrants  in  Iheir  need. 

Nor  these  alone  ;  Columbia  feels  no  less 

Fresh  speculations  follow  each  success; 

And  philanthropic  Israel  deigns  to  drain 

Her  mild  per  centage  from  exhaus:ed  Spain, 

1  The  head  nf  the  illustrious  house  of  Montmorenci  h-8 
osuaHy  been  designaleil  "le  premier  barr.n  Chrelien;"  his 
Bnceetnr  tiavine,  it  is  :;n|>p<>iied,  been  Ibe  first  noble  coo- 
vert  to  Chrietianity  in  France.— K. 
_ 


Not  without  Abraham  s  seed  can  Russia  march  ; 
'T  is  gold,  not  steel,  that  rears  the  conqueror's  arch. 
Two  Jews,  a  chosen  pe  pie,  can  coniuiand 
In  every  realm  their  scripture-promised  land  :  — 
Two  Jews  keep  down  the  Romans,  aud  uphold 
The  accursed  Hun,  more  brutal  than  of  old  : 
Two  Jews  — but  not  Samarimns  —  direct 
The  world,  with  all  the  spirit  of  their  sect. 
What  is  the  hippiness  of  earlh  to  them  ? 
A  congtess  forms  their  "  New  Jerusalem," 
Where  baronies  and  orders  both  invite  — 
Oh,  holy  Abraham  !  dost  thou  see  the  sight  ? 
Thy  followers  mingling  with  these  royal  swine, 
Who  spit  not  "on  Iheir  Jewish  gaberdine, ' 
But  honour  them  as  portion  of  the  show  — 
(Where  now,  oh  pope  !  is  thy  forsiken  toe ? 
Could  it  not  favour  Judah  with  some  kicks? 
Or  has  it  ceased  to  "  kick  -igainst  the  pricks  ?  ") 
On  Shy  lock's  shore  behold  ihem  stand  afresh, 
To  cut  from  nations'  hcar;s  their  "  pound  of  flesh." 

XVI. 

Strange  sight  this  Congress  I  destined  to  unite 

All  that 's  inconjruous,  all  that 's  opposite. 

I  speak  not  of  the  Sovereigns  —  they  're  alike, 

A  common  coin  as  ever  mint  could  strike; 

But  those  who  sway  the  puppets,  pull  the  strings. 

Have  more  of  motley  than  their  heavy  kings. 

Jews,  authors,  generals,  charlatans,  combine, 

While  Europe  wonders  at  the  vast  design  : 

There  Metiernicli,  power's  foremost  parasite, 

Cajoles;  there  Wellington  forgets  to  tight  ; 

There  Chateaubriand  forms  new  books'of  martyrs   * 

And  subtle  Greeks  3  in  rigue  for  stupid  Tartars; 

There  Montmorenci,  the  sworn  foe  to  charters,* 

Turns  a  diplomatist  of  great  eclat. 

To  furnish  articles  for  the  "  Debats ," 

Of  war  so  certain  —  yet  not  quite  so  sure 

As  his  dismissal  in  the  "  Moniteur.'' 

Alas  !  how  could  his  cabinet  thus  err  ? 

Can  peace  be  worth  an  ultra-minister? 

He  fills  indeed,  perhaps  to  rise  again, 

"Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquer'd  Spain."  » 

XVII. 
Enough  of  this  —  a  sight  more  mournful  woo« 
The  averted  eye  of  the  reluctant  muse. 
The  imperial  daughter,  the  imperial  bride. 
The  imperial  victim  —  sacrifice  to  pride; 
The  mother  of  the  hero's  hope,  the  boy, 
The  young  Astyanax  of  Modern  Troy  ;  6 
The  still  pale  shadow  of  the  loftiest  queen 
That  earth  has  yet  to  see,  or  e'er  hath  seen; 
She  fiits  amidst  the  phantoms  of  the  hour. 
The  theme  of  pity,  and  the  wreck  of  power. 
Oh,  cruel  mockery  !     Could  not  Austria  spare 
A  daughter?     What  did  France's  widow  there? 
I  Her  fitter  place  was  by  St.  Helen's  wave. 
Her  only  throne  is  in  Napoleon's  grave. 
But,  no,'— she  still  must  hold  a  petty  reign, 
Flank'd  by  her  formidable  chamberlain  ; 
The  martial  Argus,  wliose  not  hundred  eyes 
Must  watch  her  through  these  paltry  pageanlries.1 


2  Monsieur  Chateaubriand,  who  has  not  forgotten  the 
auflior  in  Itie  minister,  received  a  handsome  cnmplim 
at  Verona  from  a  literary  sovereign  :  "Ah  1  Monsieur  C, 
are  you  related  to  that  Chateaubriand  who — who— who 
has  written  somclhine ?  (eciil  iiufl./ue  chose  !)"  It  is 
said  that  the  anlhor  of  Atala  repented  him  for  a  moment 
of  his  legitimacy. 

3  Count  CapodTstrias  — afterwards  President  of  Greece. 
The  count  was  murderid,  in  September,  1831,  by  the  bro- 
ther and  son  of  a  MaiLole  chief  whom  he  had  impri- 
soned.— E. 

4 The  Duke  de  Montmorenci-Laval.— E. 

5  From  Pope'a  verses  on  lord  Peterborough.— E. 

6 Napoleon  Francois  Charles  Joseph,  Duke  of  Reicb- 
sladr.  died  nt  the  pRlare  of  Schonbrunn,  July  22, 1832,  h«T- 
1  ing  just  attained  hie  twenty-first  year.—  E. 
I     7t;ount  Neipperg,  chamberlain  and   second  haabaad  to 


186 


THE   ISLAND. 


tCanto  I 


What  though  she  share  no  more,  and  shared  in  vain, 

A  svv'y  surpassing  that  of  Charlemagne, 

Which  swep  from  Moscow  to  the  southern  seas ; 

Vel  still  she  rules  the  pastoral  realm  of  cheese, 

Where  Parma  views  the  traveller  resort, 

To  note  the  trappings  of  her  mimic  court. 

But  she  apiie  irs '.    Verona  sees  her  shorn 

Of  all  her  beams —  while  nations  gaze  and  mourn 

Ere  yet  her  husband's  ashes  h<ve  had  time 

To  chill  in  their  inho  pitable  clime; 

(If  e'er  Iho^e  awful  ashes  c  >n  grow  cold  ;  — 

But  no, —  their  embers  soon  will  burst  the  mould  ;) 

She  conies  !  —  the  Andromache  (but  not  Racine's, 

Ncr  Homer's,)—  Lo  !  on  F) rrhus'  arm  she  leans ! 

Yes  !  the  right  aim,  yet  red  from  Waterloo, 

Which  cut  her  lord's  half  shaller'd  sceptre  through, 

Is  otfer'd  and  accepted  !     Could  a  slave 

Do  more  ?  or  less  ?  —  and  he  in  his  new  grave . 

Her  eye,  her  cheek,  betray  no  inward  strife, 

And  the  ez-empress  grows  as  ex  a  wife  ! 

So  much  for  human  ties  in  royal  breasts'. 

Why  spare  men's  feelings,  when  their  own  are  jests? 

xvni. 

But,  tired  of  foreign  follies,  1  turn  home, 

And  sketch  the  group  —  the  picture 's  yet  to  come. 


My  muse  'gan  weep,  but,  ere  a  teat  was  spilt, 
She  caught  sir  William  Curtis  in  a  kilt  I  ' 
^Vhile  thiong'd  the  chiefs  of  every  Highland  clan 
To  hail  their  brother,  Vjcb  Ian  Alderman  ! 
Guildhall  grows  Gael,  and  echoes  wi:h  Erse  roar, 
While  all  the  Common  Couucii  cry  "  Claymore  !  " 
To  see  proud  Albyns  (artans  as  a  belt 
Gird  the  gross  sirloin  of  a  city  Celt, 
She  burst  into  a  laughter  so  exlrenic, 
I  '1  hat  1  awoke  —  and  lo  '.  it  was  nu  dream  ! 

j  Here,  reader,  will  we  piuse :  —  if  there 's  no  harm  in 
I  This  first  —  you  'II  have,  perhaps,  a  second  "  Carmen." 

I  Marin-!,ouisa,  had   but  one  eye.     The  count  died  ia  the 

year  ie31.— E. 
]      1  George  the  Foarlh  is  saM  to  have  been  somewhat  aD- 

noyed   OD    entering   the    le^ee-room    at    Holyrond,  (Aug. 

1W2),  in  full  Sluait  tartan,  la  see  only  one  figure  similarly 
I  attired  ( ,nd  of  similar  bulk}  —  that  of  Sir  William  Curti«. 
■  Tbe   ciiy  knight    had  every    thiug   complete  —  even    the 

tntfe  stuck  in  the  garter.     He  asked  tbe  King,  if  be  did 

not  think  him  well  diesseU.  ••  Yes  !  "  replied  his  Majesty, 
I  "only  you  have  no  spoun  in  your  hose.**  The  devourer 
1  of  turtle  had  a  fine  engraving  executed  of  himself  in  tail 
ICehic  attire.- K. 


THE    ISLAND; 

OR,    CHRISTIAN    AND    HIS   COMRADES. » 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  foundation  of  the  following  story  will  be  found 
partly  in  Lieuteo.ant  Bligh's  "  Narrative  of  Ihe  Mutiny 
and  Seizure  of  the  Bounty,  in  the  South  Seas,  in 
1789 ;  "  and  partly  in  "  Mariners  Account  of  the 
Tonga  Islands." 

Oenca,  1H23. 


THE   ISLAND 


CANTO   THE    FIRST. 
I. 

I  The  morning  watch  was  rome  ;  the  vessel  lay 
I  Her  course,  and  gently  made  her  liq'jid  way  ; 
The  cloven  billow  flish'd  from  off  her  prow 
In  furrows  fnrni'd  by  that  majestic  plousrh  ; 
The  waters  with  their  world  were  ;ill  before; 
Behind,  the  Sou  h  Sea's  many  an  islet  shore 
The  quiet  iiinht,  now  dipplmg,  'gan  to  wane, 
Dividing  darkness  from  the  dawning  main  ; 
The  dolphins,  not  unconscious  of  the  day. 
Swam  high,  as  eager  of  Ihe  coming  ray  ; 
The  stars  from  broader  beams  began  to  creep, 
And  lift  their  shining  eyelids  from  Ihe  deep  ; 
The  sail  resumed  its  lately  shadow'd  while. 
And  the  wind  flutter'd  wi'lh  a  freshening  flight ; 
The  purpling  ocean  owns  the  coming  sun, 
But  ere  he  break  —  a  deed  is  lo  be  done. 

II. 

The  gallant  chief  within  his  cabin  slept. 

Secure  in  those  by  whom  the  watch  was  kept; 

His  dreams  were  of  Old  England's  welcome  shore, 

Of  toils  rewarded,  and  of  dangers  o'er  ; 

His  name  was  added  lo  Ihe  glorious  roll 

Of  those  who  search  the  slormsurrounded  Pole. 


j  The  worst  was  over,  and  the  rest  seem'd  sure, 
I  And  why  should  not  his  slumber  be  secure? 
Alas  I  hfs  deck  was  trod  by  unwilling  feet. 
And  wilder  hands  would  hold  the  vessel's  sheet; 
Young  hearts,  which  languish'd  for  some  sunny  isle. 
Where  summer  years  and  sumnier  women  smile  ; 
Men  without  country,  who,  too  long  estranged, 
.  Had  found  no  native  home,  or  found  it  changed, 
I  And,  half  uncivilised,  preferr'd  the  cave 
Of  some  soft  savage  to  the  uncertain  wave  — 
The  gushing  fruits  that  nature  gave  untill'd  ; 
The  wood  w  ilhout  a  path  but  where  they  will'd ; 
T  he  held  o'er  which  promiscuous  Plenty  pour'd 
Her  horn  ;  the  equal  land  w  ilhout  a  lord  ; 
1  he  wish  —  which  ages  have  not  yet  subdued 
In  man  —  to  have  no  master  save  his  mood  ; 
The  earth,  whose  mine  was  on  its  face,  unsold, 
The  gloiviiig  sun  and  produce  all  its  gold  ; 
The  freedoiii  which  can  call  each  grot  a  home; 
The  general  garden,  wliere  all  steps  may  roam, 
Where  Nature  owns  a  nation  as  her  child, 
Exulting  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  wild  ; 
Their  shells,  their  fruits,  the  only  wealth  they  know, 
Their  unexploring  navy,  the  canoe  ; 
Their  sport,  the  dashing  breakers  and  the  chase; 
Their  strangest  sight,  an  European  face:  — 
Such  was  the  country  which  these  strangers  yeam'i 
I  To  see  again ;  a  sight  they  dearly  earn'd. 

I 

I  Awake,  bold  Bligh  !  the  foe  is  at  the  gate  ! 

Awake!  awake: Alasl  il  is  too  late  ! 

Fiercely  beside  thy  cot  the  mutineer 

Stands,  and  proclaims  the  reign  of  rage  and  fear. 

1  Thy  limbs  are  bound,  Ihe  bayonet  at  thy  breast; 
The  hands,  which  trembled  at  thy  voice,  arrest ; 
Dragg'd  o'er  the  deck,  no  more  at  thy  commind 
The  obedient  helm  shall  veer,  'he  sail  expand; 
That  savage  spirit,  which  would  lull  by  wrath 
Its  desperate  e'Cape  from  duty's  path, 
Glares  round  Ihce,  in  Ihe  scarce  believing  eye* 
Of  those  who  fear  the  chief  they  sacrifice  : 
For  ne'er  en  man  his  conscience  all  assuage, 
Unless  he  drain  the  wine  of  passion  —  rage. 


Canto  1] 


THE  ISLAND. 


l8T\\ 


IV. 

In  vain,  not  silenced  by  the  eye  of  death. 

Thou  call'st  the  loyal  with  thy  mentced  brenth  :  — 

They  come  not ;  they  are  few,  and,  overawed, 

Mur.t  acquiesce,  while  steiner  hearts  applaud. 

In  vain  thou  iost  demand  ihe  cause  :  a  curse 

Is  all  the  answer,  with  the  threat  of  worse. 

Full  in  thine  eyes  is  waved  the  pilfering  blade, 

Close  to  thy  throat  the  pointed  bayonet  laid. 

The  levcll'd  muskets  circle  round  thy  breast 

In  hands  as  sleel'd  to  do  the  deadly  rest. 

Thou    darest    them    to    their    worst,    exclaiming- 

"Firel" 
But  they  who  pitied  not  could  yet  admire ; 
Some  luiking;  remninl  of  their  former  awe 
Restrain'd  them  longer  than  their  broken  law  ; 
They  would  not  dip  their  souls  at  once  in  blood, 
But  left  thee  to  the  mercies  of  the  flood. 


"  Hoist  out  the  boat ! "  was  now  Ihe  leader's  cry  ; 

And  who  dare  answer  "  No  ! "  to  Mutiny. 

In  the  first  dawning  of  the  drunken  hour,' 

The  Saturnalia  of  unhoped-for  power  ? 

The  boat  is  lower'd  with  all  Ihe  hisle  of  bale, 

With  its  slight  plank  between  Ihei;  and  thy  fate; 

Her  only  cargo  such  a  scant  supply 

As  promises  the  death  their  hands  deny; 

And  just  eniush  of  water  and  of  bread 

To  keep,  some  days,  the  dying  from  the  dead : 

Some  cordage,  canvas*,  sails,  and  lines,  and  txvine. 

But  ireasures  all  to  hermi's  of  the  brine, 

Were  added  after,  to  the  earnest  prayer 

Of  those  who  saw  no  hope,  save  sea  and  air; 

And  last,  that  trembling  vassal  of  the  Pole  — 

The  feeling  compass  —  Navigation's  soul. 

VI, 

And  now  the  self-elected  chief  finds  lime 
To  stun  the  first  sensition  of  his  crime, 
And  raise  it  in  his  followers —  "  Ho  1  the  bowl ! " 
Lest  passion  should  return  to  reason's  sho.al. 
'■  Brindy  for  heroes  !  "  Burke  could  once  exclaim  — 
No  doubt  a  liquid  path  to  epic  fam;  ; 
And  such  the  new-born  heroes  found  it  here. 
And  drain'd  Ihe  draught  with  an  applauding  cheer. 
"  Huzza  !  for  Otaheile  1 "  was  the  cry. 
How  strange  such  shmits  from  sons  of  Mutiny  ! 
The  senile  island,  and  the  genial  soil. 
The  friendly  hearts,  the  feas's  without  a  toil, 
j  The  courteous  manners  but  from  nature  cati»ht. 
The  wealth  unhoarded,  and  the  love  unbou^hl ; 
Could  these  have  ch  rms  for  rudest  sea-boys,  driven 
Bef  ire  the  mast  by  every  wind  of  heaven  ? 
And  now,  even  now  prefiared  with  others'  woes 
To  earn  mild  virtue's  vain  desire,  repose? 
Alas  ;  such  is  our  nature  !  all  but  aim 
At  the  same  end  by  pathways  not  the  same  ; 
Our  means,  our  birth,  our  nation,  and  our  name, 
Our  for'une,  temper,  even  our  outward  frame, 
Are  far  more  potent  o'er  our  yielding  clay 
Than  aught  we  know  beyond  our  title  day. 
Tel  still  there  whispers  the  small  voice  within. 
Heard  through  Gain's  silence,  and  o'er  Glorj  's  din  ; 
Whatever  creed  be  taugh',  or  land  be  trod, 
Man's  conscience  is  the  oracle  of  God. 

VII. 

The  lamnh  is  crowded  with  the  faithful  feve 
Who  wait  their  chief,  a  melanchtily  crew  : 
But  some  remain'd  reluctant  on  Ihe'  deck 
Of  that  proud  vessel  —  no>v  a  moral  wreck  — 
And  view'd  their  cantain's  fate  with  piteous  eyes; 
While  others  scoff 'd  his  ausur'd  miseries, 
Sneer'd  at  the  prospect  of  his  pigmy  sail, 
And  Ihe  slijht  bark  so  hden  and  so  frail. 
The  tender  nautilus,  who  steers  his  prow, 
The  sea-born  sailor  of  his  shell  canoe, 
The  ocean  Mab,  the  fairy  of  Ihe  sea. 
Seeois  far  less  fragile,  and,  alas  !  more  free. 


He,  when  the  lightning  wing'd  toinadoes  sweep 
The  surge,  is  sale —  his  port  is  in  the  deep  — 
And  tiiumphs  o'er  the  armadas  of  mankind, 
Wliich  shake  the  world,  yet  crumble  io  the  wind, 

VIII. 
When  all  was  now  prepared,  the  vessel  clear. 
Which  hail'd  her  nias'er  in  the  muUneer  — 
A  seaman,  less  obdurate  than  his  males, 
Sho.v  d  the  vain  pity  which  but  irritales; 
VValch'd  his  late  chieftain  with  exploiing  eye. 
And  told,  in  signs,  repentant  sympathy  ; 
Held  ihe  moist  shaddock  to  his  parched  mouth, 
Whi"h  felt  exhaustion's  deep  and  bitier  drouth. 
But  soon  observed,  this  guardian  was  wiihdrawn. 
Nor  further  mercy  clouds  rebellion's  dawn. 
'I'hen  fo  ward  stepp'd  Ihe  bold  and  froward  boy 
His  chief  had  chcrisli"d  only  to  des  roy, 
And,  pointing  to  the  helpless  prow  beneath, 
Excl.iim'd,  "  Depart  at  once  !  delay  is  death  !  " 
Yet  then,  even  then,  his  feelTiigs  ceased  not  all  r 
In  that  last  moment  could  a  word  rec  11 
Remorse  for  the  black  deed  as  yet  half  cone. 
And  what  he  hid  from  n^any  sliow'd  to  one: 
When  Bligh  in  stern  repro.icli  demanded  where 
Was  now  his  grateful  sen^e  of  foimer  care  ? 
Where  all  his  hoj  es  to  see  his  name  aspire. 
And  bl  izon  Britain's  thousand  glories  higher? 
His  feveiish  lips  thus  broke  their  gloomy  spell, 
"  'T  is  that  1  't  is  that  !     I  am  in  hell  1  In  hell ! » 
No  more  he  said  ;  but  urging  to  ijie  bark 
His  chief,  commits  him  to  his  fragile  ark  ; 
Tliese  the  sole  accents  from  his  tongue  that  fell, 
But  volumes  lurk'd  below  his  fierce  farewell. 

IX. 

The  arctic  sun  rose  broad  above  the  wave  ; 

The  breeze  now  sink,  now  whisper'd  from  his  cave  j 

As  on  the  iEolian  harp,  his  fitful  wings 

Now  swell'd,  now  tiultei'd  o'er  his  ocean  strings. 

With  slow,  despairing  oar,  the  abandon'd  skifl' 

Ploughs  its  drear  progress  to  the  scarce  seen  cliflf, 

Which  lifts  i's  peak  a  cloud  above  the  main : 

That  boat  and  ship  shall  never  meet  again  ! 

But  't  is  not  mine  to  teil  their  tale  of  grief, 

Their  constant  peril,  and  their  scant  relief; 

Their  days  of  danger,  and  their  nights  of  pain  ; 

Thtir  manly  courage  even  when  deem'd  in  vain; 

The  sapping  famine,  rendering  scarce  a  son 

Known  to  his  mother  in  the  tkelelDU  ; 

1  he  ills  that  lessen'd  slill  their  liltle  store, 

And  starved  eien  Hunger  till  he  wrung  no  more: 

The  varying  frowns  and  favours  of  the  deep. 

That  now  almost  ingulfs  then  leaves  fo  creep 

Wiih  crazy  oar  and  shitter'd  sirenglh  along 

The  tide  that  yields  reluctant  to  the  strong; 

The  incessant  fever  of  that  arid  thirst 

Which  welcomes,  as  a  well,  Ihe  clouds  that  burst 

Above  their  naked  bones,  and  feels  delight 

In  the  cold  drenching  of  the  stormy  night. 

And  from  the  outspread  canvass  gladly  wrings 

A  drop  to  mois'en  life's  all-ffaspiiig  spiiugs; 

'J'he  savage  foe  escaped,  to  seek  agiin 

More  hospitable  shelter  friim  Ihe  main  ; 

The  ghasMy  spectres  w  hich  were  doom'd  at  last 

To  tell  as  true  a  tale  of  d  mgers  pas'. 

As  ever  the  dark  annals  of  the  deep 

Disci  jsed  for  man  to  dread  or  woman  weep» 


We  leave  them  to  their  fate,  but  not  unknown 
Nor  unredressed      Revenge  may  have  her  own ; 
Roused  discipline  aloud  proclaims  their  cause, 
And  injured  navies  urge  their  broken  laws. 
Pursue  we  on  his  track  Ihe  mutineer. 
Whom  distant  vengeance  had  not  taught  fo  fear. 
Wide  o'er  the  wave  —  p.ivay  I  away  !  away  ! 
Once  more  his  eyes  shall  hail  the  welcome  bay  J 
Once  more  the  ha|>py  shores  vvi'hout  a  law 
Receive  the  outlaws  whom  they  lately  saw ; 


188 


THE   ISLAND. 


[Canto  IL 


Nature,  and  Nature's  goddess  —  woman  —  woos 
To  lane's  where,  save  ihcir  conscience,  none  accuse ; 
Where  all  p.irtake  the  eartli  without  dispute, 
And  bread  itself  is  gatber'd  as  a  fruit 


Forgotten  is  the  rapture,  or  unknown, 
Of  wandeiiug  «ilh  Uie  moon  and  iove  alone. 
But  be  it  SI :  —  lluy  taught  us  how  to  w ield 
The  club,  and  ram  our  .rrows  o'er  the  field  : 


Where    noi.e     contest    the    fields,    the    vroods,    the    Now  le   them  reap  the  harvest  of  their  art ! 

But  feast  to-nighll  to-morrow  we  depart. 
Strike  up  the  dance  !  the  cava  bow  I  fill  high  ! 
Dram  every  drop  : —  lo-morrow  we  may  die. 
lu  summer  garments  be  our  limbs  array'd  ; 
Arouud  our  wMi^ts  the  lappa's  white  display'd 


3  reams, 


streams :  — 
The  goldless  age.  where  gold  disturbs 
Inhabits  or  inhabited  the  shore, 
Tili  Europe  tiught  them  Letter  than  before  : 
Beitow'd  her  customs,  and  amended  theirs. 
But  left  her  vices  also  to  their  heirs. 
Away  with  this  !  behold  them  as  they  were, 
Do  good  with  Nature,  or  wiih  Nature  err. 
"  Huzza  !  for  Otiheile !  "  was  the  cry, 
As  stately  swept  the  gallant  vessel  by. 
The  breeze  springs  up  ;  the  lately  flapping  sail 
Extends  its  arch  before  the  growing  gale  ; 
In  swifter  ripples  streim  aside  the  seis, 
Which  her  bold  bow  f.ings  off  with  dishing  ease 
Thus  Argo  2  ploughed  the  Euxine's  virgin  foam  ; 
But  those  she  waited  still  look'd  back  to  home— 
These  spurn  their  country  with  their  rebel  bark, 
And  tiv  her  as  the  raven  lied  the  ark  ; 
And  yel  they  seek  to  nestle  w  ith  the  dove, 
And  lame  their  hery  spiiits  down  to  love. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 
I. 

How  pleasant  were  the  songs  of  Toobonai,3 

When  siimmer's  sun  vvent  down  the  coral  bay  I 

Come,  let  us  to  the  islet's  softes:  shade. 

And  hear  ihe  warblii  g  birds  I  the  damsels  said  : 

The  wood-dove  from  the  forest  depth  shall  coo. 

Like  voices  of  the  gods  from  Bolotoo  ; 

We  'II  cull  the  flowers  that  grow  above  the  dead. 

For  these  most  bloom  where  resrs  the  warrior's  head  ;      Who  huh  not  seen  Dissimulation's  rei^n, 


Thick  wreaths  shall  form  our  coronal,  like  spring'*, 
And  round  our  necks  shall  glance  the  hooni  sliingt  j 
So  shall  their  brighter  hues  contrast  the  glow 
Of  the  dusk  bosoms  thai  beat  high  below. 

i  III. 

But  now  the  dance  is  o'er  —  yet  stay  awhile  ; 

Ah,  pause  '.  nor  yet  put  out  the  social  smile. 

To-moriow  for  the  Mooa  we  depart. 

But  not  to-night  —  tonight  is  for  she  heart. 

Again  bestow  the  wreiths  we  gently  woo, 
,  Ye  young  enchantresses  of  gay  Licoo  ! 
I  H  iw  lovely  are  your  forms  !  how  every  sense 
I  Bows  to  your  beauties  sofien"d,  but  intense. 

Like  to  the  flower^  on  Mataloco's  steep, 
;  Which  fling  their  fragrance  far  athwart  the  deep !  — 

We  too  will  see  Licoo  ,  but  —  oh  1  my  heart  1  — 

What  do  1  say  ?  —  to  morrow  we  depart  1 

1 

Thus  rose  a  song  —  the  harmony  of  times 
Before  the  winds  blew  Europe  o'er  thee  climes. 
True,  they  had  vices—  such  are  Nature's  growth  — 
But  only  the  barbarian's  —  we  have  both  j 

I  The  sofdor  of  civilisation,  mix'd 

,  With  all  Ihe  savage  which  man's  fall  hath  fix'd. 


And  we  will  sit  in  twilight's  face,  and  see 
1  he  sweet  moon  glancing  through  the  looa  tree, 
The  lofty  accents  of  whose  sighing  bough 
Shall  sad'lv  please  us  as  we  lean  below  ; 
Or  climb  the  steep,  and  view  the  surf  in  vam 
Wrestle  with  rocky  giants  o'er  the  main. 
Which  spurn  in  columns  back  the  baflBed  spray. 
How  beautiful  are  these  '.  how  hippy  they, 
Who.  from  the  toil  and  tumult  of  their  lives. 
Steal  to  look  down  where  nought  but  ocean  strives! 
Even  he  Xon  loves  at  times  the  blue  lagoon, 
And  smooths  his  ruffled  mane  beneath  the  moon. 

n. 

Yes  —  from  the  sepulchre  we  '11  gather  flowers, 

Then  feast  like  spirits  in  their  promised  bowers, 

Then  plunge  and  revel  in  the  n  lling  surf. 

Then  lay  our  limbs  along  the  tender  turf, 

And,  wet  and  shining  from  Ihe  >portive  toil, 

Anoint  our  bodies  w  ith  the  fragrant  oil. 

And  plait  our  garlands  gather 'd  from  the  grave, 

And  n  ear  Ihe  wreaths  that  sprung  from  out  the  brave. 

But  lo !  nigh!  cnmes.  the  Mooa  woos  us  back. 

The  sound  of  mats  is  heard  along  our  track  ; 

Aiion  the  torchlight  dance  shall  fling  its  sheen 

In  flashing  mazes  o'er  the  Marly's  green  ; 

And  we  too  will  be  there  ;  we  too  recall 

The  memory  bright  w  ith  many  a  festival, 

Ere  Fiji  blew  the  shell  of  war,  when  foes 

For  the  first  time  were  wafted  in  canoes. 

Alas  !  for  them  the  flower  of  mankind  bleeds  ; 

Alas  !  for  them  our  fields  are  rank  with  weeds ; 

IThe  now  celetirated  brr-ad-fruif.  to  transplant  ■which 
Ciplaui  Biigh's  enpedili'iii  was  ondrrlaken. 

2  The  veeiiel  in  which  Jason  embarked  in  quest  of  the 
goldrn  fleece.—  K. 

SThe  first  three  wclinns  are  taken  from  an  actual  song 
or  Ihe  Tinea  Islandei 


prose    tran^tition  is 

^ _ _    Account    of  Ihe  Toiiea    Islands." 

Toouonsi  is  not  however  one  of  them  :  but  was  one  of 
tho«e  where  Christian  and  Ihe  miitin.ers  took  refuge.  I 
iMTc  altered  and  added,  but  have  retained  as  much  as  pos- 
nibic  of  ti.e  original. 


The  prayeis  of  Abel  link'd  to  deeds  of  Cain  ? 
i  Who  such  would  see  may  from  his  lattice  view 
I  The  Old  World  more  degraded  than  the  New, — 

Now  ntw  no  more,  save  where  Columbia  rears 
I  Twin  slants,  born  by  Freedom  to  her  spheres, 
\  Where  Chimborazo,  over  air,  earth,  wave, 
I  Glares  with  his  1  ilan  eye,  and  sees  no  slave. 

V. 

Such  was  this  ditty  of  Tradition's  diys. 

Which  to  the  dead  a  licgering  fame  conveys 

In  song,  where  fame  as  yet  hath  left  no  sign 

Beyond  the  sound  whose  charm  is  hall  divine  J 

Which  leaves  no  record  to  the  sceptic  eye, 

But  yields  young  history  all  to  harmony  j 

A  bov  Achilles,  with  the  centaur's  lyre 

In  ha'ud,  to  teach  him  to  surpass  his  sire. 

For  one  longcherish'd  ballad's  simple  stave, 

Rung  from  the  rock,  or  mingled  with  the  wave, 

Or  from  the  bubbling  streamlet's  grassy  side, 

Or  ga'hering  mountain  echoes  as  they  glide, 

Hath  greater  power  o'er  each  true  heart  and  ear, 

Than  all  the  columns  Conquest's  minions  rear; 

Invites,  when  hieroglyphics  are  a  theme 

For  sages'  latwurs,  or  the  student's  dream ; 

Attracts,  when  History's  volumes  are  a  toil,— 

The  first,  the  freshest  bud  of  Feeling's  soil. 

Such  was  this  rude  rhyme  — rhyme  is  of  the  rude  - 

But  such  inspired  the  Norseman's  solitude, 

Who  came  and  conquer'd  ;  such,  wherever  rise 

Lands  which  no  foes  des'roy  or  civilise. 

Exist :  and  what  can  our  acconiplish'd  art 

Of  verse  do  more  than  reach  the  awaken'd  heart  ? 

TI. 

iind  sweetly  now  those  untaught  melodies 
Broke  the  luxurious  silence  of  the  skies, 
The  sweet  siesta  of  a  summer  day, 
The  tropic  afternoon  of  Toobonai, 
When  every  flower  was  bloom,  and  air  was  balai. 
And  the  first  breath  be§an  to  stir  the  palm, 
The  first  vet  voiceless  wind  to  urge  the  w»W 
All  gently  to  refresh  the  thirsty  cave. 


Canto  II.] 


THE    ISLAND. 


189 


Where  sat  the  songstress  with  the  stranger  boy, 
Who  taught  her  passion's  desolalin*  joy, 
Too  powerful  over  every  heart,  but  most 
O'er  Ihose  who  know  not  how  it  may  lie  lost ; 
O'er  those  who,  burning  in  the  new-born  tire, 
Like  martyrs  revel  in  their  funeral  pyre, 
Wi  h  such  devoiion  to  their  ecstasy, 
That  life  knows  no  >uch  rapture  as  to  die  ; 
And  die  they  do  ;  for  earthly  life  has  nought 
Maich'd  with  thit  burs  of  nature,  even  in  thought; 
And  all  our  dreams  of  betier  life  above 
But  close  iu  one  eternal  gush  of  love. 

VII. 

There  sat  the  gentle  savage  of  the  wild, 

In  growth  a  woman,  though  iu  years  a  child, 

As  childhood  dales  within  <iur  colder  clime. 

Where  nought  is  ripen 'd  rapidly  save  crime; 

The  infant  of  an  infant  world,  as  pure 

From  nature  —  lovely,  warm,  and  premature; 

Dusky  like  night,  but  night  with  all  her  stars; 

Or  cavern  sparkling  wi'li  its  native  spars  ; 

With  eyes  that  were  a  laiigu  ige  and  a  spell, 

A  form  like  Aphrodite's  iu  her  shell. 

With  all  her  loves  around  her  on  the  deep. 

Voluptuous  as  the  fiis!  approach  of  sleep  ; 

Vet  lull  of  life  —  for  thniush  her  tropic  cheek 

The  blush  would  make  its  way,  and  all  but  speak; 

'Ihe  sun-born  blood  sulfused  her  neck,  and  threw 

O'er  her  clear  nut  brown  skin  a  lucid  hue, 

Like  coral  reddening  through  the  darken'd  wave, 

Which  draws  Ihe  diver  to  the  crimson  cave. 

Such  was  this  daughter  of  the  southern  seas, 

Herself  a  billow  in  her  energies. 

To  bear  the  bark  of  others  happiness, 

Nor  feel  a  sorrow  till  their  joy  grew  less : 

Her  wild  and  warm  yet  faitliful  bosom  knew 

No  joy  like  what  it  gave ;  her  hopes  ne'er  drew 

Aught  from  experience,  Ihat  chill  touchstone,  whose 

Sad  proof  reduces  all  things  from  their  hues : 

She  fear'd  no  ill,  because  she  knew  it  not, 

Or  what  she  knew  was  soon  —  loo  soon  —  forgot : 

Her  smiles  and  tears  bad  pass'd,  as  light  winds  pass 

O'er  lakes  to  ruffle,  not  destroy,  Iheir  glass. 

Whose  depths  uusearch'd,  and  fountains  from  the  hill, 

Restore  their  surface,  in  itself  so  still, 

Uulil  the  eirthquake  tear  Ihe  naiad's  cave, 

Root  up  the  spring,  and  trample  on  the  wave. 

And  crush  Ihe  living  waters  to  a  ma  s. 

The  amphibious  desert  of  the  dank  morass  ! 

And  must  their  fa'e  be  hers  ?  The  eternal  change 

But  grasps  humanity  with  quicker  range ; 

And  they  who  fall  but  fall  as  worlds  will  fall, 

To  rise,  if  just,  a  spirit  o'er  them  all. 

VIH. 

And  who  is  he?  the  blue-eyed  northern  child 

Of  isles  more  known  to  man,  but  scarce  less  wild  : 

The  fair-bair'd  offspring  of  the  Hebrides, 

Where  roars  the  Pentland  with  i:s  whirling  seas  ; 

Rock'd  in  his  cradle  by  the  roaring  wind. 

The  tempesl-boin  in  body  and  in  mind. 

His  young  eyes  opening  on  the  ocean-foam. 

Had  from  that  mbmen!  deem'd  the  deep  his  home, 

The  giant  comrade  of  his  pensive  moods, 

The  sharer  of  his  craggy  solitudes. 

The  only  Men'or  of  his  youth,  where'er 

His  baric  was  borne  ;  the  sport  of  wave  and  air ; 

A  careless  thing,  who  placed  his  choice  in  chance, 

Nur  ed  by  the  legends  of  his  land's  romance; 

Eager  to  hope,  but  not  less  firm  to  bear. 

Acquainted  with  all  feelings  save  despair. 

Placed  in  the  Arab's  dime,  he  would  have  been 

As  bold  a  rover  as  Ihe  sand^  have  seen. 

And  braved  their  thirst  with  as  enduring  lip 

As  Ishniael,  wafted  ou  his  desert  ship ;  i 

IThe  "ship  of  the  desert"  is  the  Oriental  figure  for  the 
camel  or  dromedary;  and  they  deserve  the  raetaptior  well, 
—  the  former  for  bis  endurance,  the  latter  for  bis  awitt- 


Fix'd  upon  Chili's  shore,  a  proud  cacique  ; 
On  Hellas'  niOuntaiiis,  a  rebellious  Greek; 
Born  in  a  eiit,  perhaps  a  Tamerlane  ; 
Bred  lo  a  throne,  perhaps  unfit  to  leign. 
For  the  same  s-oul  that  lends  its  path  to  sway, 
If  rear'd  lo  such,  can  find  no  further  prey 
Beyond  itself,  and  inu-t  retrace  its  w.iy,s 
Plunging  for  pleasure  into  pain  :  the  same 
Spirit  which  made  a  Nero,  Homes  worst  shame, 
A  humbler  state  and  discipline  of  heirt, 
Had  furiird  his  glorious  namesake's  counterpart ; ' 
But  grant  his  vices,  grant  Ihem  all  his  own. 
How  small  their  theatre  wi.hout  a  throne  ! 

IX. 
Thou  smilest :  — these  comparisons  seem  high 
To  those  who  scan  all  things  with  dazzled  eve; 
Link'd  with  Ihe  unknown  name  of  one  h  hose  doom 
Has  nought  to  do  wi  h  glory  or  with  Rome, 
With  Chili.  Hellas,  or  wilh  Aiaby  ;  — 
Thou  smilest  ?  — Smile;  'lis  better  thus  than  sigh; 
Yet  such  he  might  have  been  ;  he  was  a  man, 
A  soaring  spirit,  ever  in  the  van, 
A  patriot  hero  or  despotic  chief, 
I  To  form  a  na  ion's  glory  or  ils  grief, 
Born  under  auspices  which  make  Ui  more 
Or  less  than  we  delight  lo  ponder  o  er. 
But  these  are  visions  ;  say,  what  «as  he  here? 
A  blooming  boy,  a  truant  mutineer. 
The  fair-hair'd  Torquil,  free  as  ocean's  spray. 
The  husband  of  the  bride  of  Toobonai. 


By  Neuha's  side  he  sale,  and  watch'd  the  wafers,— 
Neuha,  the  sun  flower  of  the  island  daughter.-. 
Highborn,  (a  birth  at  which  the  herald  smiles. 
Without  a  scutcheon  for  these  secret  isles,) 
Of  a  long  race,  Ihe  valiant  and  Ihe  free, 
The  naked  knights  of  savage  chivalry, 
Whose  grassy  cairns  ascend  along  the  shore  ; 
And  thine  —  I  've  seen  —  Achilles  !  do  no  more. 
;  She,  when  the  thunder- bearing  strangers  came. 
In  vast  canoes  begirt  with  bolts  of  fianie, 
Topp'd  wilh  tall  trees,  which,  loftier  than  the  palm, 
Seem'd  rooted  in  Ihe  deep  amidst  its  calm  : 
But  when  the  winds  awaken'd,  shot  foith  wings 
Broad  as  Ihe  cloud  along  the  horizon  flings, 
I  And  sway  d  the  waves,  like  cities  of  Ihe  sea, 
I  Making  the  very  billows  look  less  free  ;  — 
[  She,  with  her  paddling  oar  and  dancing  prow, 
I  Shot  through  the  surf,  like  reindeer  through  Ihe  snow, 
Swift-glidtiig  o'er  Ihe  breaker's  whitening  edge. 
Light  as  a  nereid  in  her  ocean  sledge. 
And  gazed  and  wonder'd  at  the  giant  hulk, 
Which  heaved  from  wave  to  wave  its  trampling  bulk: 
The  anchor  dropp'd  ;  it  lay  along  the  deep, 
Like  a  huge  lion  iu  Ihe  sun  asleep, 
I  Whi'e  round  if  swarm'd  the  proas'  flitting  chain, 
Like  summer  bees  that  turn  around  his  mane. 

j  XL 

The  white  man  landed  1  —  need  the  rest  be  told  ? 
The  New  World  stretch'd  its  dusk  hand  to  the  Old  ; 
Each  was  to  each  a  marvel,  and  the  tie 
Of  wonder  warm'd  to  betier  sympathy. 
Kind  was  Ihe  welcome  of  the  sun  l>orn  sires, 
And  kinder  still  their  daughters'  gentler  fire» 

2  "Lncullus,  when  frueality  conld  charm, 

Had  roaettd  turnips  in  the  Sabine  farm."— POPE. 

STbe  cnnsul  Nero,  who  made  Ihe  unequalled  marrh 
which  deceived  Hannibal,  and  drfealed  Asdrubal;  thereby 
accomplishing  an  achievemcDt  almost  unrivalled  in  mili- 
tary annals.  The  first  intelligence  of  his  return,  to  Han- 
nibal, was  the  bielit  of  AMtiubal's  head  thmwu  into  his 
camp.  When  Haunibal  saw  this,  he  exclaimed  wilh  a 
8:gh,  that  '•  Rome  would  nnw  be  Ihe  mistress  of  '.ba 
world."  And  yet  to  Ibis  victory  of  Nero's  it  might  be 
owing  'hat  his  imperial  namesake 
nfamy  of  the 


has   eclipsed    the  glory  of  the  other. 
When  the  name  of  "Nero"  is  heard,  who  thiDka  oT  Ik* 
aul  ?  —  But  such  ore  human  things  ! 


190 


THE  ISLAND. 


[Canto  II. 


Their  union  grew:  the  children  of  the  storm 
Found  beauty  link'd  w  i  h  many  a  du-ky  form  ; 
While  these  in  turn  admired  vhe  piler  glow, 
Which  seem'd  so  while  in  climes  that  knew  no  sno 
The  chase,  the  race,  the  liberty  to  roam. 
The  soil  where  every  cottage  show'd  a  home ; 
The  sei-spread  net,  the  lish  ly  launch'd  canoe, 
Which  sleram'd  the  studded  archipelago, 
O'er  whose  blue  bosiim  rose  the  -tarry  isles ; 
The  healthy  slumber,  earn'd  by  sportive  toils; 
The  palm,  the  loftiest  dryad  of  the  woods, 
Within  wh^se  bosom  infant  Bacchus  broods. 
While  eagles  scarce  build  higher  than  the  crest 
Which  shadows  o'er  the  vineyard  iu  her  breast ; 
T  he  rava  feast,  the  yam,  the  cocoa's  root, 
Whi<li  bears  at  once  the  cup,  and  milk,  and  fruit ; 


No  more  the  thundering  memory  of  the  fight 

Wrapp'd  his  wean'd  bosom  in  il'sdark  delight; 

No  more  the  irksome  restlessness  of  rest 

Dis  urb'd  him  like  tne  eagle  in  her  rest. 

Whose  whetted  beak  and  far-pervading  eye 

Darts  for  a  victim  over  all  the  sky  :    . 

His  heait  was  tamed  to  tha'  vo!uptuo"s  state, 

At  once  Elvsian  and  efTeminate, 

Which  leives  no  laurels  o'er  tbe  hero's  urn  ;  — 

These  wither  when  for  aught  save  blood  they  burn; 

Yet  when  their  ashes  in  their  nook  are  laid, 

I>oh  not  the  niyrlle  leave  as  sweet  a  shade? 

Had  C^e^ar  known  but  Cleopatra's  ki'S, 

Rome  had  been  free,  the  world  had  not  been  his. 

And  what  have  Ciesar's  deeds  and  Caesar's  fame 

Done  for  the  earth  ?  We  feel  them  in  our  shame  s 


The    bread  tree,    which,    without    the   ploughshare,    The  gory  saiiction  of  his  glory  stains 


yields 

The  nnreap'd  harvest  of  unfnrrow'd  field.'. 
And  liakes  its  unadulterated  li/aves 
Without  a  furnace  in  unpurchased  groves, 
And  Hings  olF  laniine  from  its  fertile  breast, 
A  priceless  market  for  the  gathering  guest ;  -  -  | 

These,  with  tli-  luxuries  of  seas  and  woods, 
The  airy  joys  of  social  soli'udes, 
Tamed  eicli  rude  wanderer  to  the  sympathies 
Of  those  who  were  more  happy,  if  less  wise. 
Did  more  than  Europe's  discipline  bad  done, 
And  civilised  Civilisatiou's  son  ! 

XIL 

Of  these,  and  there  %vas  many  a  willing  pair, 

Neuha  and  Torquil  weie  not  the  least  fair: 

Both  children  of  the  isles,  though  distant  far; 

Both  born  beneath  a  sea-presiding  star; 

Bith  nourish'd  amidst  nature's  native  scenes, 

Loved  to  the  last,  whatever  intervenes 

Between  us  and  our  childhood's  sympathy, 

Which  slill  reverts  to  what  lir^t  caught  the  eye. 

He  who  first  met  the  Highlands'  swelling  blue 

Will  love  each  peak  that  shows  a  kindred  hue. 

Hail  in  each  crag  a  friends  (amiliar  face. 

And  clasp  the  mountain  in  his  mind's  embrace. 

Long  have  1   roam'd  through  lands  which  are  not 

mine, 
Adoied  the  Alp,  and  loved  the  Apennine, 
Revered  Parnas  us,  and  beheld  the  steep 
Jove's  Ida  and  Olympus  crown  the  deep; 
But  't  was  not  all  long  ages'  lore,  nor  all 
Thtir  nature  held  me  in  their  thrillins  thrall; 
The  infant  rapture  still  survived   he  boy, 
And  Loch-na-gar  with  Ida  look'd  o'er  Troy,' 
Mix'd  Celtic  memories  with  the  Phrygian  mount. 
And  Highland  linns  with  Castalie's  clear  fount. 
Forgive  me,  Homer's  universal  shade  ! 
Forgive  me,  PlioEbusI  that  my  fancy  stray'd  ; 
The  north  and  nature  taujht  me  to  adore 
Your  scenes  sublime,  from  those  beloved  before. 

XHL 

The  love  which  maketh  all  things  fond  and  fair, 
The  youth  which  makes  one  rainbow  of  the  air. 
The  dangers  past,  that  mske  even  man  enjoy 
The  pause  in  which  he  ceases  to  destroy. 
The  mutual  beauty,  which  the  sternest  leel 
Strike  to  their  hearts  like  lishtning  to  the  steel, 
United  the  half  sivage  and  the  whole. 
The  maid  and  boy,  in  one  absorbing  soul. 


The  rust  which  tyian's  cherish  on  our  chains. 
Thnugh  Glory.  Nature,  Reason.  Freedom,  bid 
Roused  millions  do  what  single  Brutus  did  — 
Sweep  these  mere  mock-birds  of  the  despot's  son? 
From  the  tall   bough   where  they  have    perch'd  ao 

long. — 
Still  are  we  hawk'd  at  by  such  mousing  owls, 
And  lake  for  falcons  those  ignoble  fowls. 
When  but  a  word  of  freedom  would  dispel 
These  bugbears,  as  their  terrors  show  too  welU 

XIV. 
Rapt  in  the  fond  forgetfulness  of  life, 
Neuha,  the  South  Sea  girl,  was  all  a  wife, 
Wiih  no  distracting  world  to  call  her  off 
From  love  ;  with  no  society  to  scoff 
At  the  new  transient  flame  ;  no  babbling  crowd 
Of  coxcombry  in  adminvtion  loud. 
Or  wi'h  adulterous  whisper  to  alloy 
Her  duly,  and  her  glory,  and  her  joy : 
With  faih  and  feelings  naked  as  her  form. 
She  sood  as  stands  a  rainbow  in  a  storm, 
Changing  its  hues  witli  bright  variety, 
But  still  expanding  lovelier  o'er  the  sky, 
Howc'er  its  arch  may  swell,  its  colours  move, 
The  cloud-compeliiug  harbinger  of  love. 

XV. 

Here,  in  this  grotto  of  the  wave-w«rn  shore. 
They  pass'd  the  tropic's  red  meridian  o'er; 
Nor  long  'he  liouis  —  they  never  paused  o'er  time. 
Unbroken  by  the  clock's  funereal  chime, 
Which  deals  the  daily  pittance  of  our  span, 
And  piiinfs  and  mocks  with  iron  laush  at  man. 
What  deem'd  they  of  the  future  or  the  past  ? 
1  The  present,  like  a  tyrant,  held  thtm  fast : 
The  r  hour-gl.ass  was  the  sea-sand,  and  the  tide. 
Like  her  smooth  billow,  saw  their  moments  glide; 
Their  clock  the  sun,  in  his  unbounded  tower; 
They  reckon'd  not,  whose  d.ay  wis  but  an  hour; 
The  nightingale,  their  only  vesper-bell. 
Sung  sweetly  to  the  rose  the  day's  farewell ;  a 
j  The  broad  sun  set,  but  not  with  lingering  sweep, 
i  As  in  the  north  he  mellows  o'er  the  deep; 
{  But  fiery,  full,  and  fierce,  as  if  he  left 
I  The  world  for  ever,  earth  of  life  bereft, 
Plunged  with  red  forehead  down  along  the  wave. 
As  dives  a  hero  headlong  to  his  grave. 
Then  rose  they,  looking  first  along  the  skies, 
And  then  for  listht  into  each  other's  eyes. 
Wondering  that  summer  shou'd  so  brief  a  sun. 
And  asking  if  indeed  the  diy  were  done. 
i  XVI. 


1  When  very  younj, 
attack  of  thi-  srarlft  fc 
medical  advics  into  tli 
sionally  some  Kummer 
Inve  of  mnuntai 
elTpct,  a  few  y.i 
thin?  I  had  " 


about  eight  years  of  age.  atter  an  And  let  not  this  seem  strange:  the  devotee 

ler  ai  Aberdeen.  I  was  removed  by  Lives  not  in  earth,  but  in  his  ecstasy  ; 

;  Hisl'lands.     Here  I  passed  orca-  Around  him  days  and  worlds  are  heedless  driven, 

I,  and  from  this  period  1  dale   my  fjis  sou!  i<  gone  before  his  dust  to  heav 


afterwards, 


mtaii 


la  the  Malvern  Hills,  .^f'er  I  returned  to  Cheltenham.  I 
used  to  watch  them  every  afternoon,  at  sunset,  with  a 
sensation  which  I  cannot  describe.  This  was  boyish 
enough  :  but  I  was  then  only  thirteen  years  of  age,  and  it 
was  in  the  ituiidays. 


Is  love  less  potent  ?    No  —  his  path  is  trod, 
Alike  uplifted  gloriously  to  God; 

2  The  now  well-known  story  of  the  loves  of  the  night- 
ineale  and  rose  need  not  be   more  than  alluded  to.  beia( 
sutflcienlly  familiar   to    the  Western   as   to   the 
reader. 


Canto  11.] 


THE  ISLAND. 


191 


Or  link'd  to  all  we  know  of  heaven  below, 

Tlie  oilier  belter  self,  w  hose  joy  or  woe 

Is  more  than  ours  ;  ihe  all-absorbing  tlame 

VVtiich,  kindled  by  another,  grows  ihe  same, 

Wrapt  in  one  blaze;  Ihe  pure,  yet  funeral  pile, 

Where  gentle  hearts,  like  Braiuins,  sit  and  smile. 

How  often  we  forget  all  time,  when  lone, 

Admiiing  Naiure's  universal  throne. 

Her  vvoods,  her  wilds,  her  wators,  the  intense 

Reply  of  fcTJ  to  our  intelligence  ! 

l.ive  not  the  s'ars  and  mounlains  ?    Are  the  waves 

Without  a  spirit  ?    Are  the  dro;)ping  caves 

VVi.liout  a  feeling  in  their  silent  lears  ? 

No,  no ;  —  they  woo  and  clasp  us  lo  their  spheres, 

Dissolve  this  clog  and  clod  of  clay  before 

Its  hour,  and  merge  our  sc-il  in  ihe  great  shore. 

Strip  oil'  this  fond  and  false  identity  !  — 

Who  thinHe  of  self,  when  gazing  on  the  sky  ? 

And  who,  though  gazing  lower,  ever  thought, 

III  the  young  moments  ere  the  heart  is  taught 

Time's  lesson,  of  man's  baseness  or  his  own  ? 

All  nature  is  his  realm,  and  love  his  throne. 

XVII. 
Neuha  arose,  and  Torquil :  twilight's  hour 
Came  sad  and  softly  to  their  rocky  bower, 
Which,  kindling  by  degrees  its  dewy  spars. 
Echoed  their  dim  light  to  the  mustering  stars, 
hlowlv  the  pair  partaking  nature's  calm. 
Sought  out  their  collage,  built  beneath  the  palm ; 
Now  smiling  and  now  silent,  as  the  scene ; 
Lovely  as  Love  —  the  spirit !  —  when  serene. 
The  Ocean  scarce  spoke  louder  wi'.h  his  swell. 
Thin  breathes  his  mimic  murmurer  in  the  shell,* 
As,  far  divided  from  his  parent  deep. 
The  se\-boni  infant  cries,  and  will  not  sleep, 
Raising  his  little  plaint  in  vain,  to  rave 
For  Ihe  broad  bosom  of  hii  nursing  wave : 
The  woods  droop'd  darkly,  as  inclined  lo  rest, 
The  tropic  bird  wheePd  rockward  to  his  nest, 
And  the  blue  sky  spread  round  them  like  a  lake 
(1  peace,  where  Piety  her  thirst  might  slake. 

XVIIL 
But  through  the  palm  and  plantain,  hark,  a  voice! 
Not  s«ch  as  would  have  been  a  Iner's  choice, 
111  such  an  hour,  to  break  ihe  air  so  still ; 
No  dying  night-bree/e,  harping  o'er  the  hill. 
Striking  the  strings  of  nature,  rock  and  tree, 
Those  best  and  e.irliest  lyres  of  harmony. 
With  Echo  for  their  chorus  ;  nor  the  alarm 
Of  Ihe  loud  war-whonp  to  dispel  the  charm  ; 
Nor  Ihe  soliloquy  of  flie  hermit  owl, 
Exhiliog  all  hi»  solitary  soul. 
The  dim  though  large-eyed  winged  anchorite. 
Who  peals  his  dreary  paein  o'er  the  night ;  — 
But  a  loud,  long,  and  naval  whistle,  shrill 
As  ever  started  through  a  sea-bird's  bill  i 
And  Hien  a  pause,  and  then  a  hoarse  "  Hillo ! 
Torquil  !  mv  bov  !  what  cheer  ?  Ho  !  brother,  ho  !  " 
'•  Who  hails'?"  cried  Toiquil,  f  llowing  with  his  eye 
The  sound.    "  Here 's  one,"  was  all  the  brief  reply. 

XIX. 

But  here  the  herald  of  the  selfsame  mouth 
Came  brealliing  o'er  the  aromatic  snu:h. 
Not  like  a  "  bed  of  violets"  on  the  gale, 
But  such  as  wafis  its  cloud  o'er  grog  or  ale, 

1  If  tlie  reader  will  apply  to  his  ear  Itie  sea-hhell  on  Ills 
rtiirnney-piece.  lie  will  be  aware  of  what  is  alludfd  to. 
If  Ihe  lext  sh'iuld  appear  obscure,  he  will  liiid  in  "Gebir" 
the  same  idea  better  expressed  in  two  lines.  The  poem  I 
never  road,  but  have  heard  the  lines  qiinled  by  a  more 
recondite  reader  —  who  seems  to  he  iif  a  dilFereut  opiiiina 
from  the  edilor  of  the  Uuarterly  Review,  who  qualitied  it, 
in  his  answer  to  the  Critical  Reviewer  of  his  Juvenal,  as 
trash  of  the  worst  and  most  insane  description.  It  is  to 
Mr.  Ijindor,  Ihe  author  of  "Gebir,"  so  qualified,  and  of 
aome  Latin  poems,  which  vie  with  Martial  or  Catullus  in 
obscenity,  that  the  immaculate  .Mr.  Siulhey  addresses  fcis 
decMinatioa  against  imparity  ! 


Borne  from  a  short  frail  pipe,  which  yet  had  blown 

lis  senile  odours  over  either  //me. 

And,  putf' d  where'er  winds  rise  or  waters  roll, 

Had  waited  smoke  from  Por!smouth  tii  the  Pole, 

0[)posed  its  vipour  as  Ihe  lightning  llasli'd, 

And  retk'd,  'midst  mountain  billows,  unabash'd. 

To  .Siolus  a  constant  s.acrifice, 

Through  every  change  of  all  ihe  varying  skies. 

And  what  was  he  who  bore  it  ? —  I  miy  err, 

But  deem  him  sailor  or  philosopher.2 

Sublime  tobacco  ;  which  from  east  to  west 

Cheers  the  tar's  labour  or  the  Turkman's  rest ; 

Which  on  the  Moslem's  ottoman  divides 

His  hours,  and  rivals  opium  and  his  brides ; 

Magnificent  in  Stamboul,  but  less  grand. 

Though  not  less  loved,  in  Wapjiing  or  the  Strand  ; 

Divine  in  hookas,  glorious  in  a  jjipe. 

When  tipp'd  with  amber,  mellow,  rich,  and  ripe; 

Like  other  charmers,  wooing  the  caress 

More  dazzlingly  when  daring  in  full  dress  j 

Yel  thy  tiue  lovers  more  admire  by  fir 

Thy  naked  beauties  —  Give  me  a  cigar ! 

XX. 

Through  the  approaching  darkness  of  the  wood 
A  human  figure  broke  the  solitude. 
Fantastically,  it  may  be,  array 'd, 
A  seaman  in  a  savage  masquerade  ; 
■Such  as  appears  to  rise  out  from  the  deep 
When  o'er  the  line  Ihe  merry  vessels  sweep, 
And  the  rough  saturnalia  of  the  tar 
Flock  o'er  the  deck,  in  Neptune's  borrow'd  car  ;  3 
And,  pleased,  the  god  of  ocean  sees  his  name 
Revive  once  more,  though  bul  in  mimic  game 
Of  his  true  sons,  who  riot  in  the  breeze 
Undreamt  of  in  his  naive  Cyclades. 
Still  the  r)ld  god  delights,  from  out  Ihe  main, 
To  sn  Itch  some  glimpses  of  his  ancient  reign. 
Our  sailor's  j  ickel,  though  in  lagjed  trim, 
His  cons  ant  pipe,  which  never  yel  burn'd  dim, 
His  foremast  air,  and  somewhat  rolling  gait. 
Like  his  dear  vessel,  spoke  his  former  stale; 
But  then  a  sort  of  kerchief  round  his  head. 
Not  over-tightly  bound,  nor  nicely  spread  ; 
And,  's'eaJ  of  trowsers  (ah  !  too  early  torn ! 
For  even  the  mildest  woods  will  have  their  thorn) 
A  curious  sort  of  somewhat  scanty  mat 
Now  served  for  inexpressibles  and  hat ; 
His  naked  feet  and  neck,  and  sunburnt  face, 
Perchance  might  suit  alike  with  either  race. 
His  arms  were  all  his  own,  our  Europe's  growth, 
Which  two  worlds  bless  for  civilising  both  ; 
The  musket  swung  behind  his  shoulders  broad, 
And  somewhat  sloop'd  by  his  marine  abode. 
But  brawny  as  the  boar's;  and  hung  beneath, 
His  cutlass  droop'd,  unconscious  of  a  sheath. 
Or  lost  or  worn  away ;  his  pistols  were 
Link'd  to  his  belt,  a  matrimonial  piir  — 
(Let  not  this  metaphor  appear  a  scoff. 
Though  one  niiss'd  fire,  the  other  would  go  ofT); 
These,  with  a  bayonet,  ;iot  so  free  from  rust 
As  when  the  nrmchest  held  Its  brighter  trust. 
Completed  his  accoutrements,  as  Night 
Survey'd  hiin  in  his  garb  heteroclite. 

XXL 

"  What  cheer,  Ben  Bunting  ?  "  cried  (when  in  full 

Our  new  acquaintance)  Torquil.     "  Anght  of  new?" 
"  Ev,  ey  !  "  quotli  Ben,  "  not  new,  but  news  enow  ; 
A  s'Vange  sail  in  the  offing  "—"Sail  !  and  how? 
What !  could  you  make  her  out  ?    It  cannot  be ; 
I  've  seen  no  rag  of  canvass  on  the  sea." 

2  Hohbes,  Ihe  f  ther  of  Locke's  and  other  pliiloiophy, 
was  an  inveterate  smoker, —  even  to  pipes  beyoni  compu- 
tation. 

I  8This  rough  but  jovial  ceremony,  nseil  in  crossing  the 
line,  has  been  so  often  and  so  well  desciibed,  that  it  need 

I  not  be  more  than  alluded  to. 


192 


THE   ISLAND. 


[Canto  III. 


"  Belike,"  said  Ben,  "  you  mi?ht  not  from  the  bay, 
But  from  the  blulf-head,  where  I  watchM  lo-day, 
I  saw  her  in  the  doldrums;  for  ihe  wind 
Was  lljhl  and  baffling."—-  When  the  sun  declmed 
Where  lav  she?  had  she  ancli  )r'd  ?  '— -  No,  but  still 
She  bore  down  on  us,  till  the  wind  grew  s  ill." 
"  Her  flag  ?'— "  I  h id  no  glass :  but  fore  and  aft, 
Eg  id  ;  she  seeni'd  a  wicked  looking  craft." 
"  Arui'd  ?"— •'  1  expect  so  ;  —  sent  on  the  look-out: 
'T  is  time,  belike,  lo  put  our  heln.  about." 
"About  ?—  Whate'er  m.ay  have  us  now  in  chase, 
We  'II  make  no  running  ti.ht,  for  that  were  base  ; 
We  will  die  at  our  quarters,  like  true  men." 
"  Ey,  ey  !  for  that  't  is  all  Ihe  same  to  Ben." 
'•Does  Christian  know  Ihi  ^"     '  •  -  •  '- 
all  hand 


Their  better  feelings,  if  such  were,  were  thrown 
Back  on  themselves, —  their  sins  remam'd  alone. 
Proscribed  even  in  their  second  counry,  they 
Were  lost ;  in  vain  the  wo  Id  before  them  lay  ; 
All  outlets  seem'd  secured.     Their  new  allies 
Had  I  ju^ht  and  bled  in  mutual  sacrifice  ; 
But  whai  avaird  ihe  club  and  spear,  and  arm 
Of  Hercules,  against  the  sulphury  charm. 
The  magic  of  the  thunder,  which  destroy'd 
The  warrior  ere  his  strength  could  be  employ'd? 
Dug,  like  a  spreading  pestilence,  the  grave 
No'less  of  human  bravery  than  Ihe  brave  !  3 
Their  own  scant  numbers  acted  all  the  few 
Against  the  many  oft  will  daie  and  do  ; 
Av^;  lie  has  piped    But  ihoujh  the  choice  seems  native  lo  die  free, 
Even  Greece  can  boast  but  one  Thermopylse, 


:Tilli 
'  Back  I 


hen  she  has  forged  her  broken  chain 
a  sword,  and  dies  and  lives  again  '. 


IH. 


To  quarters.  They  are  furbishing  the  stands 
Of  arms  ;  and  we  have  got  some  guns  to  bear, 
And  scaled  them.     You  are  wanted."— "That's  but 

fair; 
And  if  it  were  not,  mine  is  not  Ihe  soul 
To  leave  my  comndcs  helpless  on  the  shoal. 
My  Neuha  !  ah  :  and  must  my  fate  pur>ue 
Not  me  alone,  but  one  so  sweet  and  true  ? 
But  whatsoe'er  belide,  ah,  Neuha  !  now 
Unman  me  not;  the  hour  will  not  allow 

A  tear;  lam  thine  whatever  intervenes!"  ,-,-,.  ^  .  ,.     ,., 

■  Riffht."  Quoth  Ben,  "  that  will  do  for  the  marines."  >  ,  And  gu-h'd  from  clitf  to  cng  with  saltless  spray 
°  ^    ^  '  Close  on  the  wild,  wide  ocean,  yet  as  pure 


Beside  the  jutting  rock  the  few  appear'd, 
Like  the  last  remnant  of  the  red-deer's  herd  ; 
Their  eyes  were  feverish,  and  their  aspect  worn. 
But  still  the  hunter's  blood  was  on  their  horn, 
A  little  stream  came  tumbling  from  Ihe  height, 
And  strangling  into  ocean  as  it  mizht, 
l!s  bounding  crystal  frolick  d  in  the  r.ay. 


CANTO    THE    THIRD. 
I. 

The  fight  was  o'er ;  the  flashing  through  the  gloom. 

Which  robes  the  cannon  as  he  wings  a  tomb, 

Had  ceased  ;  and  sulphury  vapours  upward  driven 

Had  left  the  earth,  and  but  polluted  heaven  : 

The  rattling  roar  which  rung  in  every  volley 

Had  left  Ihe  echoes  to  their  melancholy  ; 

No  more  they  shriek"d  their  horror,  boom  for  boom; 

The  strife  was  done,  the  vanquish °d  had  their  doom  ; 

The  mutineers  were  crush 'd,  dispersed,  or  ta'en. 

Or  lived  to  deem  the  happiest  were  Ihe  slain. 

Few,  few  escaped,  and  these  were  hunted  o'er 

The  isle  they  loved  beyond  their  native  shore. 

No  further  home  was  theirs,  it  seein'd,  on  earth, 

Once  renegades  to  that  which  gave  them  birth  ; 

Track'd  like  wild  beasts,  like  Ihem  they  sought  the 

wild, 
As  to  a  mother's  bosom  flies  the  child  ; 
But  vainly  wolves  and  lions  seek  their  den. 
And  still  mere  vainly  men  escape  from  men. 

n. 

Beneath  a  rock  whose  jutting  base  protrudes 

Far  over  ocean  in  its  fiercest  moods. 

When  scaling  his  enormous  crag  the  wave 

Is  hurl'd  down  headlong,  like  the  foremost  brave, 

And  falls  back  on  ihe  foaming  crowd  behind. 

Which  fight  beneath  the  banners  of  the  wind, 

But  DOW  at  rest,  a  little  remnant  drew 

Together,  bleeding,  ihir.ty,  faint,  and  few  ; 

But  still  their  weapons  in  their  hands,  and  still 

With  something  of  the  pride  of  former  will, 

As  men  not  all  unused  to  meditate. 

And  strive  much  more  than  wonder  at  their  fate. 

Their  present  lot  was  what  they  had  foreseen. 

And  dared  as  what  was  likely  to  have  been  ; 

Yet  still  Ihe  lingering  hope,  which  deem'd  their  lot 

Not  pardon'd,  but  unsouzht  for  or  forgot, 

Or  trusted  that,  if  snuihi,  their  distant  caves 

Might  s'ill  he  miss'd  amidst  the  world  of  waves. 

Had  wean'd  their  thoughts  in  part  from  what  they  saw 

And  fel',  the  venseance  of  their  country's  law. 

Their  sea-green  isle,  their  guilt-won  paradise. 

No  more  could  shielu  their  virtue  or  their  vice  : 


And  fresh  as  innocence,  and  more  secure, 

lis  silver  torrent  glitier'd  o'er  the  deep. 

As  the  shy  chamois'  eye  o'erlooks  the  steep. 

While  far  below  the  vast  and  sullen  swell 

Of  ocean's  alpine  azure  rose  and  fell 

To  this  young  spring  ;hey  rush'd,—  all  feelings  first 

Absorb'd  in  passion's  and  in  na'uie's  Ihirst  — 

Drank  as  they  do  who  drink  their  last,  and  threw 

Their  anus  aside  to  revel  in  its  dew  ; 

Cool'd  their  scorch'd  throats,  and  wash'd  the  gory 

stains 
From  wounds  whose  only  bandage  might  be  chains ; 
Then,  when  their  drought  was  quench'd,  look'd  sadly 

round. 
As  wondering  how  so  many  still  were  found 
Alive  and  fetierless :  —  but  silent  all. 
Each  sought  his  fellow's  eyes,  as  if  to  call 
On  him  for  language  which  his  lips  denied. 
As  though  their  voices  with  their  cause  had  died. 


IV. 

Stern,  and  aloof  a  little  from  the  rest, 
Stood  Christian,  with  his  arms  across  his  chest. 
The  ruddy,  reckless,  dauntless  hue  once  spread 
Along  his  cheek  was  livid  now  as  lead  ; 
His  light-brown  locks,  so  graceful  in  their  flow, 
Now  rose  like  startled  vipers  o'er  his  brow. 
Still  as  a  statue,  with  his  lips  comprest 
To  stifle  even  the  breath  within  his  breast, 
Fast  bv  the  rock,  all  menacing,  but  mute. 
He  stood  ;  and.  save  a  slight  beat  of  his  foot, 
Which  deepened  now  and  then  the  sandy  dint 
Beneath  his  heel,  his  form  seem'd  turn'd  to  flint 
Some  pices  further  Torquil  lean'd  his  head 
Against  a  bank,  and  spoke  not,  but  he  bled, — 
Not  mortallv  :  —  his  worst  wound  was  within; 
His  brow  was  pale,  his  blue  eyes  sunken  in, 
And  blood-drops,  sprinkled  o'er  his  yellow  hair, 
Show'd  that  his  faintness  came  not  from  despair. 
But  natme's  ebb.    Beside  him  was  another. 
Rough  as  a  bear,  but  willing  as  a  brother, — 
Ben  Bunting,  who  essav'd  lo  wa«h,  and  wipe, 
And  bind  his  wound  —  then  calmly  lit  liis  pipe, 
A  trophy  which  survived  a  hundred  fights, 
A  beacon  which  had  cheer "d  ten  thousand  nights. 


2  Archidamiis,    king  of  Sparta,  and   Bon   of   Age»il 

when  he  saw  a  machine  iovcntrd  for  ihe  casting  of  atone* 

l-'That  will  do  for  the  marines,  but  the  tailor,  won't  '  »iid  darlH,  exclaimed  that  it  wan  the  "grave  of  Talour^ 
believe  it,"  i«  an  nid  saying;  and  one  of  the  few  frag-  The  pame  story  has  been  loki  of  some  knigbts  on  the  Ural 
mcnls  of  former  jealoUKies  which  still  survive  (in  jeiit  application  of  gunpowder ;  but  the  original  aneciote  to  JB 
oaly)  between  theae  gallant  services.  I  Plutarch.  


Canto  III] 


THE    ISLAND. 


193' 


The  fourth  and  last  of  this  deserted  group 
Walk'd  up  and  down  —  at  times  would  stand,  then 
stoop  I 

To  pick  a  pebble  up  —  then  let  it  drop —  j 

Then  hurry  as  in  haste—  ^tien  quickly  stop  — 
Then  cast  his  eyes  on  his  companions  —  then 
Half  whistle  h>lf  a  tune,  and  pause  again  — 
And  then  his  former  movements  would  redouble, 
Willi  someihiug  between  carelessness  and  trouble. 
This  is  a  long  description,  bu'  applies 
To  scarce  five  minutes  piss'd  before  the  eyes  ; 
But  yet  what  minutes  !    Moments  like  to  these 
Rend  men's  lives  into  immoitali  ies. 

V 
At  length  Jack  Skyscrape,  a  mercurial  man, 
Who  fiutter'd  over  all  things  like  a  fan, 
More  brave  than  tirm,  and  more  disposed  to  dare  i 

And  die  at  once  Ihan  wrestle  »i;h  despair, 
Eiclaim'd,     '-G— d    damnl"  — tho-e     syllables     in- 
tense — 
Nucleus  of  England's  native  eloquence,  , 

As  Ihe  Turks  '•  Allah  !  "  or  ihe  Roman's  more 
Pagan  "  Proh  Jupi;er  !  "  was  wont  of  yore  | 

To  give  their  first  impressions  such  a  vent,  , 

By  way  cf  echo  to  embarrassnient. 
Jack  was  embarrass'd, —  never  hero  more. 
And  as  he  knew  not  whal  to  say,  he  swore : 
Nor  swore  in  vain;  Ihe  long  congenial  sound 
Revived  Ben  Bunting  from  his  pipe  profound  ; 
He  drew  it  from  his  mouth,  and  luok'd  full  wise, 
But  merely  added  to  the  oath  his  n/ei  ; 
Thus  rendering  the  imperfect  phrase  complete, 
A  peroration  I  need  not  repeat. 

VI. 

But  Christian,  of  a  higher  order,  stood 

Like  an  ex  inct  volcano  in  his  mood  ; 

Silent,  and  sad,  and  savage, —  with  the  trace 

Of  passion  reeking  from  his  clouded  face  j 

Till  lifting  up  again  his  sombre  eye. 

It  glanced  on  Torquil,  who  lean'd  faintly  by. 

"  And  is  it  thus  ? "  he  cried,  "  unhappy  b>y  ! 

And  thee,  too,  thee —  my  madness  must  destroy  ! 

He  said,  and  strode  to  vvhere  young  lorquil  stood, 

Yet  dabbled  with  his  lately  flowing  blood  ; 

Seized  his  hand  wistfully,  but  did  net  press, 

And  shrunk  as  fearful  of  his  own  caress; 

Enquired  into  his  state;  and  when  he  heard 

The  wound  was  slighter  than  he  deem'd  or  fear'd, 

A  moment's  brightness  pass'd  along  his  brow. 

As  much  as  such  a  moment  would  allow. 

"  Yes,"  he  exclaim'd,  "  we  are  taken  in  the  toil. 

But  not  a  coward  or  a  common  spxiil  ; 

Dearly  they  have  bought  us—  deaily  still  may  buy,— 

And  I  must  fall  ;  bu!  have  you  strength  to  fly  ? 

'T  would  be  some  c^mfort  still,  could  you  survive; 

Our  dwindled  band  is  now  tm  few  to  strive. 

Oh  !  for  a  sole  canoe  !  though  but  a  shell. 

To  bear  you  hence  to  where  a  hope  may  dwell  1 

For  me,  my  lot  is  what  I  sought ;  to  be. 

In  life  or  dealh,  the  fearless  and  Ihe  free." 

VII. 
Even  as  he  spoke,  around  the  promontory, 
Which  nodded  o'er  the  billows  high  and  hoary, 
A  dark  speck  dotted  ocean  :  on  it  tiew 
Like  to  the  shadosv  of  a  roused  sea-mew  ; 
Onward  it  came —  and,  lo  !  a  second  foUow'd  — 
Now  seen  —  now  hid—  where  ocean's  vale  was  hoi- 

low'd ; 
And  near,  and  nearer,  till  the  dusky  crew 
Presented  well  known  aspects  to  the  view. 
Till  on  the  surf  their  skimming  puddles  play. 
Buoyant  as  wings,  and  t'.ilting  through  the  spray  ;  — 
Now  perching  on  Ihe  wave's'high  curl,  and  now 
Dash'd  downward  in  the  thundering  foam  below, 
Which  flings  it  broad  and  boiling  sheet  on  sheet, 
And  slings  its  high  flakes,  shiver'd  into  sleet : 
But  floating  still  through  surf  and  swell,  drew  nigh 
j  The  barks,  like  small  birds  through  a  lowering  sky. 


Their  art  seem'd  nature  —  such  the  skill  to  sweep 
1  he  wave  of  these  born  playmates  of  the  deep. 


And  who  the  first  that,  springing  on  the  strand,, 
Leap'd  like  a  nereid  from  her  shell  to  land. 
With  dark  but  brilliant  skm,  and  dewy  eye 
Shining  with  love,  and  hope,  and  constancy  ? 
Neuha  —  Ihe  fond,  the  faithful,  the  adored  — 
Her  heart  on  Torquils  like  a  lorrent  pour'd; 
And  smiled,  and  wept,  and  near,  and  nearer  clasp'd, 
As  if  to  be  ,a.-sured  't  wa<  Aim  she  grasp'd  ; 
Shudder'd  to  see  his  yet  warm  wound,  and  then, 
To  find  it  trivial,  smiled  and  wept  again. 
She  was  a  warrior's  daughter,  and  could  bear 
Such  sights,  and  feel,  and  mourn,  but  not  despair. 
Her  lover  lived, —  nor  foes  nor  fears  could  blight 
'1  hat  fullblown  moment  in  its  all  delight: 
Joy  trickled  in  her  tears,  joy  fill'd  the  sob 
Thit  rock'd  her  heart  till  alinos'  htard  lo  throb; 
And  paradise  was  breathing  in  Ihe  sieh 
Of  nature's  child  in  nature's  ecstasy.  ~ 

IX. 

The  sterner  spirits  who  beheld  thit  meeting 

Were  not  unmoved;  who  are,  when  hearts  are  gree< 

ing? 
Even  Christian  gazed  upon  Ihe  maid  and  boy 
With  tearless  eye,  but  yet  a  gloomy  joy 
Mix'd  with  those  bitter  thougliis  the  soul  arrays 
In  hopeless  visions  of  our  belter  d  lys. 
When  all  's  gone  —  to  ihe  rainbow's  latest  ray, 
"  And  but  for  me  !  "  he  said,  and  lui  n'd  away  ; 
Then  gazed  upon  the  pair,  as  in  his  den 
A  lion  looks  upon  his  cubs  again  ; 
And  then  relapsed  into  his  sullen  guise. 
As  heedless  of  his  further  destinies. 

X. 

But  brief  their  time  for  good  or  evil  thought; 
The  billows  round  Ihe  promontory  brought 
The  plash  of  hostile  oars.  —  Alas  !  who  made 
That  sound  a  dreid  ?  All  round  them  seem'd  array'd 
Against  them,  save  the  bride  of  Toobonai : 
She,  as  she  caught  the  first  glimpse  o'er  the  bay 
Of  Ihe  arm'd  boats,  which  hurried  to  complete 
The  remnant's  ruin  with  their  flyiig  feet, 
Beckon'd  the  natives  round  her  lo  their  prows, 
Enibark'd  their  guests  and  launch'd  their  light  canON 
In  one  pi  iced  Christian  and  bis  comrades  twain  ; 
Bui  she  and  Torquil  must  not  part  again. 
She  fix'd  him  in  her  own.  — Away  1  away  ! 
They  clear  the  breakeis,  dart  along  the  b.i'y, 
And  towards  a  grou|i  of  islets,  such  as  bear 
The  sea-bird's  nest  and  seal's  surf-hollow'd  lair, 
They  skim  the  blue  tops  of  the  billows  ;  fast 
They  flew,  and  fast  their  fierce  pursuers  chased. 
They  gain  upon  them  —  now  Ihey  lose  again,— 
Again  make  way  and  menace  o'er  the  main; 
And  now  the  two  canoes  in  chase  divide, 
And  follow  different  courses  o'er  the  tide, 
To  baffle  the  pursuit.  —  Away  !  away  ! 
As  life  is  on  each  paddle's  f.iiht  to  day. 
And  more  than  life  or  lixes  to  Neuha':  Love 
Freights  the  frail  bark  and  urges  to  the  cove  — 
And  row  Ihe  refuge  and  the  foe  are  nigh  — 
Yet,  yel  a  moment '.  Fly,  thou  light  ark,  fly  t 


CANTO   THE    FOURTH. 
I. 

White  as  a  white  sail  on  a  dusky  sea. 
When  half  the  horizon 's  clouded  and  half  fre«, 
Fluttering  between  the  dun  wave  and  the  sky, 
Is  hope's  last  gleam  in  man's  extremity. 
Her  anchor  parts ;  but  still  her  snowy  aail 
Attracts  our  eye  amidst  the  rudest  gale: 
Though  everv  wave  she  climbs  divides  u»  mort^ 
The  heart  still  follows  from  the  loneliest  there. 


17 


13 


194 


THE  ISLAND. 


Canto  IV. 


II. 

Not  distant  from  the  isle  of  Toobonai, 
A  black  rock  rears  its  bosom  o'er  ihe  spray, 
The  hauiit  of  birds,  a  desert  to  mauitiDd, 
Where  the  rough  seal  reposes  from  Ihe  wind, 
And  sleeps  unwieldy  in  his  cavern  dun, 
Or  gambols  with  huge  frolic  in  the  sun : 
There  shrilly  to  the  passing  oar  is  heard 
The  startled  f*ho  of  the  ocean  bird, 
Who  rears  on  i's  bare  breast  her  callow  brood, 
The  feather'd  fishers  of  the  soliiude. 
A  narrow  se^^ment  of  the  yellow  sand 
On  one  side  forms  the  oullme  of  a  strand  ; 
Here  the  young  turtle,  crawling  from  his  shell, 
Steals  to  the  deep  wherein  his  parents  dwell ; 
Chipp'd  by  the  beam,  a  nursling  of  the  day, 
Bui  hatch'd  for  ocean  by  the  fostering  ray  ; 
The  rest  was  one  bleik  precipice,  as  e'er 
Gave  mariners  a  shelter  and  despair  ; 
A  spot  to  make  the  saved  regret  the  deck 
Which  late  went  down,  and  envy  the  lost  wreck. 
Such  was  the  stern  asylum  Neuha  chose 
To  shield  her  lover  from  his  following  foes; 
But  all  its  secret  was  not  told  ;  she  knew 
In  this  a  treasure  bidden  ft-om  the  view 

III. 

Ere  the  canoes  divided,  near  the  spot, 

The  men  that  mann'd  what  held  lier  Torquil's  lot, 

By  her  command  removed,  to  strengthen  more 

The  skiff  which  wafted  Christixn  from  the  shore. 

This  he  would  have  opposed  ;  but  with  a  smile 

She  pointed  calmly  to  the  craggy  isle. 

And  bade  him  "  speed  and  prosper."    She  would  take 

The  rest  upon  herself  for  Torquil's  sake. 

They  parted  with  this  added  aid  ;  afar 

The  proa  darted  like  a  shooting  star. 

And  gain'd  on  the  pursuers,  who  now  steer'd 

Right  on  the  rock  which  she  and  Torquil  near'd. 

They  pull'd  ;  her  arm,  though  delicate,  was  free 

And  firm  as  ever  grappled  with  the  sea, 

And  yielded  scarce  to  Torquil's  manlier  strength. 

The  prow  now  almost  hy  within  its  length 

Of  the  crag's  s'eep,  inexorable  (tee. 

With  nought  but  soundless  waters  for  its  base; 

Within  a  hundred  boats'  length  was  the  foe, 

And  now  what  refuge  but  their  frail  canoe? 

This  Torquil  ask'd  with  half  upbraiding  eye, 

Which  said— "Has  Neuha  brought  me  here  to  die  ? 

Is  this  a  place  of  safety,  or  a  grave. 

And  yon  huge  rock  the  tombstone  of  the  wave  ?  " 

IV. 

They  rented  on  their  paddles,  and  uprose 

Neuha,  and  pointing  to  the  approaching  foes, 

Cried,  "Torquil,  follow  me.  and  fearless  follow!" 

Then  olunged  at  once  into  the  ocean's  hollow. 

There"  was  no  lime  to  pause  —  the  foe's  were  near  — 

Chains  in  his  eye,  and  menace  in  his  ear; 

With  vigour  they  puU'd  on,  and  as  they  came, 

HaiI'd  him  to  vield,  and  by  his  forfeit  name. 

Headlong  he  leapt  —  to  him  the  sw  immer's  skill 

Was  naiive,  and  now  all  his  hope  from  ill : 

But  how,  or  where  ?  He  dived,  and  rose  no  more  ; 

The  boat's  crew  Inok'd  amazed  o'er  sea  and  shore. 

There  was  no  landing  on  that  precipice, 

Steep,  harsh,  and  slippery  as  a  berg  of  ice. 

They  watch'd  awhile  to  see  him  float  again, 

But  not  a  trace  rebubbled  from  the  main  : 

The  wave  roli'd  on,  no  ripple  on  its  f.ice 

Since  their  first  plunge  recall'd  a  single  trace  ; 

The  litile  whirl  which  eddied,  and  slight  foam. 

That  whiten'd  o'er  what  seem'd  their  latest  home, 

White  as  a  sepulchre  above  Ihe  pair 

Who  left  no  m  irble  (mournful  as  an  heir) 

The  quiet  proa  wavering  o'er  the  tide 

Was  all  that  told  of  Torquil  and  his  bride; 

Aod  but  for  this  alone  the  whole  might  seem 

The  vanish'd  phantom  of  a  seaman's  dream. 

They  paused  and  search'd  in  vain,  then  puU'd  away ; 

Even  (uperstitioD  now  forbade  their  stay. 


Some  said  he  had  not  plunged  into  the  wave, 
i  But  vanish'd  like  a  coipse-iight  from  a  grave; 
Others,  that  something  supernatural 
Glared  in  his  figure,  more  than  mortal  tall ; 
I  While  all  agreed  thit  in  his  cheek  and  eye 
'  There  was  a  dead  hue  of  eternity. 
Still  as  their  oars  receded  from  the  crag. 
Round  every  weed  a  moment  would  they  lag, 
Expectant  of  some  token  of  their  prey; 
But  no  —  he  had  melted  from  them  like  the  spray. 


I  And  where  was  he  the  pilgrim  of  Ihe  deep, 
I  Following  the  nereid  ?  Had  they  ceased  to  weep 
For  ever?  or,  received  in  coral  caves. 
Wrung  life  and  pity  from  the  softening  waves? 
Did  they  with  ocean's  hidden  sovereigns  dwell, 
And  sound  with  mermen  the  fantastic  shell? 
Did  Neuha  with  the  mermaids  comb  her  hair 
Flowing  o'er  ocean  as  it  stream'd  in  air? 
Or  had  they  perishd,  and  in  silence  slept 
Beneath  the  gulf  wherein  they  boldly  leapt  ? 


i  VI. 

\  Toung  Neuha  plunged  into  the  deep,  and  he 

:  Follow'd :  her  track  j)ene3th  her  native  sea 

j  Was  as  a  native's  of  ihe  element, 

1  So  smoothly,  bravely,  brilliantly  she  went, 

'  Leaving  a  streak  of  light  behind  her  heel, 

I  Which  struck  and  flasli'd  like  an  amphibious  steel. 

Closely,  and  scaicely  less  expert  to  trace 
I  The  depths  where  divers  hold  the  pearl  in  chase, 
'  Torquil,  the  nursling  of  the  northern  seas. 

Pursued  her  liquid  steps  with  heart  and  ease. 

Deep  —  deeper  for  an  instant  Neuha  led 

The  way  —  then  upward  soar'd  —and  as  she  spread      j 

Her  arms,  and  flung  the  foam  from  off  her  locks, 
-  Laugh'd,  and  the  sound  was  answer'd  by  the  rocks. 
i  They  had  gain'd  a  central  realm  of  earth  again,  | 

But  look'd  for  tree,  and  field,  and  sky,  in  vain. 

Around  she  pointed  to  a  spacious  cave, 

Whose  only  portal  was  the  keyless  wave,* 

(A  hollow  archway  by  the  sun  unseen. 

Save  through  Ihe  billows'  gla^y  veil  of  green, 

In  some  transparent  ocean  holiday, 
'  When  all  the  finny  people  are  at  play,) 
!  Wiped  with  her  hair  the  brine  from  Torquil's  eyei. 

And  clapp'd  her  hands  with  joy  at  his  surprise; 

Led  him  to  where  the  rock  appear'd  to  jut. 

And  form  a  something  like  a  Triton's  hut ; 

For  all  was  darkness  for  a  space,  till  day, 
I  Through  clefts  above  let  in  a  sober'd  ray  ; 

As  in  some  old  cathedral's  glinmiering  aisle 

The  dusty  monuments  from  light  recoil. 

Thus  sadly  in  their  refuge  submarine 

The  vault  drew  half  her  shadow  from  the  scene. 
I 

!  vn. 

Forth  from  her  bosom  the  young  savage  drew 
A  pine  torch,  strongly  girded  with  gnatoo  ; 
A  plantain-leaf  o  er  alU  ihe  more  to  keep 
Its  latent  sparkle  from  the  sapping  deep. 
This  mantle  kept  it  dry  ;  then  from  a  nook 
Of  the  same  plantain-leaf  a  flint  she  took, 
A  few  shrunk  wither'd  twigs,  and  from  the  blade 
Of  Torquil's  knifs  s'ruck  fire,  and  thus  array'd 
The  grot  with  torchlight.     Wide  it  was  and  high. 
And  shnw'd  a  self-born  Gothic  canopy  ; 
The  arch  uprear'd  by  nature's  architect, 
The  archir.ive  some  earthquake  might  erect ; 
The  buttress  from  jome  mountain's  l)Osom  hurl'd. 
When  Ihe  poles  crash'd,  and  water  was  the  world; 
Or  tnrden'd  from  .w)me  eirthabsorbing  fire. 
While  yet  the  globe  reek'd  from  its  funeral  pyre; 

1  Of  this  ca»f  (which  Is  no  fiction)  the  original  will  U 
found  in  thr  niolh  chapter  of  ••  .Marinci'B  Ac<  ouDt  of  Uic 
Tonga  Islands."  I  have  taken  Ihe  poetical  litwrly  to 
tranitplaut  it  to  Toobonoi,  the  taut  inland  where  asy  dlk* 
linct  account  ia  left  of  Chrialian  a»d  hia  comrade*. 


Canto  IV.] 


THE  ISLAND. 


195 


The  fretted  pinnacle,  the  aisle,  the  nave,' 

Were  there,  all  scoDp'd  by  Dirkne  s  fiom  her  csve. 

There,  with  a  little  tinge  of  iihautasy, 

Fantastic  f  ices  moped  and  mow'd  on  high, 

And  then  a  niiire  or  a  shrine  would  fix 

The  eye  upon  is  seeming  crucifix. 

Thus  Nature  pliy'd  with  the  stalactites, 

Aud  built  heraeU'  a  chapel  of  the  seas. 

viir. 

And  Neuha  took  her  Torquil  by  the  hand, 
And  waved  along  :he  vault  I.er  kindled  brmd, 
And  led  him  into  each  recess,  and  show'd 
The  secret  places  of  their  new  abode. 
Nor  these  alone,  for  all  had  been  prepared 
Befoie,  to  soothe  the  lover's  lot  she  shared  : 
The  mat  for  rest ;  for  dress  the  fresh  giiatoo, 
And  sandal  oil  to  fence  against  the  dew  ; 
For  food  the  cocoa-nut,  the  yam,  the  bread 
Borne  of  the  fruit ;  for  board  the  plantain  spread 
With  its  broid  leaf,  or  turlleshell  which  bore 
A  banquet  in  the  Hesli  it  cover'd  o'er  ; 
■J'he  gourd  wilh  water  recent  from  the  rill, 
The  ripe  banana  from  the  mellow  hill  ; 
A  pine-torch  pile  to  keep  i.ndying  light, 
And  she  herself,  as  beautiful  as  night. 
To  tiing  her  shadowy  spirit  o'er  he  scene, 
And  make  their  subterranean  world  tcrene. 
She  had  foreseen,  since  first  the  stranger's  sail 
Drew  to  their  isle,  that  lorce  or  flight  might  fail, 
And  form  d  i  refuge  of  the  rocky  den 
For  Torquil's  safety  from  his  coun  rymen. 
Each  dawn  had  wafted  there  her  light  canoe. 
Laden  with  all  the  go  den  fmits  that  grew; 
Each  eve  had  seen  her  gliding  through  the  hour 
With  all  could  cheer  or  deck  their  sparry  bower  ; 
And  now  she  spread  her  little  store  w  ith  smiles, 
The  happiest  daughter  of  the  loving  isles. 

IX. 

She,  a'!  he  gazed  with  grateful  wonder,  press'd 
Her  shelter  d  love  to  her  impassion'd  breast ; 
And  suited  to  her  soft  caresses,  told 
An  olden  tale  of  love,—  for  love  is  old, 
Old  as  eternity,  but  not  outworn 
With  each  new  being  born  or  to  be  born  :  3 
How  a  young  chief,  a  thousand  moons  ago. 
Diving  for  turtle  in  the  depths  below, 
Had  risen,  i.i  tracking  fast  his  ocean  prey. 
Into  the  cave  which  round  and  o'er  them  lay  ; 
How  in  some  desperate  feud  of  after-lime 
He  shelier'd  there  a  daughter  of  the  clime, 
A  foe  beloved,  and  otlspring  of  a  foe. 
Saved  by  his  tribe  but  for  a  captive's  woe; 
How,  when  the  s  orm  of  war  was  still'd,  he  led 
His  island  clan  !o  wheie  the  wateis  spread 
Their  deep-green  shadow  o'er  the  rocky  door. 
Then  dived  —  it  seem'd  a^  if  to  rise  no  more  : 
His  wondering  males,  amazed  within  their  bark, 
Or  deem'd  him  mad,  or  prey  to  the  blue  shark; 
Row'd  rf)und  in  sorrow  the  sea-girded  rock, 
Then  paused  upon  their  paddles  from  the  shock  ; 
When,  tresh  and  springing  from  the  deep,  they  saw 
A  goddess  rise  —  so  deem'd  they  in  their  awe ; 
And  their  companion,  glorious  by  her  side, 
Proud  aud  exulting  in  his  mermaid  bride  ; 


1  Tliis  may  seem  too  minute  for  tlie  general  outline  (in 
Mariner's  ArcounI)  from  which  it  is  taken.  But  few  men 
have  travelled  williout  seeing  eonieltiini?  of  the  tiind  —  on 
/nnrf,  that  is.  Witliout  adverting  to  Kllori,  in  Mungo 
Parli'8  last  journal,  tie  mentions  having  met  with  a  roi  k 
or  motiiitain  so  exactly  resemtiling  a  Goihic  calhedral, 
that  only  minute  iuspection  could  convince  him  that  it 
was  a  work  of  nature. 


And  how,  when  undeceived,  the  pair  they  bore 

Willi  sounding  conclis  and  joyous  sliouis  lb  shore; 

How  they  had  gladly  lived  and  calmly  died, 

And  why  not  also  Toiquii  and  his  bride? 

Not  mine  to  tell  the  laptuious  caress 

Which  follow'd  wildly  in  tiiat  wild  recess 

This  lale;  en  lugh  that  all  within  that  cave 

Was  love,  though  buried  strong  as  in  the  grave 

Wheie  Abelard.  through  tivenly  years  of  death, 

When  Eloisa's  form  was  lower'd  beneath 

Their  nuptial  vault,  his  arms  outslielch'd,  and  press'd 

The  kindling  ashes  to  his  kindleil  breast. 3 

The  waves  wilhout  sang  round  their  couch,  Iheir  roar 

As  much  unheeded  as  if  life  were  o'er ; 

Within,  iheir  hear  s  made  all  their  harmony. 

Love's  briikeii  murmur  aud  more  brokeu  sigh. 


And  they,  the  cause  and  sharers  of  the  shock 
Which  left  iheiii  uxiles  of  the  liollow  lock. 
Where  were  they  ?    O'er  the  sea  for  life  they  plied, 
To  seek  from  Heaven  the  shelter  men  denied. 
Another  course  had  been  their  choice  —  but  where? 
The  wave  which  bore  iheni  still  their  foes  would  bear. 
Who,  disappointed  of  their  former  chase. 
In  seirch  of  Clirisfian  now  renew'd  their  race. 
Eager  with  anger,  their  stnmg  arms  made  way. 
Like  vultures  baffled  of  their  previous  prey. 
They  gain'd  upon  them,  all  whose  ^afe'y  lay 
In  some  bleak  crag  or  deeply-hidden  bay  : 
No  further  chance  or  choice  remain'd  ;  and  right 
For  the  hist  further  rock  which  met  their  sight 
They  sleer'd,  :o  take  their  latest  view  of  land, 
And  \  ield  as  victims,  or  die  sword  in  hand  ; 
Di-inii^s'd  the  natives  and  their  shallop,  who 
Would  still  have  battled  for  that  scan  y  crew; 
Bui  Christian  bade  them  seek  their  shore  again, 
Nor  add  a  sacrifice  which  were  in  vain; 
For  VN  hat  were  simple  bow  and  savage  spear 
Against  tlie  arms  which  must  be  wielded  here? 

XI. 

They  landed  on  a  wild  but  narrow  scene. 

Where  few  but  Nature'.-  footsteps  yet  had  been; 

Prepared  their  arms,  and  with  that  gloomy  eye, 

Stern  and  sustained,  of  man's  extremity, 

When  hope  is  gone,  nor  glory's  self  remains 

To  cheer  resistance  against  death  or  chains, — 

They  stood,  the  three,  as  the  three  hundred  stood 

Who  dyed  Thermopylae  with  holy  blood. 

But,  ah  !  how  ditfereiit !  't  is  the  cause  makes  all, 

Degrades  or  hallows  courage  in  its  fall. 

O'er  them  no  lame,  eternal  and  intense, 

Blazed   through   the  clouds  of  duath,  and  beckon'd 

hence; 
No  grateful  country,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
Begun  the  praises  of  a  thousand  years  ; 
No  nation's  eyes  would  on  their  lomb  be  bent. 
No  heroes  envy  them  their  monument ; 
However  boldly  their  warm  blood  was  spilt, 
Their  life  was  shame,  their  epitaph  was  guilt. 
And  this  they  knew  and  felt,  at  least  the  one, 
The  leader  of  the  band  he  had  undone  ; 
Who,  born  perchance  for  better  things,  had  set 
His  life  upon  a  cast  which  lingerd  yet : 
But  now  the  die  was  to  be  thrown,  and  all 
The  chances  were  in  favour  of  his  fall : 
And  such  a  fall !     But  still  he  faced  the  shock, 
Obdurate  as  a  portion  of  the  rock 
Whereon  he  stood,  and  fix'd  his  levell'd  gun. 
Dark  as  a  sullen  cloud  before  the  sun. 

XII. 

The  boat  drew  nigh,  well  arm'd,  and  firm  the  crew 
To  act  whatever  duty  bade  them  do ; 

3  The  tradition  is  attached  to  the  story  of  Elolna,  tbat 
when  her  body  was  lowered  iutu  the  grave  of  AbelanI 
(who  had  been  buried  twenty  years,;  he  opened  hi*  arma 


196 


THE   ISLAND. 


[Canto  IV. 


Careless  of  danger,  as  the  onward  wind 

Is  of  the  leaves  it  strews,  nor  looks  behind. 

And  yel  perhips  ibey  rather  wish'd  to  go 

Against  a  nation's  than  a  na  ive  foe, 

Aod  felt  that  this  [tour  victim  of  self-will, 

Briton  no  more,  had  once  been  Briain's  still. 

They  hail'd  him  to  surrender  —  no  reply  ; 

Their  arms  were  poised,  and  glitter  d  in  the  sky. 

They  hail'd  again—  no  answer  ;  yet  once  more 

They  otfer'd  quarter  louder  than  before. 

The  echoes  only,  from  the  rocks  rebound. 

Took  their  I  ist 'farewell  of  the  dying  sound. 

Then  tlash'd  the  flint,  and  blazed  the  volleying  flame, 

And  the  smoke  roe  between  them  and  their  aim, 

While  the  rock  rattled  with  the  bullets'  knell. 

Which  peal  d  in  vain,  and  fiatten'd  as  they  fell ; 

Then  flew  the  onlv  answer  to  be  given 

By  those  who  had 'lost  all  hope  in  eirth  or  heaven. 

After  the  first  fierce  peal,  ns  ihey  pull'd  nigher, 

Theyheard  the  voice  of  Christian  shout,  "Now,firel" 

And  ere  the  word  upon  the  t-cho  died. 

Two  fell ;  the  rest  .'.ssiird  the  rock's  rough  side. 

And,  furious  at  the  madness  of  their  foes, 

Disdain'd  all  further  etf  )rts,  save  to  close. 

And  s'eep  the  crag,  and  all  without  a  pa  h, 

Each  step  opposed  a  bastion  to  their  wraih. 

While,  placed  'midst  clefts  the  letst  accessible, 

Which  Christian's  eye  was  train'd  to  mark  full  well, 

The  three  maintain'd  a  strife  which  mu-t  not  yield. 

In  spots  where  eagles  might  have  chosen  to  build. 

Their  every  shot  told  ;  while  the  assiihnt  fell, 

Dash'd  on  the  shingles  like  the  limpet  shell ; 

But  still  enough  survived,  and  mounted  still. 

Scattering  their  numbers  here  and  there,  until 

Surrounded  and  commanded,  though  not  nigh 

Enough  for  seizure,  near  enough  to  die, 

The  desperate  ttio  held  aloof  their  fate 

But  by  a  thread,  lite  sharks  who  have  gorged  the  bait ; 

Yet  to  the  very  last  they  battled  well, 

And  not  a  groan  inform'd  .heir  foes  who  fell. 

Chrisiian  died  las'  —  twice  wounded  ;  and  once  more 

Mercy  was  offer'd  when  they  saw  his  gore ; 

Too  late  fjr  life,  but  not  too  late  to  die. 

With,  though  a  hostile  hand,  to  close  his  eye. 

A  limb  was"  broken,  and  he  droop'd  along 

The  crag,  as  doth  a  f  ilcon  refl  of  young. 

The  sound  revived  hiai,  or  appeal 'd  to  wake 

Some  passion  which  a  wejkly  gesture  spake  : 

He  beckon'd  to  the  foremost,' who  drew  nigh. 

But,  as  they  near'd,  he  rear'd  his  weapon  high  — 

His  last  ball  had  been  aini'd,  but  from  his  breast 

He  tore  the  topmost  button  from  his  vest,' 

Down  the  tube  dash'd  it,  levell'd,  fired,  and  smiled 

As  his  foe  fell  ;  then,  like  a  serpent,  coil'd 

His  wounded,  weary  form,  to  where  the  steep 

I/xik'd  desperate  as  himself  along  the  deep  ; 

Cast  one  glance  back,  and  clench'd   his  hand,  and 

shook 
His  last  rage  'gainst  the  earth  which  he  forsook  ; 
Then  plunged  :  the  rock  below  received  like  glass 
His  body  crush'd  into  one  gnry  mass. 
With  scarce  a  shred  to  tell  of  human  form. 
Or  fragment  for  the  sea-bird  or  the  worm  ; 
A  fair-hair'd  scalp,  besraear'd  with  blood  and  weeds, 
Tel  reek'd,  the  remnant  of  himself  and  deeds; 
Some  splin'ers  of  his  weapons  (to  the  last. 
As  long  as  hand  could  hold,  he  held  them  fast) 


1  Id  Thibanll's  account  of  Frederic  the  Secrnd  of  Pros- 
■ia,  Itiere  is  a  singular  relation  of  a  young  Frenchman, 
who  with  his  m  stress  appeared  to  be  of  some  rank.  He 
enlisted  and  deserted  a'  Schweidiiilx  ;  and  afler  a  despe- 
rate resislance  was  retaken,  having  killed  an  officer,  who 
■ttempted  to  seize  him  afler  he  was  wounded,  by  the  dis- 
rharge  of  his  musket  Iciad'd  with  abuttun  of  his  unifoim. 
Some  circumKtaniea  on  his  o.url-maili  1  ra  sed  a  great 
iDterest  among.<  his  judges,  who  wished  to  disr<iver  his 
real  situation  in  life,  whiih  he  rffered  lo  disclose,  but  lo 
the  itinr  onlv,  lo  whom  he  requested  perminsion  lo  write. 
This  was  refused,  and  Frederic  was  filled  w  Ih  the  greatest 
lodignatioa,  from  baffled  curioaily  or  some  other  motive, 
wbeo  be  understood  that  his  request  had  been  denied. 


Yet  glilter'd,  but  at  distance  —  hurl'd  away 
To  rust  beneath  the  dcw  and  dashing  spray. 
1  he  rest  was  nothing  —  save  a  lite  misspent, 
And  soul  —  but  who  shall  answer  where  it  went 
'  T  is  ours  to  bear,  not  judge  the  dead  ;  and  they 
Who  doom  to  hell,  themselves  are  on  the  way, 
Unless  these  bullies  of  eteinal  pains 
Are  pardon'd  their  bad  hearts  for  their  worse  brains. 

xiir. 

The  deed  was  over  !    All  were  gone  or  ta'en, 

The  fugitive,  the  captive,  or  the  slain, 

Chain'd  on  the  deck,  where  once,  a  gallant  crew, 

1  hey  stood  with  honour,  were  the  »  retched  few 

Survivors  of  the  skirmish  on  the  isle; 

But  the  last  rock  left  no  surviving  spoil. 

Cold  lay  they  where  Ihey  fell,  and  «eltermg, 

While  o'er  t'hem  flapp'd'the  sea  birds'  dewy  wing. 

Now  wheeling  nearer  from  the  neighbouring  sur^, 

And  screaming  high  their  harsh  and  hungry  dirge* 

But  calm  and  careless  heaved  the  wave  below. 

Eternal  with  unsympathetic  flow; 

F  ir  o'er  its  face  the  dolphins  sported  on, 

And  sprung  the  flying-fish  against  the  sun. 

Till  its  dried  wing  relapsed  from  its  brief  height. 

To  gather  moisture  for  another  flight. 

XIV. 

'T  was  mom  ;  and  Neuha,  who  by  dawn  of  day 

Swam  snioiithly  forth  to  catch  the  rising  ray, 

And  watch  if  aught  approach'd  the  amphibious  lair 

Where  liy  her  lover,  saw  a  sail  in  air: 

It  fiapp'd,  it  fill'd,  and  to  the  growing  gale 

Bent  its  bro.id  arch  :  her  breath  began  to  fail 

With  fluttering  fear,  her  heart  beaf  thick  and  high. 

While  yet  a  doubt  sprung  where  its  course  might  lie. 

But  U) :  it  came  not  ;  fast  and  far  away 

1  he  sh.adow  lesseu'd  as  it  clear'd  the  bay. 

She  gazed,  and  riung  the  sea-f'j.am  from  her  eyes, 

To  watch  as  for  a  rainbow  in  the  skies. 

On  the  horizon  verged  the  distant  deck, 

Diminish'd.  dwindled  to  a  very  speck  — 

Then  vanished.    All  was  ocean,  all  was  joy  ! 

Down  plunged  she  through  the  cnve  to  rouse  her  boy 

Told  all  she  had  seen,  ailu  all  she  hoped,  and  all 

That  happy  love  could  augur  oi  recall  ; 

Sprung  forth  again,  with  'lorquil  followinj  free 

His  bounding  nereid  over  the  broad  sea  ; 

Swam  round  the  rock,  to  where  a  shallow  cleft 

Hid  the  canoe  that  >euha  there  had  left 

Drifting  along  the  tide,  without  an  oar. 

That  eve  the  st  angers  chased  them  from  the  shore; 

But  when  these  vanish "d,  she  puisued  her  prow, 

Regain'd,  and  urged  to  where  they  found  it  now: 

Nor  ever  did  more  love  and  joy  embark, 

Than  now  n  ere  wafted  in  that' slender  ark. 

XV. 

Again  their  own  shore  rises  on  the  view. 
No  more  polluted  with  a  hostile  hue  ; 
No  sullen  ship  lay  bristling  o'er  the  foam, 
A  floating  dungeon  :  —  all  »  as  hope  and  home! 
A  thousand  proas  darted  o'er  the  bay. 
With  sounding  shell",  and  heralded'their  way; 
The  chiefs  came  down,  around  the  people  pour'd, 
And  welcomed  Torquij  as  a  son  restored  ; 
The  women  tbrong'd,  embracing  and  embraced 
Bv  Neuha,  askins  where  they  had  been  chased. 
And  how  escaped  ?    The  tale  was  told ;  and  then 
One  acclamation  rent  the  sky  again ; 
i  And  from  that  hour  a  new  I'radition  gave 
Their  sancluiry  the  name  of  "  Ncuha's  Cave." 
A  hundred  fires,  far  flickering  from  the  height, 
Bla;ed  o'er  the  general  revel  of  the  nizht. 
The  feast  in  honour  of  the  suest,  return'd 
i  To  peace  and  plea>;ure,  perilously  earn'd; 
j  A  nieht  succeeded  by  ?uch  happy  diys 
As  only  the  yet  infant  world  displays. 


1807.' 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


197 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 

1807—1824. 


U 


THE  ADIEU. 

H'ritten  under  the  impreuion  that  the  Author  would 

soon  die. 

Adieu,  thou  Hill ! »  where  early  joy 

Spread  roses  o'er  my  brow  ; 
Where  Science  seeks  each  loitering  boy 

VViih  knowledge  to  endow. 
Adieu,  my  youthful  friends  or  foes, 
Partners  nf  fririiier  bliss  or  woes  ; 

No  more  through  Idi's  pt'hs  we  stray; 
Soon  must  I  shire  the  gloomy  cell, 
Whose  ever  slumbering  inmates  dwell 

Unconscious  of  the  day. 

Adieu,  ye  hoary  Regal  Fanes, 

Ye  spires  of  Granta's  vale. 
Where  Learning  robed  in  sible  reigns, 

And  Melancholy  pale. 
Ye  comrades  of  the  jovial  hour, 
Ye  tenants  of  the  chssic  bower. 

On  Cama's  verdant  margin  placed, 
Adieu  1  whil=  memory  still  is  mine. 
For,  offerings  on  Oblivion's  shrine. 

These  scenes  nmst  be  effaced. 
Adieu,  ye  mountains  of  the  clime 

Where  grew  mv  youthful  years  ; 
Where  Loch  na  Gar'r  in  snows  sublime 

His  giant  summit  reirs. 
Why  did  my  childhood  wander  forth 
From  you,  ye  regions  of  the  North, 

With  sons  of  pride  to  roam  ? 
Why  did  I  quit  my  Highlmd  cave, 
Marr's  dusky  heath,  and  Dee's  clear  wave. 

To  seek  a  Sotheron  home  .> 
Hall  of  my  Sires !  a  long  farewell  — 

Yet  why  to  thee  adieu  ? 
Thy  vaults  will  echo  back  my  knell. 

Thy  towers  my  tomb  will  view: 
The  filtering  tongue  which  sung  thy  fall. 
And  former  glories  of  thy  H  <U, 

Forgeis  its  wonted  >in!ple  note  — 
But  yet  ihe  Lyre  retains  'he  strings. 
And  some imes,  on  iEolian  wings, 

In  dying  strains  may  fioat. 
Fields,  which  surround  yon  rustic  cot, 

While  yet  I  linger  here. 
Adieu  I  you  are  not  nnw  forgot, 

To  retrospect  ion  dear. 
Streamlet !  2  along  whose  rippling  surge 
My  youhful  limt»s  were  woni  to  urge, 

At  noontide  heat,  their  pliant  couise  ; 
Plunging  wilh  ardour  from  the  shore, 
Thy  springs  will  lave  these  limbs  no  mors, 

Deprived  of  active  force. 
And  shall  I  here  forget  the  scene, 

S'ill  neares' to  my  hre  st? 
Rocks  rise  and  rivers  roll  tielween 

The  spot  wliich  passion  hies' ; 
Yet  Mary,3  all  thy  beauties  seem 
Fresh  as  in  Love's  liewitching  dr2am, 

To  me  in  smiles  displayed  : 
Til!  slow  diseise  re-igns  his  prey 
To  Death,  the  parent  of  decay, 

Tbioe  image  cauuot  fade. 


And  thou,  my  Friend  !  *  whose  gentle  love 

Yet  thrills  my  bosom's  chords. 
How  much  thy  friendship  was  above 

Description's  power  of  words! 
Still  near  my  breast  thy  gift  1  wear 
Which  sparkled  once  with  Feeling's  fear, 

Of  Love  the  pure,  the  saced  gem  ; 
Our  snuls  weie  equal,  and  our  lot 
In  that  dear  mnnienl  quite  foigot; 

Let  Pride  alone  coudemn  ! 

All,  all  is  dark  and  cheerless  now! 

No  smile  of  Love  s  deceit 
Can  warm  my  veins  wilh  wonted  glow, 

Can  bid  Life's  pulses  beat : 
Not  e'en  the  hope  of  future  fame 
Can  wake  my  faint,  exhausted  frame, 

Or  crown  with  fancied  wreaths  my  head. 

Mine  is  a  short  ingloiious  race, 

To  humble  in  the  dust  my  face, 

And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

Oh  Fame  \  tho-j  goddess  of  my  heart  j 

On  him  who  gains  thy  praise, 
Pointless  must  full  the  Spectre's  dart, 

Consumed  in  Glory's  blaze  ; 
Bu'  me  she  beckons  from  the  earth. 
My  name  obscure,  unmark'd  my  birth, 

My  life  a  short  and  vulgar  dream  : 
Lost  in  the  dull,  ignoble  ciowd, 
My  hopes  recline  wilhin  a  shroud. 

My  fate  is  Lethe's  stream. 

When  I  repose  beneath  the  sod. 

Unheeded  in  Ihe  cliy. 
Where  once  my  playful  footsteps  trod. 

Where  now  niy  head  must  lay  ; 
The  meed  of  Pily  will  be  shed 
In  dew-drops  o'er  my  narrow  bed. 

By  nightly  skies,  and  storms  alone: 
No  mortal  eye  will  deizn  to  steep 
With  teirs  Ihe  dark  sepulchral  deep 

VVhich  hides  a  name  unknown. 

Forget  this  world,  my  restless  sprite, 

Turn,  turn  thy  Ihough's  to  Heaven: 
There  must  thmi  soon  direct  thy  flight, 

If  errors  are  forgiven. 
To  bigot?  and  to  si>cts  unknown. 
Bow  diwn  beneath  iie  AlmiabtyV  Thronef 

To  H;m  address  thy  trembling  prayer: 
He,  who  is  merciful  and  just. 
Will  i.ot  reject  a  child  of  dust. 

Although  his  meanest  care. 

Father  of  Lieht  I  to  Thee  I  call ; 

My  soul  is  dark  within  : 
Thou,  wh"  canst  mark  the  sparrow's  fall, 

Avert  'he  death  of  sin. 
Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star. 
Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war. 

Whose  mantle  is  yon  lioundless  sky, 
My  'houshfs.  my  words,  niy  crimes  forgiiei 
And.  since  I  soon  must  cease  to  live. 

Instruct  me  how  to  die. 

I(j07.    [Pint 


1  Harrow.  2  The  i 

3Mary  Duff.— E. 


17 


'  Crete,  at  Southnell  -E. 


4  Eddle«tone,  the  Cambridge 


198 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


1807. 


TO    A   VAIN    LADY. 

Ah,  heedless  girl !  why  thus  disclose 
Wha:  ne'er  was  meant  fr.r  other  ears? 

Why  :hus  destroy  Ihiue  own  repose 
And  dig  the  source  of  future  tears  ? 

Oh,  thou  wilt  weep,  imprudent  maid. 
While  lurking  envious  foes  wi!!  smile, 

For  ail  the  follies  thou  hast  said 
Of  those  who  spoke  but  to  Lejuile. 

Vain  girl !  thy  ling'ring  woes  are  nigh, 
If  thou  believ'st  what  striplings  say  : 

Oh,  from  the  deep  teniplati'm  fly, 
Ncr  fall  the  s|)ecious  spoiler's  prey. 

Dost  thou  repeat,  in  childish  bonsf. 
The  words  man  utters  to  deceive? 

Thy  peace,  thy  ho  e,  thy  all  is  lost, 
If  thou  canst  venture  to  believe. 

While  now  amongst  thy  female  peers 
Thou  tell  si  agiin  the  soothing  tale, 

Canst  thou  not  mark  the  risinsr  sneers 
Duplicity  in  vain  would  veil  ? 

These  tales  in  secret  silence  hush, 
>ior  make  thyself  the  public  gaze: 

What  modest  maid  without  a  blush 
Recounts  a  iLitteriug  coxcomb's  praise  ? 

Will  not  the  hughing  toy  despise 
Her  who  relates  each  fond  conceit  — 

Who,  thinking  Heaven  is  in  her  eyes, 
Yet  caunot  see  Uie  slight  deceit  ? 

For  she  who  takes  a  soft  delight 

These  amorous  nothings  in  revealing, 

Must  credit  all  we  say  or  write. 
While  vanity  prevents  concealing. 

Cease,  if  you  prize  your  beauty's  reign  1 

No  jeilousy  bids  me  reprove  : 
One.  who  is  thus  from  nature  vain, 

1  pity,  but  I  caunot  love. 

January  15,  1607.     [First  published  1832.] 


TO    ANNE. 
Oh,  Anne,  your  offences  to  me  have  been  grievous: 
I  thought  from  my  wrath  no  atonement  could  save 
you ; 
But  woman  is  mide  to  command  and  deceive  us  — 
I  look  d  in  your  fice,  and  1  almost  forgave  you. 

I  vow'd  I  could  pe'er  for  a  moment  respect  you. 
Yet  thought  that  a  d  ly's  separation  was  long  : 

When  we  met,  I  determined  again  to  suspect  you  — 
Your  smile  soon  convinced  me  suspicion  was  wrong. 

I  swore,  in  a  transport  of  young  indignation, 

With  fervent  contempt  e  ermore  to  disdain  you  : 
I  saw  you  —  my  an»er  became  adniira'ioii ; 

And  now,  all  myVish,  all  my  hope,  's  to  regain  you. 
With  beauty  like  vours,  oh,  how  vain  the  contention ! 

Thus  lowlv  1  sue  for  forjiveness  before  you  ;  — 
At  once  to  co'iiclude  such  a  fruitless  dissension, 

Be  false,  my  sweet  Ann'^,  when  1  cease  to  adore  you  ! 
January  16,  le07.    [First  publishtfd  ltS2.] 


TO    THE    SAME. 
Oh  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  th»t  the  Fates  have  decreed 

The  heirt  which  adores  you  should  wish  to  dissever 
Such  Fates  were  to  me  most  unkind  ones  indeed,— 

To  be  ir  me  from  love  and  from  beauty  for  ever. 
Vour  frowns,  lovely  girl,  are  the  Fates  which  alone 

Could  bid  me  fro'm  fond  admiration  refrain , 
By  these,  every  hope,  every  wish  were  o'erthrowu. 

Till  smiles  should  restore  me  to  rapture  again. 


As  the  ivy  and  oak,  in  the  forest  entwined. 

The  rage  of  the  temp  st  united  must  wettherj 
My  love  and  my  life  "ere  by  inlure  design'd 
j     To  flourish  alike,  or  to  perish  toge:her. 

Then  siy  not,  s«-eet  Anne,  that  the  Fates  have  de- 
I  creed 

Your  lover  should  bid  you  a  listing  adieu  : 

Till  Fa  e  can  ordain  that  his  bosom  shall  bleed, 
I      His  soul,  bis  existence,  are  centred  in  you. 
]  IfiOT.     [First  publisbtd  1633.] 


TO  THE    AUTHOR    OF   A   SONNET 

BEGINNING, 

•  '  SAD  IS  MY  VERSE,'  YOU  SAY,  '  AND  YET 
NO    TFAR.'  " 

Thy  verse  is  "  sad  "  enough,  no  doubt . 

A  devilish  deal  more  sad  than  witty  ! 
Why  we  should  weep  I  can't  find  out. 

Unless  for  Ihee  we  weep  in  pily. 

Yet  there  is  one  I  pity  more  : 
And,  much,  al  is  !  I  think  he  needs  it : 

For  he,  1  'm  sure,  will  sufler  sore. 
Who,  to  his  own  misfortune,  reads  it. 

Thy  rhymes,  without  the  aid  of  magic, 
May  oiiu  be  read  —  but  never  alter : 

Yet  their  elTect  's  by  no  means  tragic. 
Although  by  far  too  dull  for  laughter. 

But  would  you  make  our  bosoms  bleed, 
And  of  no  common  pang  complain 

If  you  would  mnke  us  weep  indeed. 
Tell  us,  you  'II  reid  them  o'er  again. 

March  S,  liOt.     [First  pubUshed  183S.J 


ON    FINDING   A   FAN. 

In  one  who  felt  as  once  he  felt, 

This  might,  perhaps,  have  fann'd  the  flame; 
But  now  l;is  heirt  no  more  will  melt, 

Because  that  heart  is  not  the  same. 

As  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low, 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light, 

And  bsde  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow. 
Now  quenches  all  their  blaze  in  night. 

Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires  — 
As  many  a  boy  and  girl  rmiemberc-- 

While  every  hope  of  love  expires. 
Extinguish "d  with  the  dying  embers. 

The  firft.  though  not  a  spark  survive. 
Some  careful  hand  may  teach  to  burn  ; 

The  litst.  alas  !  can  ne'er  survive  ; 
No  touch  can  bid  its  waimlh  return. 

Or,  if  it  chance  to  wake  asain. 
Not  always  doom'd  its  heat  to  smother, 

It  sheds  (so  wayward  fates  ordain) 
Its  former  warmb  around  another. 

1W)7.     [First  published  1832.] 


FAREWELL  TO    THE    MUSE. 
Thou  Power:  who  hast  ruled  me  through  infamy's 

Young  offspring  of  Fancy,  't  is  time  we  should  pari  j 
Then  rise  on  the  sale  this  ihe  last  of  niy  lays, 
I     '1  he  coldest  effusion  which  spi  ings  from  my  heirt. 

,  This  bosom,  responsive  to  rap'ure  no  more, 
I     Shall  hush  thy  «  ild  notes,  nor  im|.l"re  thee  to  sing ; 
j  The  feelings  of  childhood,  which  taught  thee  to  soar 
!     Are  wafted  far  distant  on  A|)atby's  wing. 


1807.J 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


199 


■fbough  simple  the  themes  of  my  rude  flowing  Lyre, 
Yet  even  these  themes  are  dejjarted  for  ever  ; 

Ko  more  beam  the  eyes  which  my  dream  could  inspire, 
My  visioLs  are  Ilowii,  to  return, —  alas,  never  ! 

When  drain'd  is  the  nectar  which  gladdens  the  bowl, 
How  vain  is  the  efi'.rt  delight  to  prolong  ! 

When  cold  is  the  beiuty  which  dwelt  in  my  soul, 
What  magic  of  Fancy  can  lengtbea  my  song  ? 

Can  the  lips  sing  of  Love  in  the  desert  alone, 
Of  kisses  and  smiles  which  ihey  now  must  resign  ? 

Or  dwell  with  delight  on  the  hours  that  nre  flown  ? 
Ah,  no !  for  those  hours  can  no  longer  be  mine. 

Jan  they  speak  of  the  friends  that  I  lived  but  to  love? 

Ah,  surely  afl'eclion  ennobles  the  strain  ! 
But  how  can  my  numbers  in  sympathy  move. 

When  I  scarcely  cau  hope  i6  behold  them  again  ? 

Can  I  sing  of  the  deeds  which  my  Fathers  have  done, 
And  raise  my  loud  harp  to  the  fame  of  my  Sires? 

For  glories  like  theirs,  oh,  how  faint  is  my  tone ! 
For  Heroes'  exploits  how  unequal  my  fires  1 

Untouch'd,  then,  my  Lyre  shall  reply  to  the  blast  — 
T  is  hush'd  ;  and  my  feeble  endeavours  are  o'er; 

And  those  who  have  heard  it  will  pardnn  the  past. 
When  they  know  that  its  murmurs  shall  vibrate  no 
more. 

And  soon  shall  its  wild  erring  notes  be  forgot, 
Since  early  affection  and  love  Is  o'ercast: 

Oh  I  blest  h  id  my  fate  been,  and  happy  my  lot. 
Had  the  first  strain  of  love  been  the'dea'rest,  the  last. 

Farewell,  my  youug  Muse !  since  we  now  can  ne'er 

meet ; 

If  our  songs  have  been  languid,  they  surely  are  few : 

Let  us  hope  that  the  present  at  leist  will  be  sweet —      ! 

The  present —  which  seals  our  eternal  Adieu.  ! 

3607.     [First  published  1832.]      j 


TO    AN   OAK    AT   NEW  STEAD. i        | 

Young  Oak  !  when  I  planted  thee  deep  in  the  ground, 
I  hoped  that  thy  days  would  be  longer  than  mine  ; 

That  thy  dark-waving  branches  would  flourish  around, 
And  ivy  thy  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine.  i 

Such,  such  was  my  hope,  when  in  infancy's  yeirs,  | 
On  the  land  of  my  fathers  I  rear'd  ihee  with  pride:   j 

They  are  pist,  and  t  water  thy  stem  with  my  tears, —   i 

Thy  decay,  not  the  weeds'that  surround  thee  can 

hide.  I 

I  left  thee,  ray  Oak,  and,  since  that  fatal  hour, 

A  stranger  has  dwelt  in  the  hall  of  my  sire  ;  | 

Till  manhood  shill  crown  me,  not  mine  is  the  power, 
But  his,  whose  neglect  may  have  bade  thee  expire. 

Oh  '.  hardy  thou  wert  —  even  now  little  care  I 

Might  revive  thv  young  head,  and  thy  wounds  gently 
heal: 

But  thou  wert  not  fated  affection  to  share  — 
For  who  could  suppose  that  a  Stranger  would  feel  ?    : 


Ah,  droop  not,  my  Oak !  lift  thy  head  for  a  while, 
!      Ere  twice  round  yon  Glory  this  planet  shall  run  ; 

The  hind  of  thy  Master  will  teach  thee  to  smile, 
I      When  Infancy's  years  of  prob.ation  are  done. 

Oh,  live  then,  my  Oak  I  tower  aloft  from  the  weeds, 
That  clog  thy  young  growth,  and  assist  thy  decay, 

For  still  in  thy' bosom  are  life's  early  seeds. 
And  still  may  thy  branches  their  beauty  display. 

Oh !  yet,  if  maturity's  years  may  be  thine. 
Though  /  shall  lie  low  in  the  cavern  of  death, 

On  thy  leaves  yet  the  day-beam  of  ages  may  shine, 
Uninjured  by  time,  or  the  rude  winter's  breath. 

For  centuries  still  may  thy  boughs  lighlly  wave 
j      O'er  the  corse  of  thy  lord  iu  Ihy  canopy  Inid  ; 
j  While  the  branches  thus  gratefully  shelter  bis  grave. 
The  chief  who  survives  may  recline  in  thy  shade. 

,  And  as  he,  with  his  boys,  shall  revisit  this  spot, 
!      He  will  tell  iheai  in  whispers  more  softly  to  tread. 
1  Oh  !  surely,  by  these  I  shall  ne'er  be  forgot : 
Remembrance  still  hallows  the  dust  of  the  deid. 

And  here,  will  they  say,  when  in  life's  glowing  prime, 
I      Perhaps  he  has  pour'd  forth  his  young  simple  lay, 
And  here  must  he  sleep,  till  the  moments  of  time 
Are  lost  in  the  hours  of  Eternity's  day. 

1607.     [First  published  1632.] 


ON  REVISITING  HARROW.* 
Here  once  engaged  the  stranger's  view 

Young  Friendship's  record  simply  traced  ; 
Few  were  her  words,—  but  yet,  though  few, 

Reseniment's  hand  the  liue  defaced. 

Deeply  she  cut  —  but  not  erased. 
The  characters  were  s  ill  so  plain. 

That  Friendship  once  return'd,  and  gazed, 

Till  Memory  hail'd  the  words  again. 

Repentance  placed  them  as  before; 

Forgiveness  join'd  her  gentle  name  ; 
So  fair  the  inscription  seem'd  once  more. 

That  Friendship  thought  it  still  the  same. 

Thus  might  the  Record  now  hive  been  ; 

But,  ah,  in  spite  of  Hope's  endeavour. 
Or  Friendship's  tears.  Pride  rush'd  between. 

And  blotted  out  the  line  for  ever. 


EPITAPH    ON    JOHN   ADAMS,    OF   SOUTH- 

WELL, 
A   CARRIER,  WHO    DIED  OF   DKCNKENNE8S. 

John  Adams  lies  here,  of  the  parish  of  Southwell, 
A  Carrier  who  carried  his  can  to  his  ranuth  well ; 
He  canted  so  much,  and  he  carried  so  fast. 
He  could  carry  no  more  —  so  was  carried  at  last ; 
For,  the  liquor  he  drank,  being  too  much  for  one. 
He  could  not  carry  off, —  so  he's  now  carri-on. 

September,  160T. 


1  Lord  Byrnn,  on  his  first  arrival  at  Jfewstead,  in  1798, 
planted  an  oak  in  tile  garden,  and  nourished  the  fancy, 
that  as  the  tree  fiourished  so  should  he.  On  revisiting 
the  at>bey,  during  Lord  Grey  de  Ruthven'a  residence 
there,  he  found  the  oak  choked  up  by  weeds,  and  almost 
destroyed;  — hence  these  lines.  Shorlly  after  Colonel 
Wildman,  the  present  proprietor,  took  possessioa,  he  one 
day  noticed  it,  and  said  lo  the  servant  who  was  with  him, 
"  Here  is  a  tine  young  oak ;  but  it  must  be  cut  down,  aa 
it  grows  in  an  improper  place."  —  "Ihope  not,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  man  ;  *  for  it  *s  the  one  that  my  lord  was  so 
fond  of,  because  he  set  it  hiraself."  The  Colonel  has,  of 
course,  taken  every  possible  care  of  it.     It  is  already 


TO   MY    SON. 

Those  flaxen  locks,  those  eyes  of  blue. 
Bright  as  Ihy  mother's  in  their  hue  ; 
Those  rosy  lips,  whose  dimples  play 
And  smile  to  steal  the  heart  away, 

2  Some   years    ago,  when    at    Harrow,  ■   friend  of  the 

author  engraved  on  a    parlicniar  spot  the  names  of  both, 

with  a  few  additional  words,  ts  a  memorial.     Afterwards, 

on  receiving  gome    real   or  imagined    injury,  the    author 

quired  after  by  strangers,  as  "  Che   Byron  oak,"  and  pro-    destroyed  the  frail  record  before  he  left  Harrow.     Co  re- 

to  share,  in   after  times,  the   celebrity  of  Shak-    visiting  the  flace  in  1807,  be  wrote  under  it  tbcM  ■«■>• 

•  mulberry,  and  Pope's  willow.  —  E.  |  at. 


200 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


"1808 


Recall  a  scene  of  former  joy, 

And  touch  thy  fathers  bearl,  my  Boy  ! 

And  thou  canst  lisp  a  father's  nime  — 
Afc,  William,  were  thine  own  the  same,— 
No  self-reproach  —  but,  let  me  cease  — 
My  care  for  thee  shall  purchase  peace  ; 
Th?  mother's  shade  shall  smile  in  joy, 
Aud  pardon  all  the  past,  my  Bey  ! 

Her  lowly  grave  the  turf  has  prest, 
And  thou  hast  known  a  strani;.;r"s  breast ; 
Derision  sneers  upon  thy  birth, 
And  yields  thee  scarce  a'  name  on  earth; 
Yc;t  shall  not  these  one  hope  destroy, — 
A  Father's  heart  is  thine,  my  Boy  ! 

Why,  let  the  world  unfeeling  frown, 
Must  I  fond  Nature's  cl  lini  disown? 
Ah,  no  —  though  moralists  reprove, 
I  hail  thee,  dearest  child  of  love, 
Fair  cherub,  pledge  of  youth  and  joy 
A  Father  guards  thy  birlli,  my  Boy  ! 

Oh,  't  will  be  sweet  in  thee  to  trace, 
Ere  age  has  wrinkled  o'er  my  face, 
Ere  half  my  glass  of  life  is  run, 
At  once  a  brother  and  a  son  ; 
And  all  my  wane  of  years  employ 
In  justice  done  to  thee,  my  Boy  ! 

Although  so  young  thy  heedless  sire. 
Youth  will  not  damp  parental  tire ; 
And,  wert  thou  stiil  less  dear  to  me, 
While  Helen's  form  revives  in  Ihee, 
The  breast,  which  beat  to  former  joy, 
Wiil  ne'er  desert  its  pledge,  my  Boy  ! 

1607.     [First  published  J 


FAREWELL !  IF  EVER  FONDEST  PRAYER. 

Farewell !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 

For  others'  weal  avail'd  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air. 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 
•T  were  vain  to  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh  ; 

Oh  !  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
When  wrung  from  guilt's  expiring  eye. 

Are  in  that  word  —  Farewell '.  —  Farewell ! 

These  lips  are  mule,  these  eyes  are  dry ; 

But  in  ray  breast  and  in  my  bnin. 
Awake  the  pangs  that  p.iss  not  by. 

The  thought  that  ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
Mv  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain, 

"Though  grief  and  passim  there  rebel ; 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain  — 

I  only  feel  —  Farew  ell  1  —  Farewell ! 


BRIGHT  BE  THE  PLACE  OF  THY  SOUL. 

Brizht  be  the  phce  of  thy  soul ! 

No  lovelier  >piril  than  thine 
E'er  burst  from  its  mortal  control 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 

On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine. 

As  (by  soul  shill  immortally  be; 
And  our  sorrow  niav  cease  lo  repme. 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee. 

Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb  ! 

May  i's  verdure  like  emeralds  be: 
There  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom 

In  aught  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 

Toung  fiowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 
May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest: 

But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see; 
For  whv  should  we  mourn  for  the  blest  ? 


•WHEN   WE    TWO   PARTED 

When  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  brokenhearted 

To  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  (hy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  Ihy  kiss ; 
Truly  that  liour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  w  hat  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame; 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

Aud  share  in  is  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A'knell  10  mine  ear; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me  — 

Why  wert  thf^u  so  dear  ? 
They  know  n  .t  1  knew  thee. 

Who  knew  thee  too  well :  — 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met  — 

In  silence  I  grieve. 
That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

Afier  long  years. 
How  should  l'  greet  thee  ?  — 

With  silence  and  tears. 


TO  A  YOUTHFUL   FRIEND. 

Few  years  have  pass'd  since  thou  and  I 
Were  firmest  friends,  at  least  in  name ; 

And  childhood's  gay  sincerity 

Preserved  our  feelings  long  the  same. 

But  now,  like  me,  too  well  thou  know'st 
What  trifles  oft  the  heart  recall ; 

And  those  who  once  have  loved  the  most 
Too  soon  forget  they  loved  at  all. 

And  such  the  change  the  heart  displays, 
So  friil  is  early  friendship's  reign, 

A  month's  brief  lapse,  perhaps  a  day's. 
Will  view  thy  mind  estranged  again. 

If  so,  it  never  shall  be  mine 

To  mourn  the  loss  of  such  a  heart ; 

The  fault  was  Nature's  fault,  not  thine, 
Which  made  thee  fickle  as  thou  art 

As  rolls  the  ocean's  changing  tide. 
So  human  feelings  ebb'and  tiow  ; 

And  who  would  in  a  breast  confide 
Where  stormy  passions  ever  glow? 

It  boots  not  that,  together  bred. 

Our  childish  days  were  days  of  joy : 
My  spring  of  life  has  quickly  fled  ; 

Thou,  too,  hast  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 

And  when  we  hid  adieu  to  youth, 
Waves  lo  the  specious  world's  control, 

We  sigh  a  long  farewell  to  truth  ; 
1  hat  world  corri.pts  the  noblest  soul. 

Ah.  joyous  season  !  v  hen  the  mind 

Dar^  all  'hinss  boldly  bu'  to  lie  ; 
When  Ihnush:  ere  spoke  is  unconfined, 

Aud  sparkles  in  the  placid  eye. 
Not  so  in  Man's  matiirer  years, 

When  Man  himself  is  but  a  tool; 
When  interest  sways  our  hopes  and  but, 

And  all  must  love  and  hate  by  rule. 


il808.J 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


201 


Wilh  fools  in  kindred  vice  the  same. 
We  leirn  al  leng  h  nur  faiilts  to  blend; 

And  those,  ^nd  those  iloiie,  may  claim 
The  prostituted  name  of  friend. 

Such  is  the  common  lot  of  man : 
Can  we  then  'scape  from  folly  free? 

Can  we  reverse  the  general  plan, 
Hor  be  what  all  in  turn  must  be? 

No:  for  myself,  so  dark  my  fate 

'J  hrougb  every  lurn  of  life  hath  been; 

Man  aiid  the  worid  so  much  1  hate, 
I  care  cot  when  I  quit  the  scene. 

But  thou,  with  spirit  frail  and  light. 
Wilt  shine  awhile,  and  pass  away  ; 

As  slow-worms  sparkle  through  the  nighf, 
But  dare  not  stand  the  lest  of  day. 

Alas  !  whenever  folly  calls 

Where  pira-ites  and  princes  meet, 

(For cheriah'd  tii-st  in  royal  hills. 
The  welcome  vices  kindly  greet) 

Ev'n  now  thou  M  nightly  seen  to  add 
One  insect  !0  the  fiulleriug  crowd; 

And  still  thy  triliing  heart  is  glad 

To  join  the  vain,  and  court  the  proud. 

There  dost  thou  glide  from  fair  to  fair, 
Still  simpering  on  wilh  eager  haste, 

As  files  along  the  gay  parterre, 

Ihat  taint  Ihe  flowers  they  scarcely  taste. 

But  say,  what  nymph  will  prize  the  flame 
Which  seems,  as  marshy  vajiours  move, 

To  flit  along  from  dame  to  dune. 
An  iguis-fatuus  gleam  of  love  ? 

What  friend  tor  thee,  howe'er  inclined, 
Will  deign  to  own  a  kindred  care  ? 

Who  will  debase  his  manly  mind. 
For  friendship  every  fool  may  share? 

In  time  forbear  ;  amidst  the  throng 
No  more  so  base  a  thing  be  seen ; 

No  more  so  idly  pass  along ; 
Be  something,  any  thing,  but  —  mean. 


LINES   INSCRIBED   UPON    A    CUP   FORMED 
FRUM  A   SKULL.i 
Start  not  —  nor  deem  my  spirit  fled, 

In  me  behold  the  only  skull. 

From  which,  unlike  a  living  head, 

Whatever  flows  is  never  dull. 

I  lived.  I  loved,  I  quaflfd  like  thee: 
I  dieJ  :  lei  earth  my  boi.es  resign ; 

Fill  up —  (hou  cans'  not  injure  me  ; 
The  worm  hath  fouler  lips  than  thine. 

Better  to  hold  the  sparkling  grape. 

Than  nurse  Ihe  eartli-worni's  slimy  brood  ; 

And  circle  in  the  goblet's  shape 

The  drink  of  gods,  thin  reptile's  food. 

1  Lord  Byron  gives  the  f  )ll<iwing  arrount  of  thi«  cop  :  — 
"The  gardener,  in  disg  ng,  dimnvered  a  skull  th  it  had 
probably  belonged  to  some  jolly  friar  or  mouk  of  Ihe  ab- 
t)e»,  about  the  time  it  was  d.mnnasteried.  Ob8ert;ng  it 
to  t>e  of  giant  size,  and  in  a  perfect  state  of  preser^'a'ion, 

■  strange  fancy  seized  me  of  having  it  set  and  mounted  as 

■  jrinkingci  p.  I  aerordingly  sent  it  to  tnwn,  and  it 
returned  with  a  very  high  polish,  and  of  a  mitlled  colonr 
like  tnrt.rise-shell."  It  is  now  in  the  pos.-ession  of  Colo- 
nel  Wildman,  the  proprietor  of  Newelead  Abbey.  In 
•everal  of  our  elder  dramatists,  roeniiiin  is  mnde  of  the 
custom  of  qiialTirig  wine  oi.t  of  similar  cups.  For  exam- 
ple, io  Dekker's  *•  Wonder  oT  a  Kingdom,"  Torrent 
says.— 

"  Would  I  had  ten  thousand  soldiers'  heads, 
I  Their  skulls  set  all  in  silver ;  to  drink  healths 

I  To  his  coufiMioa  who  first  iavenled  war."—  E. 


Where  once  my  wi  ,  perchance,  hath  shone 

III  aid  of  others'  let  me  shine ; 
And  when,  alas  '.  our  biaiii>  aie  gone, 

What  urbler  substitute  than  wine  ? 

Quaff  while  thou  canst :  another  race. 
When  thou  and  thine  like  me  are  sped. 

May  rescue  thee  from  earth's  embrace, 
And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead. 

Why  not  ?  since  through  life's  little  day 
Uur  heads  such  sad  etfecis  produce  ; 

Redeeni'd  from  worms  and  wasting  clay. 
This  chance  is  theirs,  to  be  of  use. 

Newstead  Abbey.  II 


WELL!    THOU    ART    HAPPY.a 

Well  !  thou  art  happy,  and  I  feel 

That  I  should  thus'be  happy  loo; 
For  still  my  heart  regards  Ihy  weal 

Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 

Thy  husband  's  blest  —  and  't  will  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot : 

But  let  them  pass  —  Oh  1  how  my  he^irt 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  ihee  not ! 

When  1  ite  I  saw  thy  favouri  e  child. 

1  thought  my  jealous  heart  w  ould  break  ; 
But  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 

I  kiss'd  it  for  iis  mother's  sake. 

I  kiss'd  it, —  and  repress'd  my  sighs 

Its  falher  in  its  face  to  see  ; 
But  then  it  had  its  mothers  eyes. 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu  !  I  must  away  : 

While  thou  art  blest  I  '11  not  repine ; 

But  near  thee  1  can  never  slay  ; 
My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I  deem'd  that  time.  I  deem'd  that  pride, 
Had  quench'd  at  length  my  boyish  flame  ; 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  ihy  side, 
My  heart  in  all, —  save  hope, —  the  same. 

Yet  was  I  calm :  I  knew  the  time 

My  breast  would  thrill  before  thy  look; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime  — 
We  met, —  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 

I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face. 

Yet  meet  wiih  no  confusion  there: 
One  only  feeling  could'st  thnu  tr  ce ; 

The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 
Away!  away!  my  early  dream 

Remenibrance  never  niust  awake  : 
Oh  I  where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream  ? 

My  foolish  heart  be  still,  or  break. 

November  3, 1606.  • 


INSCRIPTION    ON    THE    MONI.^IENT   OF    A 

NEWFOUNDLAND  DOG.* 
When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth. 
Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth, 

2  These  lines  were  printed  original'y  in  Mr.  Hiibhouse's 
Miscellai.y.  .\  lew  dsys  before  they  were  wtilirn,  the 
Poet  had  been  invited  Iodine  at  Annesley.  On  Ihe  infant 
danghler  of  his  fair  hi>stes8  being  brought  into  the  nvm, 
he  started  involuntarily,  and  wilh  the  utmo.'-t  dilfii  ully 
su|)pres>ed  his  emr.iiou.  To  Ihe  8en^atlouB  of  that  mo- 
ment we  are  icdcbud  for  these  beautiful  hiaozas. —  E. 

3  I^rd  Byron  wrote  to  his  mother  on  this  same  2d  No- 
vember, annijunriD|<  Lis  intention  of  sailing  for  lodim  iu 
March,  ItCJ.—  E. 

4 This  minnmenl  is  still  a  ronopicnnns  omameot  ia 
the  garden  of  Newstead.  The  following  ia  the  laicriptiaa 
by  which  the  verses  are  preceded: — 


202 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


£180a 


The  s'n.lptor's  art  exhauss  the  pomp  of  woe, 

And  s'o.-ied  urns  record  who  rests  below: 

When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen, 

Not  wlut  he  WIS,  but  what  he  should  h  ive  been: 

But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  fimes'  friend, 

The  (irst  to  v\elc  >nie,  foremost  to  defend. 

Whose  honest  heir!  is  still  his  masters  oivn. 

Who  labours,  fiihts.  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 

Unh  inour"d  fills,  unnoticed  ill  his  worth, 

Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth : 

While  m  in,  vain  insect !  hopes  to  be  forgiven, 

And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 

Oh  man  !  thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour. 

Debased  by  slavery,  or  corrui.t  by  power, 

Who  knows  thee  svell  mu-t  quit'thee  with  disgust, 

Degraded  miss  of  ai.iinaied  dust ! 

Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat, 

Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit! 

By  iia'ure  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name, 

Eaii  kindred  brute  nii^ht  bid  thee  blush  for  shame. 

Yel    who  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn. 

Pass  on  —  it  honours  none  you  wish  to  mourn  : 

T  >  mirk  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise; 

1  never  knew  but  one, —  and  here  be  lies.' 

Wewstead  Abbey.  November  30,  1808. 


TO  A  LADT, 

ON  BEING  ASKED  MY  REASON  FOR  QUITTING 

ENGLAND  IN  THE  SPRING. 

When  Man,  expell'd  from  Eden's  bowers, 

A  moment  linijer'd  near  the  !ja!e. 
Each  scene  recall  d  the  vanish'd  hours. 

And  bade  him  curse  his  fu:ure  fate. 

But.  wandering  on  thrnuzh  distant  climes, 
He  learnt  to  beir  his  load  of  grief; 

Just  ^ave  a  sigh  to  other  times. 
And  found  in  busier  scenes  relief. 

Thus,  lady;  a  will  it  be  with  me, 

And  I  must  view  thy  charms  no  more ; 

For,  whilj  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
I  sigh  for  all  1  knew  before. 

In  flight  I  shall  be  surely  wise, 
Escaping  from  temptation's  snare ; 


"Near  this  spot 
Are  deposileii  the  Remains  of  nne 
Whi  tK^s^es^■ed  Beauty  williout  Vanity, 
Strength  without  limolence, 
C.iurage  without  Ferocity, 
And  all  the  Virtues  uf  Mau  will  out  his  Vices. 
This  Praise,  which  would  tie  unmeaning  Flattery 
If  inscribed  over  human  ashes. 
Is  but  B  juBt  tribute  to  the  Memory  of 
BOATSWAIN,  a  Dog. 
Who  was  b..rn  at  Newfoundland,  May,  lf03, 
And  died  at  Newatead  Abbey,  Nov.  IS,  1H)S." 
L"rd  Bynin  thus  announced  the  death  of  his  favourite  to 
Mr.  Hudgsou  t — "BoatHwain  is   dead  I— he  expired  in   a 
stale  of  mildness,  on  the  Ifth,  after  ►ufferiiig  much,  yet 
retaining  all  the  gentleness  of  his  nature  to  the  last ;  ne- 
ver attempting   to  do  the   least  iiijtjry  to   any  one    near 
him.     1  have  now  lobt  every  thing  except  old  Murray." 
By  the  will  which   he   executed  in  J Ijl),  he  directed  that 
his  own  body  sh:iuM  he  buried  in  a  vault  in  the   garden 
near  his  faithful  dog  —  E. 


I  cannot  view  my  paradise 

Without  the  wish  of  dwelling  there.3 

December  2,  1806. 


"I  knew  but  one  unci 
The  re  der  will  not  fail  t 
was  written  at  a  time  whf 
respect  to  the  lady  of  An 
»i»ed.—  E. 


insed  —  and  here  he  lies. " 
observe,  that  this  inscription 
1  the  Poet's  early  feelings  with 
lesley  had    been    painfully    re- 


3  In  the  first  copy.  <•  Thus  Mary  !"— (Mrs.  Musters). 
j  The  reader  will  find  a  portrait  of  this  lady  in  Fioden'a 
I  lilualraliODS  of  Lord  Byron's  Works,  Ko.  iii.—  E. 


REMIND  ME  NOT,  REMIND  ME  NOT. 

Remind  me  not,  remind  i.ie  not. 
Of  those  beloved,  those  vanish'd  hours. 
When  all  my  s'lul  was  given  to  thee; 
Hours  that  may  never  be  forgot. 
Till  time  unnerves  our  vital  powers, 
And  thou  and  I  shall  cease  to  be. 

Can  I  forget  —  canst  thou  forget. 
When  playing  with  thy  golden  hair, 

How  quick  thy  fluttering  heart  did  move? 
Oh  !  by  my  soul,  I'see  thee  yet. 

With  eyes  so  Imguid,  breast  so  fair. 
And  lips,  though  silent,  breathing  love. 

When  thus  reclining  on  my  breast, 
Those  eyes  threw" back  a  glance  so  sweet. 
As  half  reprnach'd  yet  raised  desire, 
And  still  we  near  and  nearer  prest, 
And  still  our  glowing  lips  would  meet. 
As  if  in  kisses  to  expire. 

And  then  those  pensive  eyes  would  close. 

And  bid  their  lids  each  other  seek, 

Veiling  the  azure  orbs  below  ; 

While  their  long  lashes'  daiken'd  gloss 

Seem'd  steiling  o'er  thy  brilliant  cheek, 

Like  raven's  plumage  smooth'd  on  snow. 

I  dreamt  last  night  our  love  return'd. 
And.  soo  h  to  say,  that  very  dream 
Was  sweeter  in  its  phantasy. 
Thin  if  for  other  hearts  1  burn'd, 
For  eyes  that  ne'er  like  thine  could  beam 
In  rapture's  wild  reality. 

Then  tell  me  not,  remind  me  not, 
Of  hours  which,  though  for  ever  gone. 
Can  still  a  pleasing  dream  restore. 
Till  Ihiiu  and  I  shall  be  forgot. 
And  senseless,  as  the  mouldering  stone 
Which  tells  that  we  shall  be  no  more. 


THERE  WAS  A  TIME,  I  NEED  NOT  NAMl,. 

There  was  a  time,  I  need  not  name. 

Since  it  will  ne'er  forgotten  be. 
When  all  our  feelings  were  the  same 

A    still  my  soul  hath  been  to  thee. 

And  from  that  hour  when  first  thy  tongue 
I  Confess'd  a  love  which  equall'd  mine, 

!         Thoujh  many  a  grief  my  heart  hath  wrung, 
Unknown,  and  thus  unfelt,  by  thine  — 

3  In  Mr.  Hobhouse's  »ohiine,  the  line  stood,— "  With- 
out a  wish  to  enter  there."  The  following  is  an  extract 
from  an  unpublished  letter  of  Lord  Byrou,  written  io 
IMS,  only  three  days  previous  to  his  leaving  Italy  for 
Greece  ; — '*  Miss  Chawurlh  was  two  ye.irs  older  than  my* 
I  self.  She  married  a  man  of  an  ancient  and  respectable 
I  family,  but  her  marriage  was  not  a  happier  one  than  mv 
j  own.  Her  conduit,  however,  was  irreproicbuble  ;  but 
there  was  not  sympathy  between  their  charnclers.  I  had 
I  not  seen  her  for  many  years,  when  an  occasion  ottered.  I 
was  upon  the  p' int.  with  her  consent,  of  paying  her  a 
visit,  when  my  sister,  who  has  always  hiid  more  influence 
over  me  than  any  one  else,  persu&di^d  me  not  to  do  it. 
•  For.'  said  she,  'if  you  go  you  will  fall  in  love  again,  and 
then  there  will  be  a  scene ;  one  step  will  lead  to  aoolber, 
et  eela  /era  un  eclnt.*  I  was  guided  by  those  reasons, 
and  shortly  after  married,— with  what  succeaa  ills  uaelcas 


say.' 


18()8.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


203 


I  Non<!,  none  hath  sunk  so  deep  as  this  — 

I I  To  think  how  all  thil  love  hath  flown ; 
Transient  as  every  faiihless  kiss, 

But  transient  lu  thy  breast  alone. 

And  yet  my  heart  some  solace  knew, 
When  la  e  1  heird  thy  lips  declare, 

In  accents  once  inia:;ined  true, 
Remembrance  of  the  days  that  were, 

Tes!  my  adored,  yet  m05t  unkind  ! 

Though  thou  wilt  never  love  again, 
To  me  't  is  doubly  sweet  to  find 

Bemembrauce  of  that  love  remain. 

Yes!  't  is  a  glorious  thought  to  me, 
Nor  longer  shall  my  soul  repine, 

Whate'er  ihou  art  or  e'er  shall  be, 
Thou  hast  been  dearly,  solely  mine. 


AND  WILT  THOU  WEEP  WHEN  I  AM  LOW? 

And  wilt  Ihou  weep  when  I  am  low  ? 

Sweel  lady  !  speak  those  words  again : 
Yet  if  they  grieve  hee,  siy  mt  so  — 

I  would  not  give  thai  bosom  pain. 

My  heart  is  sad,  my  hopes  are  gone, 

My  blood  runs  coldly  through  my  breast ; 

And  when  I  peri  h,  thou  alone 
Wilt  sigh  above  my  place  of  rest. 

And  yet,  methinks,  a  gleam  of  peice 

Doth  through  my  cloud  of  anguish  shine: 

And  for  a  while  my  sorrows  cease, 
To  know  thy  heart  hath  felt  for  mine. 

Oh  lady  !  blessed  be  that  tear  — 

It  falls  fir  one  who  cannot  weep; 
Such  precious  drops  ate  doubly  dear 

To  those  whose  eyes  no  tear  may  steep. 

Sweet  lady  !  once  my  heart  was  warm 

With  every  feeling  soft  as  thine  ; 
But  beauty's  self  halh  ceisei  to  charm 

A  wretch  created  to  repine. 

Yet  wilt  th^u  weep  when  I  am  low? 

Sweet  lady  !  sjieak  those  words  again  ; 
Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so  — 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 


FILL  THE    GOBLET  AGAIN 
A   SONG. 

Fill  the  goblet  again  !  for  I  never  before 

Felt  the  glow  which  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its 

core ;  i 

Let   us   drink!  — who  would   not?  — since,  through  ^ 

life's  varied  round. 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found.  i 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  cm  supply  ; 
I  have  bask'd  in  the  beam  of  a  dark  rolling  eye  •,  | 

I  have  loved  !  —  who  has  not?  — but  what  heart  t.B 
declare  I 

That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there? 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  the  heart's  in  its 
spring,  _  I 

And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  tnke  win»,  I 

I  bad  friends!  — who  has  not?  — but  what  tongue  | 
will  avow, 

That  friends,  rosy  wine  !  are  so  faithful  as  thou  ? 

The  heart  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange,  I 

Friendshiri  shifts  with  the  suubeam  —  thou  never  can'st 

change ; 
Thou  grow'st  old  —  who  does  not?  —  but  on  earth 

what  apjjears. 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with  its  years  ? 


Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  lov    :an  liestow, 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  bi.lc)W, 
We  are  jealous!  —  who's  not  ? — thou  ha»t  no  such 
i  alloy  ; 

For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  we  enjoy. 

:  Then  Ihe  i^eason  of  youth  and  its  vanities  past. 
For  refuie  we  fly  to  ihe  goblet  at  lisl  ; 
There  we  find  —  do  we  not  ?  —  m  the  flow  of  Ihe  soul. 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  coutined  to  the  bowl. 

When  the  box  of  Pandora  was  open'd  on  earth, 
And  Misery  s  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 
I  Hope  "  as  left, —  was  she  not  ?  —  but  the  goblet  we 

kiss. 
And  care  not  for  Hope,  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 

Long  life  to  the  grape  !  for  when  summer  is  flown, 
I  The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own  : 
I  We  must  die  —  who  shall  not  ?  —  May  our  sins  be  for- 
:  given. 

And  Hebe  shall  fever  be  idle  in  Heaven. 


STANZAS   TO  A    LADY  ON    LEAVING   E^ 
LAND.i 

'T  is  done  —  and  shivering  >n  the  gale 
The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sail ; 
And  whistling  o'e''  the  bending  mast. 
Loud  sings  on  high  the  fresh'nini  blast; 
And  1  must  from  this  land  be  gone. 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

But  could  I  be  what  I  have  l)Pen, 
And  could  1  see  what  I  hnve>etn — 
C'luld  1  repose  upon  the  bre.ast 
Which  once  my  warmest  wishes  blest - 
I  should  not  seek  another  zone 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one, 

'T  is  long  since  I  beheld  that  eye 
Which  gave  me  bliss  or  misery  ; 
And  I  have  striven,  but  in  vain. 
Never  to  think  of  it  again  : 
For  'hough  I  tly  from  Albion, 
I  still  can  only  love  but  one. 

As  some  lone  bird,  without  a  mate. 
My  sveiry  heart  is  desolate  ; 
I  look  around,  and  cannot  trace 
One  friendly  smile  or  welcome  face. 
And  ev'n  in  crowds  am  still  alone. 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam, 
And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home; 
Till  I  forzet  a  false  fair  face, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  resting  place. 
My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shun, 
But  ever  love,  and  love  but  one. 

The  poorest,  veriest  wretch  on  earth 
Still  finds  some  hospitable  hearth, 
V»"here  friendship's  or  love's  softer  glow 
May  smile  in  joy  or  soothe  in  woe; 
Bui  frier.d  or  lennn  I  have  none, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

1  gc  -  but  wheresoe'er  I  flee 
There's  not  an  eye  will  weep  for  me; 
There's  not  a  kind  congenial  heart. 
Where  I  can  claim  the  meanest  part; 
Nor  thou,  who  has'  my  hopes  undone. 
Wilt  sigh,  although  1  love  but  one. 

To  think  of  every  early  scene, 

Of  \vhat  we  are.  and  what  we  've  been. 

Wo  aid  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  woe  — 

But  mini;,  alas!  Ins  stood  the  blow  ; 

Yet  still  beats  on  as  it  t)e»un. 

And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 

1  lo  the  original  MS.,  "To  Hn.Mu«ters.  '— B. 


204 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


[1309 


And  who  that  dear  loved  one  may  be, 
Is  not  for  vulvar  eyes  to  see  ; 
And  why  thi'  earlv  love  wrs  cross'd, 
Thou  k  -ow'st   he  iiest,  I  feel  the  most; 
But  few  that  dwell  beiieilh  the  sun 
Have  loved  so  long,  and  lived  but  one. 

I've  tried  another's  fetters  too, 
With  charms  perchance  as  U'lT  to  viewj 
And  I  would  fain  hive  loved  as  well, 
But  some  unc^nquerable  s;  ell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  b  east  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

'T  would  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view, 
And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu  ; 
Yet  wish  I  not  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  Ihit  wanders  o'er  the  deep  ; 
His  home,  his  hope,  his  youth  are  gone, 
Yet  still  be  loves,  and  loves  but  one. 


LINES    TO   MR.    HODGSON. 
WRITTEN  ON  BOARn  THE  LISBON  PaCKET. 

Huzza  !  Hodgsnn,  we  are  going, 

Our  embargo  's  off  at  I  ist ; 
Favourable  breezes  blowing 

Bend  the  cinv  iss  o'er  the  mast. 
From  aloft  the  signal 's  streaming, 

Hark  :  the  f>rewt»!l  gun  is  fired  ;, 
Women  screeching,  tars  blaspheming. 
Tell  us  that  our  'inie  's  expired. 
Here 's  a  rascal 
Come  lo  task  all, 
Prying  from  the  custom-house; 
Trunks  ui.packing, 
Cases  cricking, 
Not  a  corner  for  a  mouse 
'Scapes  unsearch'd  amid  the  racket. 
Ere  we  sail  on  board  the  Packet. 

Now  our  boatmen  quit  their  moonng. 

And  all  hands  must  ply  thenar; 
Bagiage  from  the  quiy  i-  lowering, 

We're  impatient  — push  fmm  shore. 
"  Have  a  care  I  that  case  holds  liquor  — 
Stop  the  boat  —  1  'm  sick  —oh  Lord  !" 
"  Sick,  mVam,  damme,  you  11  be  sicker 
Ere  you  've  been  an  hour  on  board." 
'1  hu.  are  screiming 
Men  and  women, 
Gemnien.  ladies,  -ervants,  Jacks; 
Here  entang'ing. 
All  are  wrangling, 
Stuck  tozelher  close  as  wax  — 
Such  the  general  noise  and  racket, 
Ere  we  reach  the  Lisbon  Packet. 

Now  we've  reach'd    er.  lo  !  the  ciptain. 

Gallant  Kidd.  c->niminds  the  crew  ; 
Passengers  iheir  births  are  clapt  in. 

Some  to  grumble,  some  to  spew. 
"  Hey  diy  I  ciH  yon  that  a  cabin  ? 

Why  't  is  hardiy  three  feet  square  ; 
Not  enough  to  stow  Queen  Mab  in  — 

Who  the  deuce  can  harbour  there  ?  " 
"  Who,  sir?  plenty  — 
Nobles  twenty 

Did  at  once  my  vessel  fill."  — 
"  Did  they?  Jesus. 
Flow  vou  -queeze  us  ! 

Would  to  God  they  did  50  still : 
Then  I  'd  scipe  the  heat  anti  r-icket 
Of  the  good  ship,  Lisbon  Packet."' 
Fletcher  !  Murray  !  Bob  '  >  where  are  you? 

Stre'ch'd  alonj  the  deck  like  logs  — 
Bear  a  hand,  you  jolly  tir.  you  ! 

Here's  a  rope's  end  for  the  dogs. 

1  Lord  Byron's  three  «ervanl8.  —  E. 


Hobhouse  muttering  fearful  curses, 
As  tlie  hatchway  down  he  rolls. 
Now  his  breakfast,  now  his  verses, 
Vomi's  forth  — and  damns  our  soul). 
"  Here  's  a  stanza 
On  Biagai  za  — 
Help  : "  —  "  A  c  >uplet  ? "  —  No,  a  cup 
Of  warm  water  —  " 
"What's  the  matter?" 
"  Zounds  I  my  liver 's  coming  up  j 
1  shall  not  survive  the  racket 
Of  this  brutal  Lisbon  Packet." 

Now  at  length  we  're  off  for  Turkey, 

Lord  kn.ws  when  we  shall  come  back  t 
Breezes  foul  and  tempests  murky 

May  ui.ship  us  in  a  crack. 
But,  since  life  at  most  a  jest  is, 

^  philosophers  allow. 
Still  to  laugh  by  far  the  best  is, 
Then  laujh  on  —  as  I  do  now. 
Laugh  .t  all  things. 
Great  and  small  things, 
Sick  or  well,  at  sea  or  shore; 
"While  we 're  quaffing. 
Let 's  have  laughing  — 
Who  the  devil  cres  fo   more?- 
Some  good  wine  '.  and  who  would  lack  it, 
Ev'n  on  board  the  l.isbon  Packet  ?  a 

Falmouth  Raads,  June  30,  1809. 


LINES   -WRITTEN    IN    AN    ALBUM,   AT 
MALTA. 
As  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone 

Some  name  arrests  the  passers-by  ; 

Thus,  when  thou  view'st  this  page  alone, 

May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye ! 

And  when  by  thee  that  name  is  read, 
Perchance  in  some  succeeding  year, 

Reflect  on  me  a-  on  the  dead, 
And  think  my  beait  is  buried  here. 

September  14,  1609. 


TO    FLORENCE. 3 

Oh  Lady  !  when  I  left  the  shore. 

The  distant  shore  which  save  me  birth, 

I  hardly  thought  to  grieve  once  more. 
To  quit  another  spot  on  earth : 


thpse  lively  verses  were 
—  "I    leave    Kngland  without 

without  peaaiire.  1  am 
itenced  tn  transportation;  but 


She  ha 


2  In  the  letter  in  v 
closed.  Lord  Bvrnn  f 
renret  —  I  shall  return 
Adam,  the  fist  cuiivii 
I  have  no  Kve,  and  ha 
Bourasacrah;  and  thus  ends  my  fiisl  rhapte 

3  These  limswere  vuritlen  at  Malta.     The  lady  tnwhora 
they  were    addressed,  bnd  whum    he    aflerwatds  apostr 
phises  in  the  stanzas  on  the  Ihunder-stcrm  of  Zitza,  ai 
in  Childe    Harold,  is    thus   mentu  n^d  in   a  letter  to  his 
mother  :  —  " This  letter  is  lommilted  In  the  iharee  of  a 
very  extraordinary  lady,  whom  you  have  d'tuhll^ss  heard 
of.  Mrs.  Speueer  Smith,  of  whose  esrape  the  Marqii 
Salvo    published    a    narrative  a  few  years  i 
sinie  tieen  shipwrei-ked ;  and    her   life  has  been  Irom  ii 
commeniemeipt  so  fertile  in  remnrkal.le  imidenls.  that  i 
a  mmame  they  would  appear  iinpr.balile.     She  was  boi 
at  Contlantinople,  where  her  father.  Union  Heiheri,  ws 
Austrian  Amhis.sad"r;  marri-d  iii.happOy.  yet  ha-  never 
been    impearhed    in  p  int  ofehara.ier;  ex<itid  the  ven- 
geHDce  of  B  luaparte,  by  taking  a  pail  in  some  vi  nspii 
several    times    risked    her    liie :  and    is  not    vet  live 
twenty.     She  is  heie  on  her  vsay  to  Kneland  lo  join  her 
husband,  being    obliged  to  leave  Tri 
p  yiiiR    a    visit    to    her  mother,  hv  the    approarh   of  the 
Fren  h.  and  embarks  soon  in    a   ship  of  war.     f" 
arrival  here  I  have  had  srarcely  any  other  lompo 
have   found  her  very  pretty.  Very  arromplished, 
tremely  eeeenlrie.     Buonaparte  is  even   now  90  incensed 
against  her,  that  her  life  would  be^ic  a.iiigcr  if  she  were 
taken  prisoner  a  secnn 


1809] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


205 


f  et  here,  amidst  this  barren  isle, 
Where  pauting  Nature  droops  the  head, 

Where  only  th  >u  art  seen  to  bmile, 
I  view  iny  parting  hour  with  dread. 

Though  far  from  Albin's  cragg);  shore 

Divided  by  the  dark-blue  main  j 
A  few,  brief,  rolling  seisons  o'er, 

Perchance  I  view  her  clitls  again : 

But  wheresoe'er  I  now  may  roim, 

Through  scorching  clime,  and  varied  »ea, 

Though  Time  restore  me  to  my  home, 
i  ne'er  shall  bend  mine  eyes  on  thee: 

On  thee,  in  whom  at  once  conspire 

All  charms  which  heedless  hearts  can  move, 

Whom  but  to  see  is  to  admire, 
And,  oh  !  forgive  the  v.ord  —  to  love. 

Forgive  the  word,  in  one  who  ne'er 
With  such  a  word  can  more  offend  ; 

And  since  thy  heart  I  cannot  share, 
Believe  me,  what  1  am,  thy  friend. 

And  who  so  cold  as  look  on  thee, 
Thou  lovely  waod'rer,  and  be  less? 

Nor  be,  whai  man  should  ever  be. 
The  friend  of  Beauty  in  distress? 

Ah  !  who  would  think  that  form  had  past 
Through  Dinger's  most  destructive  path. 

Had  braved  the  dealh-wins'd  tempest's  blast. 
And  'scaped  a  tyrant's  fiercer  wrath? 

Lady  :  when  I  shiU  view  the  walls 
Where  free  Byzantium  once  arose, 

And  Stamboul's  Oriental  halls 

The  Turkish  tyrants  now  enclose ; 

Though  mighties'  in  the  lists  of  fame,        - 

That  glorious  city  still  shall  be  ; 
On  me  't  will  hold  a  dearer  claim. 

As  spot  of  thy  nativity  : 

And  though  I  bid  thee  now  farewell. 
When  1  behold  that  wond'rous  scene, 

Since  where  thou  art  I  may  not  dwell, 
'T  will  soothe,  to  be  where  tho-j  hast  been. 

Septemt)er,  1809. 


COMPOSED  DURING  A  THUNDER-STORM.' 

Chill  and  mirk  is  the  nighlly  blast. 

Where  Pmdus'  mount  lins  rise, 
And  angry  clouds  are  pouring  fast 

The  vengeance  of  the  skies. 

Our  guides  are  gone,  our  hope  is  lost, 

And  lightnings,  as  they  play, 
But  show  where  rocks  our  path  have  crost. 

Or  gild  the  torrent's  spray. 

IThi*  thunder-stoim  orcnrrKl  during  the  night  of  the 
lllti  October,  1809.  when  Lord  Byron's  Buidcs  had  lout  the 
road  lo  Zitia.  near  the  range  nf  m'luntains  fcimerly  called 
Pindiii),  in  Albania.  Mr.  Ilobliniise,  wlio  had  rode  on  be- 
fore the  rest  of  the  parly,  and  arrived  at  Zitzi  jusi  as  the 
eTening  »et  in,  describes  the  thunder  as  "  rolling  without 
intermission,  the  echoes  of  one  peal  nitt  ceasing  to  roll  in  | 
the  monntain^,  bef  re  another  tremendous  crash  burst 
over  our  heaui  whilst  the  plains  and  the  distant  hills  ap- 
peared in  a  perpetual  blaze."  "The  tempest,"  he  says, 
••  wa<  alhigelher  terrific,  and  worthy  of  the  Grerian  Jo»e. 
My  Friend,  with  the  priest  and  Ihe  servanls, did  not  enter 
our  hilt  till  three  in  the  morning.  I  now  learnt  from  him 
that  they  had  lost  their  way,  and  that  after  wandering  up 
and  down  in  total  ignorance  of  Iheir  p-  sitiou,  Ihey  had 
•topped  at  la»t  near  s.me  Turkish  tomh»tone«  and  a  tor- 
rent, which  they  saw  hy  Ihe  flashes  of  liehining.  They 
bad  been  thus  exposed  for  nine  hours.  It  was  Inug  before 
we  ceased  to  talk  of  the  thunder-storm  in  the  plain  of 
«itl«."-E. 


Is  yon  a  cot  I  saw,  though  low  ? 

When  lightning  broke  the  gloom  — 
How  w  elcome  were  its  shade  1  —  ab,  JO  t 

'T  is  but  a  Turkish  tomb. 

Through  sounds  of  foaming  waterfalls, 

I  hear  a  voice  exclaim  — 
My  way-worn  countryman,  who  calls 

On  distant  England's  nanie. 

A  shot  is  fired  —  by  foe  or  friend  ? 

Another  — 't  is  to  tell 
The  mountain-peasants  to  descend, 

And  lead  us  where  '.hey  dwell. 

Oh  '.  who  in  such  a  night  will  dare 

To  tempt  the  wilderness  ? 
And  who  'mid  thunder-peals  c^n  hear 

Our  signal  of  distress  ? 

And  who  that  henrd  our  shouts  would  rise 

To  try  the  dubious  road  ? 
tior  raiher  deem  from  nightly  cries 

That  outlaws  were  abroad. 

Clouds  burst,  fkies  flash,  oh,  dreadful  hour  I 

More  fiercely  pours  the  storm : 
Yet  here  one  thought  has  still  the  power 

To  keep  my  bosom  warm. 

While  wandering  through  each  broken  path, 

O'er  brake  and  cnguy  brow; 
While  elements  exhaust  Iheir  wrath. 

Sweet  Florence,  where  art  thou? 

Not  on  the  sea,  not  on  the  sea. 
Thy  bark  hath  long  been  gone : 

Oh,  may  the  storm  (hat  pours  on  me, 
Bow  down  my  head  alone  ! 

Full  swiftly  blew  the  swift  Siroc, 

When  last  I  press'd  thy  lip; 
And  long  ere  now,  with  foaming  shock, 

Impell'd  thy  gallant  ship. 

Now  thou  art  safe  ;  nay,  long  ere  now 

Hast  trod  Ihe  5hore  of  Spain  ; 
'T  were  bird  if  aught  so  fair  as  thou 

Should  linger  on  the  main. 

And  since  1  now  remember  thee 

In  darkness  and  in  dread. 
As  in  those  hours  of  reveliy 

Which  mirlh  and  nmsic  sped ; 

Do  thou,  amid  the  fair  white  walls. 

If  Cadiz  yet  be  free. 
At  limes  from  out  her  latticed  halls 

Look  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea ; 

Then  think  upon  Calypso's  isles, 

Endear'd  by  days  gone  by  ; 
To  others  give  a  thousand  smiles. 

To  me  a  single  sigh. 

And  when  the  admiring  circle  mark 

The  paleness  of  thy  face, 
A  half  form'd  tear,  a  transient  spark 

Of  melancholy  grace, 

Again  thou  'It  smile,  and  blushing  shun 

Some  coxcomb's  raillery ; 
Nor  own  for  once  thou  Ihought'st  of  one. 

Who  ever  thinks  on  thee. 

Though  smile  and  sijh  alike  are  vain. 

When  sev<r'd  hearts  repine. 
My  spirit  tiies  o'er  mount  and  main. 

And  mourns  iu  search  of  thine. 


18 


fsoe 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


[1610. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    PASSING    THE    AMBRACIAN 

GULF. 

Through  cloudless  skies,  in  silvery  sheen, 
Full  beams  the  lao  m  on  Actium's  cr-ast : 

And  on  these  waves,  for  Egypt  s  queen, 
The  ancient  world  was  »\on  and  lost. 

And  now  upon  the  scene  I  look, 

The  ;.zure  grave  of  many  a  Roman  ; 

Where  stern  Ambition  once  forsook 
His  wavering  crown  to  follow  woman. 

Florence  !  whom  I  will  love  as  well 

As  ever  yet  was  said  or  sung, 
(Since  Orpheus  saug  his  spouse  from  hell) 

Whilst  thou  art  fair  and  I  am  young ; 

Sweet  Florence  !  those  were  pleasant  limes. 
When  worlds  were  stiked  for  ladies'  eyes: 

Had  bards  as  many  realms  as  rhymes, 
Thy  charms  might  raise  new  Antonies. 

Though  Fate  forbids  such  things  to  be, 
Yet,  by  thine  eyes  and  ringlets  cuil'd  ! 

I  cannot  lose  a  world  for  thee, 
But  would  not  lose  thee  for  a  world. 

Novemtwr  14, 1809. 


If,  when  the  wintry  tempest  roar'J, 

He  ^ped  to  Hero,  nothing  loth. 
And  thus  of  old  thy  curreul  pour'd, 

Fair  Venus  !  how  I  piiy  both  ! 

For  T>ie,  degenerate  modern  wretch, 
Thougli  in  the  genial  month  of  May 

My  dripping  limbs  I  faintly  stretch, 
And  think  I  've  done  a  feat  to-day. 

But  since  he  cross'd  the  rapid  tide, 

According  to  the  doubttul  story. 
To  woo,—  and  —  Lord  knows  what  beside, 

And  swam  for  Love,  as  I  for  Glory  ; 

'T  were  hard  to  say  who  fared  the  best : 
Sad  mortals  !  thus  the  gods  still  plague  you  I 

He  lost  his  labour,  I  my  jest : 

For  he  was  drown'd,  and  I  've  the  ague.* 

May  9,  1810 


LINES  IN  THE   TRAVELLERS'  BOOK  AT  OR. 
1  CHOMENUS. 

IN    THIS    BOOK  A   TRAVELLER    HAD    WRIT- 

j  ten:  — 

"  Fair  Albion,  smiling,  sees  her  son  depart 
To  trace  the  birth  and  nursery  of  art: 
Noble  his  object,  glorious  is  his  aim  ; 
o He  comes  to  Athens,  and  he  writes  his  name." 

THE    SPELL    IS    BROKE,    THE     CHARM    IS       BENEATH    WHICH    LORD    BYRON   INSERTED 

flown;  I  THE    FOLLOWING'  — 

WRITTEN  AT  ATHENS,  JANUARY  16,  1810.    The  modest  bard,  like  many  a  bard  unknown. 

Rhymes  on  our  names,  but  wisely  hides  his  own  ; 
The  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown  ! 

Thus  is  it  with  life's  fitful  fever : 
We  madly  smile  when  we  should  groan  ; 
Delirium  is  our  best  deceiver. 


Each  lucid  interval  of  thought 

Recalls  the  woes  of  Nature's  charter; 

And  he  that  acts  as  wise  men  ought. 
But  lives,  as  saints  have  died,  a  martyr. 


WRITTEN    AFTER    SWIMMING   FROM   SES- 
TOS  TO  ABYDOS.i 

If,  in  the  month  of  dark  December, 

Lnander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(What  maid  will  not  the  tale  remember  ?) 

To  cross  thy  s'ream,  broad  Hellespont  1 


MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART. 

Z(oj)  /ioij,  ads  dyaTui. 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part. 
Give,  oh  give  me  back  my  heart ! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my 'breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
Zout;  fjiov,  cds  dyanu. 

Bv  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Wno'd  by  each  iEgean  wind  ; 
By  ihnse'lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  bloom.ing  tinge ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
Zwjj  /tot),  irdi  dyanai. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste; 
Bv  that  zone-encircled  wiist ; 
Bv  all  the  token-tlowers-"  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 

thing  ihat  surprised  me  was,  that,  as  doubts  had  been  • 
lertained  of  the  truth  of  Leandtr's  stury.  no  traveller  had 
ever  endeavoured  to  ascertain  its  practuability. 

2 "My  companion,"  says  Mr.  Hohhouse,  "had  lK»fore 
made  a  more  periUmp,  bul  less  celebrated  passage;  for  1 
reoillecl  that,  when  we  were  in  Portugal,  he  swam  fron 
Old  Lisbon  to  Belem  Castle,  and  having  to  contend  with  i 


lOn  the  3d  of  May,  IPIO,  while  the  Salsette  (Captain 

Bathurst)  was  lying  in  the  Dardanelles,  Lieultnaut  Eken- 

head,  of  Ih  it   frigate,  and    the    writer   of  these    rhymes, 

swam  from  the  Eur.opcaii  shore  tnthe  Asiatii — by  the  by, 

from  A  hydos  tn  Sestos   would  have    been    more   correct. 

The  whole  distance,  from  the  place  whence  we  started  t) 

our  landing   nn  the  other  "ide,  including    the  length  we 

were  carried  by  the  current,  was  comc'Uied  by  those  on 

board  the  fiiga'eat  upwards  of  tour  English  miles:  though 

theactu.l  breadth  is  barely  one.     The  rapidity  of  the  cur- 
rent is  such  th^t  no  boat  can  row  directly  across,  and  it 

may,  in   some    measure,  be   estimated    from  the  circum- 

stance  of  the  whole  distance  beina  accomplished  by  one 

of  the  parties  in  an  hour  and  five,  and  by  the  other  in  an 

hour    and  ten  minutes.     The  water  was  extremely  cold, 

from  the  melting  of  the  mountain  snows.     About  three 

weeks  before,  in  April,  we    had   made    an    altcmrt ;  but,    tide  and  cnunler  current,  the  wind  blowing  freshly, 

having  ridden  all  the  way  from  the  Troad  the  same  morn-    but  little  less  than  two  hours  in  crossing."— E. 

ing.  and  the  water  ''•■>"«"' ""ip'/'^/I'l'^f;'",^;;™"'^^  3"  At   Orchomenus,    where    «too<l    the  Temple   of  the 

I  necessary  to   poslp.me  the  completion  till  the  fr  gate  an-    f,^^         j   ^.^^    tempted  to  exclaim,  ■  Whither  have  the 
I  chored  below  the  casiles,  when    «•,■    swam  the  straits,  as    ^^^^^^  „^j,  ,     Liiiie  did  I  expect  to  find  them  here  ;  yet 

just  stated:  enle.iug  a  considerable  way  above  the  Euro-     ^^^^  ^^^^^^  „„^  ^,  ,^^^  ,.„^  p„,j^„  ^j,p,  ,„j  ,  .^^^^  g„j 

pean,  and  landng  below  the  AslaUc.  ;o';';_  ^-h^cvaher  saye    gnmher  with  a  book.     The  book  is  a   register  of  nnme«, 

"^r"""    some    of  which    are  far-souuded    by  the    voice   of  fame.  1 1 

««•     . ,h,.m  is  Lord  Byron's,  connected  with  s  me  linM 

.,.,,      ,  ,  ,        ,K      „.., v..  I  here  send  you.  "-H.  W.WILLIAMS.- E.  ] 

or  tnese  circumsiances.  and  tried  to  dissuade  us  from  the  /        ,  j.  ....  .     t— .  I 

«llempt.     i  number  of  the  Salsette's  crew  were  known        4  In  the  East  (where  ladies  are  not  laueht  to  write,  ktt  | 

to  hare   accomplished   ■   greater   distance;  and  the  only     they  should  scribble  assignations)  Bowers,  tinder*. pehbl>»    | 

'.      ■  ■  ■  -  ,  ■  '  ■  ^^Tr-rr-^r=?a^ 


land  ng  below  the  ; 
ling  Jew  swam  the 
)  Oliver  mentions  ii 


1810. 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


207 


By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
Zoirj  iiov,cds  dyoKM. 
Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone: 
Think  of  me,  sweet !  vvhen  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol,i 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 
Can  1  cease  ;o  love  thee  ?    No ! 

"^  Athens,  ItilO. 


TRANSLATION 
OF   THE    nurse's    DOLE   IN    THE    MEDEA  OF 
EURIPIDES. 
Oh  how  I  wish  that  an  embargo 
Had  kept  in  port  the  good  ship  Argo  ! 
Who.  still  unlaunch'd  from  Grecian  docks, 
Had  never  pass'd  the  Azure  rocks ; 
But  now  I  fear  her  trip  will  be  a 
Damn'd  business  for  my  Miss  iledea,  &c.  &c  3 
June,  1810. 


MY   EPITAPH. 

Youth,  Nature,  and  relenting  Jove, 
To  keep  my  lamp  in  strongly  strove ; 
But  Romanelli  was  so  stout, 
He  beat  all  three  —  and  blew  it  out.  3 

Oct.  1810. 


SUBSTITUTE    FOR   AN    EPITAPH. 
Kind  Reader  !  take  vour  choice  to  cry  or  laugh  ; 
Here  Harold  lies  — but  where  's  hU  Epitaph? 
If  such  you  seek,  try  VVestminster,  and  view 
Ten  thousand  just  as  fit  for  him  as  you, 

Athens. 


LINES  WRITTEN  BENEATH  A  PICTURE. 
Deir  object  of  defeated  care  ! 

Though  now  of  Love  and  thee  bereft, 
To  reconcile  me  with  despair. 

Thine  image  and  my  tears  are  left. 
'T  is  said  with  Sorrow  Time  can  cope ; 

B'jt  this  I  feel  can  ne'er  be  true : 
For  by  the  death  blow  of  my  Hope 

My  Memory  immortal  grew. 

Athens,  January,  18)1.  * 


Scr.  convey  the  sentiments  of  the  parlies  by  that  csiver- 
sal  deputy  of  Mercury— an  old  vromaii.  A  cinder  says,  ••  I 
burn  for  Ihee:"  a  bunch  cf  flowers  tied  with  hair,  -Take 
me  and  fly;"  but  a  pebbledeclares— what  nothing  else  can. 

IConstanlinopie. 

2"  I  am  just  come  from  an  expedition  Ihroagh  the  Bos- 
phorus  to  the  Black  Sea  and  the  Cyaiiean  SympleKades,  up 
which  last  I  scrambled  with  as  great  risk  as  ever  the  Ar- 
gonauts escaped  in  their  hoy.  You  remember  the  begin- 
ning of  the  nurse's  dole  in  the  Medea,  of  which  I  beg  you 
to  take  the  following  translation,  dnue  ou  the  summit.  A 
*damn*d  busint'ss'  it  very  nearly  was  to  me;  for,  had  not 
thii  sublime  passage  been  in  my  head,  I  should  never 
havedieamed  of  ascending  the  said  rocks,  and  bruising 
my  carcass  in  honour  of  the  ancients  *'--  Lord  Byron  to 
Mr.  Htary  Drury,  June  17,  IfclO.—  E. 

3  "  I  have  jnsi  es -aped  from  a  physician  and  a  fever. 
In  spite  of  my  teeth  and  tongue,  the  Knulish  consul,  my 
Tartar,  .\lbauian.  dragoman,  forced  a  physician  upon  rae, 
and  in  three  diys  brought  me  to  the  last  gasp.  In  this 
slate  I  made  my  epitaph."  —  Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Hodgson, 
Oct.  3,  ISC  — E. 

4  On  the  departure  in  July,  ISJO,  of  his  friend  and  fel- 
low-traveller, Mr.  Hobhou-e,  for  England,  L  .rd  Byron 
Axed  his  head-quarters  at  Athrns,  where  he  had  taken 
lodginiis  in  a  Franciscan  convent :  making  nccasiunnl  ex- 
cursions through  Attica  and  the  Murea,  and  employing 
bimaeir,  !■  the  interval  of  his  tnurs.  in  collecting  materi- 
al* for  those  notices  on  the  state  of  modern  Greece  which 


"  Ariirt  TTatiJtS  Tiiv  'LAAjji/iuV."  * 

Sons  of  the  Greeks,  arise  ! 

The  glorious  hour 's  gioe  forth, 
And,  worthy  of  such  ties. 

Display  who  gave  us  birth. 

CHORUS. 

Sons  of  Greeks  1  let  us  go 
In  arms  against  the  foe, 
Till  their  hated  blood  shall  flow 
In  a  river  past  our  feet. 

Then  manfully  despising 

The  Turkish  tyrant's  yoke, 
Let  yiiur  country  see  you  rising, 

And  all  her  chains  aie  broke. 
Brave  shades  of  chiefs  and  sages, 

Behold  the  coming  strife ; 
Hellenes  of  past  age's. 

Oh,  start  again  to  life'. 
At  the  sound  "of  my  trumpet,  breaking 

Your  sleep,  oh.  join  wi  h  me ! 
And  the  seven-hili'd  s  city  seeking, 

Fight,  conquer,  till  we  're  free. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  »c, 

Sparta,  Sparta,  why  in  slumbers 

Lethargic  dost  thou  lie  ? 
Awake,  and  join  thy  numbers 

With  Athens,  old  ally  \ 
Leonidis  recalling. 

That  chief  of  ancient  song. 
Who  saved  ye  once  from  falling, 

The  terrible  !  the  strong  ! 
Who  made  that  bold  diversion 

In  old  Thermopylae. 
And  warring  with  the  Persian 

To  keep  his  country  free; 
With  his  three  hundred  waging 

The  battle,  long  he  stood, 
And  like  a  lion  raging, 

Expired  in  seas  of  blood. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  &c.  t 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ROMAIC  SONG, 

"  Mjtevw  /itj  'to-'  nigiPoXt 
'Q^auJTaTT]  'S.drjdr],"  &c.  * 


I  enter  thy  garden  of  roses. 
Beloved  and  fair  Haidee, 


are  appended  to  the  second  canto  of  '•  Child?  Harold."  In 
this  retreat  also  he  wrote  "Hints  from  Horace,"  "The 
Curse  of  Minerva,"  and  "Remarks  on  the  Romaic,  or 
Modern  Greek  Language."  — E. 

I      5  The  song  Aevte  natdes,  tec,  was  written  by  Riga, 

!  who   perished    in    the   attempt    to  revolutionise  Greece. 

,  This  translation  is  as  literal  as  the  author  coold  make  it 
in  verse.  It  is  of  the  same  measure  as  that  of  the 
original.  [While  at  the  Franciscan  cmvent,  Lord  Byron 
devoted  some  hours  daily  to  the  study  of  the  Romaic; 
and  various   prixifs  of  his  dilisence  will  be  found   in    the 

.  Appendix  to  these  Occasional  Pieces.  — E.] 
6  Constantinople.     "  ETrTdAot^oj." 

I      7  Riga  was  aThessalian,  and  passed  the  first  part  of  his 
youth  among    his   native  mountains,  in  teaching  ancient 
Greek    to    his   countrymen.     On    the    first    burst    of  the 
Freni  h    revolution,  be    joined    himoelf  to  some  other  < 
thusia>.t8,  and  with    them    perambulated  Greece,    rousing 

j  the  bold,  and  encouraging  Ihe  timid  by  his  minslreUy. 
He  afterwards  went  to  Vienna  to  solicit  aid  for  a  rising, 
which  he  aud  his  c.imrades  had  for  years  been  endeavour- 
ing to  accomplish  ;  but  he  was  given  op  by  the  Austrian 
government  to  the  Turks,  who  vainly  endeavoured  by 
toniire  to    force  from  him  the    names  of  the  other'Ma- 

■  spirators.- E. 

{     8  The  song  from  which  this  ia  taken  is  ■  great  faTOnrtte  I 


11208 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


[1811. 


Each  morning  where  Flora  reposes, 

For  surely  I  fee  her  ia  thee. 
Oh,  Lovely  :  thus  low  1  iniploie  thee, 

Receive  this  fund  truth  from  my  tongue, 
Which  utters  its  song  to  adore  thee, 

Yet  trembles  for  what  it  has  sung  ; 
As  the  branch,  at  the  bidding  of  Nature, 

Adds  fragrance  and  fruit  to  the  tree, 
Through  h;r  eyes,  through  her  every  feature, 

Shines  the  soul  of  the  young  Haidee. 

But  the  loveliest  garden  grows  hateful 

When  Love  his  abandoned  the  bowers; 
Bring  me  hemlock  — since  mine  is  ungrateful, 

That  herb  is  more  fragrant  than  flowers. 
The  poison,  when  pour'd  from  the  chalice, 

Will  deeply  embiiter  the  bowl ; 
Hut  when  drunk  to  escape  from  thy  malice. 

The  draught  shall  be  sweet  to  my  soul. 
Too  cruel !  in  vain  I  implore  thee 

My  heart  from  these  horrors  to  save  : 
Will  nought  to  my  bosom  restore  thee? 

Then  open  the  gates  of  the  grave. 

As  the  chief  who  to  combat  advances 

Secure  of  his  conquest  before, 
Thus  thou,  with  those  eyes  for  thy  lances. 

Hast  pierced  through  my  heart  to  its  core. 
Ah,  tell  me,  my  soul  !  must  I  perish 

By  pangs  which  a  smile  would  dispel  ? 
Would  the  hope,   which  thou  once  bad  st   me 
cherish. 

For  torture  repay  me  too  well  ? 
Now  sad  is  the  garden  of  roses. 

Beloved  but  false  Haidee! 
There  Flora  all  wilher'd  reposes. 

And  mourns  o'er  thine  absence  with  me. 

1811. 


ON   PARTING. 

Thekiss,  dear  maid  !  thy  lip  has  left 

Shall  never  part  from  mine. 
Till  happier  hours  restore  the  gift 

Uniainted  back  to  thine. 

Thy  parting  glance,  which  fondly  beams. 

An  equal  love  may  see: 
The  tear  that  from  thine  eyelid  streams 

Can  weep  no  change  in  me. 

I  ask  no  pledge  to  make  me  blest 

In  gazing  when  alone  ; 
Nor  one  njemoriil  for  a  breast. 

Whose  thoughts  are  all  thine  own. 

Nor  need  I  write  — to  tell  the  tale 

My  pen  were  doublv  weak  : 
Oh  !  what  can  idle  words  avail, 

Unless  the  heart  could  speak  ? 

By  day  or  night,  in  weal  or  woe, 

That  heart,  no  longer  free. 
Must  bear  the  love  it  cannot  show, 

And  silent  ache  for  thee. 


EPITAPH    FOR    JOSEPH    BLACKETT,    LATE 
POET  AND  SHOE.MAKER. 
Stranger  !  behold,  interr'd  together, 
The  snuls  of  learning  and  of  leather. 
Poor  .loe  is  gone,  but  left  his  all : 
You  '11  find  his  relics  in  a  stall. 


with  the  yonnR  girls  of  Athenn  nf  alt  olaspes.  Their  man- 
of  ningine  il  ie  by  vi-rsrs  in  rnlation,  the  whole  num- 
ber present  joinins  in  the  chnri.8.  1  liave  beard  it  fre- 
qnently  at  our  "  X<^p0l."  in  the  winter  of  lSlO-11.  The 
Bir  in  plaintive  and  pretty. 


His  works  were  neat,  and  often  found 

Well  sti!ch'd,  and  with  moiocco  bound. 

Tread  lightly  —  where  the  bard  is  laid 

He  canno;  mend  the  shoe  he  made; 

Yet  is  he  happy  in  his  hole 

With  verse  immortal  as  his  soJe. 

But  still  to  business  he  held  fast. 

And  stuck  to  Phoebus  to  the  last. 

Then  who  shall  say  so  good  a  lellow 

Was  only  "leather  and  prunella?" 

For  character—  he  did  not  lack  i! ; 

And  il  he  did,  't  were  shame  to  "  Black  it." 

Malta,  May  16,  1811. 


FAREWELL   TO   MALTA. 

Adieu,  ye  joys  of  La  Valelte  ! 

Adieu,  sirocco,  sun.  and  sweat ! 

Adieu,  thou  palace  rarely  enter'd  ! 

Adieu,  ye  mansions  where —  I  've  ventured  ! 

Adieu,  ye  cursed  streets  of  stairs  ! 

(How  surely  he  who  mounts  you  swears!) 

Adieu,  ye  merchants  often  failing  ! 

Adieu,  thou  mob  for  ever  railing! 

Adieu,  ye  packets—  without  letters  ! 

Adieu,  ye  f.vols  —  who  ape  your  betters  ! 

Adieu,  thou  damned'st  quarantine. 

That  gave  me  f 'ver,  and  the  spleen  ! 

Adieu  that  s'.age  which  makes  us  yawn,  Sirs, 

Adieu  his  Excellency's  dancers  ! 

Adieu  to  Peter —  whom  no  fault  's  in. 

But  could  not  :each  a  colonel  waltzing ; 

Adieu,  ye  females  fraught  with  graces! 

Adieu  red  coals,  and  redder  faces  ! 

Adieu  the  supercilious  air 

Of  nil  that  strut  "  en  militaire ! ' 

I  go—  but  God  knows  when,  or  why, 

To  smoky  towns  and  cloudy  sky. 

To  things  (the  honest  truth  to  say) 

As  bad  —  but  in  a  different  way. 

Farewell  to  these,  but  not  adieu, 

Triumphant  sons  of  truest  blue  ! 

While  either  Adriatic  shore, 

And  fallen  chiefs,  and  fleets  no  more, 

And  rightly  e-miles,  and  daily  dinners, 

Proclaim  vou  war  and  women's  winnera. 

Pardon  my  Muse,  who  apt  to  prate  is, 

And  take  my  rhyme  —  because  't  is  "  gratis." 

And  now  I  've  got  to  Mrs.  Fraser, 
Perhaps  you  think  I  mean  to  praise  her  — 
And  were  I  vain  enough  to  think 
My  praise  was  worth  this  drop  of  ink, 
A  line  —  or  two  —  were  no  hard  matter. 
As  here,  indeed,  I  need  not  flatter  : 
But  she  must  be  content  to  shine 
In  better  praises  than  in  mine. 
With  lively  air,  and  open  heart, 
And  fashion's  ease,  without  its  art; 
Her  hours  can  gaily  glide  along, 
Nor  ask  the  aid  of  idle  song. 

And  now,  O  Malta  !  since  thou  'st  got  ui, 
Thou  little  military  hot-house! 
1  'II  not  offend  with  words  uncivil. 
And  wish  thee  rudely  at  the  Devil, 
But  only  stare  from  out  my  casement, 
And  ask,  for  what  is  such  a  place  meant  ? 
Then,  in  my  solitary  nook, 
Return  to  scribbling,  or  a  book. 
Or  take  mv  physic,  while  I  'm  able 
(Two  spoonfuls  hourly  by  the  label). 
Prefer  my  ninhtcap  to  my  beaver, 
And  bless  tlie  gods  1  've  got  a  fever. 

May  26.  1811.  ^^, 

[First  published.  IMBil 


1811.]                        OCCASIONAL  PIECES.                            2091 

TO  DIVES. 

The  world  befits  a  busy  brain,— 
I  '11  hie  me  to  its  haunts  again. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

But  if,  in  some  succeeding  year. 
When  Britain's  "  Miy  is  in  the  sere," 

Unhappy  Dives!  in  an  evil  hour 

Thou  hear'st  of  one,  w  hose  deepening  crimes 

'GaiQjt  Nature's  voice  seduced  to  deeds  accurst ! 

Suit  with  the  sablest  of  the  times. 

Once  Fonune's  minion,  now  ihou  leel'st  her  power; 

Of  one,  whom  love  tior  pity  sways. 

Wraih's  vial  on  thy  lofty  head  h.ith  burst. 

Nor  hope  of  fame,  nor  good  men's  praise, 

In  Wit,  in  Genius,  as  in  Wealth  the  first, 

One  who,  in  stern  anibiiion's  pride. 
Perchance  not  blood  shall  turn  aside. 

How  wond'rous  bright  thy  blooming  morn  arose! 

But  thou  wert  smitten  with  Ih'  unhallow'd  thirst 

One  rank'd  in  some  recording  page 
With  the  wois!  anarchs  of  the  age. 

Of  crime  uunained,  and  thy  sid  noon  must  close 

la  scorn,  and  solitude  unsought,  the  worst  of  woes. 

Him  wilt  thou  A»iou'  —  and  knowing  pause. 

1811.     [First  publiahed.  183i.J 

Nor  with  the  fjncZ  forget  the  cause. 

If  ews'ead  Abbey.  Oct.  11.  1811. 
[First  published  in  ISSO.J 

ON    MOORE'S    LAST    OPERATIC    FARCE,    OR 

FARCICAL  OPERA. 

TO   THVRZA. 

Good  plays  are  scarce, 
So  Moore  writes  farce  : 

Without  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot. 

The  poet's  f.ime  grows  brittle  — 
We  knew  before 

And  say,  what  Truth  might  well  have  said, 
By  all,  save  one,  jierchance  forgot, 
Ah  !  wherefore  art  thou  Ioh  ly  laid  ? 

That  Little  's  Moore, 

But  now  't  is  Miiore  that 's  little. 

By  many  a  shore  and  many  a  sea 

September  14, 1811. 

Divided,  yet  beloved  in  vain  ; 

The  past,  the  fu;ure  lied  to  thee. 
To  bid  us  meet  —  no  —  ne'er  again ! 

EPISTLE    TO   A   FRIEND.t 

Could  this  have  been  —a  word,  a  look 

IN  ANSWER  TO  SOME  LINES  EXHORTING  THE 

That  sof  ly  siid,  "  We  part  in  peace," 
Had  taught  my  bosom  how  to  brook. 
With  fainter  sighs,  thy  soul's  release. 

AUTHOR  TO  BE  CHEERFCL,  AND  TO  "  BAN- 

ISH CARE." 

And  didst  thou  not,  since  Death  for  thee 

"  Oh !  banish  care"—  such  ever  be 

Prepared  a  light  and  pangless  dart, 

The  motto  of  thy  revelry  ! 

Once  l..ng  for  hira  thou  ne'er  shall  see, 

Perchance  of  mine,  when  wassail  nights 

Who  held,  and  holds  thee  in  his  heart? 

Renew  those  riotous  delights, 
Wherewith  the  children  of  Despair 

Oh !  who  like  him  had  watch'd  thee  here? 

Lull  the  lone  heart,  and  "  banish  care." 

Or  sadly  mark'd  thy  glazing  eye. 

But  not  in  morn's  reflecting  hour. 

In  that  dread  hour  ere  death  appear, 

When  present,  past,  and  future  lower, 

When  silent  sorrow  fears  to  sigh, 

When  all  I  loved  is  chinged  or  gone. 

Till  all  was  past  ?    But  when  no  more 
' T  was  thine  to  reck  of  human  woe. 

Mock  with  such  taunts  the  woes  of  one, 

Whose  everv  thouzht  — but  let  them  pass 
Thou  know'st  I  am  not  what  1  was. 
But.  above  all,  if  thou  wouldst  hold 

Affection's  heart-drops,  gushing  o'er, 
Had  flow'd  as  fast -as  now  they  flow. 

Place  in  a  heart  thnt  ne'er  was  cold. 

Shall  they  not  flow,  when  many  a  day 

By  all  the  powers  that  men  revere, 

In  these,  to  me,  deserted  towers, 

Bv  all  unto  thy  bosom  dear, 

Ere  cull'd  but  for  a  lime  away. 

Thv  joys  below,  thy  hopes  above, 

Affection's  mingling  tears  were  ours 

Speak  — speak  of  any  thing  but  love. 

Ours  too  the  glance  none  saw  beside ; 
The  smile  none  else  might  understand  ; 

'T  were  long  to  tell,  and  vain  to  hear. 

The  tale  of  one  who  scorns  a  tear ; 

The  whisper'd  thought  of  hearts  allied. 

And  there  is  liitle  in  thit  tale 

The  pressure  of  the  thrilling  hand ; 

Which  better  bosoms  would  bewail. 

But  mine  has  sufier'd  more  than  well 

The  kiss,  so  guiltless  and  refined. 

'T  would  suit  philosophy  to  tell. 

I  've  seen  niv  bride  another's  bride,— 

That  Love  eicli  warmer  wish  forbore ; 

Those  eyes  proclaim'd  so  pure  a  mind, 

Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side,— 

Even  passion  blush'd  to  plead  for  more. 

Have  seen  the  infmt,  which  she  bore, 

Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore, 

The  tone,  that  taught  me  to  rejoice. 

When  she  and  I  in  voiith  have  smiled, 

When  prone,  unlike  thee,  to  repine; 

As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child  ;  — 

The  song,  celestial  from  thy  voice. 

Have  seen  her  eves,  in  cold  disdain, 

Bui  sweet  to  me  from  none  but  thine  ; 

A-k  if  1  felt  no  secret  pain  ; 
And  /  have  acted  well  my  part. 
And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart, 
Return'd  the  freezing  glance  she  gave. 
Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave  ;  — 

The  pledge  we  wore  —  I  wear  it  still. 

But  where  is  thine?  — Ah  1  where  art  fhiTu? 

Oft  have  I  borne  the  weight  of  ill, 
Bui  never  bent  beneath  till  now  ! 

Have  kis.'d,  as  if  wiihout  design. 

Well  hast  thou  left  in  life's  best  bloom 

The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine. 

The  cup  of  woe  Sof-  me  to  drain. 

And  show'd,  alas  !  in  each  caress 

If  rest  alone  be  in  the  tomb. 

Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less. 

1  would  not  w  ish  thee  here  again ; 

But  let  this  pass  —  I  'II  wh^ne  no  more, 

But  if  in  worlds  more  blest  than  this 

Nor  seek  again  an  eastern  shore  ; 

Thy  virtues  seek  a  tiller  sphere, 
Imparl  some  por  ion  of  thy  bliss. 

1  i  «.  Mr.  Frmncls  Hodgson  (not  then  the  Reverend).— E. 

To  wean  me  from  mme  anguieh  hem. 

18^ 


14 


1310 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


[1812. 


Teach  me  —  too  early  taught  by  thee ! 

To  bear,  forgivin?  and  forgiven  : 
On  earth  thy  love  was  such  lo  me ; 

It  fain  would  form  my  hope  in  heaven  I 

Octolwr  11,  ISll. 


AWAY,  AWAY.  YE  NOTES  OF  WOE  I 

Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  woe  ! 

Be  silent,  ihou  once  soothing  strain, 
Or  I  must  flee  from  hence  —  for,  oh  ! 

I  dare  not  trust  tho  e  sounds  again. 
To  me  they  speak  of  brigh  er  days  — 

But  lull  the  chords,  for  noiv,  alas  '. 
I  must  not  think,  I  uiay  not  gaze 

On  w hat  1  am  —  on  what  1  Vas. 

The  voice  that  made  those  sounds  more  sweet 

U  hush'd,  and  all  their  charms  are  fled  ; 
And  now  their  softest  notes  repeat 

A  dirge,  an  anthem  o"er  the  dead  1 
Yes,  Thvrza  !  yes,  they  breathe  of  thee, 

Beloved  dust !  since  dust  thou  art ; 
And  all  that  once  was  harmony 

Is  worse  than  discord  to  my  heart ! 

•T  is  silent  all !  —  but  on  my  ear 

The  well-remember'd  echoes  thrill ; 
I  bear  a  voice  1  would  not  hear, 

A  voice  that  now  might  well  be  still : 
Yet  oft  my  doubting  soul  't  will  shake ; 

Even  slumber  owns  its  gentle  tone, 
Till  consciousness  %vill  vainly  wake 

To  listen,  though  the  dream  be  flown. 

Sweet  Thyrza  !  waking  as  in  sleep, 

Thou  art  but  now  a  lovely  dream; 
A  star  that  trembled  o"er  the  deep. 

Then  turn'd  from  earth  its  tender  beam. 
But  lie  who  throush  life's  dreary  way 

Must  pass,  when  heaven  is  veil'd  in  wrath, 
Will  long  lament  the  vani>h"d  ray 

That  scatler'd  gladness  o'er  his  path. 

Decemtwr  6,  1811.  « 


ONE  STRUGGLE  MORE,  AND  I  Altf  FREE. 

One  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free 

From  pangs  that  rend  my  heart  in  twain; 
One  last  long  sigh  to  love  and  thee, 

Then  back  to  busy  life  again. 
It  suit^  me  well  to  mingle  now 

With  things  that  never  pleased  before: 
Though  everv  joy  is  fied  below, 

What  future  grief  can  touch  me  more? 

Then  bring  me  wine,  the  banquet  bring; 

Man  was  not  form'd  to  live  alone  : 
1  'II  be  that  light,  unmeaning  thing 

That  smiles  with  all,  and  weeps  with  none. 
It  was  nol  thus  in  days  more  dear, 

It  never  would  have  been,  but  thou 
Hast  fied,  and  left  me  lonely  here  ; 

Thou  'rt  nothing,—  all  are  nothing  now. 

In  vain  mv  Ivre  would  lightly  breathe! 

The  smilethat  sorrow  fain  would  wear 
But  mocks  the  woe  that  lurks  beneath, 

Like  roses  o'er  a  sepulchre. 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill ; 
Though  pleasure  tires  the  maddening  soul. 

The  heart—  the  heart  is  lonely  still '. 

■^a  many  a  lone  and  lovely  night 

It  s..othed  to  gaze  upon  the  sky  ; 
For  then  I  deetn'd  the  heavenly  light 

Sbonc  sweetly  on  thy  pensive  eye  : 


And  oft  I  thought  at  Cynthia's  noon, 
Whec  sailingoer  the  ^iein  wave, 

"  Now  Thyrza  gazes  on  that  moon" — 
Alas,  it  gieam'd  upon  her  grave  i 

When  stretch'd  on  fever's  sleepless  bed. 

And  sickness  shrunk  my  throbbing  veins, 
♦'  '1'  is  comfort  still,"  1  faintly  said, 

"That  Thyrza  cannot  know  my  pains:" 
Like  freedom  to  the  lime-worn  slave, 

A  boon  't  is  idle  then  to  give, 
Relenting  Nature  vainly  gave 

My  life,  when  Thyrza  ceased  to  live ! 

My  Thyrzji's  pledge  in  better  diys, 

When  love  aiid  life  alike  were  new  ! 
How  dilferent  now  Ihou  meet'st  my  gaze  ! 

How  tinged  by  time  with  sorrow's  hue  ! 
The  heart  that  gave  itself  with  thee 

Is  silent  —  ah,  were  mine  as  still ! 
Though  cold  as  e'en  the  dead  can  be. 

It  feels,  it  sickens  with  the  chill. 

Thou  bitter  pledge  !  thou  mournful  token  ! 

Though  painful,  welcome  to  my  breast ! 
Still,  still,  preserve  that  love  unbroken, 

Or  break  the  heart  lo  which  thou  'rt  presi*d 
Time  tempers  love,  but  not  removes. 

More  hallow'd  when  its  hope  is  fled  : 
Oh  !  what  are  thousand  living  loves 

To  that  which  cannot  quit'the  dead  ? 


EUTHANASIA. 

When  Time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead. 

Oblivion  1  may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying  bed  ! 

No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there. 
To  weep,  or  wish,  the  coming  blow : 

No  maiden,  with  dishevelPd  hair. 
To  feel,  or  feign,  decorous  woe. 

But  silent  let  me  sink  to  earth, 
With  no  ofBcious  mourners  near; 

I  would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth. 
Nor  startle  friendship  \viih  a  fear. 

Yet  Love,  if  Love  in  such  an  hour 
Could  nobly  check  its  useless  sighs, 

Might  then  exert  its  latest  power 
In  her  who  lives,  and  him  who  dies. 

'T  were  sweet,  my  Psyche !  to  the  last 
Thy  features  still  seret.e  to  see : 

Forgetful  of  its  struggles  past, 
E'en  Pain  itself  should  smile  on  thee. 

But  vain  the  wish  —  for  Beautv  still 

Will  shrink,  as  shrinks  the  e'bbing  breath  j 

And  woman's  tears,  produced  at  will. 
Deceive  in  life,  unman  in  death. 

Then  lonely  be  my  latest  hour, 
Without 'regret,  without  a  groan; 

For  thousands  Death  hath  ceased  to  lower. 
And  pain  been  transient  or  unknown. 

"Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go,"  alas! 

Where  all  have  goiie,  and  all  must  go ! 
To  be  the  nothing  that  I  was 

Ere  born  to  life  and  living  woe ! 

Count  o'er  the  joy?  thine  hours  have  aeeu, 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free, 

And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
'T  is  something  better  not  to  be. 


1812.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


211 


t:: 


AND   THOU   ART    DEAD,  AS   YOUNG 
AND  FAIR.  • 


And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  aod  fair 

As  aui^tit  of  mortal  birth; 
And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare 

Too  soon  le'urn'd  to  Earth  ! 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed. 
And  0  er  the  spoi  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  -isk  where  thou  liest  low, 

Nor  gize  upon  Ihe  spot ; 
There  (lowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow, 

So  I  behold  them  not : 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
Thai  what  I  loved,  and  Ions;  must  love. 

Like  common  earth  can  rot ; 
To  ine  there  needs  no  s'one  to  tell, 
»T  is  Nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  ihee  to  the  last 

As  fervently  »•;  thou. 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past, 

And  canst  unt  alter  now. 
The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  sejl, 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  sleal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow  : 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  can?l  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fau.t  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours ; 

The  worst  cin  be  but  mine  : 
The  sun  thai  cheers  the  storm  that  lowers, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  thit  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep  ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine, 
Thai  all  those  chirms  hive  pnss'd  away, 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmaich'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey  ; 
Thoujh  by  no  hand  un  imely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away  : 
And  yet  il  were  a  greiler  grief 
To  watch  il  withering,  leaf  by  leaf. 

Than  s-e  it  pluck'd  to  day  ; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  cat.  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  Ihv  beiulies  fade  ; 
The  night  that  f  illowM  such  a  mom 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade  : 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  halh  pass'd, 
And  ihou  wert  lovely  to  Ihe  last; 

Extinguish'd,  not  deciy'd; 
As  stars  "hat  shoot  along  Ihe  sky 
Shme  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wepi,  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed. 
To  think  I  was  not  neir  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed  ; 
To  gaze,  how  fondly  I  on  thy  face, 
lo  fild  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head  ; 
And  -how  that  love,  however  vain. 
Nor  thou  uor  I  can  feel  again. 

Tet  how  much  les".  it  were  to  gain, 
Th.^ujh  th-vu  has'  l»-fl  me  free. 

The  loveliest  things  'hat  -till  remain, 
Than  thus  remember  Ihee  I 

The  all  r.f  thine  that  cannot  die 

Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 
Returns  again  to  me. 


And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught,  except  its  living  years. 

Februaiy,  1812. 


IF  SOMETIMES  IN  THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN. 

If  sometimes  in  Ihe  haunts  of  men 

Thine  image  from  my  breast  may  fade, 
The  lonely  hour  preseii  s  again 

The  semblance  of  thy  genl'e  shade : 
And  now  that  sad  and  silent  nour 

Thus  much  of  thee  can  still  restore. 
And  sorrow  unobserved  may  [jour 

The  plaint  she  dare  not  speak  before. 

Oh,  pardon  that  in  crowds  awhile 

I  waste  one  thought  I  owe  to  thee. 
And,  self  coiidenm'd,  appear  to  smile, 

Unfaithful  to  thy  memory  ! 
Nor  deem  thil  memory  less  dear. 

That  then  I  seem  not  to  repine ; 
I  would  not  fools  should  overhear 

One  sigh  that  should  be  wholly  thint. 

If  not  the  goblet  pass  unquaflT'd, 

II  is  not  drain'd  to  bTiiish  care; 
The  cup  must  hold  a  deadlier  draught. 

That  brings  a  Lethe  for  despair. 
And  could  Obi i vim  set  my  soul 

From  all  her  troubled  visions  free, 
I'd  dash  to  earth  the  sweetest  bowl 

That  drown'd  a  single  thought  of  thee. 

For  wert  thou  vanish 'd  from  my  mind, 

Where  ciuld  my  vacant  bosom  turn  ? 
And  who  would  then  remain  behind 

To  honour  thine  abandon'd  Urn  ? 
No.  no  —  i»  is  my  sorrow's  piide 

That  last  dear  duty  to  fiilhl  ; 
Though  all  the  world  forstel  beside, 

'T  is  meet  that  1  remember  still. 

For  well  I  know,  that  such  had  been 

Thy  gentle  care  for  him,  who  now 
Unmourn'd  shall  quit  this  moral  scene, 

Where  none  regarded  him,  but  thou: 
And.  oh  :  I  feel  in  that  was  given 

A  blessing  never  meant  for  me  ; 
Thou  wert  'oo  like  a  dream  of  Heaven, 

For  earthly  Love  to  merit  ihee, 

March  14, 1819. 


ON  A  CORNELIAN   HEART  WHICH  WAS 
BROKEN. 
lU-faled  Heart  1  and  can  it  be. 

That  Ihou  shouldst  thus  be  rent  in  twain  ? 
Have  years  of  care  for  thine  and  thee 
Alike  been  all  employ 'd  in  vain  ? 

Yet  precious  seems  each  shalter'd  part. 
And  every  fragmjnl  dearer  grown, 

Since  he  w  lio  wears  thee  feels  Ihou  art 
A  titler  emblem  of  his  own. 

March  16, 18IX 

FROM    THE    FRENCH. 

.^gle,  beauty  and  poe',  has  two  little  crimes ; 

She  makes  her  own  face,  and  does  not  make  her 


rhyi 


LINES   TO   A    LADY    WEEPING.* 
Weep,  dausrhter  of  a  ro\-al  line. 

A  Sire's  di  gr>ce.  a  mini's  decay; 
Ah  !  happy  if  each  tear  of  thine 
Could  wash  a  father's  fault  away  ! 


1  This  impromptn  owed  its  birth  to  i 


212 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


[1812.  1 


Weep  —  for  thy  tears  are  Virtue's  tears  — 
Auspicious  to  these  sutferiiig  isles  j 

And  be  each  drop  in  future  years 
Bepaid  thee  by  thy  people's  smiles ! » 

March,  1612. 


THE    CHAIN    I   GAVE. 
Froa  the  Tarkish. 

The  chnin  I  ?ave  was  f:\ir  to  view, 
The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound; 

The  he  rt  that  olferd  both  was  true, 
And  ill  deserved  the  fate  it  found. 

These  gifts  were  charm'd  by  secret  spell, 

Thy'trulh  in  aliseuce  to  divine; 
And  t'tey  have  done  ibeir  duty  well, — 

Alas !  they  could  not  teach  thee  thine. 

That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link. 
But  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch  ; 

That  lute  was  sweet—  till  thou  could'st  think 
In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 

Let  him,  who  from  thy  neck  unbound 
I  he  chain  which  sh'iver'd  in  his  grasp, 

Who  saw  that  luto  refu-e  to  sound, 
Restriiig  the  chords,  renew  the  clasp. 

When  thou  wert  clianged,  they  alter'd  too  ; 

The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mule, 
T  is  past  —  to  I  hem  and  thee  adieu  — 

False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  silent  lute. 


LINES   WRITTEN  ON   A   BLANK    LEAF   OF 
"  THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY." 

Ab-ent  or  present,  s'ill  to  thee, 

Aly  friend,  what  ma»ic  spells  belong  ! 

As  ail  can  tell,  who  share,  like  me. 
In  turn  thy  converse,  and  thy  song. 

But  when  the  dreaded  hour  shall  come 
By  Friendship  ever  deeui'd  t"o  ni^h, 

And'-A/ernory"  o'er  her  Druid's  tunib 
Shall  weep  that  aught  of  thee  can  die, 

How  fondly  will  she  then  repay 

Tliv  homage  ort'erd  al  her  slirine. 
And  blend,  while  ages  roll  away, 

Htr  name  immonally  with  thine! 

April  19,  1812. 


SPOKEN  AT  THE  OPENING    OF   DRURY-LANE 
THEATRE,  SATURDAY,  OCT.  10,  18J2. 

In  one  dread  night  our  city  saw,  and  sigh'd, 
Bow'd  to  the  dust,  the  Drjina's  tower  of  pride; 

late  Prioress  Charlotte  of  Watps  burst  inin  tears  on  hear- 
iog  thai  the  Whigs  had  foiiDil  il  impngsihle  to  put  together 
a  cabinet,  at  the  period  of  .Mr.  Perceval's  death.  They 
were  appended  lo  the  lirst  edition  of  the  "Corsair."  ai.d 
excited  a  Jcisador..  as  it  in  called,  raarvell'UBly  dispro- 
portionate tr.  iheir  len;th,— or,  we  may  add.  their  merit. 
Tlie  iniDi»lerial  prints  raved  for  two  months  on  end.  in 
the  most  foul  mouthed  vituperation  of  the  poet,  and  all 
that  iHrlonged  to  hiro— the  Morning  Post  even  announced 
a  ra.ilion  in  the  Houae  of  Lord»— "and  all  this,"  I/ird 
BjrroD  writes  lo  Mr.  Moore,  "a.«  Bedted.lin  in  the  Arabian 
Nights  remarlis,  for  malting  a  crram  tart  with  pepper: 
brw  odd,  that  eight  lines  should  have  given  birth,  I  really 
tliink,  to  eight  tliousaod  :  "— E. 

l"The'l.'ne8  lo  a  Ijidy  weeping'  mtist  eo  with  the 
Curfir,  1  cure  nothing  for  conseqneni  es  on  this  point. 
My  (.olitira  are  lo  me  like  a  young  mistress  to  an  old 
man ;  Ihr  worse  Ihev  grow,  the  fooiler  1  become  of  them.** 
—  iorrf  B.  to  Mr.  Murray,  Jan.  M,  1814.— -On  my  re- 


in one  short  hour  beheld  the  blazing  fane, 
Apollo  sink,  ai.d  Shakspeare  cease  to  reign. 

j      Ye  who  beheld,  (oh  1  sight  admired  and  moum'd. 
Whose  radiance  mock'd  the  ruin  it  adorn  d  ! ) 

I  Through  clouds  of  fire  the  massy  fiagments  riven, 

1  Like  Israel's  pillar,  chase  the  iitght  from  faeavea; 

I  Saw  the  long  column  of  revolving  flames 
Shake  iis  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thames, 
While  thousands,  throng'd  around  the  buriiing  dome, 

I  Shrank  back  appali'd,  and  trembled  for  '.heir  home, 
As  glared  the  volumed  blaze,  and  ghastly  shone 
The  skies,  wiih  lighti.ings  iwful  as  their  own. 
Till  blackening  ashes  and  the  lonely  wall 
Usurp'd  the  Muse's  realm,  and  mai'k'd  her  fall; 
Say  —  shall  this  new,  nor  less  apiring  pile, 
Rcar'd  where  once  rose  the  mightiest  in  our  isle, 
Know  the  same  favour  which  ihe  former  knew, 
A  shrine  for  Sbakspeare  —  worthy  him  and  yuu  f 

Yes  —  il  shall  be  — the  magic  of  that  name 
Defies  the  scythe  of  lin.e,  ihe'lorch  of  flame ; 
On  the  same 'spot  still  con  ecraies  the  scene, 
And  bid    Ihe  Drama  he  whe  e  -he  hath  bttn  : 
This  fabric's  birth  aUesis  Ihe  potent  spell  — 
Indulge  our  honest  pride,  and  sjy,  Hovormlll 

As  soars  this  fane  to  emulate  the  last. 
Oh  :  might  we  dnw  our  onieis  from  the  past. 
Some  hour  propitious  to  our  prayers  may  boast 
Names  such  as  hallow  still  the  dome  we  lost. 
On  Drury  first  your  Siddons'  thiilling  art 
O'erwheim  d  tlie  gentlest,  storm "d  the  sternest  heart 
On  Drury.  G.arrick's  latest  laurels  grew  ; 
Here  your  last  tears  retiring  Roscius  drew, 
Sigh'd  his  1  ist  thank  ,  and  wept  his  last  adieu : 
But  still  fir  livinff  wit  the  wreaths  may  bloom, 
That  only  waste  their  odours  o'er  the  tomb. 
Such  Drury  claim'd  and  claims —  nor  you  refuse 
One  tribute  to  revive  his  slumbering  muse; 
With  garlands  deck  your  own  Menander  s  head. 
Nor  board  your  honours  idly  for  Ihe  dead  ! 

Deir  are  Ihe  days  which  made  our  annals  bright, 
Ere  Garrick  fied,  or  Briiisley  ceased  to  write. 
Heiis  10  their  labours,  like  all  hi>!h-born  hi^irs, 
V  lin  of  OUT  ancestry  as  they  of  thetrs ; 
Whi'e  thus  Remembrance  borrows  Banquo's  glass 
To  claim  'he  sceptred  shadows  as  they  pass, 
And  we  the  mirror  hold,  where  imaged  shine 
Immortal  names,  einbhzon'd  on  our  lii  e. 
Pause —  ere  their  feebler  ofiFspring  you  cotHlemn, 
Reflect  bow  hard  the  task  to  rival  them  ! 

Friends  of  the  stage !  to  whom  both  Playen  an 
Plays 
Must  sue  alike  for  pardon  or  for  praise. 
Whose  judsing  voice  and  eye  alone  direct 
The  boundless  power  to  cherish  or  reject ; 
If  e'er  frivolity  has  led  to  fame. 
And  made  us  blush  that  you  forbore  to  blame  ; 
If  e'er  the  sinkinj  stage  could  condescend 
To  soothe  the  sickly  t  isle  it  dare  not  mend, 
All  past  reproach  may  present  scenes  refute, 
And  censure,  wisely  loud,  be  justly  mute  '.  a 

turn,  I  find  all  the  newspapers  in  hysterics,  and  town  1 
an  uproar,  on  the  avowal  and  republira'ion  of  iwo  stanxa 
on  Princess  Charlotte's    weeping   at  Regem^'s  tpe«h  to 
I.auderdale  in  1812.     They  are  daily  al  il  still:  — som 
the  abuse  good.— all  of  it  heartv.     They  talk  of  a  motioa 
in  our  House  upon  it— be  il  so.*'— Byron  Ciary,  1814.— EL 
3The  following  lines  were  omitted  by  Ihe  Committee — 
"  Nay,  tower  siill,  the  Drama  yet  deplores 
That  la'e  she  deign'd  to  crawl  upon  ai;-fonrs. 
When  Richard  roars  in  Bosworih  for  a  horse. 
If  ynu  commaut,  the  steed  must  come  in  couTM. 
If  y  Hi  decree,  the  stage  must  cindeacrnd 
To  soothe  the  sickly  <asie  we  dare  m  t  mead. 
Blame  not  our  judijmeni  should  we  ai-({uiesc*i 
And  gratify  yoo  more  by  showing  leas. 
The  past  reproach  let  present  scenes  refute. 
Nor  shirt  from  man  to  babe,  from  balwtobnita.**— ■■ 


n 


1812.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


m 


213 


Oh !  since  your  fiit  sUmps  the  Drarm's  laws, 
Forbear  lo  nicck  us  hi  h  misplaced  applause ; 
So  piide  shall  d  lubly  nerve  the  acior's  powers, 
And  reason's  voice  be  echo'd  b.ick  by  ours  ! 

This  ereeting  o'er,  the  ancient  rule  obey'd, 
The  Drama's  h'ma^e  by  her  herald  paid, 
Beceive  our  welcome  too,  whose  every  tone 
Springs  from  our  hearts,  and  fain  would  win  your  own. 
'J  he  curtain  rises  —  may  our  stage  unfold 
Scenes  not  unworthy  Diury's  days  of  old  '. 
Britons  o\ir  judses,  Nature  for  our  guide. 
Still  may  ice  please—  long,  long  may  yuu  preside. 


PARENTHETICAL   ADDRESS 
BY    DR.  PLAGIARY. 

Half  tlolen,  with  acknowledgments,  to  bf  spoken  in  an 
inarticiilale  voice  by  Master  P.  at  the  opeoing  of  the 
next  new  theatre.  Smlen  parts  marked  with  the  in- 
vcrled  commas  of  quulation  —  thus  *' , " 

"  When  energising  objects  men  pursue," 

Then  Lord  knows  what  is  writ  by  Lord  knows  "ho. 

"  A  modest  monologue  you  here  survey," 

Hiss'd  from  the  theatre  the  "other  day," 

As  if  Sir  Fretful  wrote  -'the  slumberous"  verse, 

And  gave  his  son  "  the  rubbisn  "  to  rehearse. 

"  Yet  at  the  thing  you  'd  never  be  amazed," 

Knew  you  the  rumpus  which  the  author  raised  ; 

"  Nor  even  here  your  smiles  would  be  represt," 

Knew  you  ihese  lines—  the  badness  of  the  best, 

"Flame!  fire  I  and   flame!"  (words  borrowed  from 

Lucre'iu-,) 
"  Dread  metaphors  which  open  wounds  "  like  is>;ues  ! 
"And  sleeping  pangs  awake — and  —  but  away" 
(Confound  me  if  I  know  what  next  lo  sny^. 
"  Lo  Hope  reviving  re-expands  her  wings," 
And  Master  G—  recites  what  Doctor  Busby  sings  !  — 
''  if  mighty  things  with  small  we  may  compare," 
(Translated  from  the  grammar  for  the  fair  I) 
Dramatic  "  spirit  drives  a  conquering  car," 
And  burn'd  poor  Moscow  like  a  tub  of  "  tar." 
"  This  spirit  Welling'on  has  shown  in  Spain," 
To  furnish  melodrames  for  Drury  Lane. 
"  Another  Marlborouzh  pain's  to  Blenheim's  story," 
And  George  and  I  will  dramatise  it  for  ye. 

"  In  arts  aiid  sciences  our  isle  hath  shone" 

(This  deep  discovery  is  m!:e  alone). 

"Oh  British  poesy,  whose  powers  inspire" 

My  verse —  or  I  'in  a  fool  —  and  Fame 's  a  liar, 

"  Thee  we  invoke,  your  sister  arts  implore" 

With  "smiles,"  and  "lyres,"  and  "pencils,"  and  much 

These,  if  we  win  the  Graces,  too,  we  gain 

Diigrnces,  loo  !  "inseparable  train  I  " 

"  Three  who  have  stolen   their  witching  airs  from 

Cupid' 
(You  all  know  what  I  mean,  unless  you  "re  stupid) : 
"  Harmonious  throng"'  that  I  have  kept  in  petto. 
Now  to  produce  in  a  "divine  MStetto" I .' 
"  While  Poesy."  with  Ihese  delightful  doxies, 
"  Sustains  her  part  "  in  all  the  "  upper  "  boxes ! 
"  Thus  liffcd  gloriouslj-,  you  'II  soar  along," 
Borne  in  the  vast  balloon' of  Busby's  song; 
"Shine  in  your  farce,  masque,  scenery,  and  play" 
(For  this  last  line  George  had  a  holiday). 
"Old  Drury  never,  never  soir'd  so  high," 
So  I-  ys  the  manager,  and  so  say  I. 
"  P-.   t  hold,  you  say,  this  self-complacent  boast ;  " 
Is  his  the  poem  w'hich  the  public  lost  ? 
"Tiue  —  true  — that  lowers   at  once  our  mounting 

pride ; " 
But  lo :  —  the  pipers  print  wha-  you  deride. 
"  T  is  ours  lo  look  on  you  —  you  hold  the  prize," 
T  is  twetity^w'neas,  as  they  advertise  ! 
"  A  Jouble  ble-sing  your  rew'ards  impart  "  — 
I  wish  I  had  them,  then,  with  all  my  heart. 


"  Our  twofold  feeling  own>  its  twofold  cause," 
Why  son  and  I  boih  beg  for  your  applau-e. 
"  When  in  your  fnsterii.g  beams  you  bid  us  live," 
My  next  subscription  list  shall  say  bow  much  you  give ! 
October,  1613. 


!       VERSES  FOUND  IN  A  SUMMER  HOUSE 
AT  HALESOWEN.  1 
When  Dryden's  fool,  "  unknowing  what  he  sought." 
His  hours  in  whistling  spent,  "  for  ivant  of  thought,"* 
This  guiltles>  oaf  his  vic  ncy  of  sense 
Supplied,  and  amply  too,  by  innocence; 
Did  modern  swains,  possess'd  of  Cynion's  powers, 
In  C\rnon's  manner  waste  their  leisure  hours, 
Th'  oti'ended  guests  would  not,  with  bluhing,  see 
These  fair  green  walks  disg  aced  by  infamy. 
Severe  the  fate  of  modern  fools,  alas  ! 
When  vice  and  folly  mark  them  as  they  pass. 
Like  noxious  reptiles  o'er  the  whiten 'd' wall, 
The  filth  they  lea.e  still  points  out  where  they  crawl. 


REMEMBER  THEE  !  REMEiMBER  THEE  ! 

Remember  thee  !  remember  thee  I 

Till  Leihe  quench  life's  burning  stream 
Remorse  and  sham.^  sh  ill  cling  to  thee. 

And  haunt  thee  lik.=;  a  feverish  dream  I 
Remember  thee!  Ay,  doubt  it  not. 

1  hy  husband  too  shall  think  of  thee: 
By  neither  shall  thou  be  forgot. 

Thou  false  to  him,  thou  jknd  to  me. » 

TO   TIME. 

Time",  on  whose  arbitrary  wing 
1  he  varying  hours  must  f5ag  or  fly, 

Whose  tardy  winter,  fleeting  spring. 
But  drug  or  drive  us  on  to  die  — 

Hail  thou  !  who  on  my  birth  beslow'd 
1  hose  boons  to  all  that  I; now  tbee  known ; 

Yet  betler  I  sustain  thy  load. 

For  now  J  beat  the  weight  aWne. 

I  would  not  one  fond  heart  should  share 
The  bitter  moments  Ihou  hast  given  ; 

And  pardon  thee,  since  thou  could'st  spar 
All  that  1  loved,  to  peace  or  heaven. 

To  them  be  ioy  or  rest,  on  me 

Thy  future  ills  shall  press  n  vain; 

I  nothing  owe  but  years  to  thee, 
A  debt  already  paid  in  pair 

Vet  even  that  pain  was  some  relief; 

It  felt,  but  still  forgot  thy  p-wer; 
The  active  agony  of  grief 

Retards,  but  never  counts  the  hour. 

In  ioy  I've  sigh'd  to  Ihink  Ihy  flight 
Would  soon  subside  from  swift  io  slow; 

Thy  cloud  could  overcast  the  light, 
Bui  could' not  add  a  night  to  wo*  » 


For  then,  however  drear  and  dark 
My  soul  was  suited  lo  thy  sky  ; 

One  star  alone  shot  forth  a  spir'k 
To  prove  thee— not  Eternity. 


I  In  Warwickshire.  2  See  Cymon  ari  Iphigenia. 

3  '•  The  sequel  of  s  temporary  Ziciion.  formed  by  Lord 
Byron  during  his  gay  but  brief  career  in  London,  occa- 
sioned Ihe  C'lmpoaitionof  this*  Impromptu.  On  the  cessa- 
tion of  the  connertinn,  the  fair  one,  actuated  ny  jealousy, 
chilled  one  mornicg  nt  her  quondam  lover's  apartment*. 
His  Lordshtp  was  from  home;  but  (indin?  \athek  oo  the 
table,  the  lady  wrote  in  the  first  page  vi  the  volume  tba 
words  ■  Remember  me!'  Bynn  immediately  wrote  xm 
der  the  ominous  waruing  these  two  ataozae." — MEIV 
WIN.-E, 


214 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


[1812.1! 


Tbal  beam  hath  sunk,  and  row  thou  art 
A  blank  ;  a  thing  to  count  and  curse, 

Thro'igh  each  dull  lediuus  triHing  part, 
VViiich  all  regie:,  yet  all  rehearse. 

One  scene  even  ihou  canst  not  deform  ; 

The  limit  of  thy  sloth  or  speed 
When  fu:ure  wandeieis  bear  ihe  storm 

Which  we  sl.all  sleep  too  sound  to  heed. 

And  I  cin  smile  to  think  how  weak 
'I'biiie  ertorls  shortly  shall  be  shown, 

When  all  Ihe  vengeance  thou  cinst  wreak 
Must  fall  upon  —  a  nameless  stone. 


TKANSLATION  OF  A  ROMAIC  LOVE  SONG. 

Ah  !  Love  was  never  yet  without 
The  pm;,  Ihe  agony,  the  doubt. 
Which  rends  my  heart  with  ceaseless  sigh, 
While  day  and  uight  roll  darkling  by. 

Without  one  friend  to  hear  my  woe, 
]  faint,  I  die  beneath  ihe  blow. 
That  Love  had  arrows,  well  I  knew  | 
Alas  1  I  find  them  poisou'd  loo. 

Birds,  yet  in  freedom,  shun  the  net 
Which  Love  around  your  haunts  hath  set ; 
-0,r,..circled  by  his  latll  fire, 
.    Your  hearts  shall  burn,  your  hopes  expire. 

A  bird  of  free  and  careless  wing 
Was  I,  through  many  a  smiling  spring; 
But  cau?ht  within  the  subtle  sn  ire, 
I  burn,  and  feebly  flutter  there. 

Who  ne'er  have  lived,  and  loved  in  vain, 
Can  neither  feel  nor  pily  piin. 
The  cold  repulse,  the  look  askance. 
The  lightning  of  Love's  angry  glance. 

In  flattering  dreams  I  deem'd  thee  mine; 
Now  hope,  and  he  who  hoped,  decline; 
Like  melting  wax,  or  withering  ttower, 
I  feel  my  passion,  and  thy  power. 


My  light  of  life  !  ah,  tell  me  why 
That  poutins  lip,  and  alter'd  eye? 
My  bird  of  love  !  my  beauteous  mate  ! 
And  art  thou  changed,  and  canst  Ihou  hate  ? 

Mine  eyes  like  win'iy  streams  o'erflow ; 
What  wretch  wiih  me  would  birter  woe? 
My  bird  '.  relent :  one  note  could  give 
A  charm,  to  bid  thy  lover  live. 

Mv  curdling  blood,  my  madd'ning  brain, 
In'silent  aneuish  I  sustain  ; 
And  still  Ihy  heart,  wilhout  partaking 
One  pang,  exults  —  while  mine  is  breaking. 

Pour  me  the  poison  ;  fenr  not  thou  ! 
Thou  canst  not  murder  more  than  now: 
I  "ve  lived  to  curse  my  naial  day, 
And  Love,  that  thus  can  lingering  slay. 

My  wounded  soul,  my  bleeding  breast, 
Can  patience  preach  ihee  into  rest? 
Alas',  too  late,  F  dearly  know 
That  joy  is  harbinger  of  woe. 


THOU  ART  NOT  FALSE,  BUT  THOU  ART 
FICKLE. 

Thou  art  not  false,  but  thoii  art  fickle, 
To  those  thyself  so  fondly  sought ; 

The  tears  tint  thou  h^s^  forced  to  trickle 
Are  doubly  bitter  from  that  thnush' : 

T  is  this  which  breaks  the  heart  ihou  grievesf, 

Too  well  thou  lov'st —  too  soon  Ihou  leavest. 


The  wholly  false  the  heart  despises. 
And  spurns  deceiver  and  deceit ; 

Bui  she  who  no  a  ihought  disguies. 
Whose  love  is  as  sinceie  as  sweet, — 

When  she  can  change  who  loved  so  truly, 

It  ieels  what  mine  has  felt  so  newly. 

To  dream  of  joy  and  wake  to  sorrow 
Is  doom'd  to  all  who  love  or  live  , 

And  if,  when  conscious  on  the  rnorro 
We  scarce  our  fancy  can  forgive. 

That  cheated  us  in  slumber  only. 

To  leave  the  waking  soul  more  lonely, 

What  must  they  feel  whom  no  false  vision, 
But  truest,  lenderest  passion  waini'd  ? 

Sincere,  but  swill  in  sad  transition  ; 
As  if  3  dream  alone  had  chrrm'd  ? 

Ah  !  sure  such  grief  is  fancy's  scheminj. 

And  all  thy  change  can  be  but  dreaming ! 


ON  BEING  ASKED   WHAT  WAS  THE   "GRI. 
GIN  OF  LOVE." 

The  "  Origin  of  Love  !  "—Ah,  why 

That  crucfqu^StKjn  ask  of  nie. 
When  thou  miyVI  read  in  many  an  eye 

He  s:arts  lo  life  on  seeing  Ihee  ? 

And  should'st  Ihou  seek  his  end  to  know: 
My  heart  forebodes,  my  fears  foresee. 

He'll  linger  lone  in  silent  woe; 
But  live—  until  1  cease  to  be. 


REMEMBfcR  tfIM,%HO}k^fiSsj)g^;^pWEB. 

Remember  him,  whom  pisSon's  power 

Severely,  deeply,  vainly  proved: 
Remeniber  thou  that  dangerous  hoiir, 

When  neither  fell,  though  both  were  loved. 

That  yielding  breast,  that  melting  eye, 

Too  muchinviied  to  be  bless'd  : 
That  gentle  prayer,  that  pleading  sigh. 

The  wilder  wish  reproved,  repress'd. 

Oh  !  let  me  feel  that  all  I  lost       '  ' 

But  saved  Ihee  all  that  conscience  fears; 

And  blush  for  every  pang  it  cost 
To  spare  the  vain  remorse  of  years. 

Yet  think  of  this  when  many  a  longiie. 
Whose  busy  accents  whisper  blame. 

Would  do  Ihe  heart  that  loved  Ihee  wrong, 
And  brand  a  nearly  blighted  name. 

Think  that,  whate'er  to  others,  Ihou 
Hast  seen  each  selfish  thought  subdued  : 

I  bless  thy  purer  soul  even  now, 
Even  now,  in  midnight  solitude. 

Oh.  God  !  that  we  had  met  in  time. 
Our  hearts  as  fond,  'by  hand  more  free; 

When  Ihou  hadst  loved  without  a  crime, 
And  I  been  less  unworthy  thee ! 

Far  may  thy  days,  as  heretofore. 
From  this  our  gaudy  world  be  past ! 

And  that  too  biller  moment  o'er. 
Oh  !  may  such  trial  be  Ihy  last ! 

This  heart,  alas !  perverted  long, 
lt<elf  djslroy'd  mijht  there  destroy  ; 

To  meet  thee  in  the  glittering  ihron?. 
Would  wake  Presumption's  hope  of  jojr. 

Then  lo  the  things  whose  bliss  or  woe. 
Like  mine,  is  wild  and  worthiest  all. 


1812.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


215 


TI  »t  world  resign  —  such  scenes  fnreso. 
Where  those  who  feel  niuit  surely  fall. 

Thy  youth,  thy  charms,  ihy  tenderness, 
Thy  soul  frnm  long  seclusion  pure  ; 

From  what  even  here  hath  pnss'd,  may  guess 
What  there  thy  bosom  must  enduie. 

Ob  !  pardon  that  imploring  tear, 
Since  not  by  Virtue  shed  in  vain, 

My  frenzy  drew  from  eyes  so  dear  ; 
For  me  they  shall  not  weep  again. 

Though  long  and  mournful  must  it  be, 
The  thought  that  we  no  more  may  meet; 

Yet  1  deserve  the  stern  decree, 
And  almost  deem  the  sentence  sweet. 

Still,  had  I  loved  thee  less,  my  heart 
Had  then  less  sacrificed  to  thine  ; 

It  felt  not  half  so  much  to  part. 
As  if  its  guilt  bad  made  thee  mine. 


ON    LORD    THURLOW'S   POEMS. 

When  Thurlow  this  damn'd  nonsense  sent, 

(I  hope  I  am  not  violent)  -      "" 

Mor  men  nor^ods  knew  what  be  meant. 

And  since  not  ev'n  our  Rogers'  praise 

To  common  sense  his  thoughts  could  raise  — 

Why  uxMld  they  let  him  print  his  lays  ? 


To  me,  divine  Apollo,  grant  —  0! 
Hermilda's  first  and  second  canto,         i 
I  'm^ttios  up  a  new  portmanteau  ; 

And  thus  to  furnish  decent  lining, 

My  own  and  others'  bays  I  'm  twining,- 

So,  gentle  Tburlow,  throw  me  thine  ia 


TO   LORD    THURLOW. 

"  I  lay  my  branch  of  laurel  down. 
Then  thus  tn  form  Apollo's  crown, 
Let  every  other  bring  his  own." 

Lord  ThurUie't  lines  to  Mr.  Rogert. 

'^ Ilaymy  branch  nf  Inurel doum." 
Thou  "  lay  thy  branch  of  laurel  down  !  " 

Why,  what' thou  'st  stole  is  not  enow  ; 
And,  were  it  lawfully  thine  own. 

Does  Rogers  want  it  most,  or  thou  ? 
Keep  to  thyself  thy  wither'd  bough. 

Or  send  it  back  to  Doctor  Donne : 
Were  justice  done  to  both,  I  irow. 

He  'd  have  but  little,  and  thou  —  none. 

"  TVien  thut  to  form  Apollo's  crovoru" 
A  crown  1  why,  twist  i'  how  you  will, 

Thy  chaplel'must  be  foolscap  still. 
When  next  you  visit  Delphi's  town. 

Enquire  a'monest  your  fellow-lodgers, 
Tbey  '11  tell  you  Phoebus  eave  his  crown, 

Some  years  before  your  birth,  to  Rogers. 

"Lit  every  other  bring  his  oum." 
When  coals  to  Newcastle  are  carried. 

And  owls  sent  to  Athens,  as  wonders. 
From  his  spouse  when  the  Recent'-^  unmarried, 

Or  Liverpool  weeps  o'er  his  blunders  ; 
When  Tories  and  Whigs  cea^e  to  quairel, 

When  Castlereagh's  wife  has  an  heir, 
Then  Rogers  shall  ask  us  for  laurel. 

And  thou  shalt  have  plenty  to  spare. 


TO   THOMAS    MOORE. 
WRITTEN  THE  EVENING  BEFORE  HIS  VISIT 
TO    MR.  LEIGH    HUNT   IN    HORSEMOMUER 
i        LANE  GAOL,  AIAY  19,  1813. 

Oh  you,  who  in  all  names  can  tickle  the  town, 
Anacreon,  Tom  Little,  Tom  Moore,  or'J'om  Brown,— 
For  hing  me  if  I  know  of  which  you  may  most  brag. 
Your  Quarto  two-pounds,  or  your  Two-penny  Port 


But  now  to  my  letter  —  to  yours  't  is  an  answer  — 
To-morrow  be  with  me,  as  soon  as  you  can,  sir. 
All  ready  and  dress "d  for  proceeding  to  spunge  on 
(According  to  compact)  ihe  wit  in  the  dungeon  — 
Pray  Phoebus  at  length  our  political  malice 
May  nol  get  us  lodgings  within  the  same  palace  ! 
I  suppose   that  to-night  you  're  engaged   with  some 

codgers. 
And  for  Sotheby's  Blues  have  deserted  Sam  Rogers  ; 
And  I,  though  with  cold  I  have  nearly  mv  death  got. 
Must  put  on  niy  breeches,  and  wait  on  the  Heathoole  ; 
But  to-morrow,  at  four,  we  will  both  play  ihe  Scurra, 
And  you  '11  be  Catullus,  the  Regent  Mamurra. 

[First  published  in  1E30.] 


IMPROMPTU,  IN  REPLY  TO  A  FRIEND. 

When,  from  the  heart  where  Sorrow  sits, 
Her  du'ky  shadow  mounts  too  high, 

And  o'er  the  changing  aspect  flits. 
And  clouds  the  brow,  or  fills  the  eye  ; 

Heed  not  that  gloom,  which  soon  shall  sink; 

My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  well ; 

Back  to  my  breast  the  wanderers  shrink, 
And  droop  within  their  silent  cell. 

September,  1813. 


SONNET,  TO   GENEVRA. 

Thine  eyes'  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair. 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  ihy  features  —  caught 
From  contemplation  —  where  serenely  wrought, 
Seems  Sorrow's  softness  charm'd  from  iis  despair- 
Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadne'^s  in  thine  air, 
That  —  but  I  know  thy  b'essed  bosom  fraught 
With  mines  of  unalloj'd  and  stainless  thought  — 
I  should  have  deem'd  thee  doom'd  to  earthly  care. 
With  such  an  aspect,  by  his  colours  blent, 

When  from  his  beauty-breahing  pencil  born, 
(Except  that  thuu  hast  nothing  to  i^epenl) 

The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  mom  — 
Such  seem'st  thou  —  but  how  much  more  excellent ! 
With  nought  Remorse  can  claim  —  nor  Virtue  scorn. 
December  17,  IBIS. 


SONNET,   TO    THE    SAME. 

Thy  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from  woo 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  Mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blusb, 

My  htmrt  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow  : 

And  dizzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes  —  but,  oh  ! 
While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush. 

Soft  as  ihe  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow. 

For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depending, 
The  soul  of  melancholy  Gentleness 

Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending. 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress  ; 

At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 
I  worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 

December  I  %  ISIS. 


216 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


[1814 


FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE. 

"  TO    Ml    CHAMAS." 

In  momen's  to  delieht  devoted, 

"  My  life  : "  with  lenderesl  tone,  you  cry  ; 
Dear  words  I  on  which  my  hesrt  had  doted, 

Jf  you  h  could  neither  fade  nor  die. 

To  death  even  hours  like  these  must  roll, 
Ah  !  then  repeat  thoe  accents  never  ; 

Or  change  '•  my  life'.  "  into  '  my  soul  !" 
Which,  like' my  love,  exists  for  ever. 

ANOTHER    VERSION. 

Tou  call  me  s'ill  your  life.  —  Oh  1  ch  (n;e  the  word  • 
Life  is  as  transient  as  the  inconstant  sigh  : 

Say  rather  I  'm  your  soul ;  more  just  that  name, 
For,  like  the  soul,  my  love  can  never  die. 


THE    DEVIL'S   DRIVE; 
AN     UNFINISHED     RHAPSODY. 

The  Devil  return'd  to  hell  by  two, 

And  he  stay'd  at  home  till  five; 
When  he  dined  on  some  homicides  done  in  ragout, 

Aiid  a  rebel  or  so  in  an  Irish  s'evv. 
And  sausazes  made  of  a  self-slain  Jew  — 
And  bethought  himself  what  next  to  do, 

"And."  q'unlh  he,  "  I  '11  'ake  a  drive. 
I  ivalk'd  in  the  morning,  I'll  ride  to-nighf  j 
In  darkness  my  children  take  most  delight, 

And  1  'II  see'  how  niy  favourites  thrive. 

"And  what  shall  I  ride  in?"  quoth  Lucifer  then  — 

"  If  I  fillow'd  my  taste,  indeed, 
I  should  mount  in  a  wagnn  of  wounded  men, 

And  smile  to  see  them  bleed. 
But  these  will  be  fiirnish'd  again  and  again, 

And  at  present  my  purpose  is  speed  ; 
To  see  my  manor  as  much  a<  I  may. 
And  watch  that  no  souls  shall  be  poacb'd  away, 

"  I  have  a  state-coach  at  Carlton  House, 

A  chariot  in  Seymour  PI  'ce  ; 
But  they  're  lent  to  two  friends,  who  make  me  amends, 

By  driving  my  favourite  pace: 
And  they  handle  heir  reins  with  such  a  prace, 
I  have  someihiiig  for  both  at  the  end  of  Iheir  race. 

"  So  now  for  'he  earth  to  take  my  chance  :  " 

Then  up  to  the  earth  sprung  he ; 
And  making  a  jump  from  Moscow  to  France, 

He  stepi)"d  across  the  sea. 
And  resed  his  l<oof  on  a  turnpike  road. 
No  very  great  way  from  a  bishop's  abode. 

But  first  a»  he  fiew,  I  forgot  to  say, 
That  he  hover'd  a  moment  upon  his  way. 

To  look  upon  Leipsic  plain  ; 
And  so  sweet  to  his  eye  was  its  sulphury  glare, 
And  so  soft  to  his  ear  was  the  cry  of  despair, 

That  he  perch'd  on  a  mountain  of  slain  ; 
And  he  gazed  wjih  delieht  from  its  growing  height. 
Nor  often  on  ear'h  had  lie  seen  such  a  sight. 

Nor  his  work  done  half  as  well : 
For  the  field  ran  so  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead, 

That  it  b'ush'd  like  the  waves  of  hell ! 
Then  loudly,  and  wildly,  and  long  laugh'd  he; 
"Me'.hinks  they  have  here  little  need  of  met" 


But  the  softest  note  that  soothed  his  ear 

Was  the  sound  of  a  widow  sizhing ; 

And  the  swee'est  sight  was  the  icy  tear. 

Which  horror  froze  in  the  blue  eye  clear 

Of  a  maid  by  her  lover  lying  — 
As  round  her  fell  her  long  fair  h  lir  ; 
And  she  look'd  to  heaven  with  that  frenzied  air, 
Which  seem'd  to  ask  if  a  God  were  there  ! 


And,  stretch'd  by  the  wall  of  a  ruin'd  hut. 
With  its  hollow  cheek,  and  eyes  half  shut, 

A  child  of  f  imine  dying  : 
And  the  carnage  begun,  when  resi^ance  is  done, 

And  the  fall'of  the  vainly  flying ! 


'  But  the  Devil  has  reach'd  our  clilTs  so  white, 

I      And  what  did  he  there,  1  pray  ? 

I  If  his  eyes  were  good,  he  but  saw  by  night 

What  we  see  every  day  : 
But  he  made  i  lour,  and  kept  a  journal 
Of  all  the  wondrous  -ights  miciurnal. 
And  he  sold  it  in  sharei  to  the  Mtn  of  the  Row, 
Who  bid  pret  y  well  —but  they  cliealtd  bim,  though! 

I  The  Devil  first  saw,  as  he  thought,  the  Mail, 
I      Its  coachman  and  h's  coal ; 

So  instead  of  a  pislol  he  cock'd  his  tail, 
!     And  seized  him  by  the  ih'Oat : 
I  "  Aha  '. "  quoth  he,  ••  what  have  we  here  ? 

'T  is  a  new  barouche,  and  an  ancient  peer !  " 


i  So  he  sat  him  on  his  box  again, 
I      And  bade  him  have  no  fear, 
I  But  be  true  to  hi>  club,  and  staunch  to  his  rein, 
I      His  brothel,  and  his  beer; 
■  Next  to  seeing  a  lord  at  the  council  board, 
I  would  rather  see  him  here." 


The  Devil  gat  next  to  Westminster, 

And  he  turn'd  to  ''  the  room  "  of  the  Commons; 
But  he  heard,  as  he  purposed  to  enter  in  there, 

That  "  the  Lords  "  had  received  a  summons  ; 
And  he  thought,  as  a  '•  quondam  aristocrat," 
He  might  peep  at  the  peers,  though  to  Tiear  them 

were  Hat ; 
And  he  walk'd  up  the  hou-e  so  like  one  of  our  own, 
That  they  sa)  that  he  stood  prelty  near  the  throne. 


The  Lord  Westmoreland  certainly  silly 
And  .Tohnny  of  Norfolk  —  a  man  of  some' size  — 

And  Chatham,  so  like  his  fiiend  Billy  ; 
And  he  saw  the  leais  in  Lord  Eldon's  eyes. 

Because  the  Catholics  would  not  rise. 

In  spite  of  his  prayers  and  his  prophecies; 
And  he  heard  —  which  set  Satan  himself  a  starinjf 
A  certain  CVief  Justice  say  something  like  swearing- 
And  the  Devil  was  shock"d'—  and  quoth  he,  "  I  must  gr>. 
For  I  find  we  have  much  better  manners  below  : 
If  thus  he  harangues  when  he  passes  my  border, 
I  shall  hint  to  friend  Moloch  to  call  him  to  order." 


j  WINDSOR    POETICS. 

'  Lines  composfd  on    the  orrasinn  of  Hin  Royal  Highne«« 
I      the    Prince    Reseni    being  seen    sitanding  between  <te 
cf.ffina   of    H.nry  VIII.  and   Charles  I.,  io    the   royal 
I      vault  at  Windsor. 

Famed  for  contemptuous  breach  of  sacred  ties. 
By  headless  Charles  see  heartless  Henry  lies; 
Between  ihem  stands  another  sceptred  thing  — 
It  moves,  it  reigns—  in  all  but  name,  a  king: 

Charles  to  his  people,  Henry  to  his  wife, 

—  In  him  the  double  tyrant  starts  to  life : 

Jus'ice  and  death  have  mixd  their  dust  in  vain. 

Each  royal  vampire  wakes  to  life  again. 

Ah,  w  hat  can  tombs  avail  !  —  since  these  disgorge 

The  blood  and  dust  of  both  —  to  mould  a  George. 


I  STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC. 

I  speak  not,  I  trace  not,  I  breathe  not  thy  name, 
There  is  grief  in  the  sound,  there  is  guilt  in  the  fame! 
But  the  tear  which  now  burns  on  my  cheek  may  impart 
The  deep  thoughts  that  dwell  in  that  silence  of  beut. 


1814.J 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


217 


Too  brief  for  our  passion,  'no  Ion;  for  our  peace,  Where  the  Divers  of  Bithos  lie  drown'd  in  a  heap, 

Were    hose  hours  —  can  their  joy  or  their  bitieroess  And  Soulhey's  l^st  taem  has  piliow'd  hi   siP'p;  — 

cease  ?  That  ••  Kelo  de  se, '  who,  half  drunk  \y'"^  his  malmsey, 

We  repent  —  wc  abjure  —  we  will  break  from  our  Waik'd  out  of  his  depth  and  «as  losi  in  a  calm  sea, 

chain, —  ^  ..  ^.        .    ^    .  .. 

We  will  part,—  we  will  fiy  to  —  unite  it  again  ! 


Singing  "  Glorj-  to  God  "  ;n  a  spick  md  span  stanza. 
The  like   (since  Tom  Sternhold  was  choked)  never 


Oh  !  thine  be  the  gladness,  and  mine  be  the  guilt ! 
Forgive  me,  adoreJ  one  I  —  forsake,  if  Ihou  "wilt;  — 
But  the  heart  which  is  thine  shall  expire  undeba>,ed. 
And  man  shall  not  break  it  —  whatever  Ihuu  mayst. 

And  stern  to  the  haughty,  but  humble  to  thee, 
This  soul,  m  ils  bilte'res  blackness,  shall  be 


And  our  days  seem  ; 


min  saw. 

The  papers  have  told  you,  no  doubt,  of  the  fusses. 
The  fetes,  and  Ihc  gap'inga  to  gel  at  Ihese  Russes, — 
or  his  Majesty's  suits,  up  from  coachman  to  Hetman, 
And  what  dignity  decks  the  flal  fictr  of  ilie  great  man 
I  saw  him,  last  week,  at  two  balls  and  a  paitj,— 
For  a  prince,  his  demeinour  was  rather  loo  hearty. 


ft,  and  our  moments  more   You  kiiow,  we  are  used  to  quite  ditfsrent  graces. 


With  thee  by  my  side,  than  with  worlds  at  our  feet. 

One  sigh  of  thy  sorrow,  one  look  of  thy  love, 
Shall  turn  me  or  fix.  shall  reward  or  reprove; 
And  the  heaitless  may  wonder  a'  all  I  resign  — 
Thy  lip  shall  reply,  not  to  them,  but  to  rnine. 


ADDRESS  INTENDED  TO  BE  RECITED  AT 
THE  CALEDONIAN  MEETING. 

Who  hath  not  glow"d  above  the  page  u  here  fame 

Hath  fix  d  high  Caledou's  unconquerd  ninie; 

The  mountain-land  «  hich  spurn"d  the  Roman  chain, 

And  baffled  back  the  fiery-cresled  Dane, 

Whose  bright  claymore  and  hardihood  of  hand 

No  foe  could  lame  —  no  tyrant  could  command  ? 

That  race  is  gone  —  but  still  iheir  children  breathe. 

And  glory  crowns  Ihem  with  redoubled  wreath: 

O'er  Gael  and  Saxon  mingling  banners  shine, 

And,  Enghnd  I  add  their  >tubbr)rn  streng  h  to  thine. 

The  blood  which  floWd  with  Wallace  flows  as  free, 

But  now  't  is  only  shed  for  fame  and  Ihee  ! 

Oh  1  pass  not  by  the  nonhern  veteran's  claim. 

But  give  support  —  the  world  hath  given  him  fame  ! 

The  humbler  ranks,  the  lowly  brave,  who  bled 
While  cheerly  following  where  the  mighty  led  — 
Who  sleep  beneath  the  undistinguish'd  sod 
Where  happier  comrades  in  their  triumph  trod, 
To  us  bequeath  — 't  is  all  their  fate  allows  — 
The  sireless  oflfspring  and  the  lonely  .-pouse  : 
She  on  high  Albyn's  dusky  hills  may  raise 
The  tearful  eyejn  melancholv  gaze. 
Or  view,  while  shadowy  auguries  disclose 
The  Highland  seer's  anticipated  woes. 
The  bleeding  phantom  of  each  martial  form 
Dim  in  the  cloud,  or  darkling  in  the  storm  ; 
While  sad,  she  chants  the  silitnrv-  song, 
Tlie  toft  lament  for  him  who  tarries  loiig  — 
For  him,  whose  distant  relics  vainly  crave 
The  Coronach's  wild  requiem  to  the  brave ! 

"T  is  Heaven  —  not  man  —  must  charm  away  the  woe, 

Which  bursts  when  Nature's  feelings  newly  flow; 

Vet  tenderness  and  lime  may  rob  the  tear 

Of  hilf  its  bitterness  for  one  so  dear ; 

A  nation's  gratitude  perchance  may  spread 

A  thornless  pillow  for  the  widow'd  head ; 

May  lighten  well  her  heart's  ma'ernal  c.are, 

And  wean  from  penury  the  soldier's  heir. 

May.  18H. 


The  Czar's  look,  I  own,  was  much  brighter  and  brisker, 
But  then  he  is  sadly  deficient  in  whisker  ; 
And  wore  but  a  starless  blue  oaf,  and  in'kersey- 
•mere  breeches  whisk'd  round,  in  a  waltz  with  the 

Jersey, 
Who,  lovely  as  ever,  seem'd  just  as  delighted 
Wi.h  majesty's  presence  as  those  she  invited. 


FRAGMENT   OF  AN    EPISTLE    TO   THOMAS 
MOORE. 

"  What  say  /?»  — not  a  syllable  further  in  prose ; 
I'm  your  man  "of  all   measures,"  dear  Tom, —  so, 

here  goes! 
Here  goes,  for  a  swim  on  the  stream  of  o'd  Time, 
On  those  buoyant  supporters,  the  bladders  "f  rhyme. 
I '  our  weight  breaks  Ihem  down,  and  we  sink  in  the 

flood. 
We  are  smother'd,  at  least,  in  respectable  muJ, 
_ 


CONDOI.A.TORy  ADDRESS  TO  SARAH,  COUN- 

I  TESS  OF  JERSEY, 

ON   THE   regent's    RETt'RNINO    HER    HC- 

i  TORE    TO    MRS.  MEE. 

When  the  vain  triumph  of  the  imperial  lord, 
Whom  servile  Rome  obey'd,  and  yet  abhorr'd, 
Gave  to  the  vulgar  gaze  each  glorious  bust. 
That  left  a  likeness  of  the  brave,  or  just ; 
What  most  admired  each  scrutinising  eye 
Of  all  Ihatdeck'd  that  pissing  pajeanlry? 
What  spread  from  face  to  face  that  wondering  air? 
The  thought  of  Brutus  —  for  his  was  not  there  ! 
That  absence  proved  his  worth,—  that  absence  fix'd 

I  His  memory  on  the  longing  mind,  unmix'd; 

I  And  more  decreed  his  glory  to  endure, 

j  Thau  all  a  gold  Colos^^us  could  secure. 

I      If  thus,  fair  Jersey,  our  desiring  g.>ze 
Search  for  thy  form,  in  vain  and  mule  amaze, 
Amidst  those  pictured  charms,  whose  loveliness, 
Bright  though  thev  be,  thine  own  had  rendei'd  less  ; 
If  he,  tha'  vain  old  man,  whom  truth  admits 
Heir  of  his  father's  crown,  and  of  his  wits. 
If  his  corrupted  eye,  and  wiiher'd  heart. 
Could  with  thy  gentle  image  bear  depart; 

I  That  tasteless  shame  be  Ar»,  and  ours  the  grief, 

I  To  gaze  on  Beauty's  band  without  its  chie'f  : 
Yet  comfort  still  one  selfish  thought  impart?, 

I  We  lose  the  portrait,  but  preserve  our  hearts. 

'      What  can  his  vaulted  gallery  now  disclose  ? 
A  garden  with  all  flowe.'-s  —  except  the  rose;  — 
A  fount  that  only  wants  its  living  stream  ; 
A  night,  with  every  star,  save  Dian's  beam. 
Lost  to  our  eyes  the  present  forms  shall  be, 
That  turn  from  tracing  them  to  dream  of  thee; 
And  more  on  that  recall'd  resemblance  pause, 
Than  all  he  ihall  not  force  on  our  applause, 

'      Long  may. thy  yet  meridian  lustre  shine. 
With  all  that  Virtue  asks  of  Homage  thine  : 
The  symmetry  of  youth  --  the  grace  of  mien  — 
The  eye  that  gladdens  —  and  the  brow  serene ; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  that  clustering  hair, 

'  Which  shades,  yet  shows  that  forehead  more  than  fair! 
Each  glance  that  wins  us,  and  the  life  that  throws 
A  spell  which  will  not  let  our  looks  repose. 
But  turn  to  gaze  .again,  and  find  anew 
Sime  charm  that  well  rewards  another  view. 
These  are  not  lessen'd,  these  are  still  as  bright, 
Albeit  too  dazzling  for  a  dotard's  sight ; 
And  those  must  vi-ait  till  ev'ry  charm  is  gone, 
To  please  the  paltry  heirt  thit  pleases  Done;  — 


218 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


[1814. 


Thit  dull  cold  sensualist,  whose  sickly  eye 
Id  envious  dimness  passM  thy  p  t  rail  by  ; 
Who  rack'd  his  li.tic  spirit  to  combine 
Its  bate  of  Frtedumh  loveliness,  aud  thine. 

August.  1814. 


TO  BELSHAZZAR. 

llelsha^zar  !  from  the  banquet  turn, 

Nor  in  thy  sensual  fulness  fall ; 
Behold  I  while  yet  before  thoe  burn 

The  graven  words,  the  glowing  wall, 
Many  a  despot  men  miscall 

Crown'd  and  anointed  from  on  high; 
But  thou,  the  weakest,  wors'  of  all  — 

Is  it  not  written,  thou  must  die  ? 

Go  !  dash  the  roses  from  thy  brow  — 

Grey  hairs  but  poorly  wreathe  with  them ; 
Tduth's  garlands  misbecome  thee  now, 

Mnrelhan  Ihy  very  diadem. 
Where  thnu  hast  tarnish'd  every  gem  :  — 

Then  throw  the  worthless  bauble  by, 
Which,  worn  by  thee,  ev'n  slaves  contemn; 

Aud  learn  like  better  men  to  die ! 

Oh  ".  early  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

And  ever  liuht  of  word  and  worth, 
Whose  soul  expired  ere  youth  decay'd. 

And  left  thee  but  a  mass  of  earth. 
To  see  thee  moves  ihe  scorner's  mirth : 

But  teirs  in  Hope's  averted  eye 
Lament  that  even  thou  hadst  birth  — 

Unfit  to  govern,  live,  or  die. 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR 
PETER  PARKER,  BART.i 

There  is  a  tear  fir  all  that  die, 

A  mourner  o'er  the  humblest  grave  ; 

But  nations  swell  Ihe  funeral  cry, 

And  Triumph  weeps  above  the  brave. 

For  them  is  Sorrow's  pures*  sish 

O'er  0:ean's  heaving  bosom  sent : 
In  vain  their  bones  unburied  lie. 

All  earth  becomes  their  monument ! 

A  tomb  is  theirs  on  every  page, 

An  epitaph  on  every  tongue  : 
The  present  hours,  Ihe  future  age, 

For  them  bewail,  to  Ihem  belong. 

For  them  the  voice  of  festal  mirth 

Grows  hush'd,  thtir  name  the  only  sound  ; 

While  deep  Remembrance  pours  to  Worth 
The  goblet's  tributary  round. 

A  theme  to  crowds  that  knew  them  not. 

Lamented  by  admiring  foes, 
Who  would  not  shiro  their  elorious  lot? 

Who  would  not  die  the  death  they  chose? 

And,  gallant  Parker !  thus  enshrined 
Thy  life,  thy  fall,  thy  fame  shall  be  i 

And  early  valour,  glowing,  find 
A  model  in  thy  memory. 

But  there  are  breasts  that  bleed  with  thee 

In  woe.  that  glory  cannot  quell ; 
And  -huddering  hear  of  victory. 

Where  one  so  dear,  so  dauntless,  fell. 

lThi«  gallant  omeer  fell  in  August.  1814.  in  liis  twenty, 
nintt)  ysar,  whilst  cnramandir.g.  on  shore,  a  party  b.-lring- 
ing  to  his  ship,  the  Meneiaua,  nnci  animating  them,  in 
storming  the  Araericau  camp  near  Baltimore.  He  was 
Lord  Byron's  first  cousin;  but  they  had  never  met  sine* 
boyliood.—  E. 


Where  shall  they  turn  to  mount  thee  less  ? 

When  ceisc  to  hear  ihy  cherish'd  name? 
Time  cannot  teach  forselfulness, 

While  Grief's  full  heart  is  fed  by  Fame. 

Alas  I  for  them,  though  not  for  thee, 
They  cannot  choose  but  weep  the  more; 

Deep  for  the  dead  Ihe  grief  must  be, 
Who  ne'er  gave  cause  to  mourn  before. 

OL'tnber,  UU. 


STANZAS    FOR  MUSIC. 

"O  Lachrymarura  fons,  tenerosacros 
Duoentium  ortiis  ex  animo:  quater 
Felix!  in  imoqui  scalenlem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit." 

GRAY'S  Poemata. 

There 's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes 

away, 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's 

dull  decay ; 
'T  is  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone, 

which  fides  so  fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere  youth  itself 

be  past. 

Then  the  few  whose  spirits  fioat  above  the  wreck  of 

happiness 
Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean  of  excess: 
'1  he  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points  in 

vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shiver'd  sail  shall  never 

stretch  again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death  itself 

comes  down ; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its 

That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of  our 

tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  't  is  where  the 

ice  appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth  dis- 
tract the  breast. 

Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their 
lormer  hope  of  rest ; 

'T  is  but  as  ivv  leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreath, 

All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn  and 
grey  beneath. 

Oh  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt,—  or  be  what  I  have 

been. 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept,  o'er  many  a  van- 

ish'd  scene ; 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all  brackish 

though  they  be, 
So,  'midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would 

flow  to  me. 

March,  181«. 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC. 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  thee  ; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me : 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  chirmed  ocean's  pausing, 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming. 
And  the  luU'd  winds  seem  dreaming: 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep  ; 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving. 
As  an  infant's  asleep  : 

So  Ihe  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee ; 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion. 

Like  Ihe  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 


Ri 


1615.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


219 


ON  NAPOLEON'S  ESCAPE  FROM  ELBA. 

Once  fairly  sef  out  on  his  party  of  pleasure. 

Taking  towns  at  his  liking,  and  crowns  at  his  leisure, 

From  Elba  to  Lyons  and  Paris  he  goes, 

Making  Vails  Jor  the  ladies,  and  Laws  to  his  foes. 

March  27,  1815. 


ODE    FROM   THE    FRENCH. 
I. 

We  do  not  curse  Ihee,  Waterloo ! 

Though  Fieedoni's  blood  thy  pl.iin  bedew; 

There  't  was  shed,  but  is  n  t  sunk  — 

Rising  from  each  gory  trunk, 

Like  ihe  water-spoul  from  ocean, 

With  a  strong  and  growing  motion  — 

It  soars,  and  mingles  in  the  air. 

With  that  of  lost  Labedovere  — 

Wi  h  that  of  him  whose  hnnour'd  grave 

Contains   he  ''bravest  of  the  brave." 

A  crimson  cloud  it  spreads  and  glows, 

But  shill  return  to  whence  it  rose  ; 

When  't  is  full  't  will  burst  asunder  — 

Never  vet  was  heard  such  thunder 

As  Iheri  shall  shake  the  world  with  won^ur 

Never  yet  was  seen  such  li:;litning 

As  o'er" heaven  shall  then  be  bright'ning! 

Like  the  Wormwood  Star  foretold 

By  the  sainted  Seer  of  old, 

Show'rins  down  a  fiery  flood, 

Turning  rivers  into  blood.i 

n. 

The  Chief  has  fallen,  but  not  by  you, 

Van<|uishers  of  Waterloo  1 

When  the  soldier  citizen 

Sway'd  not  o'er  his  fellow-men  — 

Save'  in  deeds  tha   led  tlieni  on 

Where  glory  smiled  on  Fieednm's  son  — 

Who,  of  all  the  despots  banded. 

With  that  youthful  chief  competed? 

Who  could  boast  o'er  France  defeated, 
Till  lone  Tyranny  conmianded  ? 
Till,  goaded  by  ambition's  sting, 
The  Hero  sunk  into  the  King  ? 
Then  he  fell :  —  so  [jerish  all. 
Who  would  men  by  mm  enthral  I 

IIL 

And  thou,  too,  of  the  snow-whiie  plume  ! 
Whose  realm  refused  Ihee  ev'n  a  tomb;  ^ 
Better  hadst  thou  still  been  leiding 
France  o'er  hosts  of  hirelings  bleeding, 
Than  sold  thyself  to  death  and  shame 
For  a  meanly  royal  name  ; 
Such  as  he  of  Naples  wears. 
Who  thy  blood-bought  title  benrs. 
Little  didst  thou  deem,  when  dashing 
On  thy  war  horse  through  the  ranks 
Like  .a  stream  which  burst  its  banks, 
While  helmets  cleft,  and  sabres  clashing, 
Shone  and  shiver'd  fast  around  thee  — 
Of  the  fate  al  last  which  found  thee: 
Was  that  haughty  plume  laid  low 
By  a  slave's  dishonest  blow  > 


1  See  Rev.  rhnp.  viii.  ».  7,  ic.  "The  first  angel 
■oumlid,  aiiil  there  fnllowpd  hail  and  fire  miUKleil  with 
bl'ioti,"  ir.  ».  8.  "And  Ihe  seriiiiil  angel  soumleil,  and  as 
it  were  a  Kreal  in»untajii  b:iruing  with  fire  was  rast  into 
llie  sea;  ami  the  third  part  u!  the  «ea  liernme  hlnod,"  \.<.:  \ 
•.  10.  "  Aiiil  the  third  aiiL-il  soundeil.  and  there  fell  a  sreat  I 
alar  fr'-m  heaven,  burning  aH  it  were  a  lamp:  :ind  it  tell 
upon  the  third  part  of  Ihe  rivers,  and  upun  Ihe  fiiunla^iia 
•if  walem."  ».  11.  "And  ihe  name  uf  Ihe  xlar  is  latted 
WurmaaoJ :  ami  Ihe  Ihird  purl  of  the  walere  beeame 
itormaooil;  and  many  meD  died  of  Ihe  waters,  beeauix: 
they  were  made  liitlcr," 

SMur.t'a  rertains  are  said  to  have  been  torn  from  Ihe 
grave  aod  burnt. 


Once  —  as  (he  Moon  sways  o'er  the  tide, 

Jt  roll'd  in  air,  the  warriors  guide; 

Through  the  smnke-creaied  night 

Of  the  black  and  sulphurous  tight, 

'I  he  soldier  raised  his  seeking  eye 

To  catch  that  crest's  ascendency, — 

And,  as  it  onward  rolling  rose,' 

So  moved  his  heart  U|  on  our  foeu. 

There,  where  death's  brief  pang  was  qukkest. 

And  the  bailie's  wreck  lay  thickest, 

Strewd  beneath  the  advancing  banner 

Of  the  eagle's  burning  crest  — 
(There  with  tlvunder-clouds  to  fan  her, 

WAo  could  then  her  wing  arrest  — 

Victory  beaming  from  her  breast?) 
While  the  broken  line  enl  irging 

Fell,  or  fled  along  the  plain  ; 
There  be  sure  was  Murat  charging ! 

There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  again  ! 
IV. 
O'er  glories  gnne  the  invaders  marjh. 
Weeps  Triumph  o'er  e.ach  levell'J  arch  — 
But  let  Freedom  rejoice. 
With  her  heart  in  her  voice; 
But,  her  hand  on  her  sword. 
Doubly  shall  she  be  adored  ; 
France  hath  twice  too  well  been  taught 
The  "  moral  lesson"  dearly  bought  — 
Her  safety  sits  not  on  a  tlirone, 
Willi  Capet  or  Napoleon! 
But  ill  e(|ual  rights  and  laws, 
Hearts  nnd  hands  in  one  great  cause  — 
Freedom,  such  as  God  hath  given 
Unto  all  beneath  his  heaven. 
With  their  breath,  and  from  their  birth, 
Though  Guilt  would  sweep  it  from  the  earth  ; 
With  a  fierce  and  lavish  hand 
Scat  ering  nations'  wealth  like  sand; 
Pouring  nations'  blood  like  water. 
In  imperial  seas  of  slaughter  ! 

V. 
But  the  heart  and  the  mind, 
And  the  voice  of  mankind, 
Shall  arise  in  communion  — 
And  who  shall  resist  that  proud  union  ? 
The  lime  is  past  when  swords  subdued  — 
Man  may  die  —  the  soul 's  renew'd  : 
Even  in  this  low  world  of  care 
Freedom  ne'er  shall  want  an  heir; 
Millions  breathe  but  to  inherit 
Her  for  ever  bounding  spirit  — 
When  once  more  her  hosts  assemble, 
Tyrants  shall  believe  and  tremble  — 
Smile  they  at  this  idle  threat  ? 
Cr'iisou  tears  will  follow  yet. 


FROM   THE    FRENCH. a 
I. 

Mu^t  thou  go,  my  glorious  Chief, 

Sever'd  from  thy  faithful  few  ? 
Who  can  tell  thy  warrior's  grief. 

Maddening  o'er  that  long  adieu  ? 
Woman's  love,  and  friendship's  zeal, 

Dear  as  both  have  been  to  nie  — 
What  are  they  to  all  I  feel, 

With  a  soldier's  faith  for  thee? 


W. 

Idol  of  the  soldier's  sonl  ! 

First  ill  light,  but  niishliest  no« 
Many  could  a  world  control ; 

Thee  alone  no  doom  can  bow. 


j  wormaoo 

I  they  wen 

)  aWur.t 

I  grave  aod 


3"  All  wept,  but  partirnl«rly  Savary,  .ind  a  Polish  oO- 
cer  who  had  l>een  exalted  from  Ihe  ranks  by  Bunonparte. 
He  elunj  to  his  mauler's  knees;  wn.le  a  letter  In  Lord 
Keith,  entreating  |ierminaion  to  acrompany  bim,  even  i* 
Ihe  most  menial  capacity,  whii  h  cuuld  act  be  admitled." 


220 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


[1815. 


By  thy  lide  for  years  I  dared 

Deaib  ;  atd  envied  those  who  fell, 

When  their  dyin^  shnul  was  heard, 
Blessing  hiui  they  served  so  well.i 

in. 

Would  that  I  were  cold  with  those, 

Since  ihis  hour  I  live  to  see; 
When  the  doubts  of  coward  foes 

Scarce  dare  trust  a  man  wiih  thee, 
Dreading  each  should  set  thee  free  ! 

(»h  :  al  houjh  in  dungeons  pent, 
All  their  chains  were  light  to  me, 

Gazing  on  thy  soul  unbent 

IV. 

Would  the  sycophants  of  him 

Now  sn  deaf  to  duty's  prayer. 
Were  his  borrow'd  glories  dim, 

In  his  naiive  darkness  share  ? 
Were  that  world  this  hour  his  own. 

All  thou  cainify  dost  resizn, 
Could  he  purchase  with  that  ihrone 

Hearts  like  those  which  still  are  thine  • 


My  chief,  ray  king,  my  friend,  adieu ! 

Never  did  I  dioop  before; 
Never  to  my  sovereign  sue. 

As  his  foes  I  now  implore  : 
All  I  ask  is  to  divide 

Every  peril  he  must  brave  ; 
Sharing  by  the  hero's  side 

His  fall,  his  exile,  and  his  grave. 


ON   THE    STAR    OF  "THE    LEGION  OF 
NOUR." 
[From  the  French.] 

Star  of  the  brave !  —  whose  beam  hath  shed 
Such  glory  o'er  the  quick  and  dead  — 
Thou  radiant  and  adored  deceit ! 
Which  millions  rush'd  in  arms  to  greet,- 
Wild  meeor  of  immortal  birth  '. 
Why  rise  io  Heaven  to  set  on  Earth  ? 

Souls  of  slain  heroes  form'd  thy  rays; 
Eternity  fiash'd  throujh  thy  blaze  ; 
The  music  of  thy  martial  sphere 
Was  fame  on  high  and  honour  here ; 
And  thy  light  broke  on  human  eyes. 
Like  a  volcano  of  the  skies. 

Like  lava  roll'd  thy  stream  of  blood. 
And  swept  down  empires  with  its  flood ; 
Earth  rock'd  beneath  thee  to  her  base, 
As  thou  didst  lighten  through  all  space; 
And  the  shorn  bun  grew  dim  in  air. 
And  set  while  thou  wert  dwelling  there. 

Before  thee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew, 

A  ninbow  of  the  loveliest  hue 

Of  three  bright  colours.2  each  divine, 

And  fit  for  that  celestial  sien  ; 

For  Freeilom's  hand  had  blended  them, 

Like  tinlj  in  an  immortal  gem. 


1  "  At  Waterloo,  one  man  was  seen,  whose  left  arm  was 
shat'ered  by  a  cannon-ball,  to  wrench  it  off  with  the 
other,  and  throwinR  it  up  in  the  air.  exrlaimed  to  his 
romradefl,  'Vive  TEmpereur,  juf-qu'a  la  mort : »  There 
were  many  other  insiancen  of  the  lik--:  this  you  may, 
howBTer.  depend  on  as  true."~Priro«e  Letttr  /rom 
Bruiselt. 

STb«  tricolour. 


One  tint  wis  of  the  sunbeam's  dyes  ; 
One,  the  blue  deph  of  Seraph's  eyes; 
One,  the  pure  Spirit's  veil  of  while 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light: 
The  three  so  mingled  did  be«eem 
The  texture  of  a  heavenly  dream. 

Star  of  the  brave  '.  thy  ray  is  pale. 
And  darkness  must  again  prevail ! 
But,  oh  thou  Rainbow  of  the  free  ! 
Our  tears  and  blood  must  flow  for  thee. 
When  thy  bright  promise  fades  away, 
Our  life  is  but  a  load  of  clay. 

And  Freedom  hallows  with  her  tread 
The  silent  cities  of  the  dead  ; 
For  beautiful  in  death  arc  they 
Who  proudly  fall  in  her  ar  ay  ; 
And  soon,  oh,  G  >ddess,  may  we  be 
For  evermore  with  them  or  thee  I 


;  NAPOLEON'S   FAREWELL. 

[From  the  French.] 
L 

Farewell  to  the  Land,  where  the  gloom  of  my  Glory 
Arose  and  o'ershadow'd  the  earth  with  her  name  — 
She  abandons  me  now  —  but  the  page  of  her  story, 
The  biightest  or  blackest,  is  filPd  wi!h  my  fame, 
I  have  warr'd  with  a  world  which  vanquish'd  me  only 
When  the  meteor  of  conquest  allured  me  too  far; 

;  1  have  coped  with  the  nations  which  dread  me  thus 

i  lonely. 

The  last  single  Captive  to  millioBs  in  war. 

n. 

Farewell  to  thee,  France !  when  thy  diadem  cronrn'd 

me. 
I  made  thee  the  gem  and  the  wonder  of  earth,— 
But  thy  weakness  decrees  I  should  leave  as  I  found 

thee, 
Decav'd  in  thy  glory,  and  sunk  in  thy  worth. 
Oh  '.  for  the  ve'eraii  hearts  that  were  wasted 
In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were  won  — 
Then  the  Eagle,  whose  gaze  in  that  moment  was 
!  blasted. 

Had  still  soar'd  with  eyes  fix'd  on  victory's  sun  ! 

i  «'• 

Farewell  to  thee,  France  !  —  but  when  Liberty  ralliet 
Once  more  in  Ihv  regions,  remember  me  then, — 
The  violet  still  erows  in  the  depth  of  thy  valleys; 
Thoush  wither'd,  thy  tear  will  unfold  il  again  — 
i  Yet,  yet,  1  may  baflle  the  hos's  that  surround  us, 
i  And  vet  may  ihy  heart  leap  awake  to  my  voice  — 
I  There  are  links  which  must  break  in  the  chain  that  bai 

bound  us, 
I  Then  turn  thee  and  call  on  the  Chief  of  thy  choice  I 


ENDORSEMENT  TO  THE  DEED  OF  SEPARA- 
TION, IN  THE  APRIL  OF  1816. » 

A  year  ago,  you  swore,  fond  she  ! 

'"'  To  love,  to  honour,"  and  so  forth  ; 
Such  was  the  vow  vou  pledged  to  me. 

And  here's  exactly  what  1  is  worth. 

3"  Here  is  an  epipram  I  wrote  for  the  F.ndorgemenl  of 
the  Deed  of  S.-paniIion,  in  iei6;  b.il  the  lawyer^  objected 
toil,  as  aupeitluous.  It  wa^  written  as  vit  were  getU 
up    the    signing    and    sealing.  --      -       ■ 


■Lvrd    Byron    !•  Mr. 


1816.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


221 


DOMESTIC    PIECES. 
1816. 


Of  the  six  following  poems,  the  first  three  were 
written  inimedialely  before  l,ord  Byron's  final  de- 
parture from  England  ;  the  others,  during  ihe  earlier 
part  of  his  residence  in  Ihe  neiglibnurhoo.!  of  Geneva. 
They  all  refer  to  the  unhappy  event,  which  will  for 
ever  mark  the  chi-f  cri  is  of  his  personal  story, — that 
separa'iou  from  L  dy  Byron,  of  which,  after  all  that 
has  been  said  and  written,  Ihe  real  motives  and  cir- 
cumstances rem  lin  as  obscure  as  ever. 

It  is  only,  of  course,  wi:h  Lord  Byron's  part  in  the 
fransactiin  that  Ihe  public  have  any  sort  of  title  to  con- 
cern theni'-elves.  He  has  given  us  Ihis  right,  by  ma- 
king a  domeslic  occurrence  Ihe  subject  of  primed 
verses ;  but,  so  long  as  the  other  pirly  cho  .ses  to  guard 
that  reserve,  which  few  can  be  so  uncharitable  as  not 
to  ascribe,  in  the  main,  to  a  high  feeling,  it  is  entirely 
impo  sible  to  arrive  at  any  clear  and  dehnite  judgment 
on  the  case  as  a  whole.  E  ich  reader  must,  therefore, 
be  content  to  interpret  for  himself,  is  fairly  as  he  may, 
an  already  bulky  collection  of  evidence,  which  will 
probably  be  doubled  before  i:  has  any  claim  to  be  cou- 
sideied  as  complete. 

There  are,  however,  two  impirtant  points  which 
seem  to  us  to  be  placed  beyond  all  chance  of  dispute 
hereafter:  namely,  first,  that  Lord  Byron  him  elf  never 
knew  the  preci  e  origin  of  his  Lady's  res(4utioii  to  quit 
his  soc  ely,  in  IS  6  ;  and,  secondly,  that,  down  to  the 
last,  he  never  despaired  of  being  ul  iraitely  reconciled 
to  her.  B  .ih  of  these  f  icts  appear  to  Le  established,  in 
the  clearest  manner,  by  Mr.  Moore's  narrative,  and  the 
vvhnle  subsequent  tenor  of  the  Poet's  own  diaries,  let- 
ters, and  conversations.  Mr.  Kennedy,  in  his  account 
of  Lord  Byron's  last  residence  in  Cephalonia.  repre- 
sents him  as  saving,—''  Lady  Byrou  deserves  every 
respect  from  me :  1  do  not  indeed  know  the  cause  of 
the  separilion,  and  I  have  remained,  and  ever  will  re- 
main, reidy  for  a  reconcili  tion,  whenever  circum- 
stances open  and  point  out  the  way  to  it."  Mr.  Moore 
has  preserved  evidence  of  one  attempt  which  Lord 
Byron  made  to  bring  alout  an  explanation  with  his 
Lady,  ere  he  left  Switzerland  for  Inly.  Whether  he 
ever  repeited  the  experiment  we  are  uncertain :  but 
that  failed,— and  Ihe  failure  must  be  borne  in  mind, 
when  Ihe  reader  considers  some  of  ihe  smaller  pieces 
incluJed  in  this  section.— See  MOORE'S  Nutices.—  E. 


FARE    THEE    WELL.i 

•  AlaB  '.  they  had  been  frierds  in  youth; 
But  whiKpering  tongues  can  p'tison  truth 
And  constancy  l^ves  in  r.a:ms  abive; 
And  life  is  thorny;  and  youth  is  vain  : 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  Itve, 
Poth  worlc  hke  madness  in  the  brain ; 


But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  Ihe  hollow  heart  from  piinin^- 
They  stood  aloof,  Ihe  scars  remaining. 
Lik«  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder; 
A  dreary  sea  now  Bows  between, 
Sut  neither  beat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder. 
Shall  wholly  do  away.  I  ween. 
The  marks  of  thai  which  once  haih  been. 
COLERIDGE'S  CAri 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  for  ever, 
sun  for  ever,  fare  thee  well : 

Even  thoujh  unfirgivins,  never 
'Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 


Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  ihee 
Where  tl  y  head  so  of;  hath  lain. 

While  that  pi  icid  sleep  came  o'er  Ihee 
Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again ; 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 
Every  inmost  thought  could  show  l 

Then  thou  would'st  at  last  discover 
'  r  was  not  well  to  spurn  it  sO. 

Though  the  world  for  this  commend  (bee  — 
'1  hough  it  sniile  upon  the  blow, 

Even  its  praise»  must  oflend  thee, 
Founded  on  another's  woe  : 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 

Could  1.0  other  arm  be  foui.d. 
Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 

To  inllict  a  cureless  wound  ? 

Tel,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not ; 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay. 
But  by  sudden  wreiich,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away  : 

Still  thine  own  ils  life  relainelh  — 

sun  must  mine,  thoi.^h  bleeding,  beit; 

And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 
Is  —  that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 

Than  the  wail  above  the  dead  ; 
Both  shall  live,  but  every  iiiorrosv 

Wake  us  from  a  widow'd  bed. 

And  when  thou  wouldst  solace  gather. 
When  our  child  s  first  accents  flow. 

Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "  Kather  !  " 
Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 
When  her  lip  lo  thine  is  press'd, 

Think  of  him  whose  pnyer  shall  bless  Ihee, 
Think  of  him  thy  love  hath  bless'd  ! 

Should  her  lineaments  re-^emble 
Tho-te  thou  never  more  may'st  see. 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest. 
All  my  madness  none  can  know; 

All  my  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest. 
Wither,  yet  with  thee  they  go. 


1"  n  was  about  Ihe  middle  of  April  that  his  two  rele- 
hntrd  copie*  of  verses,  '•  F  .re  Ihee  well."  and  '•  A  Sketch," 
made  Iher  appearane*  in  the  newtpapTt ;  and  while  the 
Utter  poem  was  t'ensrallT  and,  it  must  he  owned,  justly 
eondemned,   as  a  sort  of  liierary  assault  on 


female,  whose  situation  ought  to  have  placed  her  at  mnrh 
beneath  his  satire,  as  the  undienified  mode  of  his  attack 
certainly  raised  her  a'luve  it,  with  regard  to  the  other 
poem,  opinions  were  a  good  deal  more  divided.  To  many 
It  appeared  a  strain  of  true  conjv^gal  tenderness,— a  kind 
of  appeal  which  m  woman  with  a  heait  could  resist; 
while,  by  others,  on  Ihe  contrary,  it  was  considered  to  be 
a  mere  showy  effusion  of  sentiment,  as  difficult  for  real 
feeling  to  have  produced  as  it  was  e^sy  for  fancy  and  art, 
and  allogether  unworthy  of  the  deep  iuteiesis  involved  in 
the  subject.  To  this  latter  opinion  I  coufeas  my  own  lo 
have,  at  first,  strongly  inclined  ;  and  suspicious  as  I  could 
not  help  regarding  the  aenliment  that  could,  at  such  a  mo- 
ment, indulge  in  such  verses.  Ihe  taste  that  prompted  or 
aanctionid  their  publiiation  appi-aied  to  me  even  slill 
more  quest  enable.  On  reading,  however,  hisown  account 
of  all  the  circumstances  in  Ilie  .Memoranda,  I  found  that 
on  bolh  piiints  I  had,  in  common  with  a  large  portion  of 
the  public,  done  him  injustice.  He  there  described, anil  in 
a  manner  whose  sinceiily  there  was  no  doubling,  the 
swell  of  tender  recollections  under  Ihe  influence  of  which, 
81  he  sat  one  night  musing  in  his  study,  these  stai.zas 
were  pr.xluced.— the  tears,  a«  he  said,  falling  f:j!t  over  the 
paper  .is  he  wrote  Ihcm.  Neither  did  it  appear,  fiom  thai 
account,  to  have  been  from  anv  wish  or  intention  of  bis 
own,  bil  through  ihe  iiiji:dicious  zeal  of  a  friend  whom  he 
bad  suflTered  lo  lake  a  copy,  Ihat  the  versus  met  the  public 
eye."—  MOORE.  The  appearance  of  the  manlwcript  con- 
films  Ihis  aicount  of  Ine  circumstances  under  which  it 
was  written:  it  is  blotted  all  over  with  the  mat ka  of 
tears. —  E. 


19 


222 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


[1816. 


Every  feelins  haih  been  shaken  ; 

Pride,  whfch  not  a  world  could  bow, 
Bows  lo  thee—  by  ihee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now  f 

But 't  is  done  —  all  words  are  idle,- 

Worda  Ironi  nie  are  vaineTslill ; 
But  the  thoughts  «e  cannot  bridle 

Force  their  way  wi^out  the  wjll.»- 

Fare  thee  well '.  —  thus  disunited, 

Torn  from  every  nearer  lie, 
Sear'd  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted. 

More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die. 

March  17, 1816. 


A   SKETCH.* 

"Honest  —  honest  lagol 
If  that  thou  bc'st  aUevil,  I  cannot  kill  thee." 

Born  in  the  garret,  in  the  kitchen  bred. 

Promoted  lhei;ce  to  deck  her  mistress'  head  ; 

Next  —  for  some  gracious  service  unexprcss'd. 

And  from  its  wages  only  lo  be  guess'd  — 

Raised  from  ihe  loilet  to  the  table,—  where 

Her  wondering  betters  wait  behind  her  chair. 

With  eye  unmoved,  and  forehead  uuaba>h'd, 

She  dines  from  off  the  plate  she  lately  wash'd. 

Quick  with  Ihe  tale,  and  ready  with  ihe  lie  — 

The  geniil  confidante,  and  general  spy  — 

Who  could,  ye  gods  1  her  next  employment  guess  — 

An  only  infant's  earliest  governe-s  '. 

She  taught  the  child  to  read,  and  tauzht  so  well, 

That  she  herself,  by  leaching,  learn'd  to  spek 

An  adept  next  in  penmanship  she  grows, 

As  many  a  nameless  slander  deftly  shows : 

What  she  had  mide  Ihe  pupil  of  her  art. 

None  know  ^  but  ihat  high  S'lul  secured  the  heart, 

And  panted  for  Ihe  truth  il  could  not  hear, 

Wiih  longing  breast  and  undeltded  ear. 

Foil'd  was  perversion  by  that  youthful  mind. 

Which  Flattery  fool'd  not  —  B'lscness  could  not  blind, 

Deceit  infect  not  —  near  Contagion  soil  — 

Indulgence  weaken  —  nor  Example  spoil  — 

Nor  master'd  Science  tempt  her  to  look  down 

On  humbler  talents  with  a  pitying  frown  — 

Nor  Genius  swell  —  nor  Be  lu  y  render  vain  - 

Nor  Envy  ruUle  to  retalinte  pain  — 

Nor  Fortune  change  —  Pride  raise  —  nor  Passion  bow, 

Nor  Virtue  leach  austerity  —  till  now. 

Serenely  purest  of  her  sex  that  live, 

But  wan  ing  one  sweet  weakness —  to  forgive, 

Too  shock'd  at  faults  her  soul  csn  never  know, 

She  deems  that  all  could  be  like  her  below  : 

Foe  lo  all  vice,  yet  hardly  Virtue's  friend. 

For  Viriue  pardons  Ihose  she  would  amend. 

But  to  Ihe  theme :  —  now  laid  aside  Ion  long, 

Thebileful  bur  hen  of  this  honest  song  — 

Though  all  her  former  functions  are  no  more, 

She  rules  the  circle  which  she  served  before. 

If  mothers  —  none  know  why  —  before  her  quake  ; 

If  daughters  dread  her  for  the  mothers'  sake  ; 

If  early  habit* —  those  false  links,  which  bind 

At  limes  the  loftiest  lo  Ihe  meanest  mind  — 

Have  given  her  power  too  deeply  to  instil 

The  angry  essence  of  her  deadly  will ; 

If  like  a  snake  she  sieil  within  your  wiills, 

Till  Ihe  black  slime  be'ray  her  as  she  crawls; 

If  like  a  viper  lo  Ihe  heart  she  wind, 

And  leave  Ihe  venom  there  she  did  not  find  ; 

What  marvel  th  it  this  hag  of  hatred  works 

Eternal  evil  latent  as  she  lurks, 

To  make  a  PaMilemonimn  where  she  dwells, 

And  reigo  the  Hecate  of  domestic  helU? 

1"!  Rend    ynn  my   last  niehl'n  dream,  and  rtqnest  I' 
have   fifty  opies  struck    off,  for    privalr   diolribuli.m. 
with  Mr.  OilTord  to  look  at  them.     Thry  are  from  life.' 
—  Lfd  B.  Jo  Mr.  Murray,  March  SO,  1816.—  E. 


Skill'd  by  a  louch  to  deepen  scandal's  tints 
With  all  the  kind  meiidaci.y  of  hints, 

j  While  mingling  truth   with   falsehood  — sneen  Wltl 

smiles  — 
A  thread  of  candour  viilh  a  web  of  wiles ; 
A  plain  blunt  show  of  briefly-spoken  seeming, 
To  hide  her  bloodless  hear.'s  soul-hardeu'd  scheming  j 
A  lip  of  lies  —  a  face  furmM  lo  conce.il ; 

I  And,  wi:hou!  feeling,  mock  at  all  who  feel : 
With  a  vile  mask  the  Gorgon  would  disown  ; 

I  A  cheek  of  parchment—  and  an  eye  of  stone. 
Mark,  how  Ihe  channels  of  her  ye'llow  blood 
Ooze  to  her  skin,  and  s'agnale  here  to  mud. 
Cased  like  the  centipede  in  saftron  mail. 
Or  darker  greenness  of  Ihe  scorpion  s  scale  — 
(For  drawn  from  reptiles  only  may  we  tra;e 

,  Congenial  colours  in  that  soul  or  face)  — 

;  Look  on  her  features  !  and  behold  her  mind 

I  As  in  a  mirror  of  itself  defined  : 
Look  on  the  picture  !  deem  it  not  o'ercharged  — 
There  is  no  trait  which  might  not  be  enlarged: 

I  Yet  true  to  '•  Nature's  jouineymen,'  who  made 
This  monster  when  their  mistress  left  off  trader 
This  femaU  dog-slar  of  her  li:lle  sky. 
Where  all  beneath  her  influence  droop  or  die. 

Oh  !  wretch  without  a  fear—  without  a  thought. 

Save  joy  above  the  ruin  thou  hast  wrought  — 

The  time  shall  -^nme,  nor  long  Ifcmole,  w  hen  thou 

Shalt  feel  far  more  Ihan  thou  inmciest  now ; 

Feel  for  thy  vile  self-loving  sell  in  vain. 

And  turn  Ihee  howling  in  unpitied  pain. 

May  Ihe  strong  curse  of  crush'd  affections  light 

Back  on  thy  bo-om  wi  h  rertected  blight ! 

And  make  thee  in  thy  leprosy  of  mind 

As  loathsome  lo  Ihyself  as  I"  mankind  ! 

Till  all  Ihv  self-thoughts  curdle  into  hale. 

Black  —as  thy  will  for  olhei-s  would  create  : 

Till  thy  hard  heart  be  calcined  into  dust, 

And  thy  soul  welter  in  its  hideous  crust. 

Oh,  may  thy  grave  be  sleepless  as  Ihe  bed, — 

The  widow'd  couch  of  h:e,  that  thou  hast  spread ! 

Then,  w  hen   thou   fain   wouldst   weary  Heaven  wil 

pmyer, 
Look  on  Ihme  eirthly  victims  —  and  despair! 
Down  lo  the  dust '.—  and,  as  Ihou  roll'si  away. 
Even  worms  shall  perish  on  thy  poisonous  clay. 
But  for  Ihe  love  I  b-re,  and  still  must  bear. 
To  her  thy  malice  from  all  lies  would  tear  — 
Thy  name—  thy  human  name  — to  every  eye 
The  climax  of  all  scorn  should  hang  on  high, 
Exalted  o'er  thy  less  abhoir'd  compeers  — 
And  festering  in  the  infamy  of  years. 


STANZAS   TO   AUGUSTA.* 
I. 
When  all  around  grew  drear  and  dark, 

And  reason  half  withheld  her  ray — 
And  hope  but  shed  a  dying  spark 

Which  more  misled  my  lonely  way ; 

U. 
In  that  deep  midnight  of  the  mind, 

And  that  internal  strife  of  heart. 
When,  dreadine  lo  be  deeni'd  loo  kind. 

The  weak  despair  —  the  cold  depart ; 


2  HU  sister,  ttie  Honourable  Mrs.  Leigh.— These  ntso- 
ia«— the  patting  irifule  lo  lier,  wh'we  unshaken  lender- 
ness  bad  been  the  a-.ithor's  sMe  coiifc.laiioo  during 
ciisis  of  domestic  misery — were,  we  believe,  the 
»erw9  wriilen  by  Lord  Bvron  in  K.nslaml.  In  a  m  t( 
Mr.  Rogers  dated  Apri'  "iih,  he  i.«y!«.— " My  t-i'-er  a  i 
with  me,  and  leaven  town  lo-mortow  :  we  «hall  uoi  meet 
a?ain  for  some  time  al  all  eToulM,-  i/  erer  ;  and,  un 
these  circumslances.  I  IrusI  to  stand  excused  to  you  ■ 
Mr.  Sheridan,  for  being  unable  lo  wait  upon  him  tl 
ereniog."  On  the  25tb,  the  poet  took  a  last  IcaT*  of  I 
native  cnantry.— E. 


1816u] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


223 


in. 

When  fortune  changed  — and  love  fled  far, 
And  hatred's  shafts  flew  ihick  and  fast, 

Thou  wert  the  solitary  star 

Which  rose  and  set  uot  to  the  last. 

IV. 
Oh  !  blest  be  thine  unbroken  light ! 

That  walch'd  me  as  a  seraph's  eye, 
And  slood  between  me  and  the  night, 

For  ever  shining  sweetly  nigh. 

V. 
And  when  the  clond  upon  us  came, 

Which  strove  to  blacken  o'er  thy  ray 
Then  purer  spread  iis  genile  tiame, 

And  dash'd  Ihe  darkness  all  away. 

VI. 

Still  may  thy  spirit  dwell  on  mine. 

And  leach  it  what  to  brave  or  brook  — 

There 's  more  in  one  soft  word  of  thine 
Than  in  Ihe  world's  defied  rebuke. 

VII. 

Thou  stood'st,  as  stands  a  lonely  tree, 
That  still  unbroke,  though  gently  bent, 

Still  waves  with  fond  fidelity 
Its  boughs  above  a  monument. 

VIII. 
Tlie  winds  might  rend  —  the  skies  might  pour, 

But  there  thou  wert  —  and  still  would'st  be 
Devoted  in  the  stormiest  hour 

To  shed  thy  weeping  leaves  o'er  me. 

IX. 

But  thou  and  thine  shall  know  no  blight, 

Whatever  fate  on  me  may  fall  ; 
For  heaven  in  sunshine  will  requite 

The  kind  —  and  thee  the  most  of  all. 


Then  let  the  ties  of  baffled  love 

Be  broken  —  thine  will  never  break  ; 

Thy  heart  can  feel  —  but  will  not  move; 
Thy  soul,  though  soft,  will  never  shake. 

XI. 

And  these,  when  all  xvas  Inst  beside, 

Were  found  and  still  are  fix'd  in  Ihee ;  — 

And  bearing  still  a  breast  so  tried, 
Earth  is  no  desert  —  ev'n  lo  me. 


STANZAS    TO    AUGUSTA. 1 


Though  the  day  of  my  destiny 's  over. 

And  Ihe  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thv  sofi  heart  refused  lo  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find  ; 
Thoujh  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted, 

It  shrunk  not  lo  share  it  with  me. 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  haih  painted 

It  never  bath  found  but  in  tlue. 
II. 
Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  which  answers  lo  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine  ; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  Ihe  ocean, 

As  Ihe  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me. 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion. 

It  is  that  Ihey  bear  me  from  lAte. 

ITIx-se  bfautiful  verses,  so  expressive  of  the  writer's 
wounded  feelings  at  the  miimeni.  were  wrillen  in  July, 
at  the  Campatine  Dindati,  near  Geneva,  and  transniitled  to 
i  Eoglaad  for  publicalion,  with  some  other  pieces.— E. 


Ill 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shiver'd. 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  fOul  is  deliver'd, 

To  pain  —  it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  ma : 

They  miy  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn - 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me  — 

'T  is  of  thu  that  1  think  —  not  of  them. 
IV. 
Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 
Thoush  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me, 

Though  slander'd,  Ihnu  never  couldst  sh.ike,— 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly. 
Though  watchful,  t  was  not  lo  defame  me, 

Nor,  mute,  that  the  woild  might  b-lie. 
V. 
Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it. 

Nor  the  war  of  Ihe  many  with  one  — 
If  my  soul  w  is  not  fitted  lo'  prize  it, 

'T'was  folly  not  sooner  lo  shun  : 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  co.t  me. 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me. 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thte. 
VI. 
From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perish'd. 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall. 
It  hath  tau'ht  me  Ihit  «hat  I  most  cherish'd 

Reserved  lo  be  dearest  of  all : 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing. 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree. 
And  a  bird  in  Ihe  solitude  singing, 

Which  speaks  lo  my  spirit  of  Ihee. 

July  24, 1810. 


EPISTLE   TO  AUGUSTA. a 
I. 

My  sister !  my  sweet  sister !  if  a  name 
Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine. 
Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I  claim 
No  fears,  but  tenderness  lo  answer  mine : 
Go  where  I  will,  to  me  thou  art  Ihe  same — 
A  loved  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 
There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  destiny, — 

A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home  with  thee. 
11. 
The  first  were  nothing  —  had  I  s'ill  the  last. 
It  were  Ihe  haven  of  my  happiness  ; 
But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast. 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  Ihem  less. 
A  strange  doom  is  thy  fa  her's  son's,  and  past 
Itecalliiig.  as  it  lies  beyond  redress ; 
Reversed  for  him  our  grandsi re's*  fate  of  yore,— 

He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore, 
III. 
If  my  inheritance  of  storms  bath  been 
In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 
Of  perils,  overlook'd  or  unforeseen, 
I  havesustain'd  my  share  of  worldly  shocks, 

aXhese  Rianzas  were  also  written  at  Dindati,  and  (rnt 
home  at  the  time  for  puliliraticn.  in  case  Mrs.  Leigh 
Bhoulil  sanction  it.  Bit  as  she  objected,  the  lines  were 
uot  published  until  iMO.— E. 

1  3  Admiral  Byron  was  remarkfible  for  never  making  a 
v.iyaee  without  a  tempest.  He  w-s  known  to  the  sailors 
by  the  facetious  name  of  "Fnul-wealher  Jack." 

I  "But,  though  it  were  tempesttoas'd. 

Still  his  bark  could  not  be  Inst." 
He  returned  sal'ely  from  the  wreck  of  the  Waeer  (in  An- 
son's   voyage),   aud     subsequently    circumnavigated    tba 
world,  many  years  after,  as  commander  of  a  similar  espa- 
dition.—  E. 


224 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


[1816. 


The  f  lult  was  mine  ;  nnr  di  I  seek  to  screen 
My  errors  » i^h  defen  ive  psr.idix  ; 
I  have  been  cunniii;;  in  niii.e  nvethrow, 
The  careful  pilot  of  uiy  proper  woe. 

IV. 
Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their  reward. 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest,  since  the  day 
Th*t  gave  nie  beinz,  e^ive  me  Ihit  which  marr'd 
The  gift, —  a  fae,  or  will,  that  walkM  astny  ; 
And  I  at  times  have  found  the  slrujile  hard. 
And  thou'ht  of  shaking  off  my  bonds  of  clay: 
But  now  I  fiin  wnuUl  for  a  time  survive, 
If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 

V. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  ha»e  outlived,  and  yet  1  am  no'  old  ; 
And  when  I  look  on  this,  the  periy  spray 
Of  my  own  years  nf  trouble,  which  have  roll'd 
Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away  : 
Something  —  I  know  not  what  —  does  sfill  uphold 
A  spirit  of  slight  patience  ;  —  not  in  vain, 
Evea  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  puicbase  pain. 

VI. 

Perhips  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 
Within  me  —  or  perhaps  a  cold  despair, 
Brought  on  w  hen  ills  hibi  ually  recur, — 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 
(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer, 
And  wiih  light  armour  we  may  learn  to  bear,) 
Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet,  which  was  not 
The  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 

VII. 
I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 
In  happy  cliildhond ;  trees,  and  (lowers,  and  brooks, 
Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt 
E'e  my  young  mind  wis  sacrificed  ti  books, 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me.  and  cm  melt 
My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks  ; 
And  even  at  moments  I  could  thmk  I  see 
Some  living  thing  to  love  —  but  none  like  thee. 

VIII. 
Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which  create 
A  fund  for  contemplation  ;  —  'o  admire 
Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  dale; 
But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes  inspire ; 
Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate. 
For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  desire, 
And,  above  all.  a  lake  I  can  behold 
Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 

IX. 
Oh  that  thou  wert  but  with  me  I  —  but  I  grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret ; 
There  may  be  others  which  I  less  may  show ;  — 
I  am  not  n'f  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 
I  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 
And  the  tide  rising  in  my  alter'd  eye. 


I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Like,* 
By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more, 
Leraan's  is  fair  ;  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore : 


Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make, 
Ere  that  or  thmi  can  fade  these  eyes  before; 
Thiuih,  like  ail  things  wl  ich  I  have  loved,  they  are 
Resigo'd'  for  ever,  or  divideil  /ar. 

XL 

The  world  is  all  before  me  ;  I  but  ask 
Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will  comply   . 
It  is  but  in  her  sumniei's  sun  to  bask. 
To  miiigle  with  the  quiet  of  her  bky, 
To  see  her  gentle  lace  without  a  mask. 
And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 
She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now  shall  be 
My  sister  —  till  1  look  again  on  thee. 

xn. 

I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one ; 
And  th  .t  I  would  not ;  —  for  at  lenjth  I  see 
Such  scenes  as  th  ise  wherein  my  life  begun, 
The  earliest  —  even  the  only  paths  for  me  — 
H  I'l  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to  shun, 
I  hid  been  be  ter  ihan  I  now  can  be  ; 
The  pissioiis  which  have  torn  me  would  have  slept; 
/  had  not  suffer'd,  and  l/tou  hadst  not  wept. 

XIIL 

With  false  Ambi'ion  what  had  I  to  do  ? 
Little  with  Love,  and  least  of  all  with  Fame ; 
And  yet  they  came  uns')U»h',  and  \vilh  nie  grew, 
And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make  —  a  name. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue ; 
i-urely  I  once  beheld  a  nob'er  aim. 
But  all  is  over  —  I  am  one  the  niore 
To  baffled  millions  w  hich  have  gone  before. 

XIV. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future  may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  cire  ; 
I  hive  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day; 
Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were; 
My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  but  the  prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils ;  for  I  had  the  share 
Of  life  which  might  have  fill'd  a  century 
Before  its  fourth  in  time  had  pass'd  me  by. 

XV. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to  come 
I  am  content .  and  for  the  past  i  feel 
Not  thankless,— for  wihin  the  crowded  sum 
Of  strugzles,  hapi  iness  at  limes  would  steal, 
And  for  ^e  present,  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelirgs  fa'lher.—  Nor  shall  I  conceal 
That  wi^h  all  this  1  still  can  look  around, 
And  worship  Nature  ni:h  a  thought  profound. 

X\L 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine; 
We  were  and  are  —  I  am,  even  as  thou  art — 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign ; 
It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart. 
From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow  decline, 
We  are  entwined  —  let  death  come  slow  or  fast, 
The  lie  which  bound  the  first  endures  the  last ! 


ON  HE.\RINO  THAT  LADY  BYRON  WAS  IMi  > 


And  thou  wert  sad  —yet  I  was  not  with  thee; 
The_La.e  orNew.ead  A..e..    Thusde«ri..d  in  Don    j^^flll^^-t^T^oti^ndta^^hll^frcour/l^^^ 

I      Where  1  was  not  —  and  pain  and  sorrow  here; 


•♦B^-fore  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  lake, 

Broad,  as  transpjrent.  depp,  and  fregtily  fed 

By  a  rivrr,  whirl)  its  Rullen'd  »ay  ilid  lake 
In  currrnla  Ihroueh  Itic  calmer  waterH  spread 

Around:  the  wild  towl  nesllt-d  in  the  lirake 
And  wdgea.  brioding  in  their  liquid  bed; 

The  wood*  slopetl  downwards  lo  iln  brink  and  etnod 

Wilh  tlieir  green  faces  fix'd  upon  the  flood."—  E. 


2 These  verses  were  written  immediately  after  the  IWl- 
ure  of  the  negotiation  for  a  reconciliation.  t>efore  Lord 
Byron  left  Switzerland  '.or  Italy,  but  were  not  iolended  for 
the  public  eye:  as,  however,  they  have  recently  fonad 
their  way  into  circulation,  we  include  tbem  la  this  eot 
lection. —  E. 


T^ 


IS16] 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


2-25 


And  is  it  thus  ?  —  it  is  as  I  foretold, 

And  shall  be  more  so  ;  for  Ibe  mind  recoils 
Upon  itself,  and  the  wreck'd  heart  lies  cold, 

While  heaviness  collects  the  shattei'd  spoils. 
It  is  not  in  the  storm  nor  in  the  strife 

We  feel  benunib'd,  and  wish  to  be  no  more, 

But  in  the  afler-sileice  on  the  shore, 
When  all  is  lost,  except  a  little  life. 
I  am  too  well  avenged  !  —  but 't  was  my  right ; 

White'er  my  sins  might  be,  thou  we'rt  not  sent 
To  le  the  Nemesis  who  should  requite  — 
I      Nor  did  Heaven  choose  so  near  an  instrument. 
:  Mercy  is  for  the  merciful  !  —  if  thou 
;  Kast  been  of  such,  't  will  be  accorded  now. 
Thy  nights  are  banish'd  from  the  re  il  nis  of  sleep !  — 

Yes  :  Ihey  may  flatter  thee,  but  thou  shalt  feel 

A  hollow  agony  which  will  not  heal, 
For  th  u  art  pillow'd  on  a  curse  too  deep  ; 
Thou  hast  sown  in  my  sorrow,  and  must  reap 

The  bitter  harvest  in  a  woe  as  real  ! 
I  have  had  many  foes,  but  none  like  thee ; 

For  'giin,t  the  rest  myself  I  could  defend, 

And  be  avenged,  or  turn  them  into  friend ; 
But  thou  in  safe  implacability 

Hadst  nought  tod:ead—  in  thy  own  weakness  shielded, 
And  in  niv  love,  which  hath  but  too  much  yielded, 

And  spared,  for  thy  sake,  some  I  should  not  spare  — 
And  thus  upon  the  world  —  trust  in  thy  truth  — 
And  the  wild  fame  of  my  ungovern'd  youth  — 

On  things  that  were  not,  and  on  things  that  are  — 
Even  upon  such  a  basis  hast  Ihnu  built 
A  monument,  whose  cement  hath  been  guilt ! 

The  moral  Clytemnestra  of  thy  lord. 

And  hew'd  down,  with  an  unsuspected  sword, 
Fame,  peace,  and  hope  —  and  all  the  better  life 

Which,  but  for  this  cold  treason  of  thy  heart. 
Might  siill  have  risen  from  out  the  grave  of  strife, 

And  found  a  nobler  duly  than  to  j)art. 
But  of  thy  virtues  didst  thou  make  a  vice. 

Trafficking  with  them  in  a  purpose  cold. 

For  present  anger,  and  for  future  gold  — 
And  buying  other's  grief  at  any  price. 
And  thus  once  enter'd  into  crooked  ways. 
The  early  truth,  which  was  thy  proper  praise, 
Did  not  still  walk  beside  thee  —  but  at  times, 
And  «ith  a  breast  unknowing  its  own  crimes, 
Deceit,  averments  incompatible. 
Equivocations,  and  the  thoughts  which  dwell 

In  Janus-spirits  —  the  significant  eye 
Which  learns  to  lie  with  silence  —  the  pretext 
Of  prudence,  with  advantages  annex'd  — 
The  acquiescence  in  all  things  which  tend. 
No  matter  how,  to  the  desired  end  —    ' 

All  foand  a  place  in  thy  philosophy. 
The  means  were  worthy,  and  the  end  is  won  — 
I  would  not  do  by  thee  as  thou  bast  done !  i 

September,  1816. 


1 "  Lord  Byron  had  at  least  this  much  to  eay  for  himself, 
tbtt  he  was  not  the  first  to  make  his  domestic  differences 
a  topic  of  public  d  iscussion.  On  the  contrary,  he  saw  him- 
8eir,  ere  any  fact  but  the  one  undisguised  and  tangible  one 
was  or  could  be  known,  held  up  eveiy  where,  and  by  every 
art  of  malice,  as  the  most  infamous  of  men,— because  he 
had  parted  from  his  wife.  He  was  exqiiiiitcly  sensitive: 
he  wa»  wounded  at  once  by  a  thousand  arrows  j  and  all 
this  with  the  most  perfect  and  indignant  knowledge,  that 
of  all  who  were  assailing  him  not  one  knew  any  thing  of 
the  real  merits  of  the  case.  Did  he  ri^ht,  then,  in  pub- 
lishing those  squibs  and  tirades?  No,  certainly  :  it  would 
have  been  nnl.lcr,  better,  wiser  far,  to  have  utterly  scorned 
the  assaults  of  such  enemies,  and  taken  no  notice,  of  any 
kinl.  of  them.  But,  because  this  young,  hot-blooded, 
proud,  patrician  poet  did  not,  smidst  the  exacerbation  of 
feelings  which  he  could  not  control,  act  in  precisely  the 
most  dignified  and  wisest  of  all  possible  manners  of  action, 
—are  we  entitled,  is  the  world  at  latge  entitled,  to  issue 
a  broad  sentence  of  vituperative  condemnation  7  Voice 
know  all  that  he  had  suffered?— have  we  imagination 
enough  to  comprehend  what  he  suflered  under  circum- 
•taores  such  as  these  2— have  we  been  tried  in  similar  cir- 
cu3MtaDces,  whether  we  could  feel  the  wound  unflinch- 
ingly, aud  keep  the  weapon  quiescent    in    the   hand   that 


M  O  N  O  D  Y 


DEATH  OF  THE    RIGHT    HON.  R.  B.  SHEIQ. 

DAN,  3 

Spoken  at  Drury-Lane  Theatre, 

When  the  hst  sunshine  of  expiring  day 
In  summer's  twilight  weeps  itself  away. 
Who  hath  not  felt  the  softness  of  the  hour 
Sink  on  the  heart,  as  dew  along  the  flower .' 
With  a  pure  feeling  which  absorbs  and  awes 
While  Nature  makes  that  melancholy  pause. 
Her  breathing  moment  on  the  bridge  where  Time 
Of  light  and  darkness  forms  an  arch  sublime, 
Who  ha'h  not  shared  that  calm,  so  still  and  deep, 
I  The   voiceless  thought   which  would  not  speak  but 

weep, 
A  holy  concord  — and  a  bright  regret, 
A  glorious  sympathy  with  suns  that  set  ? 
,  'T  is  not  harsh  soirow  —  but  a  tenderer  woe, 
[  Nameless,  but  dear  to  gentle  hearts  below. 
Felt  without  bitterness — but  full  and  clear, 
A  svieet  dejection  —  a  transparent  tear, 
Unmix'd  with  worldly  grief  or  selfish  stain, 
Shea  without  shame  —  aud  secret  without )  ain. 

Even  as  the  tenderness  that  hour  instils 

When  Summer's  day  declines  along  the  hills. 

So  feels  the  fulness  of  our  heart  and  eyes 

When  all  of  Genius  which  can  perish  dies. 

A  mighty  Spirit  is  eclipsed  —  a  Power 

Hath  pass'd  from  diy  t  >  darkness  —  to  whose  hour 

Of  light  no  likeness  is  bequeath'd  —  no  name. 

Focus  at  once  of  all  the  ravs  of  Fame  ! 

The  flash  of  Wit— the  bright  Intelligence, 

The  beam  of  Song  —  the  blaze  of  Eloquence, 

Set  with  their  Sun  — but  still  have  left  behind 

The  enduring  produce  of  immortal  Mind  ; 

Fruits  of  a  genial  morn,  and  glorious  noon, 

A  deathless  part  of  him  who  died  too  soon. 

But  small  that  portion  of  the  wondrous  whole. 

These  sparkling  segments  of  that  circling  soul. 

Which  all  embraced  —  and  lighten'd  over  all. 

To  cheer  — to  pierce  — to  please  — or  to  appal. 

From  the  charm'd  council  to  the  festive  board, 

Of  human  feelings  the  unbounded  lord  ; 

In  whose  acclaim  the  loftiest  voices  vied. 

The  praised  —  the  proud  —  w  ho  made  his  praise  Ibeir 

pride. 
When  the  loud  cry  of  trampled  Hindostan 
Arose  to  Heaven  in  her  appeal  from  man. 
His  was  the  thunder  —  his  the  avenging  rod. 
The  wrath  —  the  delegited  voice  of  God  ! 
Which  shook  the  nations  through  his  lips  —  and  blazed 
Till  vanqubh'd  senates  tremblol  as  they  praised. 

And  here,  oh  1  here,  where  yet  all  youi>g  and  warm, 

The  eay  creations  of  his  spirit  charm. 

The  matchless  dialogue—  the  deathless  wit, 

Which  knew  not  what  it  was  to  intermit; 

The  glowing  portraits,  fresh  from  life,  that  bring 

Home  to  our  hearts  the  truth  from  which  they  spring ; 

These  wondrous  beings  of  his  fancy,  wrought 

To  fulness  by  the  fiat  of  his  thought, 

Here  in  their  first  abode  you  still  may  meet. 

Bright  with  the  hues  of  his  Promethean  beat; 

A  halo  of  the  light  of  other  days. 

Which  stiM  the  splendour  of  its  orb  betrays. 

But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 

Of  failing  Wisdom  vields  a  base  delight. 

Men  who  exult  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 

Jar  in  the  music  which  was  born  their  own. 


trembled  with  all  the  excitements  of  Insulted  privacy,  ho- 
nour, and  faith."—  LOCKHART.—  K 

2  Mr.  Sheridan  died  the  7th  of  July,  1816,  and  thl« 
monody  was  written  at  Diodati  on  the  17th,  at  the  raqcwt 
of  Mr.  Douglas  Kionaird.  —  B. 


15 


2*26 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


[1816. 


still  let  them  jiause  —  ah  '.  little  do  they  know 

That  what  to  iheiii  seem'd  Vice  might  be  but  Woe. 

Hard  is  his  fate  on  whom  the  public  gaze 

Is  tix'd  for  ever  to  detnct  or  praise  ; 

Repose  denies  her  requiem  to  his  n  ime, 

And  Folly  loves  the  martyrdom  of  Fame. 

The  secret  enemy  "hose  sleepless  eye 

Stands  sentinel  —  accuser  —  judge      and  spy, 

The  foe — the  fool  —  the  jealous  —  and  the  vain, 

The  envious  who  but  brea  he  in  others'  pain, 

Behold  the  host  1  delighting  to  deprave, 

Who  track  the  steps  of  Glory  to  the  grave, 

Watch  every  fiult  that  daring  Genius  owes 

Half  to  the  ardour  which  its  birth  bestows, 

Distort  the  (ruth,  accumulate  the  lie, 

And  pile  the  pyramid  of  Calumny  ! 

These  are  his  portion  —  but  if  joined  to  these 

Gaunt  Poverty  should  league  with  deep  Disease, 

If  the  high  Spirit  must  forget  to  soar, 

And  stoop  to  strive  with  Misery  at  the  door,' 

To  soothe  Indignity  —  and  face  to  face 

Meet  sordid  Rige  — and  wrestle  with  Disgrace, 

To  find  in  Hope  but  the  renew'd  caress. 

The  serpent-fold  of  further  Faithlessness :  — 

If  such  may  be  the  ills  which  men  assail, 

What  marvel  if  at  last  the  mightiest  fail  ? 

Breasts  to  whom  all  the  strength  of  feeling  given 

Bear  hearts  electric  —  charged  with  tire  from  Heaven, 

Black  with  the  rude  collision,  inly  torn, 

By  clouds  surrounded,  and  on  whirlwinds  borne, 

Driven  o'er  the  lowering  atmo-^phere  that  nurst 

Thoughts  which  have  turn'd  to  thunder —  scorch — 

and  burst. 
But  far  from  us  and  from  our  mimic  scene 
Such  things  should  be—  if  ?uch  hive  ever  been; 
Ours  be  the  gentler  wish,  the  kinder  task, 
To  give  the  tribute  Glory  need  not  ask. 
To  mouru  the  vanish'd  beam  —  and  add  our  mite 
Of  praise  in  payment  of  a  long  delight. 
Ye  Orators  I  whom  yet  our  councils  yield, 
Mouru  for  the  veteran  Hero  of  your  field  ! 
The  worthy  rival  of  the  wondrous  Tnree  !  9 
Whose  words  were  sparks  of  Immortality  ! 
Ye  Balds !  to  whom  the  Drama's  Muse  is  dear, 
He  was  your  Master  — emulate  him  htre! 
Ye  men  of  wit  and  social  eloquence ! 
He  was  your  brother  —  bear  his  ashes  hence  ! 
While  Powers  of  mind  almost  of  boundless  range. 
Complete  in  kind  —  as  various  in  their  change. 
While  Eloquence  —  Wit  —  Poesy  —  and  Mirth, 
That  humbler  Harmonist  of  care  on  Earth, 
Survive  within  our  souls—  while  lives  our  sense 
Of  pride  in  Merit's  proud  preeminence, 
Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness  —  long  in  vain, 
And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain. 
Sighing  that  Nature  form'd  but  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die  —  in  moulding  Sheridan ! 


THE   DREAM. 3 
I. 

Our  life  is  twofold  :  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 

1  Tliis  was  not  Action.  Only  a  few  days  before  his 
death,  Sheridan  wrote  thus  lo  Mr.  Rogers:  —  "  I  am  ab- 
solutely undnne  and  broken-hearted  They  are  going  lo 
put  the  carpets  out  of  window,  and  break  into  Mrs.  S.'s 
room  and«o*e  me;  1501.  will  remove  nil  difficulty.  For 
God's  sake  let  me  see  you  '.  "  Mr.  Moore  was  the  imme- 
diate bearer  of  the  required  sum.  This  was  written  on 
the  15th  of  May.  On  the  14th  of  July,  Sheridan's  remains 
were  deposilwl  in  Westminster  Abbey,— his  pall-bearers 
being  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale,  Earl 
Mulgrave,  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Loodou,  I.,urd  Hollawl,  aiid 
Earl  Spencer.  — E. 

9  Fox  — Pitt -Burke. 


Death  and  existence :  Sleep  hath  its  own  world. 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality. 

:  And  dreams  in  their  developenient  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy  ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughtd, 

I  'J  hey  take  a  weight  from  otf  our  walling  toiU. 

I  They  do  divide  our  being;  they  become 

i  A  po  tion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 
And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity  ; 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  .he  past, —  they  speak 
Like  Sib. Is  of  the  future;  they  have  power  — 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not —  what  they  will 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that  "s  gone  by, 
The  dread  of  vanish'd  shadows  — Are  they  so? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  ?  —  What  are  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind  ?  —  The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision  which  i  dream'd 
Perchance  in  sleep—  for  in  iiself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 


IL 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill. 
Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  'I  were  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 

I  Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Sc  tter'd  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 

I  Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ;  — the  hill 

I  Was  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 

!  Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fix'd. 
Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man  : 

j  These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 

■  Gazing  —  the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself—  but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  ; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful : 
And  bo  b  were  young  —  yet  not  alike  in  youth. 
As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge. 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood  ; 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  bis  heart 
H.ad  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  lo  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth. 
And  that  was  shining  on  him  :  he  had  loob'd 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away  : 
He  had  no  bicath,  no  being,  but  in  hers ; 
She  was  his  voice;  he  did  not  speak  to  her. 
But  trembled  on  her  words  ;  she  was  his  sight. 
For  his  eye  foUow'd  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 
Which  colour'd  all  his  objects :  —  he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts. 
Which  terminated  all :  upon  a  tone, 
A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 
And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously  —  his  heart 
Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 
But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share; 
Her  sighs  were  not  for  him  ;  to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a  brother  —  but  no  more ;  't  was  much. 
For  brolherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestow'd  on  him ; 
Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 
Of  a  lime-honour'd  race.  —  It  was  a  name 
:  Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not  — and 
!  why? 

,  Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer —  when  she  loved 
Another;  even  jiow  she  loved  another. 
And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 
Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 


many  t 


■   In  writing,"  and    justly  characterises   It  M 
mournful   as  well    as    pictnresque   -storj  of  > 
S  In   the    first  draught   of  this  poem,  Lord  Byron  had  I  wandering  life'  that  ever  came  from  the  pen  an]  hcwl  at 
"  Tht  Deiliny."    Mr,  Moore  sayn,  '  it  coat  him  |  man."    It  was  composed  at  Diodati  ic  July   181(.— & 


1816.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


227 


III. 

A  change  cime  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

There  was  au  ancient  mansion,  and  before 

Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparison'd  : 

VVilhla  an  antique  Oratory  stood 

The  Boy  of  whom  i  spali'e  ;  —  he  was  alone, 

And  pale,  and  pacing  lo  and  fro  :  anon 

He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  Iracol 

Words  which  1  could  not  guess  of ;  then  he  lean'd 

His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  't  were 

With  a  convulsion  —  then  arose  again. 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 

What  he  had  wriileu,  but  he  shed  no  lears.l 

And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  tix  his  brow 

Into  a  kind  of  quiet :  as  lie  paused. 

The  Lady  of  his  1  ive  re  enter'd  there ; 

She  wa-.  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 

She  knew  she  was  bv  him  beloved,—  she  knew. 

For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 

Was  darken'd  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 

That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all.3 

He  rose,  at  J  with  a  cold  and  gen  le  grasp 

He  took  her  hand  ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced,  nnd  then  it  faded,  as  it  came; 


For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles ;  he  pass'd 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 
And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  wen'  his  way  ; 
And  ne'er  repass'd  thai  hoary  threshold  more. 

IV. 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Boy  was  sprung  to  manhood  :  in  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home. 
And  his  soul  drank  their  suiibeams:  he  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects ;  he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  ;  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer  ; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upin  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all ;  and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couch'd  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruii.'d  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  rear'd  them  ;  by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  cimels  gr.izing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fasten'd  near  a  fountain  ;  and  a  man 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  wa'ch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around: 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky, 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful. 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  Heaven. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  One 
Who  did  not  love  her  better  :  —  in  her  home, 
A  thousand  leagues  from  his, —  her  native  home, 
She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  Infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty,—  but  behold  ! 
Upon  her  face  there  was  thelint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife. 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye. 
As  if  its  lid  were  chargal  with  unshed  tears. 

1  Tl>e  picture  wliich  Lord  Byron  ha*  here  drawn  of  hU 
jrnuthrul  love  shows  how  genius  and  feeling  cap  elevate 
Ihe  realities  (if  this  life,  and  give  to  the  commonest  events 
and  objects  an  undying  lustre.  The  old  hall  at  Annesley 
under  the  name  uf  the  ** antique  oratory.*'  will  long  rail 
up  -.o  fancy  the  "maiden  and  Ihe  youth  "  who  once  utood 
in  it;  while  the  image  of  the  "  lover's  steed,"  though 
suggested  by  Ihe  unromantic  race-ground  of  Nottingham, 
will  not  the  less  conduce  to  the  general  charm  of  the 
scene,  and  share  a  portion  of  thai  light  which  only  genius 
could  shed  over  it.— MOOKE.— E. 

3"!  had  long  been  in  love  with  M.  A.  C,  and  never 
told  it,  though  the  had  discovered  it  without.  I  recollect 
my  sensations,  but  cannot  describe  them,  and  it  Is  as 
rnvil"  —  Byron  Diary,  1822.  — E. 


What  could  her  grief  be  ?  —  she  had  all  she  loved. 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  nut  there 
1  o  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 
Or  ill  re|)ressed  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  Le?  — she  had  loved  him  not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  o  deem  himself  beloved. 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prcy'd 
Upon  her  mind  —  a  spectre  of  the  past. 

VL 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Wanderer  was  return'd. — I  saw  him  stand 

Before  an  Altar  —  with  a  gentle  bride  ; 

Her  face  wis  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 

The  Starlight  of  his  Boyhood  ;  —  as  he  stood 

Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 

The  selfsame  aspect,  and  Ihe  quivering  shock 

That  in  the  antique  Oratory  shook 

His  bosom  in  its  solitude  :  and  then  — 

As  in  that  hour  —  a  mnmet:t  o'er  his  face 

The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  triced.- and  then  it  faded  as  i!  came. 

And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 

The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words. 

And  all  thing-  reel'd  around  him;  he  could  see 

Kot  that   which   was,   nor  that   which  should  have 

been  — 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accuslom'd  hall. 
And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  Ihe  place. 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  Ihe  shade, 
All  things  pertaining  lo  that  place  and  hour. 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light: 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time  ?  3 

vn. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love  ;  —  Oh  !  she  was  changed 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ;  her  mind 
Had  wauder'd  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth  ;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  ;  her  thoughts 
Were  combina  ions  of  disjointed  things; 
And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  olhers'  sight  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy;  but  Ihe  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melanclioly  is  a  fearful  gift ; 
What  is  it  but  Ihe  telescope  of  Iru'h  ? 
Which  strips  Ihe  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 

VIIL 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore. 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone, 
Or  were  at  war  with  him  ;  he  was  a  mark 
For  blight  and  desolation,  compass'd  round 
With  Hatred  and  Contention ;  Pain  was  mix'd 
In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until. 
Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days,* 
He  fed  on  pois^ns,  and  they  had  no  p6«er. 
But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment ;  he  lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  m^ny  men, 
And  made  him  friends  of  mountains  :  with  the  stars 

3Thi9  touching  picture  agrees  closely,  in  many  cf  lt» 
circumslaoces,  with  Lord  Byron's  own  |  '■ose  account  of 
the  Wedding  in  his  Memoranda :  in  which  he  describes 
himself  as  waking,  r.n  the  morning  of  his  marriage,  with 
the  most  melancholy  reflections,  on  seeing  his  wedding, 
suit  spread  out  befoie  him.  In  the  same  mood,  he  wan- 
dered about  the  grounds  abne,  till  he  was  summoned  for 
the  ceremony,  and  joined,  for  Ihe  first  time,  on  that  d«y, 
his  bride  and  her  family.  He  knelt  down— he  repeated 
the  words  after  the  clergyman;  but  a  mist  was  hnfore  his 
eyes— his  thoughts  were  elsewhere :  and  he  was  bnl 
awakened  by  the  congratulations  of  the  bystanders  to  Sad 
thai  he  was— married.— MOORE.— E. 

4  Milhridatea  of  Pontus.-  E. 


228 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


[1816. 


And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  Universe 

He  held  his  dialo^es  ;  and  Ihey  did  teach 

To  hini  the  magic  of  their  mysteries; 

To  him  the  booK  of  Nisjht  was  opeu'd  wide, 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal'd 

A  marvel  and  a  secret  —  be  it  so. 

IX. 

My  dream  was  past ;  it  had  no  further  change. 

It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 

Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 

Almost  like  a  reality  —  the  one 

To  end  in  madness  —  both  in  misery. 

July,  1816. 


DARKNESS. 

I  had  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 

The  bright  sun  was  extinsuish'd,  and  the  stars 

Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 

Rayless,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 

Swung  blind  and  blackenins  in  the  moonless  air  ; 

Morn  came  and  went  —and  came,  and  brought  no  day, 

And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 

Of  this  their  desolation  ;  and  all  hearts 

We-re  chill'd  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  lisht : 

And  they  did  live  by  watchfires  —  and  the  thrones, 

The  palaces  of  crowned  kings  —  the  huts. 

The  habitations  of  all  thing-,  which  dwell, 

VVere  burnt  for  beacons  ;  cities  were  consumed, 

And  men  were  ga'her'd  round  their  blazing  homes 

To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face ; 

Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 

Of  the  volcanoes,  and  their  mountain-torch: 

A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contain'd  ; 

Forests  were  set  on  fire  —  but  hour  by  hour 

They  fell  and  faded  —and  the  cmckling  trunks 

Extinguish  d  with  a  crash  —  and  all  was  black. 

The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 

Wore  an  unearthly  a'spect,  as  by  fits 

The  flashes  fell  upon  them  ;  some  lay  down 

And  hid  their  eyes  and  wept;  and  some  did  rest 

Their  chins  up^n  their  clenched  hands,  and  smiled  ; 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look'd  up 

With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 

The  pall  of  a  past  world  ;  and  then  again 

With  curses  cast  them  down  ur>on  the  dust. 

And  gnash'd   their  teeth  and  bowl'd :  the  wild  birds 

shriek'd, 
And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 
And  flap  their  usele>s  wings  ;  the  wildest  brutes 
Came  tame  and  tremulous  ;  and  vipers  crawPd 
And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude. 
Hissing,  but  stingless—  they  were  slain  for  food  : 
And  War,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more, 
Did  glut  himself  again  :  —  a  meal  was  bought 
With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart 
Gorging  himself  in  gloom  :  no  love  was  left; 
All  earth  was  but  one  thought  — and  th  it  was  death, 
Immediate  and  inglorious  ;  and  the  pang 
Of  ftmine  fed  upon  all  entrails — men 
Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh ; 
The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devoured. 
Even  dogs  assail'd  their  masters,  all  save  one, 
And  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 
The  birds  and  beas's  and  famish'd  men  at  hay, 
Till  hunger  clung  ihem.  or  the  dropping  dead 
Lured  their  link  jaws  ;  himself  sought  out  no  food, 
But  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan, 
And  a  quick  desolate  cry.  licking  the  hand 
Which  answer'd  not  with  a  cares';  —  he  died. 
The  crowd  was  f.imi-h'd  by  degrees ;  but  two 
Of  an  enormous  ci'y  did  survive. 
And  they  were  enemies  :  they  met  beside 
The  dying  emijers  of  an  altar-place 
Where  had  been  heip'd  a  mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage  ;  they  raked  up. 
And  shivering  scraped  with  their  cild  skeleton  hands 
The.  feeble  ashes  and  tlieir  feeble  breath 


Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 

Which  was  a  mockery  ;  then  they  lifted  up 

Their  eyes  as  it  grew'lighter,  and'  beheld 

Each  other's  aspects  — saw,  and  shriek'd,  and  died  — 

Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 

Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 

Famine  had  written  Fiend.     The  world  was  void. 

The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 

Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless  — 

A  lump  of  death  —  a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 

The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean  all  stood  still, 

And  nothing  stirr'd  within  their  silent  depths  ; 

Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea. 

And  their  m  ists  fell  down  piecemeal :  as  Ihey  dropp'4 

They  slept  on  the  abyss  v^'ithoul  a  surge  — 

The  waves  were  dead  ;  the  tides  were  in  their  grave, 

The  moon,  their  mistress,  had  expired  before  ; 

The  winds  were  wither'd  in  the  stagnant  air. 

And  the  clouds  perish'd  ;  Darkness  had  no  need 

Of  aid  from  them  —  She  was  the  Universe. 

Diudati,  July,  iai6. 


CHURCHILL'S   GRAVE; 
A    FACT    LITERALLY    RENDERED. 

I  stood  beside  the  grave  of  him  who  blazed 

The  comet  of  a  season,  and  I  saw 
The  humble.t  of  all  sepulchres,  and  gazed 

With  not  the  less  of  sorrow  and  of  awe 
On  that  neglected  turf  and  quiet  stone. 
With  name  no  clearer  than  the  names  unknown. 
Which  lay  unread  around  it ;  and  I  ask'd 

The  Gardener  of  that  ground,  why  it  might  be 
That  for  this  plant  slrangens  his  memory  taskVl, 

Through  the  thick  deaths  of  half  a  cenluiy ; 
And  thus  he  answer'd  — "  Well,  I  do  not  know 
Why  frequent  travellers  turn  to  pilgrims  so  ; 
He  died  before  my  day  of  Sextonship, 

And  I  had  not  the  digging  of  this  grave  " 
And  is  this  all  ?    I  thought, —  and  do  we  rip 

The  veil  of  Immortality,  and  crave 
I  know  not  what  of  honour  and  of  light 
Through  unborn  age«,  to  endure  this  blight. 
So  soon,  and  so  successless?    As  I  said. 
The  Architect  of  all  on  which  we  tread, 
For  Earth  is  but  a  tombstone,  did  essay 
To  extricate  remembrance  from  the  clay. 
Whose  minglings  might  confuse  a  Newton's  thought, 

Were  it  not  that  all  life  must  end  in  one. 
Of  which  we  are  but  dreamers  ;  —  as  he  caught 

As  't  were  the  twilight  of  a  former  Sun, 
Thus  spoke  he,—''  I  believe  the  man  of  whom 
You  wot,  who  lies  in  this  selected  tomb, 
Was  a  most  fimous  writer  in  his  day. 
And  therefore  travellers  step  from  out  their  way 
To  pay  him  honour, —  and  myself  wliate'er 

Your  honour  pleases  :" —  then  most  pleased  I  shook 

From  out  my  pocket's  avaricious  nook 
Some  certain  coins  of  silver,  which  as  't  were 
Perforce  I  gave  this  man,  though  1  could  spare 
So  much  but  inconveniently  :  —  Ye  smile, 
I  see  ye,  ye  profane  ones !  all  the  while. 
Because  my  homely  phrase  the  truth  would  telL 
You  are  the  fools,  not  I  —  for  I  did  dwell 
With  a  deep  thought,  and  with  -»  sof.en'd  eye, 
On  that  old  Sexton's  natural  homily. 
In  which  there  was  Obscurity  and  Fame, — 
The  Glory  and  the  Nothing  of  a  Name. 

DiodatI,  in« 


PROMETHEUS. 
I. 

Titan  !  to  whose  immortal  eyes 
The  suflferings  of  mortality. 
Seen  in  their  sad  reality. 

Were  not  as  things  th  it  gods  despite ; 


i  1816.]  OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


Wliat  was  thy  pity's  recompense  ? 
A  silent  siitiering,  and  intense  ; 
The  rock,  the  vulture,  and  the  chain, 
All  ihat  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain, 
The  ajony  they  do  not  slioir, 
The  suttbcaling  sense  of  woe, 

Which  speak-  bui  in  its  loneliness, 
And  then  is  jealous  les'  the  sky 
Should  have  a  I'slener,  nor  will  sigh 

Until  its  voice  is  echoless. 
II. 
Titan !  to  thee  the  strife  was  given 

Bttween  the  suB'ering  and  the  will, 

Which  torture  «  here  they  cannot  kill  J 
And  the  inexorable  Heaven, 
And  the  deaf  tyranny  of  Fate, 
1  he  ruling  principle  of  Hate, 
Which  for  its  pleisure  doth  create 
The  things  it  may  annihilate. 
Refused  thee  even  llie  boon  to  die  : 
The  wretched  gift  e  erni  y 
Was  Ihine —  and  thou  hibt  borne  it  well. 
All  that  the  Thunderer  wrui^g  from  thee 
Was  but  the  menace  which  (lung  back 
On  him  the  tormen'.s  of  thy  rack  ; 
The  fate  thou  didsl  so  well  foresee. 
But  would  not  to  appease  him  tell  ; 
And  in  thy  Silence  was  his  Sentence, 
And  in  his  Soul  a  vain  repentance. 
And  evil  dread  so  ill  dissembled. 
That  in  his  hand  the  lightnings  trembled. 

III. 
Thy  Godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind, 

To  render  with  thy  precepts  less 

The  sum  of  human  wretchedness. 
And  strengthen  Man  with  his  own  mind; 
But  baffled  as  thou  wert  fronrhigh, 
Still  in  thy  patient  energy. 
In  the  endur.ance,  and  repulse 

Of  thine  impenetrable  Spirit, 
Which  Earth  and  Heaven  could  not  convulse, 

A  mighty  lesson  we  inherit : 
Thou  art  a  symbol  and  a  sign 

To  Mortals  of  their  fate  and  force- 
Like  thee,  Man  is  in  part  divine, 

A  troubled  stream  from  a  pure  source; 
And  Man  in  portions  can  foiesee 
His  own  funereal  destiny  ; 
His  wretchedness,  and  his  resistance, 
And  his  sad  unallied  existence: 
To  which  his  Spirit  n)ay  oppose 
Itself —  and  equal  to  all' woes, 

And  a  firm  will,  and  a  deep  sense, 
Which  even  in  tor  u re  can  descry 

Its  own  concenter'd  recompense. 
Triumphant  where  it  dires  defy. 
And  making  Death  a  Victory. 

Diodati.July,  1816. 


A    FRAGMENT. 
"  COULD   I   REMODNT,"  &C. 
Coii'd     remount  the  river  of  my  years 
To  the  first  fountain  of  our  smiles  and  teirs. 


I  would  not  trace  agiin  the  stream  of  hours 
Between  their  outworn  banks  of  wither'd  fiowera, 
But  bid  it  How  as  now  —  until  ii  glides 
Into  the  number  of  the  nameless  tides. 


What  is  this  Death?  — a  quiet  of  the  heart  ? 
The  whole  of  that  of  which  we  are  a  pari? 
For  life  is  but  a  vision —  what  I  see 
Of  all  which  lives  alone  is  lile  to  noe, 
And  being  so — the  absent  are  the  dead. 
Who  haunt  us  from  tranquillity,  and  spread 
A  dreary  shroud  around  us,  and  invest 
With  sad  remembrancers  our  hours  of  rest. 

The  absent  are  the  dead  —  for  they  are  cold. 
And  ne'er  can  be  what  once  we  did  behold ; 
And  they  are  changed,  and  cheerless, —  or  if  yet 
The  unforgotien  do  not  .t11  forget. 
Since  thus  divided  —  equal  must  it  be 
If  the  deep  barrier  be  of  earth,  or  sea  ; 
It  may  be  b'  th  —  but  one  d  y  end  it  must 
In  the  dark  union  of  insensate  dust. 

The  under-earlh  inhabitants  — are  they 
But  minified  millions  decomposed  to  clay? 
The  ashes  of  a  thousand  ages  spread 
Wherever  man  has  trodden  or  shall  tread  ? 
Or  do  they  in  their  silent  cities  dwell 
Each  in  his  incommunicative  cell? 
Or  hive  they  their  own  language  ?  and  a  sense 
Of  breathless  being  ?  —  darken'd  and  intense 
As  midnight  in  her  solitude?  —  Oh  Earth  ! 
Where  are  the  past  ?  —  ai.d  wherefore  bad  they  birth  ? 
The  dead  are  thy  inheritors  —  and  we 
But  bubbles  on  thy  surface ;  and  the  key 
Of  thy  profunJity  is  in  the  grave. 
The  ebon  portal'of  thy  peojjled  cave. 
Where  I  would  walk  in  spirit,  and  behold 
Our  elements  resolved  to  things  untold. 
And  fathom  hidden  wonders  and  explore 
The  essence  of  great  bosoms  now  no  more. 

***** 

Diodati,  July,  1816. 


SONNET   TO  LAKE   LEMAN. 

Rousseau  —  Voltaire  —  our  Gibbon  —  and  De  Stael  — 
Leman  !  >  these  names  are  worthy  of  thy  shore. 
Thy  shore  of  names  like  these !  wert  thou  no  more, 

Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would  recall: 

To  ihem  thy  banks  were  lovely  as  to  all. 
But  they  have  made  them  lovelier,  for  the  lore 
Of  mighty  minds  doth  hallow  in  the  core 

Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a  wall 
Where  dwelt  the  wise  and  wondrous;  but  by  thu 

How  much  more,  Lake  of  Beauty  !  do  we  feel, 
In  sweetlv  gliding  o'er  thy  crystal  sea, 

The  wild  glow  of  that  pot  ungentle  zeal, 
Which  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 

Is  proud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory  real ! 

Oiodatt,  Juljr,  1616. 


1  Geneva,  Ferney,  Copet, 


30 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


[1816. 


ROMANCE  MUY  DOLOROSO 


SITIO  Y  TOMA  DE  ALHAMA.  i 
E!  q'lal  dezia  en  Aravigo  assi. 
I. 
Passeavase  el  Key  Moro 
For  la  ciudad  de  Granada, 
Desde  las  puertas  de  Elvira 
Hasta  las  de  Bivaranibla. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama ! 

II. 

Cartas  le  fueron  venidas 
Que  Alhama  era  ganada. 
Las  cartas  echo  en  el  fuego, 
Y  al  mensagero  matava. 
Ay  de  mi. 


III. 

Descavalga  de  una  mula, 
Y  en  un  cavallo  cavalga. 
For  el  Zacatin  arriba 
Subido  se  avia  al  Alhambra. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama ! 

IV. 

Como  en  el  Alhambra  esfuvo, 
Al  mismo  punio  mandava 
Que  se  toqueri  las  trompetas 
Con  anafiles  de  plala. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 


Y  que  atambnres  de  guerra 
Apriessa  toquen  alanna ; 
For  que  lo  oygan  sus  Moros, 
Los  de  la  Vega  y  Granada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

VI. 

Los  Moros  que  el  son  oyeron, 
Que  al  sangriento  Marte  llama, 
Unn  a  uno,  y  dos  a  dos, 
Un  gran  esquadron  formavan. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama! 

VII. 
Alii  hablo  un  Moro  viejo ; 
Desta  manera  hablava  :  — 
Para  que  nos  llanns,  Rey? 
Fara  que  es  e'ite  llamada? 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

vni. 

Aveys  de  saber,  amigos, 
Una  nueva  de  dichada  : 
Que  Chrislianos,  con  braveza, 
Va  nos  han  tornado  Alhama. 

Ay  demi,  Alhama! 

IX. 

AUi  hablo  un  viejo  Alfaqui, 
De  barba  crecida  y  cana  :  — 
Bien  se  te  emplea,  buen  Rey, 
Buen  Rey  ;  bien  re  empleava. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

X. 

Mataste  los  Bcncerrages, 
Que  era  la  flor  de  Granada  ; 
Cogiste  los  toniadizns 
l)e  Cordova  la  nombrada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 


A  VERY  MOURNFUL  BALLAD 


SIEGE  AND  CONQUEST  OF  ALHAMA. 
Which,  inlheArabie  liinguage,it  to  the  following  purport. 
I. 
The  Moorish  King  rides  up  and  down, 
Through  Granada's  royal  town  j 
From  Elvira's  Gates  to  those 
Of  Bivaranibla  on  be  goes. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

II. 

Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
Hoiv  Alhama's  city  fell  : 
In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  he  slew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  1 

III. 

He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse. 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course; 
Through  the  street  of  Z.-icatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

Woe  is  me,  Albama 

IV. 

When  the  Alhambra  walls  he  gain'd, 
On  the  moment  he  ordaiii"d 
That  the  tnmi|  et  straight  shnuld  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

V. 

And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

VI. 

Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 
That  bloody  Mars  recill'd  them  there, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

VII. 

Out  then  spafee  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before, 
"  Wherefore  call  on  us,  oh  King? 

?  ?" 


VIII. 

"  Friends  I  ye  have,  alas !  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow. 
That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold, 
Have  obtain'd  Alhama's  hold." 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

IX. 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  lo  see, 
"  Good  King  !  thou  art  justly  served, 
Good  King!  this  thou  hast  deserved. 

Woe  is  me,  Albama ! 

X. 

•'By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 
']  he  Abencerrage,  Grinada's  (lower  ; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  Chivalry. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

1  The  effect  of  the  oriRinal  ballad  — wliicli  existed  both    to  be  auDg  by   Ihe   Moora,   on   pain  of  death,  witkU 
M  Spanish  aod  Arabic — waa  «uc)),  that  it  wag  forbidden    Granada. 


1816.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


231 


XI. 

For  esso  mereces,  Rev, 
Una  peoe  bieu  doblada  ; 
Que  te  pierdas  tu  y  el  reyno, 

Y  que  se  pierda  Granada. 

&.y  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

XII. 

Si  no  se  respetan  leyes, 
Es  ley  que  lodo  se  pierda ; 

Y  que  se  pierda  Granada, 

Y  que  te  pierdas  en  ella. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama  S 

XIII. 

Fuego  por  los  ojos  vierte, 
El  Key  que  esto  oyera. 

Y  coiiio  el  otro  de  leyes 
De  leyes  tambien  hablava. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama! 

XIV. 
Sabe  un  Rev  que  no  ay  leyes 
De  darle  a  Reyes  disgusto  — 
Esso  dize  el  Rey  Moro 
Reliacbando  de  colera. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albama  I 

XV. 

Moro  Alfaqui,  Moro  Alfaqui, 
El  de  la  vellida  barba, 
El  Rey  te  manda  prender, 
Por  la  perdida  de  Alhama. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

X\'I. 
y  cortarte  la  cabeza, 

Y  ponerla  en  el  Albambra, 
Por  que  a  ti  castigo  sea 

Y  otros  tiemblen  en  miralla. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhima ! 

XVII. 

Cavalleros,  hombres  buenos, 
Dezid  de  mi  parte  al  Rey, 
Al  Rey  Moro  de  Granada, 
Como  uo  le  devo  nada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

XVIII. 
De  averse  Alhama  perdido 
A  mi  me  pesa  en  al  alma. 
Que  si  el  Rey  perdio  su  tierra, 
Otro  mucbo  mas  perdiera. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

XIX. 
Perdieran  hijns  padres, 

Y  casados  las  casadas : 
Las  cosas  que  mas  amara 
Perdio  1'  un  y  el  otro  fama. 

'Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

XX. 

Ferdi  una  hija  donzella 
Que  era  la  flor  d'  esta  tierra, 
Cien  doblas  dava  por  ella, 
No  me  las  eslinio  en  nada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 

XXI. 
Diziendo  assi  al  hacen  Alfaqui, 
Le  corlaron  le  cnbeca, 

Y  la  elevan  al  Albambra, 
Assi  come  el  Rey  lo  manda. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albania ! 

XXII. 

Hombres,  ninos  y  mugeres, 
Uoran  tan  grande  perdida. 


XI. 


'  And  for  this,  oh  King !  is  seat 
On  tbee  a  double  chastisement : 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 

Woe  is  me,  Albama ! 

XII. 
'  He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 
He  must  perish  by  the  law  ; 
And  Granada  must  be  won. 
And  thyself  with  her  undone." 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

xin. 

Fire  flash'd  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eyes, 
The  Monarch's  wralh  begnn  to  rise, 
Because  he  answer'd,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 

Woe  is  me,  AK>ama ' 

XIV. 

'  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings :" — 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  cboler,  said 
The  Moorish  King,  and  doom'd  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Albama ! 

XV. 

Moor  Alfaqui  1  Moor  Alfaqui ! 
Though  Iby  beard  so  hoary  be, 
The  King  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seized. 
For  Albania's  loss  displeased. 

Woe  is  me,  Albama ! 

XVI. 

And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alhambra's  lofliest  stone ; 
That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law. 
And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 

Woe  is  me,  Albama ! 

XVII. 

"  Cavalier,  and  man  of  worth ! 
Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth ; 
Let  the  Moorish  Monarch  know. 
Thai  to  him  I  nothing  owe. 

Woe  is  me,  Albama ! 

XVIII. 

"  But  on  my  soul  Alhama  weighs. 
And  on  niy  inmost  spirit  preys  ; 
And  if  the  King  his  land  hath  lost, 
Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

XIX. 

"  Sires  have  lost  their  children,  wives 
Their  lords,  and  valiant  men  their  lives  ! 
One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost,  anoth'jr  w  eallh,  or  fame. 

Woe  is  me,  Albama ! 

XX. 

"  I  lost  a  damsel  in  that  hour, 
Of  all  the  land  the  loveliest  flower; 
Doubloons  a  hundred  I  would  pay, 
And  think  her  ransom  cheap  thai  day." 
Woe  is  me,  Albacia ! 

XXI. 

And  as  these  things  the  old  Moor  said, 
They  sever'd  from  the  trunk  his  head  : 
And  lo  the  Alhambra's  wall  with  speed 
'T  was  carried,  as  the  King  decreed. 

Woe  is  me,  Albama ! 

XXII. 

And  men  and  infants  therein  weep 
Their  loss,  so  heavy  and  so  deep  •, 


232 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


[1816. 


Lloravan  todas  las  damas 
Quantas  eu  Granada  avia. 

^y  de  mi,  Albania! 

XXIU. 

Por  las  calles  y  ventanas 
Alucho  luto  parecia  ; 
Llora  el  Rey  como  fembra, 
Qu'  es  mucho  lo  que  perdia. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 


SONETTO   DI   VITTORELLI. 
PER   MONACA. 


I  compoeto  io  nome  di  nn  genitore,  a  cui  era  morta 
poco  inoanzi  una  figlia  apptoa  mariuta :  e  diretto  al 
genitore  della  sacra  sposa. 

Di  due  vaghe  donzelle,  ones'e,  accorfe 
Lieti  e  niiseri  padri  il  ciel  ne  feo, 

II  ciel,  cbe  degne  di  piu  nobil  sorte 

1,'  una  e  I'  altra  veggendo,  ambo  cbiedeo. 
La  mia  fu  tolta  da  veloce  morle 

A  le  fumauli  tede  d'  inieneo  : 

La  tua,  Francesco,  in  sueellafe  porte 

Elerna  prigionieia  or  si  rendeo. 
Ma  tu  alineno  potrai  de  la  gelosa 

Irremeabil  soglia^  ove  s'  asconde, 

La  sua  tenera  udir  voce  pietosa. 
lo  verso  un  fiurae  d'  amarissim'  onde, 

Corro  a  quel  mariuo,  in  cui  la  figlia  or  posa, 

Batto,  e  ribatto,  ma  nessun  risponde. 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC. 
L 

Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  soul ! 

No  lovelier  spirit  than  thine 
E'er  burst  from  its  mortal  control, 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 
On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine, 

As  thy  soul  shall  immortally  be; 
And  our  sorrow  may  cease  to  repine 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  Ihee. 

11. 

Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb ! 

May  its  verdure  like  emeralds  be  ! 
There  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom 

In  au£ht  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 
Young  flowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 

May  spring  from  the  s|)0t  of  thy  rest : 
But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see  ; 

For  why  should  we  mourn  for  the  blest  ? 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC 
I. 

They  say  that  Hope  is  happiness ; 

Bui  genuine  Love  must  prize  the  past, 
And  Memory  wakes  the  thouijhts  that  bless: 

They  rose  the  first  —  they  set  the  last  j 

II. 

And  all  that  Memory  loves  the  most 
Was  once  our  only  Hope  to  be. 

And  all  Ihat  Hope  adoied  and  lost 
Hath  roelted  into  Memory. 

in. 

Alas  !  it  is  delusion  all  : 

The  future  cheats  us  from  afar, 

Nor  can  we  be  what  we  recall. 
Nor  dare  we  think  on  what  we  are. 


Granada's  ladies,  all  she  rears 
Withia  her  walls,  burst  into  tears. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

XXIII. 

And  from  The  windows  o'er  the  walls 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls ; 
The  King  weeps  as  a  woman  o'er 
His  loss,  for  it  i 


TRANSLATION  FROM  VITTORELLL 

ON   A    NCK. 

Sonnet  com|iosed  in  the  name  of  a  fattier,  whose  daagbter 
had  recently  died  shortly  after  her  marriage  ;  and  ad- 
dressed to  the  father  of  her  who  had  lately  taken  the  veil. 

Of  two  fair  virgins,  modest,  though  admired. 

Heaven  made  us  happy ;  and  now,  wretched  sires, 
Heaven  for  a  nobler  doom  their  worth  desires, 
And  gazing  upon  either,  both  required. 

Mine,  while  the  torch  of  Hymen  newly  fired 
Becomes  extinguish'd,  soon  —  too  soon  —  expires : 
But  thine,  within  the  closing  grate  retired. 
Eternal  captive,  to  her  God  aspires. 

But  thou  at  least  from  out  the  jealous  door, 
Which  shuts  between  your  never-meeting  eyei, 
May'st  hear  her  sweet  and  pious  voice  once  more  ; 

I  to  the  marble,  where  my  daughter  lies, 
Rush, —  the  swoln  flood  of  bitterness  I  pour, 
And  knock,  and  knock,  and  knock  —  but  none  replies. 


TO   THOMAS    MOORE 
I. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 
And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 

But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here 's  a  double  health  to  thee ! 

II. 

Hers 's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hatej 

And.  whatever  sky  's  above  me. 
Here 's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

III. 
Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me. 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me. 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

IV. 

Wer't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 
As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  famting  spirit  fell, 
'T  is  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 


With  that  water,  as  this  wine. 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be  —  peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 


ON  THE  BUST  OF  HELEN  BY  CANOVA.t 

In  this  beloved  marble  view, 

Above  the  works  and  thoughts  of  man, 

What  Nature  could,  but  would  not,  do. 
And  Beauty  and  Canova  can  ! 

l"The  Helen  of  Canova  (a  bust  which  is  in  the  hooae 
of  Madame  the  Couoless  d'Albriui)  Is,"  eaya  Lord  ■yroa« 
"without  exception,  to  my  mind,  the  moat  perfectly  kaau- 


1817.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


233 


Beyond  imagination's  power, 

Beyond  the  Bard's  defeated  art, 
With  immortality  her  dower, 

Behold  the  Htlen  of  the  heart ! 

November,  1818. 


SONG   FOR   THE    LUDDITES. 
I. 

As  the  Liberty  lads  o'er  the  sea 
Bought  their  Ireedom,  and  cheaply,  with  blood, 
So  we,  boys,  we 
Will  die  fighting,  or  live  free. 
And  down  with  all  kings  but  King  Ludd ! 

H. 

When  the  web  that  we  weave  is  complete. 
And  the  shuttle  exchanged  for  the  sword, 

We  will  fling  the  winding  sheet 

O'er  the  despot  at  our  feet, 
And  dye  it  deep  in  the  gore  he  has  pour'd. 

in. 

Though  black  as  his  heart  its  hue. 
Since  his  veins  are  corrupted  to  mud, 

Yet  this  is  the  dew 

Which  the  tree  shall  renew 
Of  Liberty,  planted  by  Ludd  I 


SO,  WE  'LL  GO  NO  MORE  A  ROVING. 
I. 

So,  we  '11  go  no  more  a  roving 

So  late  into  the  night. 
Though  the  heart  be  slill  as  loving, 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 

IL 

For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath, 
And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 

And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 

IIL 

Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 

And  the  day  returns  loo  soon. 
Yet  we  '11  go  no  more  a  roving 

By  the  light  of  the  moon. 


TO   THOMAS    MOORE. 

What  are  you  doing  now. 

Oh  Thomas  Moore  ? 
What  are  you  doing  now. 

Oh  Thomns  Moore? 
Sighing  or  suing  now, 
Rhyming  or  wooing  now. 
Billing  or  cooing  now, 

Which,  Thomas  Moore  ? 

But  the  Carnival 's  coming, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore ! 
The  Carnival 's  coming. 

Oh  Thomas  Moore '. 
Masking  and  humming, 
Fifing  and  drumming, 
Guitarring  and  strumming, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore ! 


tlful  of  hnman  conceptions,  and  far  beyond  my  ideas  3f 
homan  execution."— iord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murrai,  Ml  f. 
at,  181«.-  E. 

20» 


VERSICLES. 

read  the  "  Christabel ;" 

Very  well : 

I  read  the  ■'  Missionary ;"» 

Pretty —  very : 
I  tried  at  "  Ilderimj" 

Ahem  ! 
I  read  a  sheet  of  "  Marg'ret  of  Anjou  ;" 

Can  you  ? 
I  turn'd  a  page  of  Scott's  "  Waterloo ;  " 

Pooh  !  pooh ! 
I  look'd  at  Wordsworth's  milk- while  "  Rylstone  Doe :  * 
Hillo! 
&c.  &c.  &c. 

March,  1917. 


TO    MR.  MURRAY. 

To  hook  the  reader,  you,  John  Murray 
Have  publish'd  "  Anjou's  Margaret," 
Which  won't  be  sold  off  in  a  hurry 
(At  least,  it  has  not  been  as  yet); 
And  then,  slill  further  to  bewilder  'em. 
Without  remorse,  you  set  up  "  llderim  ; " 

So  mind  you  don't  get  into  debt. 
Because  as  how,  if  you  should  fail, 
These  books  would  be  but  baddish  bail. 

And  mind  you  do  not  let  escape 

These  rhymes  to  Morning  Post  or  Perry, 
Which  would  be  titry  treacherous  —  wry, 

And  get  me  into  such  a  fcrape ! 
For,  firstly,  I  should  have  to  sally. 
All  in  my  little  boat,  against  a  Galley; 

And,  should  I  chance  to  slay  the  Assyrian  wight, 

Have  next  to  combat  with  the  female  knight. 

March  25,  1817. 


THE    LAMENT    OF    TASSO.a 

ADVERTISEMENT. 


At  Ferrara,  in  the  Library,  are  preserved  the  original 
MSS.  of  Tasso's  Gierusalemme  and  of  Guarini's  Pas- 
tor Fido,  with  letters  of  Tasso,  one  from  Titian  to 
Ariosto,  and  the  inkstand  and  chair,  the  tomb  and  the 
house,  of  the  latter.  But,  as  misfortune  has  a  greater 
interest  for  posterity,  and  little  or  none  for  the  cotem- 
porary,  the  cell  where  Tasso  was  confined  in  the  hos- 
pital of  St.  Anna,  attracts  a  more  fixed  attention  than 
the  residence  or  the  monument  of  Ariosto  — at  least  it 
had  this  effect  on  me.  There  are  hvo  inscriptions, 
one  on  the  outer  gate,  the  second  over  the  cell  itself, 
inviting,  unnecessarily,  the  wonder  and  the  indignation 
of  the  spectator.  Ferrara  is  much  decayed,  and  de- 
populated :  the  castle  slill  exists  entire;  and  I  saw  the 
court  where  Parisina  and  Hugo  were  beheaded,  ac- 
cording to  the  annal  of  Gibbon. 


I. 

Long  years !  —  It  tries  the  thrilling  frame  to  bear 

And  eagle  spirit  of  a  child  of  Song  — 

Long  years  of  outrage,  calumny,  and  wrong ; 

Imputed  madness,  prison'd  solitude. 

And  the  mind's  canker  in  its  savage  mood. 

When  the  impatient  thirst  of  light  and  air 

Parches  the  heart ;  and  the  abhorred  grate, 

Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade. 


1  The  "Missionary"  was  written  by  Mr.  B-iwIei*,  "  IkJe- 
rim"  tiy  Mr.  Gaily  Knight,  and  "  Margaret  of  Anjou"  br 
Miss  Holford.—  E. 

2  The  ori?inal  MS.  of  this  poem  is  dated,  "  The  Apen- 
nines, April  20,  1817."  It  was  written  in  consequence  ol 
Lord  Byron  having  visited  Ferrara,  for  a  single  ia.y,  OM 
his  way  to  Florence. —  E. 


234 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


[1817. 1' 


Works  through  the  throbbing  eyeball  to  the  brain, 

With  a  hot  sente  of  heaviness  and  pain  j 

And  bare,  at  once,  Captivity  display'd 

Stands  scoffing  througli  the  never-open'd  eate, 

Which  nothing  through  its  bars  admits,  save  day, 

And  tasteless  food,  »  hich  1  have  eat  alone 

Till  its  unsocial  bitterness  is  gone  ; 

And  X  can  banquet  like  a  beast  of  prey, 

Sullen  and  lonely,  couching  in  the  cave 

Which  is  my  lair,  and  —  it  may  be  —  my  grave. 

All  this  hath  somewhat  worn  me,  and  may  wear, 

But  mus  be  borne.     1  sloop  not  to  despair; 

For  I  have  battled  with  mine  agony. 

And  made  nie  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 

The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon  wall. 

And  freed  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall ; 

And  revell'd  among  men  and  things  divine, 

And  piiur'd  my  spirit  over  Palestine, 

In  honour  of  the  sacred  war  for  Him, 

The  God  who  was  on  earth  and  is  in  heaven, 

For  he  has  strenglhen'd  me  in  heart  and  limb. 

That  through  this  sulferance  I  might  be  forgiven, 

I  have  employed  my  penance  to  record 

How  Salem's  shrine  was  won  and  how  adored. 

II. 

But  this  is  o'er  —  my  pleasant  task  is  done  :  — 

Mv  long-sustaining  friend  of  many  years  I 

If  I  do  blot  thy  final  page  with  tears. 

Know,  that  my  sorrows  have  n  rung  from  me  none. 

But  thou,  my  young  creation  !  my  soul's  child  ! 

Which  ever  playing  round  me  came  and  smiled. 

And  woo'd  me  from  myself  with  thy  sweet  sight, 

Thou  too  art  gone  —  and  so  is  my  delight : 

And  therefore  do  I  weep  and  inly  bleed 

With  this  last  bruise  upon  a  broken  reed. 

Thou  too  art  ended  —  what  is  left  me  now  ? 

For  I  have  anguish  yet  to  bear  —  and  how  ? 

I  know  not  that  —  but  in  the  innate  force 

Of  my  own  spirit  shall  be  found  resource. 

I  have  not  sunk,  for  I  had  no  remoise, 

Nnr  cause  for  such  :  they  call'd  me  mad  —  and  why  ? 

Oh  Leonora !  wilt  not  th'uu  reply  ? 

I  was  indeed  delirious  in  my  heart 

To  lift  my  love  so  lofty  as  thou  art ; 

But  still  riiy  frenzy  was  not  of  the  mind  ; 

I  knew  my  fault,  and  feel  my  punishment 

Not  less  because  1  suffer  it  unbent. 

That  thou  wert  beautiful,  and  I  not  blind, 

Hath  been  the  sin  which  shuts  me  from  mankind  ; 

But  let  them  go,  or  torture  as  they  will. 

My  heart  can  multiply  thine  image  still ; 

Successful  love  may  sate  itself  away. 

The  wretched  are  the  faithful ;  't  is  their  fate 

To  have  all  feeling  save  the  one  decay. 

And  every  passion  into  one  dilate, 

As  rapid  rivers  into  ocean  pour  ; 

But  ours  is  fathomless,  and  hath  no  shore. 

III. 

Above  me,  hark  !  the  long  and  maniac  cry 

Of  minds  and  bodies  in  ciptivity. 

And  hark  '■  the  lash  and  the  increasing  howl, 

And  the  half-inarticulate  blasphemy!' 

There  be  some  here  with  worse  than  frenzy  foul, 

Some  who  do  still  grad  on  the  o"erlabour'd  miud. 

And  dim  the  little  lijht  that 's  left  behind 

Will  needless  torture,  as  their  tyrant  n  ill 

Is  wound  up  to  the  lust  of  doing  ill : 

With  these  and  with  their  victims  am  I  class'd, 

'Mid  sounds  and  sights  like  these  long  years  have  pass'd 

'Mid  sights  and  sounds  like  these  my  life  may  close : 

So  let  it  be  —  for  then  I  shall  repose. 

IV. 
I  have  been  patient,  let  me  be  so  yet ; 
I  had  forgotten  half  I  would  forget. 
But  it  revives  —  Oh  !  would  it  were  my  lot 
To  be  forgetful  as  I  am  forgot !  — 
I  Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  bade  me  dwell 


In  this  vast  hzar-house  of  many  woes? 
Where  laughter  is  not  mirth,  nor  thought  the  mind, 
Nor  words  a  language,  nor  ev'n  men  mankind; 
Where  cries  reply  to  curse?,  shrieks  to  blows. 
And  each  is  tortured  in  his  separate  hell  — 
For  we  are  crowded  in  our  solitudes  — 
Many,  but  each  divided  by  the  wall. 
Which  echoes  Madness  in  her  babbling  moods  ;  — 
While  all  can  hear,  none  heed  his  neighbour's  call  — 
None  !  save  ihat  One,  the  veriest  wrefch  of  all. 
Who  was  not  made  to  be  the  mate  of  these. 
Nor  bound  between  Distraction  and  Disease. 
Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  placed  me  here? 
Who  have  debased  me  in  the  minds  of  men. 
Debarring  me  the  usage  of  my  own. 
Blighting  my  life  in  best  of  i;s  career, 
Branding  my  thoughts  as  things  to  shun  and  fear? 
1  Would  1  not  pay  them  back  these  pangs  again, 
And  teach  them  inward  Sorrow's  stifled  groan? 
The  struggle  to  be  calm,  and  cold  distress. 
Which  undermines  our  Stoical  success? 
No  !  —  still  too  pioud  to  be  vindictive  —  I 
Have  pardon'd  princes'  Insults,  and  would  die. 
Yes,  Sister  of  my  Sovereign  !  for  thy  sake 
I  weed  all  bitterness  from  out  my  breast, 
It  hath  no  business  where  Ihcu  art  a  guest ; 
I  Thy  brother  hales  —  but  1  can  not  detest ; 
Thou  pitiest  not  —  but  I  can  not  forsake. 


Look  on  a  love  which  knows  not  to  despair, 
But  all  unquench'd  is  still  my  better  part, 
Dwelling  deep  in  my  shut  and  silent  heart. 
As  dwells  the  gaiher'd  lightning  in  its  cloud, 
Encompass'd  with  its  dark  and  rolling  shroud, 
Till  struck,—  forth  flies  the  all-ethereal  dart! 
And  thus  at  the  collision  of  thy  name. 
The  vivid  thought  still  flashes  through  my  f^aaie, 
And  for  a  moment  all  things  as  they  were 
Flit  by  me  ;  —  they  are  gone —  I  am  the  same. 
And  yet  my  love  without  ambition  grew  ; 
I  knew  thy  state,  my  station,  and  I  knew 
A  Princess  was  no  love  mate  for  a  bard; 
I  told  it  not,  I  breathed  it  not,  it  was 
Sufficient  to  itself,  its  own  reward  ; 
And  if  my  eyes  reveal'd  it,  they,  alas ! 
Were  punish'd  by  the  silentness  of  thine. 
And  yet  I  did  not  venture  to  repine. 
Thou  wert  to  me  a  crystal-girded  shrine, 
Worshipp'd  at  holy  distance,  and  around 
Hallo w"d  and  meekly  kiss'd  the  saintly  ground; 
Not  for  thou  wert  a  princess,  but  that  Love 
Had  robed  thee  with  a  glory,  and  array'd 
Thy  lineaments  in  beauty  that  dismay'd  — 
Oh  1  not  dismay'd  —  but  awed,  like  One  above ! 
And  in  Ihat  sweet  f^everity  there  was 
A  something  which  all  softness  did  surpass  — 
I  know  not  how  —  thy  genius  master'd  mine  — 
My  star  stood  still  before  thee :  —  if  it  were 
I  Presumptuous  thus  to  love  without  design. 
That  sad  fatality  hath  cost  me  dear  ; 
But  thou  art  dearest  s'ill,  and  I  should  be 
Fit  for  this  cell,  which  wrongs  me  — but  for  thee. 
The  very  love  which  lock'd  me  to  my  chain 
Hath  lighten'd  half  its  weight ;  and  for  the  rest, 
Though  heavy,  lent  me  vigour  to  sustiin. 
And  look  to  thee  with  undivided  breast. 
And  foil  ihe  ingenuity  of  Pain. 

VI. 

It  is  no  marvel  —  from  my  very  birth 

My  soul  was  drunk  with  love,—  which  did  pervade 

And  mingle  with  wha'e'er  I  saw  on  earth  ; 

Of  objects  all  inanimate  I  made 

Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lonely  flowers, 

And  rocks,  whereby  they  grew,"  a  paradise. 

Where  I  did  by  me  down  within  the  shade 

Of  waving  trees,  and  dream'd  uncounted  hours. 

Though  I  was  chid  for  wandering;  and  the  wise 

Shook  their  white  aged  heads  o'er  me,  and  sa«d, 

Of  such  materials  wretched  men  were  made, 


1817.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


235 


And  such  a  truant  boy  would  en<l  in  woe, 
And  that  the  only  lesson  was  a  blow  ;  — 
And  then  they  smote  me,  and  I  did  not  weep, 
But  cursed  them  in  my  heart,  and  to  my  hiunt 
Return'd  and  wept  alone,  and  dre.im'd  again 
The  visions  which  arise  without  a  sleep. 
And  wiiti  my  years  my  soul  began  to  pant 
With  feelings  of  strange  tumult  and  soft  pain  ; 
And  the  whole  heart  exhaled  into  one  Want, 
But  undefined  and  wandering,  till  the  day 
I  Ibund  the  thing  I  sounht  —  and  that  was  thee  ; 
And  then  I  lost  my  being,  all  to  be 
Absorb'd  in  thine  —  the  world  was  past  away — 
Thou  didst  aaoibilate  the  earth  to  me  1 

VII. 

I  loved  all  Solitude  — but  little  thought 
To  spend  I  know  not  what  of  life,  remote 
From  all  communion  with  existence,  sive 
The  maniac  and  his  tyrant ;  —  hid  I  been 
Their  fellow,  mtny  years  ere  this  had  seen 
JNIy  mind  like  theirs  corrupted  to  its  grave: 
But  who  hath  seen  me  writtie,  or  heard  me  rave  ? 
Perchance  in  such  a  cell  we  suffer  more 
Than  the  wreck'd  sailor  on  his  desert  shore  ; 
The  world  is  all  before  him  —  mitie  is  here, 
Scirce  twice  the  space  they  must  accord  my  bier. 
What  though  he  perish,  he  miy  lift  his  eye. 
And  with  a  dying  glance  upbraid  the  sky  — 
1  will  not  raise  my  own  in  such  reproof. 
Although  't  is  clouded  by  my  dungeon  roof. 

VIII. 

Yet  do  I  feel  at  times  my  mind  decline, 
But  with  a  sense  of  its  decay  :  —  I  see 
Unwonted  lights  along  my  prison  shine. 
And  a  strange  demon,  who  is  vexing  me 
With  pilfering  pr.mks  and  petty  pains,  below 
The  feeling  of  the  healthful  and  the  free  ; 
But  much  to  One,  wbr)  long  hath  sulfer'd  so, 
Sickness  of  heart,  and  narrowness  of  place, 
And  all  that  may  be  borne,  or  can  debase. 
I  thought  mine  enemies  had  been  but  Man, 
But  spirits  may  be  leagued  with  them  —  all  Earth 
Abandons  —  Heaven  forgets  me  :  —  in  the  dearth 
Of  such  defence  the  Powers  of  Evil  can, 
It  may  be,  tempt  me  further, —  and  prevail 
Against  the  outworn  creature  they  assail. 
Why  in  this  furnace  is  my  spirit  proveil, 
Like  steel  in  tempering  fire  ?  because  I  loved  > 
Because  I  loved  what  not  to  love,  and  see. 
Was  more  or  less  than  mortal,  and  than  me. 

IX. 
I  once  was  quick  in  feeling —  that  is  o'er ;  — 
My  scars  are  callous,  or  I  should  have  dash'd 
My  brain  against  these  bars,  as  the  sun  flash'd 
In  mockery  thiough  them  :  —  If  I  bear  and  bore 
The  much  I  have  recounted,  and  the  more 
Which  hath  no  words,— 't  is  that  I  would  not  die 
And  sanction  wi  h  self-slaughter  the  dull  lie 
Which  snared  me  here,  and  with  the  brand  of  ataame 
Stamp  Madness  deep  into  my  memory, 
And  woo  Compassion  to  a  blighted  name, 
Sealing  the  sentence  which  my  foes  proclaim. 
No  — it  shall  be  immortal  !  —  and  I  make 
A  future  temple  of  my  present  cell. 
Which  nations  yet  shall  visit  for  my  sake. 
While  thou,  Ferraral  when  no  longer  dwell 
The  ducal  chiefs  within  thee,  shall  fall  down. 
And  crumbling  piecemeal  view  thy  hearthless  halls, 
A  poet's  wreath  sh^ll  be  thine  only  crown,— 
A  poet's  dungeon  thy  most  far  renown. 
While  strangers  wonder  o'er  thy  unpeopled  walls ! 
And  thon,  Leonori  1  —  thou  —  who  v^ert  ashamed 
That  such  as  I  could  love—  who  blu^h'd  to  heir 
To  less  than  monarchs  that  thou  couldst  be  dear, 
Go  ;  tell  thy  brother,  that  my  h^rt,  untamed 
By  grief,  years,  weariness— "and  it  may  be 
A  taint  of  that  he  would  impute  to  me  — 


From  long  infection  of  a  den  like  this. 

Where  tlie  mind  rots  congenial  with  the  abyss, 

Adores  thee  still ;  —  and  add  —  that  when  the  towers 

And  battlements  which  guard  his  jiyous  hours 

Of  banquet,  dance,  and  revel,  are  forgot, 

Or  left  untended  in  a  dull  repose, 

This  —  this—  shall  be  a  consecrated  spot! 

But  thou  —  when  all  that  Birth  and  Beauty  throwt 

Of  magic  round  thee  is  extinct  —  shalt  have 

One  half  the  laurel  which  o'ershades  ray  grave. 

No  power  in  death  can  tear  our  names  apart, 

As  none  in  life  could  rend  thee  from  my  heart. 

Ves,  Leonora  !  it  shall  be  our  fate 

To  be  entwined  for  ever  —  but  too  late  I 


EPISTLE   FROM  MR.  MURRAY  TO  DR. 
POLIDORI. 

Dear  Doctor,  I  have  read  your  play, 
Which  is  a  good  one  in  its  way, — 
Purges  the  eyes  and  moves  the  bowels. 
And  drenches  handkerchiefs  like  towels 
With  tears,  that,  in  a  flux  of  grief. 
Afford  hysterical  relief 
To  shatter'd  nerves  and  quicken'd  pulses, 
Which  your  catastrophe  convulses. 

I  like  your  moral  and  machinery  ; 
Your  plot,  too,  has  such  scope  for  scenery ; 
Your  dialogue  is  apt  and  smart  ; 
The  play's  concoction  full  of  art ; 
Your  hero  raves,  your  heroine  cries. 
All  stab,  and  every  body  dies. 
In  short,  your  tragedy  would  be 
The  very  thing  to  hear  and  see: 
And  for  a  piece  of  publication, 
If  I  decline  on  this  occasion. 
It  is  not  that  1  am  not  sensible 
To  merits  in  themselves  ostensible, 
But  —  and  I  grieve  to  speak  it  —  pi  lys 
Are  drugs  —  mere  drugs,  sir  —  now-a^lays. 
I  had  a  heavy  loss  by  "  Manuel," — 
Too  lucky  if  it  prove  not  annual, — 
And  Sotheby,  with  his  "  Orestes," 
(Which,  by  the  by,  the  author's  best  is,) 
Has  lain  so  very  long  on  hand. 
That  I  despair  of  all  demand. 
I  've  advertised,  but  see  my  books. 
Or  only  wa'ch  my  shopman's  looks  j  — 
Still  Ivan,  Ina,  and  such  lumber. 
My  back-shop  glut,  my  shelves  encumber. 

There's  Byron  too,  who  once  did  better, 
Has  sent  me,' folded  in  a  letter, 
A  sort  of —  it 's  no  more  a  drama 
Than  Darnley,  Ivan,  or  Kehama^ 
So  aller'd  since  last  year  his  pen  is, 
I  think  he's  lost  his  wib  at  Venire. 
In  short,  sir,  what  with  one  and  t'  other, 
I  dare  not  venture  on  another. 
I  write  in  haste  ;  excuse  each  blunder ; 
The  coaches  through  the  street  so  thunder ! 
My  room 's  so  full  —  we  've  Gillbrd  here 
Reading  MS.,  with  Hookham  Frere, 
Pronouncing  on  the  nouns  and  panicles, 
Of  some  of  our  forthcoming  Articles. 

The  Quarterly  —  Ah,  sir,  if  you 
Had  but  the  zeriius  to  review  !  — 
A  smart  critique  upon  St.  Helena, 
Or  if  you  only  would  but  tell  in  a 

Short  compa^  what but.  to  resume : 

As  1  was  siying,  sir,  the  room  — 

The  room  's  -o  full  of  wits  and  bards, 

Crabbes,  Campbells,  Crokers,  Freres,  and  Wards, 

And  others,  neither  bards  nor  wits :  — 

My  humble  tenement  admits 

All  persons  in  the  dress  of  gent. 

From  Mr.  Hammond  to  Dog  Dent. 


336 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


[1818. 


A  party  dines  with  me  to-day, 
All  clever  men,  who  make  their  way; 
Crabbe,  Malcolm,  Hamilton,  and  Cbantrey, 
Are  all  partakers  of  my  pantry. 
They  're  at  this  moment  in  discussion 
On  poor  Ue  Siael's  late  dissolution. 
Her  book,  they  say,  was  in  advance  — 
Pray  Heaven,  she  tell  the  truth  of  France! 
Thus  run  our  time  and  tongues  away, — 
But,  to  return,  sir,  tc  your  play : 
Sorry,  sir,  but  1  cannot  d>"al, 
Unless  't  were  acted  by  O'Neill, 
My  hands  so  full,  my  head  so  busy, 
I  'm  almost  dead,  and  always  dizzy  ; 
And  so,  with  endless  truth  and  hurry, 
Dear  Doctor,  I  am  yours, 

JOHN  MURRAY. 

August,  !817. 


EPISTLE    TO    MR.  MURRAY. 

My  dear  Mr.  Murray, 
You  're  in  a  danin'd  hurry 

To  set  up  this  uliimate  Cantu;  l 
But  (if  they  don't  rob  us) 
You  'II  see  Mr.  Hobhouse 

Will  brin^  it  safe  in  bis  portmanteau. 

For  the  Journal  you  hint  of, 
As  ready  to  print  ofT, 

No  doubt  vou  do  ri»ht  to  commend  it ; 
But  as  yet  1  "have  writ  off 
The  devil  a  bit  of 

Our  "  Beppo : " —  when  copied,  I  'II  send  it. 

Then  you  've  *  »  »  *  's  Tour,— 
No  greit  things,  to  be  sure, — 

You  could  hardly  begin  with  a  less  work; 
For  the  pompous  rascallion, 
Who  don't  speak  Italian 

Nor  French,  must  have  scribbled  by  guesswork. 

You  can  make  any  loss  up 
With  "  Spence"  and  his  gossip, 

A  work  which  must  surely  succeed  ; 
Then  Queen  Marv's  Epistle-craft, 
With  the  new  "  Fytte'of  "  VVhistlecraft," 

Must  make  people  purchase  and  read. 

Then  you  've  General  Gordon, 
Who  girded  his  swnrd  on. 

To  serve  with  a  Muscovite  master. 
And  help  him  to  polish 
A  nation  so  owlish, 

They  thought  shaving  their  beards  a  disaster. 

For  the  man,  "  poor  and  shrewd,"  a 
With  whom  you  'd  conclude 

A  corapict  without  more  delay, 
Perhaps  some  such  pen  is 
Still  extant  in  Venice  ; 

But  please,  sir,  to  mention  your  pay. 

Venice,  January  8,  1818. 


TO    M  R .  M  U R R  A  Y. 

Strahan,  Tonson,  Lintot  of  the  limes, 
Patron  and  publisher  of  rhj  mes. 
For  thee  the  bird  up  Pindus  climbs, 
My  Murray. 

To  thee,  with  hope  and  terror  dumb, 
The  unfledged  MS.  authors  come; 
Thou  prlntesl  all  — and  sellest  some  — 
My  Murray. 


Upon  thy  table's  baize  so  green 
The  last  new  Quarterly  is  seen, — 
But  wjiere  is  thy  new  Magazine, 
My  Murray  ? 


The  "Art  of  Cookery,"  and  mine, 
My  Murray. 

Tours,  Travels,  Essays,  too,  F  wist. 
And  Sermons  to  thy  mill  bring  grist ; 
And  then  thou  hast' the  "  Navy  List," 
My  Murray. 

And  Heaven  forbid  I  should  conclude, 
Without  "  the  Boird  of  Longitude," 
Although  this  narrow  paper  would, 
My  Murray. 

Venice,  March  25,  iei& 


ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  JOHN  WILLIAM  RIZZO 
HOPPNER. 

His  father's  sense,  his  mother's  grace, 
In  him,  I  hope,  will  always  fit  so  ; 

With  —  still  to  keep  him  in  good  case  — 
The  health  and  appetite  of  Rizzo. 

February,  1818. 


ODE    ON   VENICE. 8 
I. 

Oh  Venice !  Veflice!  when  thy  marble  walls 

Are  level  with  the  waters,  there  shall  be 
A  cry  of  nations  o'er  thy  sunken  balls, 

A  loud  lament  along  the  sweeping  sea  ! 
If  I,  a  northern  wanJerer,  weep  for  ihee. 
What  should  thy  sons  do  ? —  any  thing  but  weep  : 
And  yet  they  only  mumiur  in  their  sleep. 
In  contrast  with  their  fathers  —  as  the  slime, 
The  dull  green  ooze  of  the  receding  deep, 
Is  vviih  the  dashing  of  the  spring  tide  foam 
That  drives  the  sailor  shipless  to  his  home, 

I  Are  they  to  those  that  were ;  and  thus  they  creep, 
Crouching  and  crab-like,  through  their  sapping  streets. 
Oh  !  agony  —  that  centuries  should  reap 
No  mellower  harvest !  Thirteen  hundred  years 

''  Of  wealth  and  glory  turn'd  to  dust  and  tears  j 

I  And  every  monument  the  stranger  meets. 
Church,  palace,  pillar,  as  a  mourner  greets; 
And  even  the  Lion  all  subdued  appears. 
And  the  harsh  sound  of  the  barbarian  drum, 

I  With  dull  and  daily  dissonance,  repeats 
The  echti  of  thy  tyrant's  voice  along 
The  soft  waves,  once  all  musical  to  song, 
That  heaved  beneath  the  moonlight  with  the  throng 
Of  gondolas  —  and  to  the  busy  hum 
Of  "cheerful  creatures,  whose  most  sinful  deeds 
Were  but  the  overheating  of  the  heart, 
And  flow  of  too  much  happiness,  which  needs 
The  aid  of  age  to  turn  its  course  apart 
From  the  luxuriant  and  voluptuous  flood 
Of  sweet  sensations,  ba'tling  with  the  blood. 
But  these  are  befer  than  the  gloomy  errors, 
The  weeds  of  nations  in  their  last  decay. 
When  Vice  walks  forth  with  her  unsoflen'd  terrors, 
And  Mirth  is  madness,  and  but  smiles  to  slay  ; 
And  Hope  is  nothing  but  a  false  delay. 
The  sick  man's  lightnins  half  an  ho'ur  ere  death, 
When  Faintness,  the  last  mortal  birth  of  Pain, 
And  apathy  of  limb,  the  dull  beginning 
Of  the  cold  staggerins:  race  which  Death  is  winning, 
Steals  vein  by  vein  and  pulse  by  pulse  away  ; 
Yet  so  relieving  the  o'er-tortured  clay. 
To  him  appears  renewal  of  his  breath, 


1  The  fourth  .-auto  of  "Chil 
3  VUc  your  letter. 


Harold." -E. 


1819.] 


OCCASIONAL     PIECES. 


237 


And  freedom  the  mere  nuDibness  of  his  chain  ; — 
And  theti  he  talks  of  life,  and  how  agaiu 
He  feels  his  spirits  soarin:; — albeit  weak, 
And  of  the  fresher  air,  which  he  would  seek; 
And  as  he  whispers  knows  not  that  he  gasps, 
That  hi«  thin  finser  feels  not  what  it  clasps. 
And  so  the  film  comes  o'er  him— and  the  dizzy 
Chamber  s«  ims  round  and  round — and  shadows  busy, 
Ai  wh.ch  he  vainly  catches,  flit  and  gleam. 
Till  the  last  rattle  chokes  the  strangled  scream, 
And  all  is  ice  and  blackne-s, — and  the  earth 
That  which  it  was  the  moment  ere  our  biith. 

II. 
There  is  no  hope  for  naions !— Search  the  page 

Of  many  thousand  years —  he  daily  scene, 
The  flow  and  ebb  of  each  recurring  age, 

The  everlasting  to  be  »  hich  hath  been, 

Hath  taught  us  nought,  or  little  :  still  we  lean 
On  things  that  rot  beneath  our  weight,  and  wear 
Our  strength  away  in  wrestling  with  the  air  : 
For  'I  is  our  nature  strikes  us  doun  :  the  beasts 
S  aughter'd  in  hourly  hecatombs  for  fea-ts 
Are  of  as  high  an  order — they  must  go 
Even    where   their   driver    goads    them,    though    to 

slaughter. 
Ye  men.  who  pour  your  blood  for  kings  as  water. 
What  have  they  given  jour  children  in  return? 
A  heritaae  of  servitude  and  woe, 
A  blindfold  bondage,  where  your  hire  is  bloivs. 
What  !  do  not  yer  the  red  hot  plot. gh  shares  burn, 
O'er  which  you  s'umble  in  a  false  irdeal. 
And  deem  ihis  proof  of  ro\alty  the  real; 
Kissing  the  hand  tl  a'  guides  you  to  your  scars, 
And  slurying  as  you  tread  the  glowing  bars? 
All  that  your  sires  have  left  you.  all  that  Time 
Bequeaths  of  free,  and  History  of  sublime, 
Spring  from  a  different  theme  !— Ye  see  and  read, 
Admire  and  sigh,  and  ihen  succunib  and  bleed  1 
Save   he  feiv  sp  r.ts  who,  despite  of  all. 
And  worse  than  all,  ihe  sudden  crimes  engender'd 
By  the  down  thundering  of  the  prison-ual'. 
And  ti.irst  to  sn allow  the  sweet  waters  tender'd, 
Gu-hing  from  Freedom's  fountains— when  the  crowd 
Madden'd  wth  centuries  of  drousht,  are  loud, 
And  tramp'e  on  each  other  lo  obtain 
The  cup  which  brings  oblivion  of  a  chiin 
Heavy  and  sore, — in  «hlch  loirg  joked  they  p'ough'd 
The  sand, — or  if  there  spiung  the  yellow  grain, 
'Twas  not  for  them,  their  necki  were  loo  much  bow'd. 
And  their  dead  pal  .tes  chew'd  the  cud  of  pain  : — 
Yes  !  th#few  spirits — who,  despite  of  deeds 
Which  they  abhor,  cnfound  not  witli  the  cause 
Those  momentary  star^  from  Nature's  laws, 
Which,  like  the  pestilence  and  earthquake,  smite 
But  for  a  term,  then  pas-,  and  leave  the  earth 
^Vith  all  her  se  sons  to  repair  the  blight 
With  a  few  summers,  and  again  put  forth 
Ci  ies  and  generations — fair,  wheii  free — 
For,  Tyranny,  there  blooms  no  bud  f  jr  thee ! 

HI. 
Glory  and  Empire  !  once  upon  these  lowers 

With  Freedom — g->dlike  Tiiad  1  how  ve  sale  ; 
Theleajiie  of  mightiest  nations  in  ihose  hours 

Whtn  Ven  ce  was  an  envy,  might  abate, 

Bui  did  not  quench  her  spirit — in  her  fate 
All  were  enwrapp'd  :  the  feasted  monarch  knew 

And  loved  their  h'  stess,  nor  could  leirn  to  hate, 
AlttKush  they  humbled — with  the  kinjly  few 
The  many  fel',  f  .r  from  all  days  and  climes 
She  was  ihe  voyajers  worsh  p  ;— even  her  crimes 
Were  of  the  sof  er  order — born  to  Love, 
She  drank  no  blood,  nor  fit'en'd  on  the  dead. 
But  giadden'd  where  her  harmles-  conquests  spread; 
For  these  restored  the  Cp ss,  ihat  from  above 
Hallow'd  hershellerir.g  banners,  which  incessant 
Few  between  ear'h  and  the  unholy  Crescent, 
Which,  if  ii  w  lied  and  dwindled,  E  rth  may  thank 
Ti  e  ci;y  It  has  clothed  in  cha'n«,  which  clank 
No IV,  ere  ik  ng  in  Ihe  ears  of  Ihose  who  owe 


The  nan  e  of  Freedom  'o  her  glorious  struggles 
Yet  she  but  shares  with  thein  a  common  woo. 
And  called  the  "  kingdom"  of  a  conquering  foe,— 
Hu'  knows  wh^t  all— and.  most  of  all,  we  know— 
With  what  set  gilded  terms  a  tyrant  juggl  s! 

IV. 
The  name  of  Commonwealth  is  past  and  gone 

O'er  the  three  fractions  of  the  groaning  glol)e  ; 
Venice  is  ciushed,  and  Hol'and  deigns  lo  own 

A  sceptre,  and  endures  the  purple  robe; 
If  the  free  Swii2er  yet  bestrides  alone 
His  chainless  mountains,  'I  is  but  for  a  time, 
For  tyranny  of  late  is  cunning  grown, 
And  in  its  owa  good  season  tramples  down 
The  sparkles  of  our  ashes.     One  erea'  clime, 
Whose  vigorous  offspring  by  dividing  ocean 
Are  kept  apart  and  nursed  in  Ihe  devoti.  n 
Of  Freedom,  which  their  fathers  f 'Ught  fir,  and 
Bequeath'd — a  heritage  of  heart  and  hand, 
And  proud  distinction  from  each  other  land. 
Whose  sons  must  bow  them  at  a  monarch's  motion. 
As  if  his  senseless  sceptre  were  a  wand 
Full  of  the  magic  of  exploded  science — 
S  ill  one  great  clime,  in  fu  1  and  free  defiance, 
Yet  reirs  her  crest,  unconquer'd  and  sublime, 
Above  the  fair  A'lantic  I — She  has  taught 
Her  Esau-brethren  that  the  haughty  fla», 
Tne  floating  fence  of  Albion's  f  ebler  crag. 
May  strike  to  those  whose  red  right  hands  have  bought 
Rights  cheaply  earn'd  with  blood.— Sill,  still,  for  ever 
Better,  though  each  man's  l.fe-bbod  were  a  river, 
That  it  should  flow,  aud  overflow,  than  creep 
Tl.roujh  thousand  la5v  channe's  in  our  v-ins, 
Damn'd  like  the  dull  ca'  al  wiih  locks  and  chains 
And  moving,  a.  a  sick  man  in  the  sleep. 
Three  paces,  and  then  faltering : — better  be 
Where  the  extinguish'd  Spartans  still  are  free. 
In  their  proud  ch^rnel  of  Thermopylas, 
Than  stignate  in  our  marsh, — or  o'ei  the  deep 
Fly,  and  one  current  to  the  ocean  add, 
Oue  spirit  to  ihe  si  uls  our  fathers  had. 
One  freeman  more,  America,  to  thee  ! 

STANZAS    TO    THE    PO.l 
River,  that  rolle  t  by  the  ancient  walls  2 

Where  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  she 
Walks  by  thy  brink,  and  there  perchance  recall 

A  faint  and  fleeting  memory  of  me  ; 

What  if  thy  deep  and  ample  stream  should  be 
A  mirror  of  my  heart,  where  she  mav  read 

The  thousand  thoughts  I  nmv  betray  to' thee. 
Wild  as  thy  wave,  and  headlong  as  thy  speed  ! 

What  do  I  say — a  nrrrnr  of  my  heart  ? 

Are  not  thy  waters  sweeping,  dark,  and  strong? 
Such  as  mv  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art ; 

And  Euch  as  thou  art  were  my  pass.on  long. 

Time  may  have  somewhat  tamed  them. — nol  for  ever; 

Thou  o'verfiow'sl  thy  banks,  and  not  for  aye 
Thy  bosom  overlwils,  congenial  river! 

Toy  floods  subside,  aud  mine  have  sunk  away ; 

1  About  the  middle  of  April,  1S19,  Lord  Byron  travelled 
from  Venice  to  Ravenna,  at  which  last  city  he  e,\pected  to 
find  the  Countess  Guiccioli  The  above  stanzas  were  com- 
posed, according  to  Madame  Ouiccioli's  statement,  during 
this  journey,  and  while  Lord  Byron  was  actually  sailing  on 
the  Po.     They  were  first  printed  in  18-24.— E. 

2  Ravenna  —  a  city  to  which  Lord  Byron  afterwards  de- 
clared himself  more  attached  than  to  any  other  place,  ex- 
cept Greeie.  He  resided  in  it  rather  more  than  two  years, 
"  and  quitted  it,"  says  Madame  Guiccioli,  ■•  wiih  the  deep- 
est regret,  and  with  the  presentiment  that  his  departure 
woulu  bt  the  forerunner  of  a  thousand  evils  :  he  was  con- 
tinually performing  generous  actions  :  many  families  owed 
to  him  ttie  few  prosperous  days  they  ever  enjoyed ;  his  ar- 
rival was  spoken  of  as  a  piece  of  public  good  fortune,  and 
his  departure  as  a  public  calamity."— K. 


238 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES 


[1819 


But  left  Ion?  wrecks  behind,  and  now  again, 
Borne  in  our  old  unchanged  career,  we  move ; 

Thou  tendest  wildly  onwards  to  the  main, 
And  I  —  to  loving  one  1  should  not  love. 

The  current  I  beholi  will  sweep  beneath 
Her  native  walls,  and  murmur  at  her  feet; 

Her  eyes  will  look  on  thee,  when  she  shall  breathe 
The  twilight  air,  unharni'd  by  summer's  heat. 

She  will  look  on  thee, —  I  have  look'd  on  thee, 
Full  of  that  thought :  and,  from  that  moment,  ne'er 

Ttiy  waters  could  I  dream  of,  name,  or  see, 
Without  the  inseparable  sigh  for  her ! 

Her  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream. 
Yes  !  they  will  meet  the  wave  I  gaze  on  now : 

Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a  dream. 
That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  fiow  ! 

The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more : 

Will  she  reurn  by  whom  that  wave  shill  sweep?  — 

Both  tread  thy  banks,  both  wander  on  thy  shore, 
I  by  thy  source,  she  by  the  dark  blue  deep. 

But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  is  not 

Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  of  earth, 

But  the  distraction  of  a  various  lot. 
As  various  as  the  climates  of  our  birth. 

A  stranger  loves  the  lady  of  the  land, 

Born  far  beyond  the  mountains,  but  his  blood 

Is  all  meridian,  as  if  never  fann'd 
By  the  black  wind  that  chills  the  polar  flood. 

My  blood  is  all  meridian  ;  were  it  not, 
I  had  not  left  my  clime,  nor  should  I  be, 

In  spite  of  tortures,  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
A  slave  again  of  love,—  at  least  of  thee. 

'T  is  vain  to  struggle  —  let  me  perish  young  — 
Live  as  I  lived,  and  love  as  I  have  loved  ; 

To  dust  if  I  return,  fiom  dust  I  sprung. 
And  then,  at  least,  my  heart  cm  ne'er  be  moved. 
April,  1819. 


SONNET  TO  GEORGE   THE  FOURTH, 

on  the  repeal  of  lord  edward  fitzoe' 
rald's  forfeiture. 

To  be  the  father  of  the  fatherless, 

To  stre'ch  the  hand   from   the  throne's  height,  and 
raise 

His  oflspring:,  who  expired  in  other  days 
To  make  thy  sire's  sway  by  a  kingdom  less, — 
This  is  to  be  a  monarch,  and  repress 

Envy  into  unutterable  praise. 

Dismiss  thy  guard,  and  trust  thee  to  such  traits, 
For  who  would  lift  a  hand,  except  to  bless  ? 

Were  it  nit  ea^y.  sir,  and  is  'I  not  sweet 

To  make  thyself  beloved  ?  and  to  be 
Omnipotent  by  mercy's  means  ?  for  thus 

Thy  sovereignly  would  grow  but  more  complete ; 
A  despot  thou,  and  yet  thy  people  free, 

Ani  by  the  heart,  not  band,  enslaving  us. 

Bologna,  August  12,  1819, 


EPIGRAM. 
FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  RULHIERES. 

If,  for  silver  or  for  gold. 

You  could  melt  ten  thousand  pimples 

Into  half  a  dozen  dimples. 
Then  your  face  we  might  behold. 

Looking,  doubtless,  much  more  snugly  ; 

Vet  even  then  'I  would  be  d — d  ugly. 

August  12,  1819. 


STANZAS.! 

Could  Love  for  ever 
Run  like  a  river. 
And  Time's  endeavour 

Be  tried  in  vain  — 
No  other  pleasure 
With  this  could  measure; 
And  like  a  treasure 

We  'd  hug  the  chain. 
But  since  our  sighing 
Ends  not  in  dying. 
And,  foi  m'd  for  Hying, 

Love  plumes  his  wing ; 
Then  for  this  reason 
Let's  love  a  season  ; 
But  let  that  season  be  only  Spring. 

When  lovers  parted 
Feel  broken-hearted, 
And,  all  hopes  thwarted, 

Expect  to  die ; 
A  few  years  older. 
Ah  !  how  much  colder 
They  might  behold  her 

For  whom  they  sigh! 
When  link'd  together. 
In  every  weather. 
They  pluck  Love's  feather 

From  out  his  wing  — 
He  '11  stay  for  ever. 
But  sadly  shiver 
Without  his  plumage  when  past  the  Spring 

Like  chiefs  of  Faction, 
His  life  IS  action  — 
A  formal  paction 

That  curbs  his  reign, 
Obscures  his  glory. 
Despot  no  more,  he 
Such  territory 

Quits  with  disdain. 
Still,  still  advancing. 
With  banners  glancing. 
His  power  enhancing. 

He  must  move  on  — 
Repose  but  cloys  him, 
Retreat  destroys  him. 
Love  brooks  not  a  degraded  throne. 

Wait  not,  fond  lover ! 
Till  years  are  over, 
And  then  recover, 

As  from  a  dream. 
While  each  bewailing 
The  other's  failing. 
With  wrath  and  railing, 

All  hideous  seem  — 
While  first  decreasing. 
Yet  not  quite  ceasing. 
Wait  not  till  teasing, 

AH  passion  blight: 
If  once  diminish'd 
Love's  reign  is  finish'd  — 
Then  part  in  friendship, —  and  bid  gooJ-ni^ 

So  shall  Affection 
To  recollection 
The  dear  connexion 

Bring  back  with  joy : 
You  had  not  wailed 
Till,  tired  or  haled, 
Your  passions  sated 

Began  to  cloy. 

1  A  friend  of  Lord  Byron's,  who  was  with  hinj  at  R«. 
venna  wlien  he  wrote  'these  Stanzas,  says,- "They  were 
composed,  like  many  others,  with  ao  view  of  publication, 
but  merely  to  relieve  himBelf  in  a  moment  of  sufferioK. 
He  had  been  painfully  excited  by  some  circumstanres 
which  appeared  to  make  it  necessary  that  he  should  im- 
mediately quit  Italy;  and  in  the  day  and  the  hour  that  be 
wrote  the  song  was  labouring  under  an  access  of  fever."— B. 


1820.1 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


23!i 


Tour  last  embraces 
Leave  no  cold  traces  — 
The  same  fond  faces 

As  through  the  past : 
Aud  eyes,  the  isirrors 
Of  your  sweet  errors. 
Reflect  but  rapture  —  not  least  though  last 

True,  separations 

Ask  more  than  patience ; 

What  desperations 

From  such  have  risen ! 
But  yet  remaining, 
What  is 't  but  chaining 
Hearts  which,  once  waning, 

Beat  'gainst  their  prison? 
Time  can  but  cloy  love, 
Aud  use  destroy  love : 
The  winged  boy,  Love, 

Is  but  for  boys  — 
You  '11  find  it  torture 
Though  sharper,  shorter. 
To  wean,  aud  not  wear  out  your  joys. 


FRANCESCA    DA   RIMINI.' 
DANTE    L'lNFERNO.^ 

CANTO    V. 

Siede  la  terra  dove  nata  f»i 

Su  la  marina,  dove  il  Po  discende, 
Per  aver  pace  coi  seguaci  sui. 

Amor,  che  al  cor  gentil  ratio  s'  apprende, 
Prese  costui  della  bella  persona 
Che  mi  fu  lolla;  e  il  nindo  ancor  m'  offende. 

Amor,  che  a  nullo  amato  amar  perdona, 
Mi  prese  del  costui  placer  si  forte, 
Che,  come  vedi,  ancor  non  m'  abbandona  j 

Amor  cniidusse  noi  ad  una  niorte : 
Caina3  atteude  chi  in  vita  ci  spense. 
Queste  parole  da  lor  ci  fur  porte. 

Da  ch'  io  iiitesi  quell'  anime  otfense 
Chinai  il  viso,  e  l»nto  il  tenni  basso 
Fin  che  il  Poeta  mi  disse  :  '•  Che  pense  ?" 

Quando  risposi  incomminciai :  "  Ahi  lasso  I 
Quaihi  doici  peusier,  quanto  desio 
Meno  cosloro  al  doloroso  passo  ;  " 

Pol  mi  rivoisi  a  loro,  e  parlai  io, 

E  comiiiciai :  Franceses,  i  tuoi  martin 
A  lagrimar  mi  faun  i  Iristo  e  pio. 

Ma  dimmi :  al  tempo  de'  dolci  sospiri 
A  che.  e  come  concedette  Amore 
Che  conosceste  i  dubbiosi  desiri? 

Ed  ella  a  me  :  nessun  niaggior  dolore 
Che  ricordirsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nclla  miseria  ;  e  cio  sa  il  tuo  dottore. 

Ma  se  a  conoscer  la  prima  radice 
De!  nostro  amor  tu  hai  cotanto  affetto 
Faro  rome  colui  che  piange  e  dice. 

Noi  leggevamo  un  giorno  per  diletio 
Di  Lancillotto,  cnme  Amor  Io  sliinse  : 
Soli  eravanio,  e  sen/a  alcuii  sospetto. 

Per  pill  hale  gli  occhi  ci  sospinse 
Quella  lettura,  e  scolorocci  il  viso: 
Ma  solo  un  pun'.o  fu  quel  che  ci  vinse. 

Quando  iQggemmo  il  disiato  riso 


ON   MT   WEDDING-DAY. 
Here 's  a  happy  new  year !  but  wi'U  reason 

I  beg  you  '11  permit  me  to  say  — 
Wish  me  ma?iy  returns  of  the  season, 
But  as  few  as  you  please  of  the  day. 

JaDuar/  2,  1 


EPITAPH    FOR    WILLIAM    PITT. 


With  death  doom'd  to  grapple, 
Beneath  this  cold  hlab,  he 

Who  lied  in  the  Chapel 
Now  lies  in  the  Abbey. 


EPIGRAM. 
In  digging  up  your  bones,  Tom  Paine, 

Will.  Cobbett  has  done  well : 
You  visit  him  on  earth  again, 

He  '11  visit  you  in  hell 


January,  1830. 


FRANCESCA   OF    RIMINI. 

FROM  THE  INFERNO  OF  DANTE. 


iThis  liana' t<oo,  of  wliat  is  generally  ronsidcred  the 
mcbt  exquisitely  palhelic  episode  in  the  Divina  Ciimine- 
dia,  was  ejteculert  in  March,  1820.  al  Ravenna,  where,  just 
five  centuries  befoie,  and  in  Ihe  very  house  in  which  the 
unf.irlunale  lady  was  born,  Dante's  poem  had  been  com- 
posed.--E. 

SFrancesca,  danehter  of  Guido  da  I'olenia,  Lord  of  Ra- 

TeDna  anil  of  Cervia,  was  given  by  her  father  in  marriage 

II  tn  Lamiotto,  son  of  Malatesta,  L'ird  uf  Rimini,  a  man  of 

I  extraordinary  courage,  but  deformed  in  his  person.     His 

I I  brother,  Paolo,  who  unhappily  possessed  those  graces  which 
I  the  hcabsDd  of  Fraacesca  wanted,  engaged  her  aflectiong; 


CANTO    V. 

"  The  land  where  I  was  born^  sits  by  the  seas, 
Upon  that  shore  to  which  the  Po  descends, 
With  all  his  followers,  in  search  of  peace. 

Love,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  apprehends, 
Seized  him  for  the  fair  person  which  was  ta'en 
From  me,  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  otfends. 

Love,  who  to  none  beloved  'o  love  again 
Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  Io  please,  so  strong, 
That,  as  thou  seesi,  yet,  yet  it  doth  remain. 

Love  Io  one  death  conducted  us  along, 

But  Caina  waits  for  him  our  life  who  endel :" 
These  were  the  accents  ultcr'd  by  her  tongue.-' 

Since  I  first  lislen'd  to  these  souls  offended, 
I  bow'd  my  visage,  and  so  kept  it  till  —       [bended, 
"  VVhat  think'st  thou  ? "  said  the  bard  ;  when  I  un- 

And  recommenced  :  "  Alas!  unto  such  ill 

How  many  siveet  thoughts,  what  strong  ecstasies, 
I.ed  these  iheir  evil  fortune  to  fulfil ! " 

And  then  I  turn'd  unto  their  side  my  eyes, 
And  Slid,  "  Francesca,  thy  sad  destinies 
Have  made  me  sorrow  till  Ihe  tears  arise. 

But  tell  me,  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 
By  what  and  how  thy  love  to  passion  rose, 
So  as  his  dim  desires  to  recognise  ?  •' 

Then  she  Io  me  :  "  The  greatest  of  all  woes 
Is  to  remind  us  of  our  happy  days 
In  misery,  and  that  thy  teacher  knows. 

But  if  to  learn  our  passion's  first  root  preys 
Upon  thy  spirit  with  such  sympathy, 
I  will  do  even  as  he  who  wee|  s  and  says. — 

We  read  one  day  for  [laslime,  seated  nigh, 
Of  Lancilot,  how  love  enchain'd  him  too. 
We  weie  alone,  quite  unsuspiciously. 

But  oft  our  eye^  inei,  and  our  cheeks  in  hue 
All  o'er  discolour'd  by  that  reading  were; 
But  one  point  only  wholly  us  o'erthrew  ; 

When  we  read  the  long-sigh'd-for  smile  of  her, 


and  Iwing  taken  in  ailultery,  they  were  both  put  to  death 
by  the  enraged  Lancioito. 

Guido  was  the  son  of  Oslasio  da  Polenta,  and  made  him- 
self master  of  Ravenna  in  1265.  In  1322,  he  was  deprived 
(f  his  sovereignly,  and  died  at  Bolctna  in  the  year  U>',\< 
ing.  He  is  enumerated,  by  Tiraboschi,  among  the  p( 
of  his  time. —  E. 

3  From  Cain,  the  first  fratricide.  By  Caina  we  are  to 
understand  that  part  of  the  Infemo  to  which  murderert 
are  condemned.—  E. 


240 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


[1821. 


Esser  baciato  da  cotanto  amante, 
Questi,  che  mai  da  me  non  fia  diviso, 

La  bocca  mi  bacio  tutto  tremante: 
Galeotto  fu  il  libra,  e  chi  lo  scrisse  — 
Quel  giorno  piu  non  vi  lezgemmo  avante. 

Menire  che  I'  uno  spirto  questo  disse, 
L'altro  pianeeva  si  che  di  pietade 
lo  venni  men  cosi  com'  io  niorisse, 

E  caddi  come  corpo  morto  cade. 


STANZAS. 

When  a  man  hath  no  freedom  to  fight  for  at  home, 

Let  him  combat  for  that  of  his  neighbours  ; 
Let  him  think  of  the  glories  of  Greece  and  of  Rome, 

And  get  knock'd  on  the  head  for  his  labours. 
To  do  good  to  mankind  is  the  chivalrous  plan, 

And  is  always  as  nobly  requited  ; 
Then  battle  for  freedom  wherever  you  can, 

And,  if  not  shot  or  hang'd,  you  'II  get  knighted. 

November,  1*20. 


EPIGRAM. 

The  world  is  a  bundle  of  hay, 
Mankind  are  the  asses  who  pull ; 

Each  tugs  it  a  different  way. 
And  the  greatest  of  all  is  John  Bull. 


THE    CHARITY    BALL 

What  matter  the  pangs  of  a  husband  and  father, 

If  his  sorrows  in  exile  be  great  or  be  small. 
So  the  Pharisee's  glories  around  her  she  gather, 

And  the  saint  patronizes  her  "charity  ball  1 " 
What  matters  — a  heart  which,  though  faulty,  was 
feeling, 

Be  driven  to  excesses  which  once  could  appal  — 
That  the  sinner  should  suffer  is  only  fair  dealing, 

As  the  saint  keeps  her  charity  back  for  "  the  ball !  "  * 


EPIGRAM    ON   MY    WEDDING-DAY. 
TO    PENELOPE. 

This  day,  of  all  our  days,  has  done 

The  worst  for  me  and  you  :  — 
'T  is  .iust  six  years  since  we  were  one, 

And  five  since  we  were  two. 

Janaary  2,  1821. 

ON   MY   THIRTY-THIRD    BIRTH-DAY. 

JANDARY  22,  1821. 

Through  life's  dull  road,  so  dim  and  dirty, 
I  have  drazg'd  to  three  and  thirty. 
What  have'hese  veirs  left  to  me 
Nothing  —  except' thirty-three. 


EPIGRAM 
ON    THE    braziers'  COMPANY  HAVING    RE- 
SOLVFD    TO    PRESENT    AN    ADDRESS    TO 
QITEEN    CAROLINE, 
The  braziers,  it  seems,  are  preparing  to  pas? 
An  address,  and  present  it  themselves  all  in  brass;  — 
A  superfluous  pageant  —  for,  by  the  Lord  Harry  ! 
They  '11   find  where  they  're  going  much  more  than 
they  carry. 


1  These  lines  were  written  on  reading  in  the  news- 
mpcn,  tliit  Lady  Byrr.n  tiid  been  patronesa  of  a  ball  in 
Bldofsom;  charity  at  Hiuckley.  — E. 


To  be  thus  kiss'd  by  such  devoted  lover, 
He  who  from  me  can  be  divided  ne'er 

Kiss'd  my  moulh,  trembling  in  the  act  all  over. 
Accursed  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote! 
That  day  no  further  leaf  we  did  uncover. 

While  thus  one  spirit  told  us  of  their  lot. 
The  other  wept,  so  that  with  pity's  thralls 
I  swoon'd,  as  if  by  death  I  had  lieen  smote, 

And  fell  down  even  as  a  dead  body  falls. 


MARTIAL,    Lib.  I.  Epig.  L 


Tula  i 

He,  unto  whom  thou  art  so  partial, 
Oh,  reader  !  is  the  well-known  Martial, 
The  Epigrammatist:  while  living. 
Give  him  the  fame  thou  wouldst  be  giving; 
So  shall  he  hear,  and  feel,  and  know  it  — 
Post-obits  rarely  reach  a  poet. 


BOWLES   AND    CAMPBELL. 
To  the  tune  of  "  Why,  how  now,  saucy  jade  ?  " 

Why,  how  now,  saucy  Tom  ? 

If  you  thus  must  ramble, 
I  will  publish  some 

Remarks  on  Mister  Campbell. 

ANSWER. 

Why,  how  now,  Billy  Bowles? 

Sure  the  priest  is  maudlin  ! 
{To  the  public)  How  can  you,  d— n  your  souls ! 

Listen  to  his  twaddling? 

February  22, 1831. 

EPIGRAMS. 

Oh,  Castlereagh  1  thou  art  a  patriot  now; 
Cato  died  for  "his  country,  so  didst  thou: 
He  perish'd  rather  than  see  Rome  enslaved. 
Thou  cutfst  thy  throat  that  Britain  may  be  saved  ! 


So  Castlereagh  has  cut  his  throat !  —  The  worst 
Of  this  is, —  that  his  own  was  not  the  first. 


So  He  has  cut  his  throat  at  last !  —  He !  Who  ? 
The  man  who  cut  his  country's  long  ago. 


TO   MR.  MURRAY. 

For  Orford  2  and  for  Waldegrave  * 
You  sive  much  more  than  me  you  gave; 
Which  is  not  fairly  to  behave. 

My  Murray. 

Because  if  a  live  doi,  't  is  said, 
Be  worth  a  linn  fiirly  sped, 
A  live  lord  must  be  worth  ttco  dead. 
My  Murray. 

And  if,  as  the  opinion  goes. 
Verse  hath  a  belter  sale  than  prose,— 
Certes,  I  should  have  more  than  those, 
My  Murray.. 

But  now  this  sheet  is  nearly  cramm'd. 
So,  if  vou  will,  I  shan't  l)e  shamm'd. 
And  if  you  wonH,  you  miy  be  damn'd, 
My  Murray. 


2  Horace  Watpole's  Memoirs  of    the  last  Otoe  yean  of 
the  Keigii  of  Geiirge  II.—  E. 

3  MemoirB   by   James    Earl  Waldegrave,    GoTsraor  «f 
George  III.  when  Prince  of  Wales.  --  E. 


r  1821.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


341 


JOHN    KEATS. 1 

Who  killM  John  Keats  ? 

"I,"  says  the  Quarterly, 
So  savage  and  Tarlarly  ; 

"  'T  was  one  of  my  feafs." 

Who  shot  the  arrow  ? 

"  The  poet-priest  Milman 
(So  ready  to  Kill  man), 

Or  Southey,  or  Barrow." 


THE    CONQUEST. 3 

March  8-9,  1823. 
The  Son  of  Love  aiid  Lord  of  War  I  sine ; 

Him  who  bade  England  bow  to  Nonnandy, 
And  left  the  name  of  conqueror  more  than  king 

To  hi*  unconquerable  dynasty. 
Not  fann'd  alone  by  Victory's  fleeting  wing, 

He  rear'd  his  bold  and  brilliant  throne  on  high: 
The  Bastard  tept,  like  lions,  his  prey  fast, 

And  Britain's  bravest  victor  was  the  last. 


THE    IRISH    AVATAR. 3 


Ere  the  daughter  of  Brunswick  is  cold  in  her  grave. 
And  her  ashes  still  float  to  their  home  o'er  the  tide, 

Lo  !  George  the  triumphant  speeds  over  the  wave. 
To  the  long-cberish'd  isle  which  he  loved  like  his  — 
bride. 

True,  the  great  of  her  bright  and  brief  era  are  gone, 
The  rainbow  like  epoch  where  Freedom  could  pause 

For  the  few  little  years,  out  of  centuries  won. 
Which  betray'd  not,  or  crush'd  not,  or  wept  not  her 
cause. 

True,  the  chains  of  the  Catholic  clank  o'er  his  rags. 
The  castle  still  stands,  and  the  senate  's  no  more. 

And  the  famine  which  dwelt  on  her  freedomless  crags 
Is  extending  its  steps  to  her  desolate  shore. 

To  her  desolate  shore  —  where  the  emigrant  stands 
For  a  moment  to  gaze  ere  he  flies  from  his  hearth  ; 

Tears  fall  on  his  chain,  though  it  drops  from  his  hands, 
Fc  r  the  dungeon  he  quits  is  the  place  of  his  birth. 

But  I'B  comes  I  the  Messiah  of  royalty  comes ! 

L  te  a  goodly  Leviathan  roli'd  from  the  waves! 
Thin  receive  him  as  best  such  an  advent  becomes. 

With  a  legion  of  cooks,  and  an  army  of  slaves ! 

He  comes  in  the  promise  and  bloom  of  threescore, 
To  perform  in  the  pageant  the  sovereign's  part  — 

But  long  live  the  shamrock  which  shadows  him  o'er ! 
Could  the  green  in  his  liat  be  Iransferr'd  to  his 
heart  ! 

Could  that  long-wither'd  spot  but  be  verdant  again, 

And  a  new  spring  of  noble  affections  aiise  — 
Then  might   freedom  forgive  thee  this  dance  in  thy 
chiiu. 
And  this  shout  of  thy  slavery  which  saddens  the 
skies. 

1  "  Are  yim  aware  that  Shelley  has  written  an  eleey  on 
Keats,  and  accuses  the  Quarterly  of  killine  himJ"  — 
Lord  Byron  ru  Mr.  Murray,  July  30,  1621.  —E. 

2  This  fragment  wa»  found  amonBRt  Lord  Byron's  papers, 
■fter  his  departure  from  Genoa  for  Greece.  —  K. 

3  "  The  enclosed  lines,  as  you  will  directly  perceive, are 

written  by  the  Rev.  W.  L.  B .     Of  course  it  is  for  him 

I?  deny  them,    if  ihey   are    not."  —  Lord  Byron  to  Mr. 
af«or«,  Sept.  17,  182!.  — E. 


Is  It  madneis  or  meanness  which  clings  to  thee  now? 
1      Were  he  God  —  as  he  is  but  the  commonest  clay. 
With  scarce  fewer  wrinkles  than  sins  on  his  brow  — 
Such  servile  devotion  might  shame  him  away. 

Ay,  roar  in  his  train  !  let  thine  orators  lash 
Their  fanciful  spirits  lo  pamper  his  pride  — 

Not  thus  did  thy  Gratlan  indignantly  flash 
His  soul  o'er  the  freedom  implored  and  denied.  * 

Ever  glorious  Grattin  !  the  best  of  the  good  ! 

So  simple  in  heart,  so  sublime  in  the  rest! 
With  all  which  Demosthenes  wanted  endued. 

And  bis  rival  or  victor  in  all  he  possess'd. 

Ere  Tully  arose  in  the  zenith  of  Rome, 

Though  unequall'd,  preceded,  the  task  was  begun  — 
But  Grattan  sprung  up  like  a  god  from  the  tomb 

Of  ages,  the  first,  last,  .he  saviour,  the  one .' 

With  the  skill  of  an  Orpheus  to  soften  the  brute ; 

With  the  tire  of  Prometheus  to  kindle  mankind ; 
Even  Tyranny  listening  sate  melted  or  mute, 

And  Corruption  shrunk  scorch'd  from  the  glance  of 
his  mind. 

But  back  to  our  theme !  Back  to  despots  and  slaves ! 

Feasts  fumish'd  by  Famine  !  rejoicings  by  Fain  ! 
True  freedom  but  welcomes,  while  slavery  still  raves. 

When  a  week's  saturnalia  hath  loosen'd  her  chain. 

Let  the  poor  squalid  splendour  thy  wreck  can  afford, 
(As  the  bankrupt's  profusion  his  ruin  would  hide) 

Gild  over  the  palace,  Lo  !  Erin,  thy  lord  ! 

Kiss  his  foot  with  thy  blessing,  his  blessings  denied  ! 

Or  if  freedom  past  hope  be  extorted  at  last. 
If  the  idol  of  brass  find  his  feet  are  of  clay. 

Must  «hat  terror  or  policy  wring  forth  be  class'd 
With  what  monarchs  ne'er  give,  but  as  wolves  yield 
their  prey  ? 

Each  brute  hath  its  nature  ;  a  king's  is  to  reign,— 
To  reign  !  in  that  word  see,  ye  ages,  comprised 

The  cause  of  the  curses  all  annals  contain. 
From  Caesar  the  dreaded  to  George  the  despised  t 

Wear,  Fingal,  thy  trapping  !  O'Connell,  proclaim 
His  accomplishments!    His II !   and  thy  country 
convince 
Half  an  age's  contempt  was  an  error  of  fame, 
And  that  "  Hal  is  the  rascaliest,  sweetest  young 
prince ! " 

Will  thy  yard  of  blue  riband,  poor  Fingal,  recall 
The  fetters  from  millions  of  Catholic  limbs? 

Or,  has  it  not  bound  thee  the  fastest  of  all 
"The  slaves,  who  now  hail  their  betrayer  with  hymns? 

Ay  !  "  Build  him  a  dwelling !  "  let  each  give  his  mite ! 

Till,  like  Babel,  the  new  royal  dome  hath  arisen  ! 
Let  thy  beggars  and  helots  their  pittance  unite  — 

And  a  palace  bestow  for  a  poor-house  and  prison ! 

Spread  —spread,  for  Vife!lius,  the  royal  repast, 
Till  the  gluttonous  despot  be  stuff'd  to  the  gorge! 

And  the  roir  of  his  drunkards  proclaim  him  a!  last 
The    Fourth   of   the    fools   and    oppressors  call'tf 
"  George ! " 

Let  the  tables  be  loaded  with  feasts  till  they  groan ! 

Till  they  ^rcan  likethy  people,  through  ages  of  woe!  , 
Let  the  wine  flow  around  the  old  Bacchanal's  throne,    | 

Like  their  blood  which  has  flow'd,  and  which  yet 
has  to  flow. 


But  let  not  his  name  be  thine  idol  alone  — 
On  his  right  hand  behold  a  Sejanus  appears ! 

Thine  own  Castlereagh  !  let  him  still  be  thine  own 
A  wretch  never  named  but  with  curses  and  jeers 


4  "  After  the  stanza  on  Grattan,  will  It  please  yoo  to 
cauae  to  insert  the  following  addenda,  which  I  dreaoied  of 
during  to-dav's  siesta."  — Lord  Byron  f  Mr.  JCsMW 
Sept.  20,  1621.  —  E. 


31 


16 


1242 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


[1823. 


Tktre  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  then  only  I  found  Ihee ; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee ; 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my 

story, 
I  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 

November,  1881. 


Till  now,  when  the  isle  which  should  blush  for  his 

birth, 

Deep,  deeo  as  the  gore  which  he  shed  on  her  soil, 

Seems  prouu  of  the  reptile  which  crawl'd  from  her 

earth, 

And  for  murder  repays  him  with  shouts  and  a  smile. 

Without  one  single  ray  of  her  genius,  without 

The  fancy,  the  manhood,  the  tire  of  her  race 
The  miscreant  who  well  might  plunge  Erin  in  doubt 

If  she  ever  gave  birth  to  a  being  so  base. 

If  she  did  — let  her  long-boasted  proverb  be  hush'd. 

Which   proclaims  that   from  Erin  no  reptile  can 
spring  — 
See  the  cold-blooded  serpent,  with  venom  full  flush'd, 

Still  warming  its  folds  in  the  breist  of  a  king ! 

Shout,  drink,  feast,  and  flatter  !  Oh  !  Erin,  how  low 

Wert  thou  sunk  by  misfortune  and  tyranny,  till 
Thy  welcome  of  tyrants  hath  plunged  thee  below 

The  depth  of  thy  deep  in  a  deeper  gulf  still. 

Mv  voice,  though  but  humble,  was  raised  for  thy  right, 

My  vote,  as  a  freeman's,  still  voted  thee  free, 
This  hand,  though  but  feeble,  would  arm  in  thy  fight,    in  return  for  the  tears  I  shed  upon  Ihee  walking 
And  this  heart,  though  outworn,  had  a  throb  still       Let  me  not  die  till  he  comes  back  o'er  the  billow, 
for  thee !  I 

I      Then  if  thou  wilt  —  no  more  my  tensely  Pillow, 
Yes,  I  loved  thee  and  thine,  though  thou  art  not  my   jn  one  embrace  let  these  arms  again  enfold  him, 
land,  ...       And  then  expire  of  the  joy  —  but  to  behold  hira  '. 


TO    A    HINDOO   AIR.-* 

Oh!  my  lonely  —  lonely  —  lonely  —  Pillow  ! 
Where  is  my  lover?  where  is  my  lover? 
Is  it  his 

Far- 


bark  which  my  dreary  dreams  discover? 
far  away  !  and  alone'along  the  billow  ? 


Oh  I  my  lonely  —  lonely  —  lonely  —  Pillow  ! 
Why  must  my  head  nche'where  his  gentle  brow  lay  ? 
How  the  long  night  flags  lovelessly  and  slowly. 

And  my  head  droops  over  Ihee  like  the  willow  ! 

Oh  !  thou,  my  sad  and  solitary  Pillow! 
Send  me  kind  dreams  to  keep  my  heart  from  breaking, 


thy 


I  have  known  noble  hearts  and  great  souls 
sons, 
And  I  wept  with  the  world,  o'er  the  patriot  band 
Who  are  gone,  but  I  weep  them  no  longer  as  once. 

For  happy  are  they  now  reposing  afar, — 
Thy  Grattan,  thv  Curran,  thy  Sheridan,  all 

Who,  for  years,  were  the  chiefs  in  the  eloquent  war, 
And  redeem'd,  if  they  have  not  retarded,  thy  fall. 

Yes,  happy  are  they  in  their  cold  English  graves  ! 

Their  shades  cannot  start  to  thy  shouts  of  to-day  — 
Nor  the  steps  of  enslavers  and  chain-kissing  slaves 

Be  stansp'd  in  the  turf  o'er  their  fetterless  clay. 

Till  now  I  had  envied  thy  sons  and  their  shore. 
Though  their  virtues  were  hunted,  their  liberties 
fled; 

There  was  something  so  warm  and  sublime  in  the  core 
Of  an  Irishman's  heart,  that  I  envy  —  thy  dead. 

Or,  if  aught  in  my  bosom  can  quench  for  an  hour 

My  contempt  for  a  nation  so  servile,  though  sore, 
Which  though  trod  like  the  worm  will  not  turn  upon 
power, 
T  is  the  glory  of  Grattan,  and  genius  of  Moore ! 
September,  1821. 


WRITTEN   ON    THE    ROAD    BETWEEN    FLO- 
RENCE  AND    PISA.' 

'  Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story  ; 

The  davs  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory  ; 

And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenly 
I  Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty. 

What  are  earlands  and   crowns  tD  the  brow  that  is 

wrinkled  ? 
T  is  but  as  a  dead-flnwer  wilh  May-dew  besprinkled. 
Then  awav  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary  ! 
What  care'l  for  the  wrealhs  that  can  only  give  glory? 

Oh  Fame  !  —  if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
'T  was  less  for  the  sake  of  thv  hizh-soutiding  phrases. 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  deir  one  discover, 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

1  "I  compoDi-d  these  stoniaB  (except  Itie  fourth,  added 
now)  a  few  daya  a?o,  on  the  rood  from  Florence  to  Pisa. 
—Biron  Diary,  PUa,  6tli  Nov.  1821.  — E. 


Oh !  my  lone  bosom !  —  oh !  my  lonely  Pillow  ! 


IMPROMPTU. 3 

Beneath  Blessington's  eyes 

The  reclaim'd  Paradise 
Should  be  free  as  the  former  from  evil ; 

But  if  the  new  Eve 

For  an  Apple  should  grieve. 
What  mortal  would  not  play  the  Devil  ?* 


TO  THE  COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON. 

You  have  ask'd  for  a  verse  :  —  the  request 
In  a  rhvmer  't  were  strnnge  to  deny  ; 

But  my  Hippocrene  was  but  my  breast. 
And  my  feelings  (its  fountain)  are  dry. 

Were  I  now  as  I  was,  I  had  sung 
What  Lawrence  has  painted  sO  well ; 

But  the  strain  would  expire  on  my  tongue, 
And  the  theme  is  too  soft  for  my  shell, 

I  am  ashes  where  once  I  was  fire. 
And  the  bard  in  my  bosom  is  dead  ; 

What  I  loved  I  now  merely  admire, 
And  my  heart  is  as  grey  as  my  head. 

My  life  is  not  dated  by  years — 

There  are  moments  which  act  as  a  plough. 
And  there  is  not  a  furrow  appears 

But  is  deep  in  my  soul  as  my  brow. 


2  Tliese  verses  were  written  tw  Lnrd  Byron  a  little  be- 
fore he  left  Italy  for  Greece.  They  were  meant  to  suit 
the  HindoHtanee  air  — "  Alia  Malla  Puma,"  which  the 
CounteKS  Guircioli  was  fond  of  sineing.  —  E. 

3  Wilh  a  view  of  inducing  Lord  and  Lady  BIcesjngton 
to  prolong  their  stay  at  Genoa,  Lord  Byron  suggested  their 
tailing  a  pretty  villa  called  "II  Paradiao,"  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  his  own,  and  accompanied  them  to  look  at  it. 
TJpnn  that  occasion  it  was  that,  on  the  lady  expressing 
«:me  intentions  of  residing  there,  he  produced  this  im- 
promptu.—MOORE.— E. 

4  The  Genoese  wits  had  already  applied  this  threadbare 
jest  to  himself.  Taking  it  into  their  head.)  that  this  i  ■" 
(vthi.h  was  also,  I  believe,  a  Casa  Saluzzo)  had  bi'en 
one  fixed  on  for  his  own  residence,  they  iiaid.  "II  Diavolo 
e  aocora  enlrato  in  Paradieo."  — MOORE.— E. 


1824.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


243 


Let  the  young  and  the  brillinnt  aspire 
To  sing  what  I  gaze  on  in  vain ; 

For  sorrow  has  torn  from  my  lyre 
The  string  which  was  .>orlhy  the  strain. 


ON  THIS  DAY  I  COMPLETE  MY  THIRTY- 
SIXTH  YEAR. 

Missulonghi,  Jan.  22,  1S21.  t 
'T  IS  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move  : 
Tet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love  ! 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  (lowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone; 
The  worm,  the  cinker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze  — 
A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share. 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But 't  is  not  thut  —  and  't  is  not  here  — 

Such  Ihough's  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now, 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier. 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see  ! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake  I  (not  Greece  —  she  is  awake  !) 

Awake,  my  spirit !    Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  ils  parent  lake. 
And  then  strike  home  ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down. 

Unworthy  minhood  !  —  unto  thee 

Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 

Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  resret'st  thy  youth,  why  live  F 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here  :  —  up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath  ! 

Seek  out  — less  often  sought  than  found  — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best ; 

TheD  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground. 

And  take  thy  rest. 


APPEiNDIX. 


REMARKS 

ON  THE  ROMAIC  OR  MODERN  GREEK  LAN- 
GUAGE, WITH  SPECIMENS  AND  TRANS- 
LATIONS. 

These  ^^  Jltmarhs"  were  written,  in  the  tpring  of 
1811,  while  Lord  Byron  was  residing  in  the  Capu- 
chin Convent  at  Mhens.    See  p.  207. 

Amongst  an  enslaved  people,  obliged  lo  have  re- 
course to  foreign  presses  even  for  their  books  of  religion, 

1  This  morning,  Lord  Byron  came  from  his  lifdrcom 
into  the  apartmPDt  wliere  Colonel  Stanluipe  and  s.me 
friends  were  assembled,  and  ftaid  with  a  «mile  —  ••You 
were  complaining,  the  other  day.  (hat  I  never  v»rile  any 


it  is  less  to  be  wondered  at  that  we  find  so  ffcw  publi- 
cations on  general  subjec  s,  than  tha:  we  fiod  any  at 
all.  The  whole  number  of  the  Greeks,  scaitered  up 
and  down  the  Turkish  empire  and  elsewhere,  niay 
antouiil,  at  most,  to  three  millions;  and  yet,  for  so 
scanty  a  number,  it  is  impossible  to  discover  any  nation 
with  so  great  a  propor  ion  of  books  and  their  auihors, 
as  the  Greeks  of  the  present  century.  "  Ay,  but,"  say 
the  generous  advociles  of  oppression,  who,  while  they 
assert  the  ignorance  of  the  Greeks,  wish  to  prevent 
them  from  dispelling  is,  'ay,  but  these  are  mostly,  if 
not  all,  ecclesiastical  tracts,"and  consequently  good  for 
nothing."  Well,  and  pny  what  else  can  they  write 
about  ?  It  is  pleasant  enough  to  hear  a  Frank,  par- 
ticularly an  Englishman,  who  may  abuse  the  govern- 
ment of  his  own  country  ;  or  a  Frenchm m,  who  may 
abuse  every  government  except  his  own,  and  who 
may  range  at  will  over  every  philosophical,  religious, 
scientitic,  sceptical,  or  moral  subject ;  sneering  at  the 
Greek  legends.  A  Greek  must  not  write  on  politics, 
and  cannot  touch  on  science  for  want  of  instruction ; 
if  he  doubts,  he  is  excommunicated  and  damned ; 
therefore  his  countrymen  are  not  poisoned  with  modern 
philosophy;  and  as  to  morals,  thanks  to  the  luiks! 
there  are  no  such  things.  What  then  is  left  him,  if  be 
has  a  turn  for  scribbling?  Religion,  and  holy  bio- 
graphy :  and  it  is  natural  enough  thai  those  who  have 
so  little  in  this  life  should  lock  to  the  next.  It  is  no 
great  wonder,  then,  that  in  a  catalogue  now  before  me 
of  fifty-five  Greek  writers,  many  of  whom  were  lately 
living,  not  above  fifteen  shnuld  have  touched  on  any 
thing  but  religion.  The  catalogue  alluded  to  is  con- 
tained in  the  tiventy-sixth  chapter  of  the  fourth  volume 
of  Melelius's  £cclesiasllc=il  History.  From  this  I  sub- 
join an  extract  of  those  who  have  written  on  general 
subjects  ;  which  will  be  followed  by  some  specimens 
of  the  Romaic. 


LIST    OF   ROMAIC    AUTHORS.!* 

Neophitus,  Diakonos  (the  deacon)  of  the  Moren,  has 
published  an  exten  ive  grammar,  and  also  some  politi- 
cal regulations,  which  last  were  left  unfinished  at  his 
death. 

Prokopius,  of  Moscopolis  (a  town  in  Epirus),  has 
written  and  published  a  catalogue  of  the  learned 
Greeks. 

Seraphin,  of  Periclea,  is  the  author  of  many  works 
in  the  Turkish  language,  but  Greek  character ;  for  the 
Christians  of  Caramania,  who  do  not  speak  Romaic, 
but  read  the  character. 

Eustathius  Psalidas,  of  Bucharest,  a  physician,  made 
the  tour  of  England  for  the  purpose  of  study  (;^dpiv 
/io9^(r£ioj) :  but  though  his  name  i>  enumerated,  it  is 
not  slated  that  he  has  written  any  thing. 

Kaliinikus  Torgeraus,  Patriarch  of  Constantinople: 
many  poems  of  his  are  extant,  and  also  prose  tracts, 
and  a  catalogue  of  patriarchs  since  the  last  taking  of 
Constantinople. 

Aiia^tasius  Macedon,  of  Naxos,  member  of  the  royal 
academy  of  Warsaw.     A  church  biographer. 

Demetrius  Pamperes.  a  Moscnpolite,  has  written 
many  works,  pLrticularly  "  A  Commentary  on  Hesiod's 
Shield  of  Hercules,"  anil  two  hundred  tales  (of  what 
is  not  specified),  and  has  ]iublished  his  correspondence 
with  the  celebrated  George  of  Trebizond,  his  contem- 
porary. 

Mele'ius,  a  celebrated  geographer ;  and  author  of 
the  book  from  whence  the  e  notices  are  taken. 

Dorotheus,  of  Mitylene,  an  Aristotelian  philoso. 
pher:  his  Hellenic  works  are  in  great  repute,  and  he 

poetry  now.  Ttiis  is  my  birvh-day,  nnd  I  have  just  finish- 
ed soiiiettiing.  wtiii-h,  I  thiuh,  is  better  than  what  I  usual- 
ly write."  He  iheu  produced  these  noble  and  affeitjng 
veracK.  — COUNT  GAMB.\.— E. 

2  It  is  l-i  be  observed  that  the  n  imes  given  are  uot  in 
chronological  order,  but  consist  of  some  selected  at  a  ven- 
ture from  amongst  those  who  flourished  from  the  taklnc 
of  Constantinople  to  the  lime  of  Meletius. 


244 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


is  esteemed  by  the  moderns  (I  quo'e  the  words  of 
Meletius)/i£Ta  tov  QovKvCidriv  Kal  'S.^vocpiuvra 
(?(>icrros  ' EW-qviuV.  I  add  furiher,  on  the  authority 
of  a  well-iuformed  Greek,  that  he  was  so  famous 
amongst  his  countrymen,  that  Ihey  were  accustomed  lo 
say,  if  Thucydides  and  Xenophoa  were  wauting,  he 
was  capable  of  repairing  the  loss. 

Marinus  Count  Tharboures,  of  Cephalonia,  profes- 
sor of  chemistry  in  the  academy  of  Padua,  and  mem- 
ber of  that  acidemy,  and  those  of  Stockholm  and 
Upsal.  He  has  published,  at  Venice,  an  account  of 
some  marine  animal,  and  a  treatise  on  the  properties 
of  iron. 

Marcus,  brother  to  the  former,  famous  in  mechanics. 
He  removed  to  St.  Petersburg  the  immense  rock  on 
which  the  statue  of  Peter  the  Great  was  fixed  in  1769. 
See  the  dissertation  which  he  published  in  Paris, 
1777. 

George  Constantine  has  published  a  four-tongued 
lexicon. 

Geirge  Ventote  j  a  lexicon  in  French,  Italian,  and 
Romaic. 

There  exist  several  other  dictionaries  in  J.atin  and 
Romaic,  French,  Uc.  ;  besides  grammars,  in  every 
modern  language  except  English. 

Amongit  the  living  authors  the  following  are  most 
celebrated  i :  — 

Athanasius  Parios  has  written  a  treatise  on  rhetoric 
iu  Hellenic. 

Christodoulos,  an  Acarnanian.  has  published,  in 
Vienna,  some  physical  treatises  in  Hellenic. 

Panagiotes  Kodrikas,  an  Athenian,  the  Romaic 
translator  of  Fonlenelle's  "  Pluraliiy  of  Worlds"  (a 
favourite  work  amongst  the  Greeks),  is  stated  to  be  a 
teacher  of  the  Hellenic  and  Arabic  languages  in  Pans ; 
in  both  of  which  he  is  an  adept. 

Athanasius,  the  Parian,  author  of  a  treatise  on  rhe- 
toric. 

Vicenzo  Damodns,  of  Cephalonia,  has  written  "  itj 
TO  liKTopdQPapov,"  on  logic  and  physics. 

John  Kamarases,  a  By/antine,  has  translated  into 
French  Ocellus  on  the  Universe  He  is  said  to  be  an 
excellent  llellenis!  and  Latin  scholar. 

Gregorio  Demetrius  published,  in  Vienna,  a  geo- 
graphical ^vork  :  he  has  also  translated  several  Italian 
authors,  and  printed  his  versions  at  Venice. 

Of  Coray  and  Psalida  some  account  has  been  already 
given. 


GREEK  WAR   SONG. 3 
AEYTE,  iraXecsTuJv-EXXijViavs 

6  KaXpos  T^s  ioln?  JiXOtVf 
Ss  <l>avwficv  ojtot  iKtivuiv 

TOV  ^Sj  lao-av  Tr]V  dp,Y'}i'' 
As  iraTT^aoficv  ivSpcltos 

TOV  ^vyov  Tf]s  TvgavvCSo^. 

'EK5lK^(ru)/i£V  TTttT-ptJoj 

Td  onXa  2s  XaSuificv 

naXits  '  EXXi'ivuiv  ayuiyitv 
norafi'.iujv  IxSguiv  ro  at/ia 

as  Tp/jT)  iirb  nodo)/!. 

'OStv  tMc  tSiv  'EXXrjvoav 

KdKKaXa  dv<5pcto/icva, 
jri/tt'/idra  l.(rKo(>ni<rft.iva, 

Tioga  XdSiTt  Kvorjv. 
*ot'  7JV  (jiuiv'iV  Tijs  craATtyyds  /tov  ; 

avv(ixi'i)''t  oXa  6/iov. 

1  Ttiene  names  are  not  taken  from  any  publication. 
9  A  traoslalion  of  this  snng    will   be   found  among  the 
OiToaioDal  riecea,  ante,  p.  207. 


Tijv  l7rTdXo(l>ov  JjjTtlrf, 
Kal  WKart  ;rp>  iravroS. 

Td  onXa  &s  Xdgcufitv,  Jcc. 

STrdpTO,  Sn-dpT-a,  rf  Koiiia<r9t 

fjnvov  A^9apyov  (iaOvv  ; 
lvTTvri<rov  /cpd|£  'ASijvas, 

trifijiaxov  navroTiivrjv. 
'Ev6viJ.ti6rjTt  AtovvLSov 

ijptoos  TOV  la/coroTov, 
TOV  dv^pos  inaivtyiivov 

<po£igov  Kal  Tgo/isgov, 

Td  OTzXa  &s  XaSuiiitv,  &c. 
"Offov  tls  Tds  OtgfioTT'uXas 

TSoXtiiov  aiirhs  Kgortl. 
Kal  roits  Il^po-as  a<*)avl^ct 

Kal  aiiTuiv  Kara  KgaTtZ' 
Mi  TgiaKo<rlovs  avSgas 

tls  '■0  KivTgov  Ttgoxiogtif 
Kal  (uj  Xiiuv  SvpLdifievos, 

tlj  T*  Ot/ia  TUV  fioVTCl. 

Td  oirAa  Ss  Xd/Joi^sv,  he 


ROMAIC    EXTRACTS. 
'Puxraos,  "AyKXos,  Kal  FdAAos  Kdii.vovTt%  Tii 
ntgvfiyqiTiv  t^s  'EXXctfos,  Kal  pxinovrts  Tfjv  j 
iSXlav  rijv  KaraiTTainv,  tlgiS)Tr]aav  /carapx^S 
'iva  Fpaiicdv  ipiXiXXijva  6ii  va  fiddovv  TfjV  ol- 
TCav,  ficr'  ai/Tbv  cva  /tjjrpon'oXiTTjv,  el-ra  Iva 
pxdx I'-'" (■'■'",  i'^tira  eva  nrpoy/tartVT-t^v, <al  eva 
ngota-TuiTa. 

YXni  /las,  Si  (piXiXXr/va,  rfij  <})£gus  Ti/v  o-KXaSCav 
Kal  T1/V  airagCyoprjTov  t<uv  ToigKuiv  TVgavvCav; 
ffooS  Tats  IvXals  Kal  ifigKr/ioiis  Kal  <ri.Sr]godi<rfilav 
naCduiv,  nagdivuiv,  yvvaiKuiv  ivqKOVCTTOv  $So- 

gttav. 
Aiv  ti<rdai  IcrcZs  "■'"oyovoi  Ikuvojv  tuiv  'EXX^voiv 
Tu)V  iXtvSiguiV  Kai  a'o<f)uiv  Kal  tuiv  (piXonaTpCfov 
Kal  Ttujs  iKcXvoi  d-Ki6vr)<TKov  iunyv  tXivdiglav, 
Kal  Ttoga  ItrcXs  inrovKucrBai  el;  Tiroiav  rvgavvCav, 
Kal  TToXov  yivos  fus  i(riXs  iardOc  (punia-iiivov 
els  Ti/V  o-o<plav,  i<ivatt,i]V,  tls  "'  oXa  ^aKovctfLivov. 
jTios  vvv  iKaTaa-Tija-aTt  ryv  (pwTCvTiv  EAAdfo 
/3a /3a  '.  is  iva  CTKiXtBgov,  i>s  CKOTitvi/v  XafiirdSav. 
'OfiiXu,  (piXrare  FpaiKe,  ilnc  /ta$  ryv  alriav  : 
Hij  KpvffTijj  TmoTTjs  ij/imv,  Xi'E  T'ljv  aKoglav. 
•O  *TAE'  AAHNOi;. 

•Pu)<ro--ay(cXo-ydXXoi,  "EXXds,  i^o-l  OX'^^'** 

fJTOv,  <1)S  XiTt,  Toaov  [itydXt], 

vvv  cc  aOXia,  Kal  avalCa 

d(P'  (j>ov  cigxio'^v  7)  dfiaOla. 

ocrr'  ijfinogovaav  vd  rt/V  gvirvijoij 

tovt'  tls  TO  x^tgov  Ti/V  6£i}yoi(n 

air'j  a-Ttvd^u  to,  tikvo.  Kgd^u, 

(7Td  vd  TrpoKOTTTovv  o',\a  rrpotTTdJti 

Kal  TOTi  iXirt^H  on  Kegii^ei. 

tiigcXv,  d:Tov'  ;t£i  vvv  Ti,v  ^Xoyl^U. 

Md-  oo-Tts  ToX/i^CTTjt  vd  Ti^v  grirv^OTf 

irdytt  inbv  a6i]v  ;t<"f 'S  "^"  kqIciv. 


APPENDIX. 


345  I 


The  above  is  the  commencecnent  of  a  long  dramatic        AEA.  Na  ^i)  if  KaM/  TiiX'q  tov  kvo  EiytWov. 
Dtire  on  Ihe  Greek   prieslliood,  princes,  and  genlry  ;    [nt'vuji/Tac  1 
it  is  contemptible  as  a  curnpojilion,  but  perhaps  curi-        ri  a  m    iJp--      •  j-a 
ous  as  a  specimen  of  their  rhyme.     I  have  tlie  whole        "'^'J'-  r«i  i»?;  fffl  S^.  ^ 

in  MS.,  but  this  extract  will  be  found  sufficient.     The        IIAA.  {Aind^  tlvai  6  nvdpas  ltof>  X'^P^S  SxXo. 
Romaic  in  this  composition  is  so  easy  as  to  render  a    KaXl  Svdpuiirt,  KdpLe  /loTi  ri/V  X'^P^v  'vo,  fil  <rvv- 

"'  'hose  who  do  not    rpoi^EtJo-r;?  dirdvtu   tls  aiirovs  rois   d<pevTdets, 

bnov  -^iXui  va  roiis  Trailu)  fiiav.    [JClpdj  tov  (JoD- 
Xov.] 

AOT.  'Opi<r/t9's  a-as  {(rvvrfOicrnivov  b<p4iiKiov 
Tibv  SovXiVTuiv.)  [TijV  invd^u  arri)  to  ipyoffrijpi 
Toil  TT aiy VIC  1.0V.] 
PI  A.  Kagiia,  Kagfi^.,  KdfieTt  KaVv  KapSthv, 


version  an  insult  to  a  schol 

understand  the  original  will  excuse  the  following  bad 

translation  of  what  is  in  itself  indifferent 


TRANSLATION. 


A  Russian.  Englishman,  and  Frenchman,  makin?  the 

tour  of  Greece,  and  observing  Ihe  miserable  state  of  fiy  ^r^ai  tCvotc?.     [Hpoc  t7>  Bittociov  1 
the  country,  interrogatf,  in  turn,  a  Greek  Patriot,  to       „,r^  f   ^     i  .J 

learn  the  cause;  afterwards  an  Archbishop,  then  a 
Vlackbey,*  a  Merchant,  and  Cogia  Bachi  or  Pri 
male. 


Thou  friend  of  thy  coun'ry  !  to  strangers  record, 

Why  bear  ye  the  yoke  of  the  Ottoman  Lord  ? 

Why  bear  ye  these  fellers  thus  tamely  displny'd. 

The  wrongs  of  the  matron,  the  stripling,  and  maid  ? 

The  descendants  of  Hellas's  race  are  not  ye ! 

The  patriot  sons  of  the  sage  ind  the  free, 

Thus  sprung  from  the  blood  of  the  noble  and  brave, 

To  vilely  exist  as  the  Mussulman  slave  ! 

Not  such  were  Ihe  fathers  your  annaU  can  boast. 

Who  conquer'd  and  died  for  Ihe  freedom  you  lost ! 

Not  such  was  your  land  in  her  earlier  hour, 

The  daystar  of  nations  in  wisdom  and  power  ! 

And  still  will  you  thus  unresisting  increase. 

Oh  shameful  dishonour  !  the  darknefs  of  Greece  ? 

Then  tell  us,  beloved  Acliaeiii  '.  reveal 

The  cause  of  the  woes  which  you  cannot  conceal. 


Eyij  alcrOdvoiiai  nuis  &.r,tdaivu>.  [ILvvtg- 
XiTai  lis  Toi'  lavTov  ti/sJ 

I'A-nb  T(i  -napdOvpa   tuiv  bvrdSuiv  (paivov- 
Taiohoi,  dnov  crjKovtuVTai.  and  to  Tpa- 
Tci^i  avyxL'yi'-ivoi,,  iia  tov  la(j>viaiidv  to© 
Atdvdpov  pUizuiVTas  ttiv  n\dT^tda,Kal 
diuTl  aiiTos  iUxvit  Trfij  .^iXti  va  ri^v  <po- 
vcvcrri.] 
EYr.  ■'0;^;'t,  a-Tdet]T£. 
MAP.  M»>  KdfLvsTt.  .  . 
AEA.  St'/co),  (pvyl  air'  Idta. 

IIAA.  Bo^ettn,  jioTjOua.  [ftvytt  airb  ri/v  OKi- 
Xav,b  AiavCpos  -^cXti  va.  Tfjv  diioXoveij(T7]  /li  rd 
aKadl,  Knl  b  Eiiy.  tov  /3acrTa.] 

TPA.  [MtivaldTo  fik  <payX  ds  fiCav  jrtrj^ra 
KTjdq  drro  to  napadvpi,  Kal  (piijyu  jlj  tov  Ka6cvc.] 
I      flAA.  [EiyaCva  and  to  ipyaa-Trjpi  tov  Tratyvi- 
I  have  not  translated,    ICov  Tpdx'u'^Tai,  Kal  (ptvyti  tl^  to  xdvi] 


The  reply  of  the  Philell 
as  it  is  no  belter  th.in  the  question  of  the  travelling        pvr-    r\it  '•  \       '     i  >     .     j, 

triumvirate  ;  and  the  above  will  sufficiently  show  with  ^^^ '  f*'^  "-ofiaTa  dj  tc.  ,t<p(  npo%  (M^tvTtv 
what  kind  of  composiiion  the  Greeks  are  now  satis-  "'"'  ''^S  IIAaT^tdos,  ivavTCov  tov  Aidvipov,bn& 
fiei.     1  trust  I  have  not  much  injured  the  original  in    ri/v  KaTaToixu] 

the  few  lines  given  ns  faithfully,  and  as  near  the  "  Oh.  MAP.  [Eiyaivu  Kal  airdj  a-iyd  (nyd  dit'o  t& 
K.n!!rc''.as7Sra>fffhe'm^''^^A^;;or:ir?hei;  %Va.x^r.,  .al  ^^.yu  A.y...a.]  Rumores  fuge. 
pieces,  above  a  song,  which  aspire  to  the  name  of  poe-    t  i^oviJ.op£S  (ptvyc]  2 

try,  contain  exactly  the  quantity  of  feet  of  |      01  AovXoi.     ['And  to   Ipyaa-Ti^gi  dncpvoiiv  dj 

TO  ;t<ii"i  f  ol  kXcwvv  ti*  v  nopTitv.] 


"A  captain  bold  of  Halifax,  who  lived  in  country 
quarters,"  i 


which   is  in  fact   the  present  heroic  couplet  of  the 
Romaic. 


SCENE    FROM    'O   KA*ENEE. 

TRANSLATED  FROM    THE    ITALIAN  OF  GOL- 

DONI,  BY    SPIRIDION  VLANTI. 

EKHNH  KT'. 


BIT.  [Mivci  us  TOV Ka<j>tve  poTiBrjuiv^  and  rdv 
'Pi.ddX(pov.'i 

A  EA.  Ao'o-ETE  Torrcv  .^eXai  va  e'liPto  va  f/i/Jo)  d; 
iKtlvo  TO  x<i'Vi-  [Me  to  cnadl  clj  Td  x^pi  ivav- 
tCov  tov  E.i)ytvlov.] 

I  ETF.  "Ox',  /ti)  yivoiTO  norv  tlaai  tvas  cXiypd. 
Kapdoj  IvavTiov  TfjS  yvvaiKds  (yov,  Kdl  ky&t  ^iXu 
TTJv  Cta<j)eVTev(Tui  (bj  tlj  to  iia-Tcpov  alfia. 

AEA.  Hoii  Kdpbvuj  opKov  KuJs -l^cXct.  TO  fitTavoiA- 

a-jis.  [Kivjjya  Tdv  Eiyiviov  /li  to  a-nadC] 

I      EXr.  Akv  (Tk  (po€oviJ.at.    [KaTaTpcx^i  Tdv  At- 

IIAATZIAA  tlj  T5,v  TrrfpTOV  Toii  x^'i'io^i  i^al    avfpov,  Kal  tov  ptd^u  va  (rvpdfi  bnC<ru>  t6itov, 

olavujOtv.  bnov  fbpio-KiuvTas  dvoiKTOV  to  anrjTi  ttjs  xop^ 

nAA.  C  eti !  and  t5  napae{,pi  uov  l<},dvr,   vet    ''P'^^.  iy-paivu  d;  airo,  Kal  <ru>vtrai  ] 

iKoixru)  TijV  (bioviiv  tov  dvCpds  fiov   av  aiiTO^  ;  

tlvai  i6ui,  c<f>9a<ra  ui  Kai.p'.v  va  tov  ^£VTpo?ria(ra).  j 

[Eiyaivuivas^ovXoidndTdlpyaaTripi.-]    HaAt- '  TRANSLATION. 

Kdp^,  nls  fiov  erk  vapaKaXu}  jrojdj  ilvai  Ikii  t!j   Platzida,  from  the  Door  of  the  Hotel,  and  the  othert, 
iKclvovsToiisbvTdfcs;  I     Pla.  Oh  God  !  from  the  window  it  seemed   that  I 

AOYA.  Tptts  X ?')''■'/'■<"  avdpts-    "Eva?  b  Kiip    heard  my  husband's  voice.     If  he  is  here,  I  have  ar- 
E*y,fv«,s.  4  SXXos  &  Kvp  MrfpTioj  tiEunoXiTdvos,    'J"^^  'P/"^^  ^°J"'^^  him  ashamed,  [.^servant  enter, 
'        .        ,  „,     .,  ^  .  from  Ihe  Shop.]    Boy,  tell  me,  pray,  who  are  m  those 

Kci  0  TptTo;  b  Kvp  Ko'vte  AiavSpog  'Apf^vrijj.        chambers  ? 

IIAA.  ('Avd/i£<7o  ti?  atiTois  ^ev  iivai  b  4Aa/t(-  i     Serv.  Three  gentlemen :  one,  Sifor  Eugenic ;  the 
vtos,  Sv  o/Koj  dtv  aXXalev  ovoy-a.)  " 

—     -  ^Arfyos  XariviKhs,  bnoKi  ^IXtt  va  tin  J)  ^t&yt 

I  ViBckbey,  Prince  of  Wnllachia.  I  TaZs  CHyXK^tS- 


=J) 


21  • 


I'  246 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


-1 


other,  Signor  Martio,  the  Neapolitan;  and  the  third, 
my  Lord,  the  Count  Leander  Ardenli. 

Fla.  Flaniinio  is  not  amongst  these,  unless  he  has 
changed  bis  name. 

Ltanda.  [JVithin  drinking.]  Long  live  the  good 
fortune  of  Sigui  r  Eugeiiio. 

[The  whole  company,  Long  live,  &c.]  (Literally, 
i^a^ij,  I'd  ^i?:  May  he  live.) 

Pla.  Without  doubt  that  is  my  husband.  [To  the 
Serv.]  My  good  man,  do  me  the  favour  to  accompany 
me  above  to  Ih-^e  genllemen  :  1  have  some  business. 

Sen).  At  your  commands,  [^side  ]  The  old  office 
3[  US  waiters,     [//e  gues  out  of  Vit  Gamiug-Houie] 

Ridnlpho.  [To  Victoria  on  another  pari  of  the 
Stage.]  Courage,  courage,  be  of  good  cheer,  it  is 
nothing. 

Victoria.  I  feel  as  if  about  to  die.  [Leaning  on 
tarn  ai  if  fainting  ] 

iFrom  the  windows  above  all  within  are  seen 
rising  from  lahle  m  confitsion:  Leander  j/art.« 
at  the  sight  of  Pl.itzid-i,  and  appears  by  his  ges- 
tures to  threaten  her  life.] 

Eugenio.  No,  stop 

Martio.  Don't  attempt 

Leander.  Away,  fly  fDm  hence  ! 

Pla.  Help;  helpl  [Flies  down  the  stairs,  Le^nScT 
attempting  to  foLow  with  his  sword,  Eugenio  hin- 
ders him.] 

[Trapolo,  with  a  plate  of  meat,  leaps  over  the  hal- 
cony  from  the  window,  and  runs  into  the  Coffee- 
Hotise.] 

[Plalzidi  runs  out  of  the  Gaming-ffijuse,  and 
takes  shelter  in  the  Hotel.] 

[Martio  steals  softly  out  of  the  Gimine-Honse,  and 
goes  off,  exclaiming  •'  Rumores  fuse."  The  Savants 
from  the  Gaming-Huuse  enter  tlie  Hotel,  and  shut 
the  door.] 

[Victoria  remains  in  the  Ccffee-HiAise  assisted  by 
Ridolpho.] 

[Leander,  tword  in  hand,  opposite  Eugenio,  ex- 
claims. Give  way  —  I  will  enter  that  Hotel.] 

Eugenio.  No,  thnt  shall  never  be.  You  are  a  scoun- 
drel to  your  wife,  and  I  will  defend  her  to  the  last 
drop  of  my  blood. 

Leander.  I  will  eive  you  cause  to  repent  this. 
[Menacing  with  his  sword.] 

Eugenio.  I  fear  you  mt.  [He  attacks  Leander, 
and  mikes  him  give  back  so  tniich,  that,  finding  the 
door  of  the  dancing  girVs  house  open.,  Leander 
escapes  through,  and  so  finishes.]  ' 


AiA'Aoroi  oiKiAKor.  ^-^^"^'A?^^^'^- 

Al'i  va  irjrrja-iji  tva  irpay/ia.  To  ask  for  any  thing. 
Sas  irnpaKaXut,  SJtrtri  [le  av  I  pray  you,  give  me  if 

dpi^£T£.  you  please. 

i^pni  jii.  Bring  me. 


»  2-eov£T(it— "fin 
the  literal  translali' 
this  comedy  of  GnlJn 


■»"— awkwardly  ennugti,  but  it 
III  the    Rumaic.     The  original  of 
I  never  read,  but  it  does  not 
II  Biigiard"."  is  one    of  the    n 
k  it  has  been  translated  into 


lively  :  but  I  do 
maic  :  it  is  muih  more  amusing  than  our  own  "  Liar," 
by  Foote.  The  character  of  Leiio  ia  belter  drawn  than 
Young  WildUg.  Goldoni's  comedies  amount  to  fifty; 
some  perhaps  the  best  in  Kurope,  :ind  others  the  worst. 
His  life  is  also  one  nf  the  best  specimens  of  autobiogra- 
phy, and,  as  Gibbon  has  observed,  "  more  dramatic  than 
any  of  his  pliys."  The  above  scene  was  selected  as  con- 
taining some  of  the  most  familiar  Romaic  idioms  ;  not  for 
any  wit  which  it  displays,  since  there  is  more  done  than 
•aid,  the  greater  part  consisting  of  stage  directions.  The 
original  is  one  of  the  few  comedies  by  Goldoni  which  is 
without  the  bufToonery  of  the  speaking  Harlequin. 


Aavedrtri  fit.  Lend  me. 

XlT)yaivtTt  va  ^ijT5jtr£T£.  Go  to  seek. 

Tcopo  ziOis-  I^ow  directly. 

■'C  d/cpi/3£  iJiOT  KtipiE,  Kafitri  My  dear  Sir,  dc  ne 
ft-t  aiiryv  ri,v  x<i-9'-v.  this  favour. 

Kyi)  o-as  TrapaKoAco.  I  entreat  you. 

Eyw  (Tas  ilogKl^io.  I  conjure  you. 

Eyd)  <t5.s  rd  ^tjtop  dia  xapiv.  I  ask  it  of  you  as  a  b. 
vour. 

TTioxp^uicnTi  fit  £1 J  Toa-QV.    Oblige  me  so  much. 


Ao'yia  iomriKO,  fj  aXdtiTjS. 
Zwij  /lov. 

'.AKpl/37J  fiov  ^IVXV- 

'.KyanrjTi  fiuv,  aKpijSi  fiov. 
KapCCr^a  fiov. 
'AydTTjj  p.ov. 

Aid  vd  £■^;^;ap40■T^{n7J,  va  Kd- 

/jiTjS  T:epnroirj(rc$,  Kal  (piXi- 

Kals  ct|icoo-£j. 
'Eytj  ca?  tixaoKTrio. 
Eas  yv(Kigi^(u  xdpiv. 
Has  £iV<it    ■t:rd;^p£OS    koto 

rroAXd. 
'Eyuj  S^iXui  TO  Kd/iu  iiera  %a- 

pd?. 
Mi  oA^v  fiov  T7/V  KngClav. 
Mi  Ka\rjv  uov  Kapdlav. 
Las  £c>al  vnoxgtos. 
Eii.Lai  oAos  iiiKos  o-aj. 
Ei/xai  foveas  cas. 
Tantivoraros  6ov\os. 

E[<Trt  Kara  zoWa  tiycviicds. 
rtoAAd  rr£ipd^£0-fl£. 

To  c'xui  (lA  X'^P^'"  f-o""  '"^ 

rds  doXivcat. 
Et<rTe  fOycviKos  Kal  tingo- 

(T^yooos. 
Aire  tlvai  npinov. 
Ti  SiXiTt ; 

Ti  bpCitrt ; 

Las  napaKaXSi  va  ft,i  jitra- 

Xii-gi^KTOt  iXtiidtga. 
Xiupls  ir£pijr(/^j)0-£S. 
Zasdyairai  ilo^VS  fiov  icag- 

dias. 
Kal  iyut  6/iOicos. 
Tifirja-ert  fii  rati  Jrpocrayois 

o-as. 
"E,Y£T£  TiTOTES  va,  fit  ffpotr- 

Td?£T£  ; 
npo(7Td|£T£  TO  V  dovXov  oa^. 

npotr/t^vo)  rds  Tpo(r/iyds  (TO  s- 

Mi  Kd/ivcTZ  /itydXriv  Tin^v. 

iSdvovv  f)  Kcpinoiri(rts  era? 

TTapa/coAiB. 
llgoa-KvvijtrtTt  tKfitgovs  fiOV 


Jlffectianate  c 

iV)ns. 
My  life. 
My  dear  soul. 
My  dear. 
My  heart. 
My  love. 


To  thank,  pay  com- 
pliments, and  tes- 
tify regards. 

I  thank  you. 

I  return  you  thanks. 

I  am  much  obliged  to 
you. 

I  will  do  it  with  plea- 
sure. 

With  all  my  heart. 

Most  cordially. 

I  am  obliged  to  yon. 

I  am  wholly  yours. 

I  am  your  servant. 

Your  most  bumble 
servant. 

Tou  are  loo  obliging. 

Tou  take  too  much 
trouble. 

I  have  a  pleasure  m 
serving  you. 

You  are  obliging  aud 
kind. 

That  is  right. 

What  is  your  plea- 
sure? 

What  are  your  com- 
mands ? 

I  beg  you  will  treat 
me  freely. 

Without  ceremony. 

I  love  you  with  all 
my  heart. 

And  I  the  same. 

Honour  me  with  your 
commands. 

Have  you  any  com- 
mands for  me  ? 

Command  your  ser- 
vant. 

I  wait  your  com- 
mands. 

You  do  me  great  ho- 
nour. 

Not  so  much  ceremo- 
ny, I  beg. 

Present  my  re»pecto  to 


APPENDIX. 


247 


T^opx'"'ra,tj  TOVKvpiov. 

BtPalioatTi  r-ov  n-ouj  to  v  iv- 

Ovfiov/iai. 
Bf^ai(J)(rtT£  TO  V  TTw  J  r(i  V  dyo- 

nrw. 
Aiv  -^iXm  Xcitpa  va  roi  to 

Upoa-KwrnjiaTa  tl$  t-^v  ap- 

VlrfyalvtTt  iiJ.npo(T9a  Kal  (70,$ 

dKoXovdu). 
'H'^tvpu)  KaXa  to  XP^°i  /lov. 
*Hltvgui  TO  t'vai  fiov. 
Mi  KdiivtTt  vd  ivrpiKOifiai, 

fit  Tals  Toa-ais  ^iXoippoarv- 

vais  Tag. 
OsXtTt  \oiKov  va  )cd/i<o  iiCav 

dpxtWTijTO ; 

'Yn'ifya)  i/iirpoo-fld  5ti  va(ra.s 

iiKaKoia-ii). 
Aid  va  Kd/iU)  Tj)v  ngoa-rayrjv 

<raj. 
Aiv  dyoffcS  TrftratJ  ntpntoCri- 

o-ts. 
Aiv  ciVai  (TTEXiftos  irtQiJtoir}- 

TiKdj. 
A{it3  £/'vat  TC  KaX/T£pov. 
To'o-ov  T(}  icaAfTtpov. 
E^tTt  Xdydi/,  t";^""*  f  ^'cawi'. 

Auk  va  /5£^aid)o-jjf,  vi  dpvTj- 

Bfjs,   va   o-VYKaTavcva-i/s, 

Kal  t|. 
"Efvai  iXTjOivd  v,  tlvai  dXij- 

BivraTov. 
Aia  ra  <ras  tfTro)  r?)!/  dXij- 

dtisv. 
*OvT(os,  "t  Jjj  ilvai, 
Tlolos  iii.<fnpd\\ti  ; 
A^v  t'vai  Tro<Tu>s  diL<piPoXCa. 
To  7ri<TT£vu,  Siv  ri  ni<TTc6u>. 

\lyta  ri  vat 

\iyu>  TC.  oX^. 

BdXXiu  iTTlxriiia  oti  cfvai. 

BdXXu  (TTixviia  oTi  div  tt- 

vai  i'T^T). 
Nal,  fia  T7/V  ttC(ttiv  fiov. 
Els  '■'/"  (TvvtCdiijcrlv  /lov. 
Ma  rf/V  ^uiijv  ^lov, 
Nat,  <ra  J  b/ivvui. 
Eos  6/1  vuw  lixraii  Ttfii^fiivog 

av9(>uinog, 
Eas  bjivvus   lirdvui  dg  Tyv 

Tl/i^V  /tov. 
Hia-Tcvo-tTt  fit. 
'H/tTTopui  vi  c-as  T()  jJcjiaito- 


the  gentleman,  or 
his  lordship. 

Assure  him  of  my  re- 
membrance. 

Assure  him  of  my 
friendship. 

I  will  not  fail  to  tell 
him  of  it. 

My  compliments  to 
her  ladyship. 

Go  before,  and  I  will 
follow  you. 

I  well  know  my  duty. 

I  know  my  situation. 

You  confound  me 
with  so  much  civi- 
lity. 

Would  you  have  me 
then  be  guilty  of  an 
incivility  ? 

I  go  before  to  obey 
you. 

To  comply  with  your 
command. 

I  do  not  like  so  much 
ceremony. 

I  am  not  at  all  cere- 
monious. 

This  is  better. 

So  much  the  better. 

You  are  in  the  right. 

To  affirm,  deny,  con- 
sent, &c. 

It  is  true,  it  is  very 

true. 
To  tell  you  the  truth. 

Really,  it  is  so. 
Who  doubts  it  ? 
There  is  no  doubt. 
I  believe  it,  I  do  not 

believe  it. 
I  say  yes. 
I  say  no. 
I  wager  it  is. 
I  wager  it  is  not  so. 


"HSf'Ao  PdXj)  (TTCxij/Jia,  8ti 

■^iXcTt  6ta  ToiiTO. 
Mfi  nixv  Kal  da-TtC^tcrSc  (xo- 

parcvtrc)  ; 
'OnlXuTs  fii  tA  SXa  <Ta$  ; 


Yes,  by  my  faith. 

In  conscience. 

By  my  life. 

Yes,  I  sweir  it  to  you. 

I  swear  to  you  as  an 

honest  man. 
I  sweir  to  you  on  my 

honour. 
Believe  me. 
I  can  assure  you  of  it. 

I  would  hy  whit  bet 

you  please  on  this. 

You  jest  ty  chance? 

Do  you   speak   seri. 
ously  ? 


'Eyw  <ras  bfiiXio  fit  to,  o\a 
fiov,  Kal  eras  Xiyto  ti,ii. 
dXrjOuav. 

'Eyw  <rds  to  /Jt/Saialvio. 

To  ingo(l>r]Tt<ia£rt. 

To  iiriTtiixiTC. 

Eas  7ri<rT£ti(o. 

np£7rti  va  o-as  nt<TTCV(TU), 

Ai/TO  i?ii'  cfvai  idvvaTOV. 

To    XotTTOV  OS  £tvai  /.'.£  KOXlyV 

(Tpov. 
KaXa,  KaXd. 
Aev  £i'vai  aXTjBivSv. 
Elvai  xptveis- 
Acv  tivat  tCkotcs  and  aitro. 

Efvai  tva  \piv6os,  y.ia  d;rd- 

7  7). 

'Eytu    d<rT£f^o;Hoi;v  (i;:topd- 

TJiia. 
'Eyou  TO  ciKa  did  vd  yiXdo-ui. 
Trj  dXriBila. 
tJli  dpccrti  KaTk  ttoXXo. 
EiiyKaTov£tiuj  dg  tovto. 
Aldui  ri/v  rpfi<pov  nov. 
A'iv  dvi t<TT iKonai  ds  toCto. 
Et'/iot  (ri/t^covos,  i<  cn/i^d- 

vov. 
'Eyu,div^A(o. 
'Kyi)  ivavTiutvofiai  di  toD- 


1  speak  seriously  to 
you,  and  tell  you 
the  truth. 

I  assure  you  of  it. 

You  have  guessed  it. 

You  have  hit  upon  it 

I  believe  you. 

1  must  believe  you. 

This  is  not  impossible. 

Then  it  is  very  well. 

Well,  well. 
It  is  not  trje. 
It  is  false. 
There  is  nothing  of 

this, 
k  is  a  falsehood,  an 

imposture. 
I  was  in  joke. 

I  said  it  to  laugh. 

Indeed. 

It  pleases  me  much. 

I  agree  with  you. 

I  give  my  assent. 

I  do  not  oppose  this. 

1  agree. 

1  will  not. 

I  object  to  this. 


Aid    va    o-viijSovXtvB^Sf    va  To  conndt,  comider, 
CToxacrBrjs,  *7  vd  dn-o^ao-i-  or  resolve. 

TC  itpiira  va  Kdinmiiv  ;  What  ought  we  todo? 

Tl  ^U  Kdiiwiitv  ;  What  shall  we  do  ? 

T<  fii  o-r/i/3ovX£VET£  vd  /cd-  What  do  you  advise 

lt,m  ;  me  to  do  ? 

'Ottoiov  Tp<57rov.5Ao/i£V/t£-  What  part  shall  we 

Tax^ipKTSrj  i)litls  ;  take? 

''As  Kditrnfitv  ET^ij.  Let  us  do  this. 

E/vai  KaXfT£pov  iym  va It  is  better  that  I^— 

ZrddrjTt  bXiyov.  Wait  a  little. 

AkviiBtUv  civai  KaXCrtpov  Would  it  not  be  better 

vd that 

'Eyu)  dyoJToSTo  KaXCrtpa 
BiXiTi  Kdiiti  KaXiTtga  iiv- 

'^A(l>rja-tTi  fit. 
'Av  ■fj/AOVV  £ls  Tor 

lyij 

Ervai  TO  i'Siofi. 


I  wish  it  were  better. 
You  will    do   better 

if 

Let  me  go. 
ffos  If  I    were   in   your 

place  I 

It  is  the  same. 


The  reader  ly  the  specimeni  Mow  will  he  enabled  to 
compare  the  modern  with  the  ancieiit  tongue. 

PARAILEL  PASSAGES  FROM  ST.  JOHN'S 
GOSPEL. 

Niov.  AiiBtVTiKdv. 

Kc(pdX.  a.  Ke<pdX.  a. 

1.  EI'E     Tv>    dpr'>      1. 'EN  dp;^^  J7V  «  Xo 

^Tov  6  Xdyos'/cai  b  Xoyoq  yo£,  Kal  bXdyos^v  irgif 

jJtov  fiETd  Oeov'  Kal  Qids  rbv  Oiov,  Kal  Btog  ^v  i 

V  b  Xdyo%.  Xdyo%. 


248 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


2.  'Etovtos  fJTov  lis  2.  Ovtos^v  iv  ipxfl 
ti/v  igx'!'"  /»fo  Qiov.      k^os  tov  6i6v. 

3.  "OAa  [ra  ffpdy/ta-  3.  Ildvja  dl  aiiTov 
ro]dta/t£(7oVToii  [AdyoUj  ^ycv£To- /cai  X'^olg  oil 
lylvriKav,  Kal  X'"9^S  "■v-  tov  iyivtTO  oiiSi  tv,  S 
rdvSiv  tyifit  Kaviva  li-  yiyovtv. 

Ti  tyivt. 

4.  Eis  aijTov  rJTOV  ^ui^i'  4.  'Ev  airO  ^tu^  171/, 
xa2  ^  ^ui?)  ^Toi/  TO  0<os  Ka!  ^^cuf/ ^i/To^aJSTolv 
r&v  a.v6(iiS>n uiv,  dvdpiiinov. 

5.  Kal  TO  <pu)S  tls  rfjV  5.  Kai  to  0(3;  iv  rf/ 
(TKCTilav  (*>iyyti,  Kal  ■//  o-kotCci  (paCvtL,Kal  i)  <tko- 
a-KOTtia  iiv  to  KaTdXaSc.  Tla  ai'Tc  oil  KaT£\a6iv. 

6.  "EyivevcvagavSgu)-  6.  'EyivtTO  avQpuiKos 
Ko^  dTTtcrToX/t^i/os  aird  &ne<Tra\ii,ivos  Jrapa.  Oc- 
t6v  Ocdv,  Td  ovojid  tov  ov,  ovOfia  aijT^  Hmdv- 
'\udvjj]s.  VT)S. 


THE  INSCRIPTIONS  AT  ORCHOMENUS  FROM 
MELETIUS. 
'OPXOMENO'E,  Koivas  ZKpntov,  ndXtj  ttotI 
ir\ov<TiuiTdT'i]  Kal  IcrxvgiuTdTr],  TrpdTcpov  KaXov- 
fiivr)  Bot(uTi/cai  'Adfivai,  Aq  Tf/v  brrolav  ^tov  6 
NaOj  Tu}V  X-apCroiv,  tij  tcv  bKoXov  inXiJpoivov 
TiXrj  ol  QrjSaXoi,  otJrtvos  Td  scarpog  dvto-Kd<pdt 
irori  i;Kd  Tu>v\\<rKaXdyK(jov.  'ETrorTjyOpt^ov  tlj 
airiiv  rfjv  TldXiv  tA  XapiT^cria,  tov  bitoiov 
Mytuvos  tjpov  lni.yoa((ias  Iv  trT^Aotj  c'vSov  to 
KTitrBivTOS  Naov  in'  bvofiari  Tfjs  Qc,ot6kov,  iird 
TOV  Ilpu>TO(rjra6apCov  Aiovrog,  iizl  tu>v  ^amXiuiv 
BocrtXtiov,  AioVTos,  Kal  KuiVtrravTivov,  ixo^tras 
oCtojj.     'Ev  (iiv  Tfi  (na  koivuis- 

"  OTcJs  cvCkiov  tcv  dycui'O  tu)V  xoptrijo-foiv. 

"  I.aXni<TTiis-  [Spov. 

"  Mf/viS  'AitoXXuivlov  'AvTioxtis  dird  Maidv- 

"  K^pui. 
"  ZftiiXos  Z(0(Xov  Hdrpiog, 

"  'Pai//u)do'j. 
"  tiovpi'^vios  Novfir)viov  'AOr]vaTos. 

"  TloirjTfjs  Ittuiv. 
"  'Afirjvlas  Ar]noKXiovs  Bijealos, 

"  Ai'AjjT^y. 
"  'AjToXXdSoTos  "AjtoXAoiMtov  Kpijj. 

"  Ai/AwWs. 
"  'Fdimnos,  'Poftirirov  'Apy^oj. 

"  Ki9aptoT^s.  [K«>/ti7S. 

"  tat^as  'AnoXXoidrov  tov  iavlov  AioXsis iitd 

"  Kt^apcjWj. 
"  ATj/t^rpios  nap;t£i'i(7(Cot)  KaXxeWvios. 

"  Tpayi;i)(5dj. 
"  'lvnoKpdTT^$  '  Apia  to  liivovs  'Po'Jioj. 

"  KaAXfo-Tparo?  'KiaKicrTov  BrjSa'os. 

"  non)T))j  Sarvpoji;. 
"  'A/«ijv^as  AriijkOKXiovs  QtSaXos. 

"  'Yiro/cpiTijj. 
•'  Aupd9(o;  AwpoO^ov  Tapa  i/Ttv«5 j. 

"  nonjTT/S  Tpaywfftuiv. 
•'  £o0oKXi};  2o<;!)okX^oi;j  'AOijvaios. 

"  'TnoKpiTrjs. 
♦'  KafilptXOS  Qtoeiapov  erjfiatos. 

"  ITotjjrj/j  K(u/j.(^(Jt(Sv. 


"  'AXt'lovdpoj  'ApC<TT(uvos  'ABijiaZos. 

"  'TnoKpiTijs. 
"   AttoXos 'ATTdXov 'ASrjvaXos- 
"  Ord£    IvlKiuv    TOV    r^/ijjToi»     dydJiio     t*» 

"  nutcfay  aiiX-qOTd^.     [d^io^taajy. 
"  AiokA^s  KaXXi^7;(5ot^  9ij/5aros. 

"  riaMas  'fiyt/iovas. 
"ZTpaTXvos  EiviKov  QijPaXos. 

"  ''Afdpns  AiiXijTdy. 
"  AiokX^s  KaXXt^^dov  QrjPaXos. 

"" AvSpas  riytn6va%. 
"  'PdcftrTTTos  'Podtrrn-ov  'Apytloj. 

"  'rpaywdo's. 
"  'iTrnoKpdTTfs  'Apia-To/iivovs  "Prfdioy. 

"  Kui/tcudoj. 
"  KaXXto-TpaTOS  'ElaKia-TOv  QriPaXos. 

"  Td  iirivt/cio. 
"  Kiuiicjdiiuv  HoiTjTijg. 
"  'AXtgai'dpos  Apio-Tt'oovos  'ASjjvaros." 
"  'Ev  dl  Tfi  iTtpa  dojpucaj. 
"  'MvacrCvui  cLpxovTos  dywvo6cTCovTos  Tdv 
"  XaptT£^(rtov,    liiapiocTTu)    ndvTtuv  at   rvtit 
"  ivKuicrav  to,  xapiTcCTta. 
"  LaXn'iyKTdj. 
"  9CXtvos  •ttXCvai  'AOdvuos. 

"  Kdpovl. 
"  EipuJdas  2(o)cpdTtose£^/3£ios. 

"  IIoElTdj. 

"  Mijo-Twp  Mijo-Topoj  ^uiKatsCs. 

"  'Va-'ptvids. 
"  KpdTuiv  KXiuivos  O^iptios. 

"  AiXciTds- 
"nipiytvtls  'HpaKXtldao  Kov^iKfivds. 

"  AiXacvSds- 
"  AaiifjviTos  rXavKia"  Apyioy. 

''  Ki9apt(rTdj. 
"  Aa>orpoy  'A/taXo-u)  AioXtfcj  diro  Movpfvaj. 

"TpayafrWj. 
"  'A<TKXant6du)cos  novOtdo  Tapaynvis- 

"  Kinfiatvios- 
'  NtKrfCTTpaTos  #iXoo-TpdTui  Qtiptio^. 

"  'I'd  kniviKua  Kui/iaevdds^ 
"  ECapxos  'JipoddTw  Kopiuvtis-" 
'Ev  aXX</i  AiB(^. 
'  Mi5pij;os  IIoXuicpdTovj  'lapcovv/ios  SisylTiavos 
'avdp£(7<n  XopayE^O'avTES  MKoo-ovTES  dtovOo-ov 
'  dviOtjKav  tChuivos  apxovTos  alXiovros  xXios 
'  aSovTo%  dXKitrdivtos." 

'Ev  iTipo]  AC9<p. 
'Svvdpx'o  apxoVTOS,  fi.ci.vds  -SfiXovSt'oi,  dp^t  .  • 
'  iosEf(3aXi  apxcidfiu)  (fiiuKcXa  .  . .  .  oj  dniiiaKa. 
'  dnb  Taj  aovyypa<i>u>  nida  tuv  noXtfidgxi^v,  k^ 
T<5v  KaTOKTdiuv,  dvtXdpi,cvos  Tas  (Tovyypa(j>iuS 
'  Tds  Kifiivas  T^ap  ci(j>pdva,  ici)  (piilav  k»)  naaiK- 
'  XtXv  .  .  . .  Kij  Tiiidnudov  <j)ujKcCas,  «'/  daiiOTtXcXv 
'  Xv(Tiidiiu>,  Ky  Ciovvaov  Ka<j>t.<Tol<uu>  x''l9<^viXa 
'  KdT  TO  \pd(f>i.o-fia  Tdj  ddfiif). 

'  Svvdpxo)  apxovTos,  utivds  dXaXKo/icvUi  F 
dpvuiv  rroXv(cX£ioj  ra/ilas  dniSuiKt  il'^iuXv  dpX' 
ildfiio  i^uiKtXi  dnb  r&saovyypaipus  rb  KaTa\<>nov 


APPENDIX. 


249 


"  Kir  rd  ;^d0i<r/ta  rd  Cdiiia,  ivcXdntvoi  rdj 
"  <rovyYpa(l)ujS  TflS  Kifitvai  nap  trtu^tAov,  K»)  £{i- 
"  (pfova  <l)uiKia$.  K»/  rrap  eimvixriov  Ka(pi<To6wgm 
"  X'JP'"^^''!  '^'^  Xva-iCafiov  Sa/iOTiXios  ni£a  twv 
"  KoXtiidpX'"''',  Kl)  Tuiv  KarOTTTdluV. 

"  ''Ap;tovTos  iv  Ipxof'^'^^  ■^vdpx">i  /*£vos  'A\a- 
"  AKO/i'CV^tu,  iv  d£  /^  iXarli]  MevuCTao  'ApxcXdut 
"  fiuvos  TTpoTw.    '0/ioAoya  W'/3ioAv  F  iXarCs,  l> 

"  Ky    Tfl    JTOXl    tgXOIlCViluV.       'EKtldij    KZKOII,l(TTr) 

"  E{i/3u<Aos  Trap  t^j  ffoAioj  rd  daviiov  aTzav  kcit 
"  raj  A/toAoyias  ras  T£9i(ras-Ji't'ap;t"'^'p;^;ovToy, 
"  fiuvo^  ■^uXovOCu),  Kff  oin  biptiXirr)  aiirii  £Tt 
"oiiBcv  Trap  rav  jro'Atv,  dAA' d-^X'  Tii^fra  irtpl 
'•  iraVTOj,  K-if  inoatduavQt,  Tj/  ttoXi.  to  t'xovTts  rdj 
"d^oAoyias,  tl  /i£V  rrorl  (j£do/i£'i/ov  ;tpo'vov  Eti- 
"  /?iuAu  iffi  vofilas F cTi  dncTTapa  /3ou£<r(7t  croiiv 
"  J  irirvs  fta  icarC^i  Fi  icari  TTpojidTVi;  aovv  ijyuj 
"  X"^"JS  ^PX^  '"'"  XP'^'""  ^  ivia'UTOS  A  /i.£TO  ■Mii'- 
"  apxov  op;^;ovTa  ipxo/i£i'ivs  d;roypa^£<7Sij  di 
"  E{i/Su)Aov  kot'  ivtavxdv  c<a<TTOV  nag  rdv 
"  raiiCav  (cjy  tov  rd/ituv  av  rdrf  Kal/iaTa  twv 
"  jrpo/3dT(ov,  Kj;  Tuiv  ^ytov,  K^y  toDv  /3oru)V,  KJ) 
"  TcOv  tnnujv,  K'li  KdTLva  iaajialmv  S-iKij  to 
"  nXfZdoi  iiil  anoygd(l>t.<TO  SiCt  nXlova  rdv  yiyg- 
"  a/t/ic'vtuv  iv  Tfl  o-cvyx'upfio't  i?  d(.Kari.g  . .  .  .  r) 
"to  ivvd/iiov  Ei'(lui\ov  4^£(A£i  ,  .  .  .  Ais  tuv 
"  IgxoiitvCuiv  dgyovgluj  ....  T£rTopdK0i/7-a  Eii- 
"  /JioAv  /ca9'  tKacTTov  iviavTdv,  Kij  t6kov  0£p£Tio 
"  dgaxi^s  ....  Tas  /tvaj  i«:d<7Taj  Kara  /t£tva 
" . .  .  .  Tov  («/  tiingaKTos  cctui  tov  igxajiivLov 
"  . . . .  KoX  TO  i7|ijj" 

'Ev  oAAots  A^floty. 
"^ KvoSioga(rCv<i>ogov  xo-tgt."  N0KTE2.  "  KaX- 
Xinnov    diJL(pdgixoS    i^al    aXXai."      'Ev    oii(cjilq 
'Eiriypa0,^   tSov  rdvov,  tj  nvivji-a,  a  ii  ij/itts 
iiffoypd^o/ttv,  oi  nraAatoi  ngo<riygaipov.    Kai  rd 


The  following  is  the  Prospectus  of  a  translation  of 
Anacharsis  into  Romaic,  by  my  Romaic  master,  Mar- 
marotouri,  n  ho  wished  to  publish  it  in  England. 

EIAH'  212  TYnOrPA$IKH. 
rip^S  Tovj  Iv  i}>i.Xoytvtli  KCLi  (piXiXXriva^. 

"0201  £ts  fiipXla  navrodand  ivTgv<l>u><Tiv, 
illtigovv  noa-Qv c'vai  to  xov'^^^l'-ov  t^s  '  IffTopta?, 
Ci'  airfii  ydp  iltvoCa-Ktrai,  t]  nXiov  /itfiaKova-- 
fi4vr]  naXauJTqi,  Kal  SciagovvTai  tuj  iv  <aT6nTg<f) 
<)flj;,  jrpa|£ts  Kal  dioiKi)0-£ts  ttoAAwv  Kal  iia<t>6giuv 
Eflvuiv  Kal  Vtviitv  ill'  TT/V  fivrjuTjV  (uaiucaTO 
Kal  dtaaditrti  ^  'lo-roptK?/  Ai^yjjtrts  tlj  alwva  rdv 
&navTa. 

Mil  TtTOia  'EirtffT^/tij  Ei'vot  rioTrffcrjjTOJ,  Kal 

iv  TavT^  mfpiXinri,  fj  KgclTTOv  flTtlv  dvayKala. 

(uirl  Xomov  TjiitZs  fidvoi  vi  rt/V  iarTtgoviicSa,  ny 

^EtOpovTES  oint  Tdj  dp;t^s  tGiv  Hgoydvuiv  tias, 

KoBtv  noTc  Kalnius  ivgi9r)(rav  tij  Tdj  HargiSag 

ptag,  oUrt  rdfjeij,  ra  KaTogBwy-aTa  Kal  Tyv  dto- 

I    Ik'^gIv  Tiav;   *Av  £p(uT^(r(u/i£V  Toi'S 'AXAoyEVflj, 

!    tilt^ovv  vd  fiSs  iiujovv  oxilf-ovov    l(TTogiKu>g 

j     ri/v  dp;ti;v  Kal  Ti,v  ngdoiov  tu>v  ngoyovtuv  flag, 

I  dXAd  ical  Tonoyga<JHKu>s  /ids  (^Ux^ovv  rdj  ^iaus 


Tujv  UaTgCiujv  flag,  Kal  olovcl  xitpaywyol  •yivd-  | 
fiivoi.  lii   Toi'S  y£iuypo<^ucot)S  tcov  rTi'vaKas,  /taj  ■ 
A^yovv,  ifiu)  Eivai  al  'AOJjvai,  iicj  ■!)  l.nagTq,  iKcl  I 
al  QTjSai.,  Toa-a  errddia'?)  /t^Ata  dnixcii)  fiia  'ETiap- 
Xia  duo  Ti/V  aXXrjv.  ToCrpj  u>K0idfi.7]<Tc  ti/V  filav 
noXiv,   iKiZvos   T>,v  aXXrjV  Kai  t|.     Xlgoo-iTtav 
IgoiTrja-uifitv  aiTOvg  Toiij  /*»/    ZX\i}vas  X"9'^Y'^' 
yoi'j  /tas,    Tro'9£V  inagaKivijOrjaav  va  i^egtwrj- 
trow  dgxds  toctov  naXauis,  avvnotyToXutg  fids 
dnoKglvovTai  ni  aiiriiiS  tovs  Ao'yovj.     "  Ko^ajj 
"  6  iK  SKtiWas  'Avdxagcris,  av  (iv  intgtlgx^'''0  I 
"  t4  rrov£r<J)po'(7Di/a  i/C£iva  KAt'/iara  r^j'EAAif-  | 
"  doj,  av  div  ifiipogtlTo  rd  d|itt)fiaTa,  rd  i)9r)  Knl 
"  Toiij  Kd/iovs  Tutv'EXX'qvuiv,  riOeXe  fnuvrj  T.KV-  < 
"  flijj  Kal  tC  (',vo(i.a  Kai   rh  ngdy\).a-   ovtui  Kal  b  ^ 
"  iincTcgos  'larpes.  av  6iv  ifidvSavt  rd  Toi>  'Itt-  i 
"  Tro/cpdTOi'S,  (iv  idvvaTO  vd  Trpojjojpijo-T)  Etj  T»/V  j 
"  te'xvijv  Toti.     "Av  6  iv  r'niXv  NofioeiTris  (iv  l 
"  i^ira^t  to  tov  ZoXuivos,  AvKO<>gyov,  Kal  Hit- 
"  TaKoii,  Siv  icvvaTo  va  (SvS/i^o-tj  koI  vd  KaXitg-  j 
"  yWT?  T^  ^^'?  '■<""  "O/toyEviov  TOV  av  b  'P^Twp  ■ 
"  Siv  dnrjveC^tTo  Tag  tij4)gaddas  Kal  roiis  X"?*-  j 
"  £i/Ti(r/iot)S  Toii  ArjiiooOivovs,  H'"  ivtpyovatv  i^ 
"  £ls  to;  xpvxds  twv  aKooaTuiv  tov.    '  Av  6  Ntoj  j 
"  'Avdxauffis,  b  Kt'ptos  'ABSag  HagdoXofxaXos  Siv 
"  dv£ytvuiO-K£    /t£  ficyd\r)V  InifioviiV  Kai  <TKiipiv 
*'  Totis  Ti-A^ov  iyicpiTovs  trvyypoi^Ers  TtDv'EAA^- 
"  viov,  ilegcvvuiv  aiiTovg  Kara  (Sddos  inl  Tpt'«- 
"  KOVTO  e<iuj  ZTT],  Siv^StXev  ilvipdvri  TOVTrjV  T'ljV 
"  ncgl  'EAAjjviov  '\<TTogCav  tov,  ^jTig  Ilipt^yjjCJJ 
"  Toij  Scov  'Avaxdga^cojS  nap'  airov   ngo(ruivo- 
"  ndtrerj.  Kal  ds  oXas  Tag  Elpujna'iKas  AiaX^KTOvj 
" /i£T£yA<0TTitr97)."     Kal  iv  ivl  Adyw,  ol  NeeiTf- 
got,  av  div  i'ntpvav  (la  6d»jyoi)j  Toi'S  Ilpoydvovs 
/ios,  ij9£Aav    t'o-cus   W£pi<;i£pcovTai  iiaTaluig  fiiXP^ 
TOV  vvv.     AiTd  Siv  dvai  Adyta  ivdovmatr fiivov 
did  TO   (ptXoycvis  rpatKov,  tlvai  ii  6iXaX^9ovs 
Ttpfiavov.  oa-Tig  ip.tTd(*>ga(rt  tov  fiiov  'Avo;);ap- 
o-iv  dnd  Toil  FaXXiKov  dg  Td  TtgiiaviKdv. 

"Av  Xoinov  Kal  ■fili.tXg  SiXiufitv  va  iit$c^<aittv 
TTji  yvuxrtuig  Twv  Ao/tirpaiv  KaTogOiundTiuv  bno9 
tKafiav  ol  ■iavfi.ao'Toi  iKtXvoi  UpondTopt;  ■f/fiiov, 
av  inidviiu)fi.tv  vdii.dBwp.tv  Tyv  ngdoiov  Kal  a^tf 
crlv  Ttuv  £ls  Tds  Tfxvas  kqI  'EnKTrrjuag  Kal  ils 
KdBt  aXXo  lidos  jxaBriatiag.  av  £';^uj/i£V  7r£pt^py£iav 
vd  yv<opt<rw/i£v  7rd0£V  KaTaydy-iBa.  Kal  bnoiovg 
^av/iaa-Tovs  Kal  ficydXovs  avdgag,  il  Kal  ngoyd- 
vov;  fjiiuiv,  <Ptv,  'tlli'tig  civ  yvmgi^ofitv,  tl$  Koigcv 
bnnii  ol  'AAAoytVEiS  ^cv/ta^ovo-iv  aiiTOtJ,  KoJ  i>S 
naTipag  navToiao'ovv  [ladija'ciiig  o'iSovTai,  as  Ctrl'- 
dgdiiuiHev  anavTts  npoBi/iujs  els  ti;V  ikSouiv  toC 
^avyaaiov  toctov  cvyyod/i/iaTOS  tov  Nj'qti 
'.'tvaxdptrcuis. 

'H/iEtj  oiTv  ol  vnoytypanftivoi  -JfAo/icv  UrtXi- 
era  npoBii/iuiS  t^v  /t£rd0pa<riv  tov  BlSXCov  /li  ti/V 
KaTd  TO  (vvaTov  ijfilv  KaXyv  (Pgdciv  t^s  vvv 
KaO'  fiixds  bfiiXlas,  Kfii  iKtoVTts  tovto  ds  T<>nov, 
^iXoiiiv  TO  KaXXwnCati  fii  tov;  rtuiypa<l>iKovs  Ul' 
vaKas  lii  dnXds  'PmfiaiKds  Xiltis  iyKtxapayfii- 
vovs  ds  idiKd/ias  ypd/i/toTa,  irpoo-TtS^VTij  Sri 
SxXo  xp^o'i/*ov(cal  dgftdiiov  ds  tJ/v  'I<rTOp<aw. 

'OAov  Td  (rCyygafifia  ^iXti  yiva  ds  Tdfiovs  SA- 
itKa  KaTd  niti,ri<nv  tTis  'Ira^iKfis  iKSdatwS.  'H 
Tifty  oXov  TOV  Zvyygdii/iaTos  tlvai  <t»oglv%*  if 


250 


MANFRED. 


[SCENK  I. 


Kailc  T^s  Biivvts  iia  ryv  ngoadiiKrjV  riav  ytwypo- 
(PiKMV  TTivuKiuv.  '0  (piXoytviiS  ouv  ZvvSpofi,r]Tyi 
nginti  vd  TrXijptotri)  els  Kddc  'Vofiov  0top(vi  I'va  Kal 
Kapavravia  itKo(n  Tijj  BUvvrjS,  Kal  tovto  X'"- 
pij  KaiJ-fiiav  ng66o<Tiv,  dXA'  tifivs  dnov  ^tAtt  T0 
jropodoSf/  d  To/toj  Tynui/icvos  /cat  Ctyiivos- 
'Efi^w/ievoi  K.al  tiSaliiovts  Cta6i(uoiT£'EX\rjva)V 

naldts. 
TIjS  ii/ieTtgas  dyoirjjy  ilripTrjiiivoi. 

'luidvvis  Map/iapoTot!p7jj. 

Ar;/i7}Tptoj  Utmipt/j. 

l,rrvpidujvU.pi6i70i. 
'Ev  Tpi£<7Tfw,  r^  npwTj]  '0/CTu)/3ptov,  1799. 


THE  LORD'S  PRAYER  IN  ROMAIC. 

&  IIATE'PAMAi:  6  noii  tlcrai  tlj  roiij  o*pa- 

V9i)Sf  &S  ayiaoSfi  to  ovo/id  o-ov.     'Aj  l'\6/)  ij  /3a- 


criXda  <rov.     "s   y^>'7;   ^i  S^iXijixd  <rov,  Kadci);  il$ 
Toi'  oipai")v,  tV^ij  /cat  tij  Ti/i;  yijv.    T/i  i//ui/t^- 
/las  Td  Kadrj/icpLvov,  ids  /*as   ro  crmtuov.     Koi  : 
o-uyx<up»)o-£  /las  ra  ;t;p/(;/tas,  Ka6iiis  /cat  ^/ittj  ; 
avyxn'oov/xtv  Toij  Kpfo^tiAiras  /laj.     Kai  /t^v  ; 
/ta;  (pipits  nti.paa-iJ.iv,  dAAx  iAtnO^puio-f  /toj  and 
Tov  novrjpov.     'On  ^(5kc^  ctov  tivai.  r]  lia(n\cCa 
di,  ^  dtii/o/iij, /cat  qfio'ga,  its  TBI'S alcijvas.  'A/iijv. 

IN  GREEK.  I 

nA'TEPjj/twD  6  Iv  ToXs  oipavoXs,  &yia<rBrJTm 
TO  Qvoiid  (70V.  'EMcTui  ij  fiaaiXUa  trov  y£Vj;6ij- 
To)  TO  -^i^rjiid  (xov,  ('05  ^v  ovpavijj,  Kal  In)  t^s  y^S. 
Tov  apTov  i)iiG>v  TOV  Inwvcriov  fbs  T)y-lv  trrjiit- 
pov.  Kat  ai^^Ej  'j/ilv  ra  i^tiA^/tarp  ijjxuv,  wSKal 
fjixilS  diltfitv  ToXs  b(piiXzTais  f;/xdiv.  Kal  jiij  tlo-t- 
viyxfis  ^/tdj  tlj  aEtpaff/idv,  oAAa  (iSo-at  rjfias  ano 
Toil  novijpov.  'On  <tov  1(TtIv  t)  /3a(n\tia,  Kal  fj 
iivaiiits,  Kal  r/  66la  tij  tovs  aicuraj.     'A/iijv. 


MANFRED: 

A   DRAMATIC    POEM. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Manfred. 

Chamois  Hunter. 

Abbot  of  St.  Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 

Witch  of  the  Alps. 

Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The  Destinies. 

Spirits,  &c. 


The  Scene  of  the  Drama  is  amongst  the  Higher  Alps- 
—  partly  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred,  and  partly  in 
the  Mountains. 


MANFRED. 


Manfred  aUme.  —  Scene,  a  Gothic  Gallery.  —  Time, 
Midnight. 
Man.  The  lamp  must  be  replenish'd,  but  even  then 
It  wiK  not  b'lrn  so  lonj  as  I  must  watch  : 
My  slumbers  —  if  I  slumber  —  are  not  sleep, 
But  a  continuance  of  enduring  thought. 
Which  then  1  cin  resist  not :  in  my  heart 
There  is  a  vigil,  and  these  eyes  but  close 


1  Written  bI  Vpni. 


To  look  within ;  and  yet  I  live,  and  bear 

The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  men. 

But  grief  should  be  the  instructor  of  the  wise ; 

Sorrow  is  knowledge :  they  who  know  the  most 

Must  mourn  the  deepest  o'er  the  fatal  truth, 

The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  not  that  of  Life, 

Philosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 

Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 

I  have  essay'd,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 

A  power  to  make  these  subject  to  itself — 

But  they  avail  not :  I  have  done  men  good, 

And  I  have  met  with  good  even  among  men  — 

But  this  avaii'd  not :  I  have  had  my  foes, 

And  none  have  baffled,  many  fallen  before  me  — 

But  this  avaii'd  not :  —  Good,  or  evil,  life, 

Powers,  passions,  all  I  see  in  other  beings, 

Have  been  to  me  as  rain  unto  the  sands. 

Since  that  all- nameless  hour.     I  have  no  dread, 

And  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  natural  fear. 

Nor  tiutlermg  throb,  that  beats  with  hopes  or  wisbej 

Or  lurking  love  of  something  ou  the  earth. — 

Now  to  my  task.  — 

Mysterious  Agency ! 
Ye  spirits  of  the  unbounded  Universe  '. 
Whom  I  have  sought  in  darkness  and  in  light  — 
Ye,  who  do  compass  earth  about,  and  dwell 
In  subtler  essence  —  ye,  to  whom  the  tops 
Of  mountains  inaccessible  are  haunts. 
And  earth's  and  ocean's  caves  familiar  things — 
I  call  upon  ye  by  the  writlen  charm 
Which  gives  me  power  upon  you Rise  !  appear, 

[A  pause. 
They  come  not  yet.  —  Now  by  the  voice  of  him 
Who  is  the  tirst  among  you  —'by  this  sign. 
Which  makes  you  tremble  —  by  the  claims  of  him 
Who  is  undying,—  Rise  !  Appe'ir  ! Appear  ! 

lA  pause, 
if  it  be  so  —  Spirits  of  earth  and  air, 
Ye  shall  not  Ihus  elude  me  :  by  a  power, 
Deeper  than  all  yet  urged,  a  tyrant-spell, 
Which  had  its  birthplace  in  a' star  condemn'd. 
The  burning  wreck  of  a  demolish'd  world, 
A  wandering  hell  in  the  eternal  space; 


SckneI.J 


MANFRED. 


251 


By  the  strong  curse  which  is  upon  my  soul. 
The  thought  which  is  wiihin  nie  and  around  me, 
I  ao  compel  ye  to  my  will.  — Appear  ! 

[  i  star  is  seen  at  the  darker  end  of  the  gal- 
lery :  it  is  itatianary;  and  a  voice  it 
heard  singing. 

First  Spirit. 
Mortal !  to  thy  bidding  bow'd, 
From  my  mansion  in  the  cloud, 
Which  the  breath  of  twilight  builds, 
And  the  summer's  sunset  gilds 
With  the  azure  and  vermilion, 
Which  is  mix'd  for  my  pavilion  ; 
Though  thy  quest  may  be  forbidden, 
On  a  star-beam  I  have  ridden  ; 
To  thine  adjuration  bow'd, 
Mortal  —  be  thy  wish  avow'd  ! 

Voice  of  the  Sccotid  Spirit. 
Mont  Blauc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains  j 

They  crowu'd  him  long  ago 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds. 

With  a  diadem  of  snow. 
Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 

The  Avalanche  in  his  hind  ; 
But  ere  it  fall,  that  thundering  ball 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 
The  Glacier's  cold  and  res.less  mass 

Moves  onward  day  bv  dav  ; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  eavern'd  base  — 

And  what  with  me  wouldst  Thuu? 

Voice  of  the  Third  Spirit. 
In  the  blue  depth  of  the  waters. 

Where  the  wave  hath  no  strife, 
Where  the  wind  is  a  straneer. 

And  the  sea-snake  hath  life. 
Where  the  Mermaid  is  decking 

Her  green  hair  with  shells  ; 
Like  Ihe  storm  on  the  surface 

Came  the  sound  of  (hy  spells; 
O'er  my  calm  Hall  of  Coral 

The  deep  echo  roll'd  — 
To  the  Spirit  of  Ocean 

Thy  wishes  unfold ! 

Fourth  Spirit. 
Where  the  slumbering  earthquake 

Lies  pillow'd  on  fire, 
And  Ihe  lakes  of  bitumen 

Rise  boilingly  higher; 
Where  the  roots  of  the  Ande> 

Strike  deep  in  the  earlh, 
As  their  summits  to  heaven 

Shoot  soaringly  forth ; 
I  have  quilled  ni'v  birthplace, 

Thy  bidding  to'  bide  — 
Thy  spell  hath  subdued  me. 

Thy  will  be  my  guide  ! 

Fifth  Spirit. 
1  am  the  Rider  of  Ihe  wind, 

The  Stirrer  of  the  slorm  ; 
The  hurricane  I  left  behind 

Is  yet  with  lightning  warm  ; 
To  speed  to  thee,  o'er  shore  and  sea 

I  swept  upon  the  l>last : 
The  Heel  1  met  sail'd  well,  and  yet 

'X  will  sink  ere  night  be  past. 

S'Uth  Spirit. 
My  dwelling  is  the  shidow  of  Ihe  night. 
Why  doth  thy  magic  torture  me  with  light? 


Seventh  Spirit. 
The  star  which  rules  thy  destiny 
Was  ruled,  ere  earth  began,  by  me; 
Jt  was  a  world  as  fresh  and  fair 
As  e'er  revolved  round  sun  in  air; 
Its  course  was  free  and  regular, 
Space  bosom'd  not  a  lovelier  star. 
The  hour  arrived  —and  il  becanrie 
A  wandering  mass  of  shapeless  tlame, 
A  pathless  comet,  and  a  curse, 
The  meiiaoe  of  Ihe  universe  ; 
Still  rolling  on  with  innate  force. 
Without  a  sphere,  without  a  course, 
A  bright  deformity  on  high, 
The  monster  of  the  upper  sky  ! 
And  thou  !  beneath  its  influence  born  — 
Thou  worm  !  whom  I  obey  and  scorn  — 
Forced  by  a  power  (which  is  not  thine. 
And  lent'thee  but  to  make  thee  mine) 
For  this  brief  moment  to  descend. 
Where  these  weak  spirits  round  thee  bend 
And  parley  with  a  thing  like  thee  — 
What  wciild'st  thou,  Child  of  Clay!  with  me? 

The  Seven  Spirits. 
Earth,  ocean,  air,  night,  mountains,  winds,  thy  star. 

Are  at  thy  beck  and  bidding,  Child  of  Clay  l 
Befoie  thee  at  thy  quest  their  spirits  are  — 

What  would'st  thou  wiih  us,  son  of  mortals  —  say  ? 

Man.  Forgetfulness 

Fit  St  Spirit.  Of  what—  of  whom  —  and  why  ? 

Man.  Of  that  which  is  within  me;  read  it  there  — 
Ye  know  it,  and  I  cannot  utter  it. 

Spirit.  We  can  but  give  thee  that  which  we  possess: 
Ask  of  OS  subjects,  sovereignty,  the  power 
O'er  earth,  the  whole,  or  portion,  or  a  sign 
Which  shall  cnntrni  the  elements,  whereof 
We  are  the  dominators,  each  and  all. 
These  shall  be  thine. 

Man.  Oblivion,  self-oblivion  — 

Can  ye  not  wrins  from  out  Ihe  hidden  lealms 
Ye  offer  so  profusely  what  I  ask  ? 

Spirit.  It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our  skill ; 
But  —  thou  may'st  die. 

Man.  Will  death  bestow  it  onme  ? 

Spirit.  We  are  immortal,  and  do  not  forget; 
We  are  eternal ;  and  to  us  the  past 
Is,  as  the  future,  present.    Art  thou  answer'd  ? 

Man.  Ye  mock  me  —  but  the  power  which  brought 
ye  here 
Hath  made  you  mine.     >ihves,  scoff  not  at  my  will ! 
The  mind,  the  .'•pirit,  the  Promethean  spark. 
The  lightning  of  my  being,  is  as  brigh'. 
Pervading,  and  far  darting  as  your  own. 
And  shall  not  yield  to  yours,  thoujh  coop'd  in  clay ! 
Answer,  or  I  will  teach  you  what  I  am. 

Spirit.  We  answer  as  we  answer'd  ;  our  reply 
Is  even  in  thine  own  words. 

Man.  Why  say  ye  so  ? 

Spirit.  If,  as  thou  siv'st,  thine  essence  be  as  oura. 
We  have  rephed  in  teliing  thee,  Ihe  Ihing 
Mort  lis  call  death  hath  nought  to  do  with  us. 

Man.  I  then   have  call'd  ye  from  your  realms  in 
vain  ; 
Ye  cannot,  or  ye  will  not,  aid  me. 

Spirit.  Say ; 

What  we  possess  we  offer  ;  it  is  thine : 
Bethink  ere  thou  dismiss  us,  ask  again  — 
Kingdom,  and    sway,  and    strength,  and   length  of 
days  — 

Man.  Accursed  !  what  have  I  to  do  with  days? 
They  are  too  long  already.  —  Hence  — begone  I 

Spirit.  Vet  pause  :  being   here,  our  will  would  do 
thee  service ; 
Bethink  thee,  is  there  then  no  other  gift 
Which  we  can  make  not  worthless  in  thine  eyes  ? 

Man.  No,  none :  yet  slay  —  one  moment,  ere  we 
pirt  — 
I  would  behold  ye  face  to  face.     I  hiar 
Your  voices,  sweet  and  melancholy  scunds, 


^* 


252 


MANFRED. 


[Scene  II. 


As  music  on  the  waters  ;  and  I  see 
The  steady  aspect  of  a  clear  large  star  ; 
But  nothing  more.     Approach  nie  as  ye  are, 
Or  one,  or  all.  in  your  accustonrd  forms. 

Spirit.  We  have  no  forms,  beyond  the  elements 
Of  which  we  are  the  mind  and  principle: 
But  choose  a  form  —  in  that  we  will  appear. 

Mail.  I  have  no  choice  ;  there  is  no  form  on  earth 
niJeous  or  beautiful  to  me.    Let  him. 
Who  Is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  >uch  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  fitting  —  Come  ! 
Seventh  Spirit.    (.Appearing  in   the   shape  of  a 

beautiful  ftin.ile  figure.)  Behold  ! 
Man,  Oh  God  !  if  it  be  thus,  and  thou 
Art  not  .1  madness  and  a  mockery, 
I  yet  might  be  most  hajipy.     1  will  clasp  thee, 

And  we  again  will  be ( Tlte  figure  vanishes. 

My  heart  is  crush 'd  ! 
[Manfred  falls  senseUss, 
{A  Voict  is  heard  in  the  Incantation  which  follows.)  » 
When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave. 

And  the  glow-worm  in  the  grass, 
And  the  meteor  on  the  grave. 

And  the  wisp  on  the  morass; 
When  the  falling  stars  are  shooting, 
And  the  answer'd  owls  are  hooting. 
And  the  silent  leaves  are  s  ill 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 
Shall  my  soul  be  upon  thine, 
With  a  power  and  with  a  sign. 

Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep. 

Yet  thy  >pirit  shall  not  sleep  ; 

There  are  shades  which  will  not  vanish. 

There  are  thoughts  thou  canst  not  banish; 

By  a  jKjwer  to  thee  unknown, 

Thou  canst  never  be  alone  ; 

Thou  art  wrapt  as  with  a  shroud, 

Thou  art  gather'd  in  a  cloud  ; 

And  for  ever  shall  thou  dwell 

In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thnu  seest  me  not  pass  by, 
Thou'shalt  feel  me  with  thine  eye 
As  a  thing  that,  though  unseen. 
Must  be  near  thee,  and  hath  been; 
And  when  in  that  secret  dread 
Thou  hast  turn'd  around  thy  head, 
Thnu  Shalt  marvel  I  am  not 
As  thy  shadow  on  the  spot, 
And  the  power  which  thou  dost  feel 
Shall  be  what  thou  must  conceal. 

And  a  magic  voice  and  verse 

Hath  baptized  thee  with  a  curse; 

And  a  spirit  of  the  air 

Hath  begirt  thee  with  a  snare  ; 

In  the  wind  '.here  Is  a  voice 

Shall  forbid  thee  to  rejoice  ; 

And  to  thee  shall  night  deny 

All  the  quiet  of  her  sky ; 

And  the  day  shall  have  a  sun. 

Which  shall  mike  thee  wish  it  done. 

From  thy  false  tears  I  did  distil 
An  essence  which  hath  strength  to  kill ; 
From  thy  own  heart  I  then  did  wring 
The  black  blood  in  its  blackest  spring  ; 
From  thy  own  smile  I  snatch'd  the  snake, 
For  there  it  coii'd  as  in  a  brake ; 
From  thy  own  lip  I  drew  the  charm 
Which  give  all  these  their  chiefest  harm  ; 
In  proving  every  poison  known, 
I  found  the  strongest  was  thine  own. 


1  These  verses  were  written  in  Switzerland,  !n  1816, 
BDi)  transmitted  tn  Knglaod  for  publicatinn,  witti  the  third 
canto  of  Childe  Harold.  "As  they  were  written,"  says 
Mr.  Moore,  "immediately  after  the  last  fruitless  attempt 
at  reconciliation,  it  is  needless  to  say  who  was  in  Ihe 
paet'a   thoughts  while   be   penned   some  of  the   opening 


By  the  cold  breast  and  serpent  smile, 

By  thy  unfnthom'd  gulfs  of  guile. 

By  that  most  seeming  virtuous  eye. 

By  thy  shut  soul's  hypocrisy  ; 

By  the  perfection  of  thine  art 

Which  pass'd  for  human  thine  own  heart; 

By  thy  delight  in  others'  pain. 

And  by  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain, 

I  call  upon'  thee  !  and  compel 

Thyself  to  be  thy  proper  Hell ! 

And  on  thy  head  I  pour  the  vial 

Which  doth  devote  thee  to  this  trial; 

Nor  to  slumber,  nor  to  die, 

Shall  be  in  thy  destiny  ; 

Though  thy  death  shall  still  seem  near 

To  thy  wish,  but  as  a  fear ; 

Lo  !  the  spell  now  woiks  around  thee, 

And  the  clankless  chain  hath  bound  thee; 

O'er  thy  heart  and  brain  together 

Hath  the  word  been  pass'd  —  now  wither  ! 


SCENE    II. 

The  Mountain  of  Ihe  Junefrau  —  Time,  Morning. — 
Manfred  alone  upon  the  Cliffs. 

Man.  The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me  — 
The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me  — 
The  remedy  I  reck'd  of  tortured  me  ; 
I  lean  no  niore  on  superhuman  aid. 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulfd  in  darkness. 
It  is  not  of  my  search  —  My  mother  Earth  ! 
And  thou  fresh  breaking  Day,  ai.d  you,  ye  Mountains, 
Why  are  ye  beautiful  ?     I  cannot  1  "Ve  ye. 
And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe. 
That  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight  —  thou  shin'st  not  on  my  heart. 
And  you,  ye  crajs,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 
I  stand,  and  on  Ihe  torrent's  brink  bei:eath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 
In  dizziness  of  distance  ;  when  a  leap, 
A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 
My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 
To  rest  for  ever—  wherefore  do  I  pause  ? 
I  feel  the  impulse  —  yet  J  do  not  plunge ; 
I  see  the  peril  —  yet  do  not  recede  ; 
And  my  brain  reels  —"and  yet  my  foot  is  firm : 
There  is  a  power  upon  me'which  withholds, 
And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live  ; 
If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 
This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and'to  be 
My  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased 
To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself — 
The  last  infirmity  of  evil.    Ay, 
Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 

[An  eagle  passes. 
Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven. 
Well  may's!  thou  swoop'so  near  me  —  I  should  be 
Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets  ;  thou  art  gons 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee ;  hu!  thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above, 
With  a  pervading  vision. —  Beautiful ! 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world  ! 
How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself! 
But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we, 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mix'd  essence  make 
A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 
The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride. 
Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will. 
Till  our  mortality  predominates. 
And  men  are  —  what  they  name  not  to  themselves, 
And  trust  not  to  each  other.     Hark  I  the  note, 

[The  Shepherd's  pipe  in  ihe  distance  is  heard. 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed  — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable  —  pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mix'd  with  the  sweet  bflls  of  Ihe  sauntering  hetd  ; 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes.—  Oil,  that  I  were 


Scene  II.] 


MANFRED. 


253 


The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovelv  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  brealhing  hamiony, 
A  bodiless  eiijuyment  —  born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me  '. 

Enter  from  below  a  Chamois  Hunter, 

Chamois  Huuter.  Even  so 

This  way  the  chamois  leapt :  her  nimble  feet 
Have  baffled  me  ;  my  gains  to-day  will  scarce 
Repay  my  breafeneck  travail.— What  is  here  ? 
Who'seems  not  of  my  trade,  and  yet  hath  reach'd 
A  height  which  none  even  of  our  mountaineers, 
Save  our  best  hunters,  may  attain  :  his  garb 
Is  goodly,  his  mien  manly,  and  his  air 
Proud  as  a  free-born  peisant's,  at  this  distance  — 
I  will  approach  him  nearer. 

Mliti.  (not  perceiving  the  other.)    To  be  thus  — 
Grey-hair'd  with  anguish,  like  these  blasted  pines, 
Wrecks  of  a  single  winter,  barkless,  branchless, 
A  blighted  trunk  upon  a  cursed  root, 
Which  but  supplies  a  feeling  to  decay  — 
And  to  be  thus,  eternally  but  thus, 
Having  been  otherwise  !     Now  furrow'd  o'er 
With  wrinkles,  plough'd  by  moments,  not  by  years 
Aad  hours  —  all  tortured  into  ages  —  hours 
Which  I  outlive  !  — Ye  toppling  crags  nf  ice  ! 
Ye  avalanches,  whom  a  breath  draws  down 
In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come  and  crush  me ! 
I  hear  ye  momently  .above,  beneath. 
Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict ;  but  ye  pass, 
And  only  fall  on  things  that  still  would  live  ; 
On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 
And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 

C.  Hun.  The  mists  begin  to  rise  from  up  the  valley ; 
I  '\\  warn  hirn  to  descend,  or  he  may  chance 
To  lose  at  once  his  way  and  life  together. 

Man.  The  mists  boil  up  around  the  glaciers  ;  clouds 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury, 
Like  foam  from  the  rouse4  ocean  of  deep  Hell, 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living  shore, 
Heap'd  with  the  damn'd  like  pebbles. —  I  am  giddy. 

C.  Hurt.  I  must  approach  him  cautiously  ;  if  near, 
A  sudden  step  will  startle  him,  and  be 
Seems  tottering  already. 

Man.  Mountains  have  fallen. 

Leaving  a  gap  in  the  clouds,  and  with  the  shock 
Rocking  their  Alpine  brethren;  filling  up 
The  ripe  green  valleys  with  destruction's  splinters; 
Damming  the  rivers  with  a  sudden  dash, 
Which  crush'd  the  waters  into  mist,  and  made 
Their  fountains  find  another  channel  —  thus. 
Thus,  in  its  old  age,  did  Mount  Rosenberg  — 
Why  stood  I  not  beneath  it  ? 

C.  Hun.  Friend  !  have  a  care, 

Your  next  step  may  be  fatal  !  —  for  the  love 
Of  him  who  made  you,  stand  not  on  that  brink ! 

Man.  [not  hearmg  him.)    Such  would  have  been 
for  me  a  fitting  tomb  ; 
My  bones  had  then  been  quiet  in  their  depth  ; 
They  had  not  then  been  strewn  upon  the  rocks 
For   the   wind's  pastime  — as  thus  — thus  they  shall 

be  — 
In  this  one  plunge. —  Farewell,  ye  opening  heavens ! 
Look  not  upon  me  thus  reproachfully  — 
You  were    not   meant  for  me  —  Earth !  take  these 
atoms ! 

[.is  Manfred  is  in  act  to  spring  from  the 
cliff,  the  Chamois  Hunter  seizes  and 
retains  him  with  a  sudden  grasp. 

C,  Hun.  Hold,  madman  !  —  though  aweary  of  thy 
life. 
Stain  not  our  pure  vales  with  thy  guilty  blood  — 
Away  with  me 1  will  not  quit  my  hold. 

Mxn.  I   am  most  sick  at  heart  — nay,  grasp  nie 
not  — 
I  am  all  feebleness      the  mountains  whirl 

Spinning  around  me 1  grow  blind— —What  art 

thou? 

C.    Hun.    1  Ml   answer    that   anon.  —  Away  with 


j  The  clouds  grow  thicker there  —  now  lean  on 

I  nie  — 

(  Place  your  foot  here — here,  take  this  statF,  and  cling 
I  A  moi'iient  to  that  shrub  —  now  give  me  your  hand, 
I  And  hold  fast  by  my  girdle —  softly —  well— . 
I  The  Chalet  will  be  gain"d  within  an  hour  — 
Come  on,  we  Ml  quickly  find  a  surer  fooling. 
And  something  like  a  pathway,  which  the  torrent 
Hath  w.ash'd  since  winter.-  Come,  'I  is  bravely  done  — 
You  should  have  been  a  hunter. —  Follow  me. 

{As  they  descend  the  rocks  with  dif- 
ficuliy,  the  scene  closes. 


LC.    Hun.    1 
me 


ACT  II. 

SCENE    I. 

A  Cottage  amongst  the  Bernese  Alps. 

Manfred  and  the  Chamois  Hunter. 

C.  Hun.  No,  no — yet  pause  —  thou  must  not  yet 
go  forth : 
Thy  mind  and  body  are  alike  unfit 
To  trust  each  other,  for  some  hours,  at  least ; 
When  thou  art  better,  I  will  be  thy  guide  — 
But  whither? 

Man.  It  imports  not :  I  do  know 

My  route  full  well,  and  need  no  further  guidance. 

C.  Hun.  Thy  garb  and  gait  bespeak  thee  of  high 
lineage  — 
One  of  the  many  chiefs,  whose  castled  crags 
Look  o'er  the  lower  valleys —  which  of  these 
May  call  thee  lord  ?    I  only  know  their  portals; 
My  way  of  life  leads  me  but  rarely  down 
To  basit  by  the  huge  hearths  of  those  old  halls, 
Carousing  with  the  vassals;  but  the  paths, 
Which  step  from  out  our  mountains  to  their  doors, 
I  know  from  childhood  — which  of  these  is  thine? 

Man.  No  matter. 

C.  Hun.  Well,  sir,  pardon  me  the  question. 

And  be  of  better  cheer.    Come,  taste  my  wine  j 
'T  is  of  an  ancient  vintage ;  many  a  day 
'T  has  thaw'd  my  veins  among  our  glaciers,  now 
Let  it  do  thus  for  thine — Come,  pledge  me  fairly. 

Man.  Away,  away  !  there's  blood  upon  the  brim! 
Will  it  then  never— "never  sink  in  the  earth  ? 

C.  Hun.  What  dost  thou  mean  ?  thy  senses  wander 
from  thee. 

Man.  I  say  't  is  blood  —  my  blood !  the  pure  warm 
stream 
Which  ran  in  (he  veins  of  my  fathers,  and  in  ours 
When  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had  one  heart. 
And  loved  each  other  as  we  should  not  love, 
And  this  was  shed  :  but  still  it  rises  Uf) 
Colouring  the  clouds,  lint  shut  me  out  from  heaven. 
Where  thou  art  not  —  and  I  shall  nevtr  be. 

C.  Hun.  Man  of  strange   words,   and  some  half- 
maddening  sin. 
Which  makes  thee  people  vacancy,  whate'cr 
Thy  dread  and  sufferance  be,  there  's  comfort  yet  — 
The  aid  of  holy  men.  and  heavenly  patience 

Man.  Patience  ai.d  patience!    Hence — that  word 
was  made 
For  brutes  of  burthen,  not  for  hirds  of  prey  ; 
Preach  it  to  mortals  of  a  dust  like  thine, — 
I  am  not  of  thine  order. 

C.  Hun.  Thanks  to  heaven  I 

I  would  not  be  of  thine  for  the  free  fame 
Of  William  Tell ;  but  whatsoe'er  thine  ill. 
It  must  be  borne,  and  these  wild  starts  are  useless. 

Man.  Do  I  not  bear  it? — I/)ok  on  me  —  I  live. 

C.  Hun.  This  is  convulsion,  and  no  healihful  life. 

Man.  I  tell  thee,  man  !  I  have  lived  many  years. 
Many  long  years,  but  they  are  nothing  now 
To  thrse  which  I  must  number:  ases  —  ages  — 
Space  and  eternity  —  and  consciousness, 
Wih  the  fierce  thirst  of  death  — and  still  unslaked! 

C.  Hun.  Why,  on  thy  brow  the  seal  of  middle  tft 
Hath  scarce  been  set ;  I  am  thine  elder  far. 


22 


254 


MANFRED. 


[Act  11. 


Man.  Think'st  tliou  existence  do'h depend  on  time? 
It  dotti ;  but  actions  are  our  epochs :  mine 
Have  made  my  days  and  niglils  imperishable, 
Endless,  and  all  alike,  as  sands  on  the  shore, 
Innumerable  atoms;  and  one  desert, 
Barren  and  cold,  on  which  the  wild  waves  break, 
But  iiothiii?  rests,  save  carcasses  and  wrecks. 
Rocks,  and  the  salt  Nurf  weeds  of  bitterness. 

C.  Hun.  Alas  :  he  "s  mad  —  but  yet  I  must  not  leave 
him. 

Mart.  I  would  I  were  —  for  then  the  things  I  see 
Would  be  but  a  disleniper"d  dream. 

C.  Hun.  What  is  it 

That  thou  dost  see,  or  think  thou  look'st  upon  ? 

Man.  Myself,  and  thee  —  a  peasant  of  the  Alps  — 
Thy  humble  virtues,  hospitable  home, 
And  spirit  patient,  pious,  proud,  and  free; 
Thy  self  respect,  grafted  on  innocent  thoushts  ; 
Thy  days  of  health,  and  nights  of  sleep  ;  thy  toils, 
By  danger  dignitied,  yet  guiltless ;  hopes 
Of  cheerful  old  age  and  a  quiet  grave, 
With  cross  and  garlind  over  its  green  turf. 
And  thy  grandchildren's  love  for  epitaph  ; 
This  do  1  see  —  and  then  I  look  within  — 
It  matters  not  —  my  soul  was  scorch'd  already  ! 

C.  Hun.  And  would'st  thou  then  exchange  thy  lot 
for  mine  ? 

Man.  No,  friend;  I  would  not   wrong  thee,  nor 
exchange 
My  lot  with  living  being :  I  can  bear  — 
However  wretchedly,  't  is  still  to  bear  — 
In  life  what  others  could  not  brook  to  dream, 
But  perish  in  their  slumber. 

C.  Hun.  And  wi  h  this  — 

This  cautious  feeling  fnr  another's  pain, 
Canst  thou  be  black  with  evil  >  — say  not  so. 
Can  one  of  gentle  thoughts  have  wreak'd  revenge 
Upon  his  enemies .' 

Man.  Oh  !  no,  no,  no  ! 

My  injuries  came  down  on  those  who  loved  me  — 
On  those  whom  I  best  loved  :  I  never  quell'd 
An  enemy,  save  in  my  just  defence  — 
But  mv  embrace  was'fa'.al. 

C.  Hun.  Heaven  gi\  e  thee  rest ! 

And  penitence  restore  thee  to  thyself; 
Mv  prayers  shall  be  for  thee. 

Man.  I  need  them  not, 

But  can  endure  thy  pity.     I  depart  — 
'T  is  time  —  farewell !  —  Here 's  gold,  and  thanks  for 

thee  — 
No  words  — it  is  thy  due.—  Follow  me  not  — 
I  know  my  path  —  the  mountain  peril 's  past : 
And  once  again  I  charge  thee,  follow  not ! 

[Exit  Manfred. 

SCENE  II. 
A  Tower  Valley  in  the  Alys.  —  A  Cataract. 
Enter  Manfred. 
It  is  not  noon  —  the  sunbon's  rays '  still  arch 
The  torrent  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven. 
And  roll  the  sheeted  silver's  waving  column 
O'er  the  crag's  headlong  perpendicular, 
And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along, 
And  to  and  fro,  like  the  pale  courser's  tnil. 
The  Giant  steed,  to  be  liestrode  by  Death, 
As  told  in  the  Apocalypse.     No  eyes 
But  mine  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness; 
I  should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude. 
And  with  the  Spirit  of  the  place  divide 
The  homage  of  these  waters. —  I  will  call  her. 

[Manfred  tnkcs  some  of  the  water  into  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  and  flings  it  into  the  air,  mutter- 
ing the  adjuration.  After  a  patae,  the  IVitch 
of  the  Alps  rises  bcneaih  the  arch  of  the  sun- 
how  cf  the  torrent, 

1  Thii   Iris  is  formed  by  the  raya  of  the  sun  over  the 
lower   part  nf  tlie   Alpine   torrents:  it  is  exactly  like    a 
■  "        come  down  to  pay  a  visit,  and  so  close  th.t  you 
k  into  it:  this  effect  lasts  till  dooo. 


14 


Beautiful  Spirit  !  with  thy  hair  of  light, 

And  dazzling  eyes  of  glory,  in  »  hose  form 

'1  he  charms  of  earth's  least  mortal  daughters  grow 

To  an  unearthly  staiure,  in  an  essence 

Of  purer  elements ;  w  hile  the  hues  of  youth,— 

Carnation'd  like  a  sleeping  infant's  cneek, 

Rock'd  by  the  beating  of  her  mothers  heart, 

Or  the  rose  lints,  which  summer's  twilight  leaves 

Upon  the  lofty  glacier's  virgin  snow, 

'J'he  blush  of  earth,  embracing  with  her  heaven,— 

Tinge  thy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 

The  beauties  of  the  sunbow  which  bends  o'er  thee, 

Beiu  iful  Spirit !  in  thy  calm  clear  biow, 

Wherein  is  glass'd  serenity  of  soul. 

Which  of  itself  shows  immortalily, 

I  read  that  thou  will  pardon  to  a  Son 

Of  Earth,  whom  the  abstruser  powers  permit 

At  limes  to  commune  with  them  —  if  that  he 

Avail  him  of  his  spells  —  to  call  thee  thus, 

And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

WtcA.  Son  of  Earth! 

I  know  thee,  and  Ihe  powers  which  gave  thee  power  j 
I  know  thee  for  -v  man  of  many  thoughts. 
And  deeds  of  good  and  ill,  extreme  in  both, 
Fa'al  and  fated  in  thy  sutl'erings. 
I  have  expected  this  —  wbai  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 
Mali.  To  look  upon  thy  beauty  —  nothing  furtbei. 
The  face  of  the  earth  hath  madden'd  me,  and  I 
Take  refuge  in  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 
To  the  atwdes  of  those  who  govern  her  — 
But  they  can  nothing  aid  me.     I  have  sought 
From  them  whit  they  could  not  bestow,  and  now 
I  search  no  further. 

Witch.  What  could  be  the  quest 

Which  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most  powerful, 
Tlie  rulere  of  the  invisible  ? 

Man.  A  boon ; 

But  why  .-should  I  repeat  it  ?  't  were  in  vain. 
Witch.  I  know  not  that;  let  thy  lips  utter  it. 
Man.  Well,  though  it  torture  me,  't  is  but  the  same ; 
My  pang  shall  find  a  voice.     From  my  youth  upwardi 
My  spirit  walk'd  not  with  the  souls  of  men, 
Nor  look'd  upon  the  earth  with  human  eyes; 
The  thirst  of  their  ambition  was  not  mine, 
The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine  ; 
My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my  powers, 
Made  me  a  stranger  ;  though  I  wore  Ihe  form, 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh, 
Nor  'midst  the  creatures  of  clay  that  girded  me 

Was  there  but  one  w  ho but  of  her  anon. 

I  said  with  men,  and  w  ith  the  thoughts  of  men, 
I  held  but  slight  communion  ;  but  instead. 
My  joy  was  in  the  wilderness,  to  breathe 
The  difficult  air  of  Ihe  iced  mountain's  top. 
Where  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  insect's  winf 
Flit  o'er  Ihe  herbless  granite ;  or  to  plunge 
Into  Ihe  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 
On  Ihe  swift  whirl  of  the  new-breaking  wave 
Of  liver-stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow. 
In  these  my  early  strength  exuled  ;  or 
To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon, 
The  stars  and  their  development ;  or  catch 
The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim  ; 
Or  to  look,  list'ning,  on  the  scatler'd  leaves, 
While  Autumn  winds  were  at  their  evening  scag. 
These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone; 
For  if  Ihe  beings,  of  whom  1  was  one, — 
Haling  to  be  so, —  cross'd  me  in  my  path, 
I  felt  myself  degraded  bick  to  them, 
And  wa^  all  clay  again.     And  then  I  dived. 
In  my  lone  w.nnderings,  to  Ihe  caves  of  death. 
Searching  its  ciuse  in  its  effect  ;  and  drew 
From  wi'ther'd  bone%  and  skulls,  and  he:ip'd-up  Aoit, 
Conclusions  most  forbidden.     Then  i  pass'd 
;  The  nights  of  years  in  sciences  untaught, 
I  Save  in  the  old  lime  ;  and  with  time  and  loil, 
I  And  terrible  ordeal,  and  such  penance 
I  As  in  itself  halh  power  upon  the  air, 
'  And  spirits  that  do  compass  nir  and  earth, 
Space,  and  the  peopled  infinite,  I  made 
I  Mine  eyes  familiar  with  Eternity, 


Scene  II.] 


MANFRED. 


255 


Such  as,  before  ice,  did  the  magi,  and 

He  who  from  oul  their  fountain-dwellings  raised 

Ero«  and  Anteros,'  at  Gadara, 

As  I  di)  thee  ;  —  and  with  my  knowledge  grew 

The  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  ihe  power  and  joy 

Of  this  iiiosl  bright  intelligence,  until  - 

mich.  Proceed. 

Man.                 Oh  !  I  but  thus  prolong'a  .»y  words, 
Boasting  these  idle  attributes,  because 
As  ]  approach  the  core  of  my  heart's  grief— 
But  to  ray  task.     I  have  not  named  to  thee 
Father  or  mother,  mistress,  friend,  or  being, 
With  whom  I  wore  the  chain  of  human  ties; 
If  I  had  such,  they  seem'd  not  such  to  me  — 
¥et  there  was  one 

IVitcfi.  Sparenot  thyself— proceed. 

Man.  She  was  like  me  in  hneaments —  her  eyes, 
Her  hair,  her  features,  all,  to  the  very  lone 
Even  of  her  voice,  they  said  were  like  to  mine ; 
But  soften'd  all,  and  temper'd  into  beauty : 
She  had  the  same  lone  thoughts  and  wanderings, 
The  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a  mind 
To  comprehend  the  unjver^e  :  nor  these 
Alone,  but  with  them  gentler  powers  than  mine. 
Pity,  and  smiles,  and  tears—  which  I  had  not ; 
And  tenderness  —  but  that  I  hid  for  her  ; 
Humility  — and  that  I  never  had. 
Her  faults  were  mine  —  her  virtues  were  her  own  — 
I  loved  her,  and  destroy'd  her ! 

fVitch.  With  thy  hand  ? 

Man.  Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart  —  which  broke 
her  heart  — 
If  gazed  on  mine,  and  wilher'd.    I  have  shed 
Blood,  but  not  hers  —  and  yet  her  blood  was  shed  — 
1  saw  — and  could  not  stanch  it. 

KTitch.  And  for  this  — 

A  being  of  the  race  thou  dost  despise. 
The  order  which  thine  own  would  rise  above, 
Mingling  with  us  and  ours,  thou  dost  forego 
The  gifts  of  our  greit  knowledge,  and  shrink'st  back 
To  recreant  mortality Away  ! 

Man.  Daughter  of  Air!    I   tell   thee,  since  that 
hour  — 
But  words  are  breath      look  on  me  in  my  sleep, 
Or  watch  my  watchings —  Come  and  sit  by  me  1 
My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more. 
But  peopled  with  the  Furies  ;  —  I  have  gnash'd 
My  teeth  in  darkness,  till  returning  morn, 
Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset ;  —  I  have  pray'd 
For  madness  as  a  blessing —  't  is  denied  me. 
1  have  affronted  death  —  but  in  the  war 
Of  elements  the  wafers  shrunk  from  me. 
And  fatal  things  pass'd  harmless  —  the  cold  hand 
Of  an  all  pitiless  demon  held  me  back. 
Back  by  a  single  hair,  which  would  not  break. 
In  fantasy,  imagination,  all 
The  affluence  of  my  soul  —  which  one  day  was 
A  CroBiUs  in  creation  —  I  plunged  deep. 
But,  like  an  ebbing  wave,  it  dash'd  me  back 
Info  the  gulf  of  my  unfathom'd  thought. 
I  plunged  amidst  mankind  —  Forgetfulness 

I  sought  in  all,  save  where  't  is  to  be  found. 
And  that  I  have  to  learn  —  my  sciences, 
My  long  pursued  and  superhuman  art, 

Is  mortal  here—  I  dwell  in  my  despair  — 
And  live  —  and  live  for  ever. 

It'itch.  It  may  be 

That  I  can  aid  thee. 

Man.  To  do  this  thy  power 

Must  wak?  Ihe  dead,  or  lay  me  low  with  them. 
Do  so  —  in  any  shape  —  in  any  hour  — 
With  ar/  torture  —  so  it  be  the  last. 

HVch.  That  is  not  in  my  province  ;  but  if  thou 
Wilt  swear  obedience  to  my  will,  and  do 
My  bidding,  it  may  help  thee  to  thy  wishes. 

Man  I  will  not  swear  —  Obey  !  and  whom  ?  the 
spirits 

1  The  philosopher  Jamblicus.     The  story  or  the  raUing 
tT  Erna  and  AJteios  may  be  fnunU  in  liis  life  by  Eunapius. 

II  i>  Wi!ll  Inlil. 


Whose  presence  I  command,  ana  be  the  slave 
Of  those  who  served  me  —  Never ! 

IVach.  Is  this  all  ? 

Hast  thou  no  gentler  answer?- Vet  ^ethiui  thee, 
And  pause  ere  thou  rejectesf. 

Man.  I  have  said  it. 

fVilclt.  Enough  !  I  may  retire  then  —  say  ! 

Man.  Retire' 

[The  IVilch  disappeart. 

Man.  (alone).  We  are  the  fools  of  time  and  terror : 
Days 
Steal  on  us,  and  steal  from  us ;  yet  we  live, 
Loathing  our  life,  and  dreading  still  to  die. 
In  all  the  days  of  this  detested  yoke  — 
This  vital  weight  upon  the  struggling  heart. 
Which  sinks  with  sorrow,  or  beats  quick  with  pain, 
Or  joy  that  ends  in  agony  or  faintness  — 
In  all  the  days  of  past  and  future,  for 
In  life  there  is  no  present,  we  cm  number 
How  few  —  how  less  than  few  —  wherein  the  soul 
Forbears  to  pant  for  deaih,  and^yet  draws  back 
As  from  a  stream  in  winter,  though  the  chill 
Be  but  a  moment's.     I  have  one  resource 
Slill  in  my  science  —  I  can  call  the  dead, 
And  ask  them  what  if  is  we  dread  to  be: 
The  sternest  answer  can  but  be  the  Grave, 
And  that  is  nothing  —  if  they  ansu  er  not  — 
The  buried  Prophet  aoswer'd  to  the  Hag 
Of  Endor  ;  and  the  Spartan  Monarch  drew 
From  the  Byzantine  maid's  unsleeping  spirit 
An  answer  and  his  destiny  —  he  slew 
That  which  he  loved,  unknowing  what  he  slew, 
And  died  unpardon'd  —  though  he  call  d  in  aid 
The  Phyxian  Jove,  and  in  Phigalia  roused 
The  Arcadian  Evocators  to  compel 
The  indignant  shadow  to  depose  her  wrath. 
Or  fix  her  term  of  vengeance  —  she  replied 
In  words  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfilld.  * 
If  1  had  never  lived,  that  which  1  love 
Had  still  been  living ;  had  I  never  loved. 
That  which  I  love  would  still  be  beautiful- 
Happy  and  giving  happiness.     What  is  she  ? 
What  is  she  now?  —  a  sufferer  for  my  sins  — 
A  thing  I  dare  not  think  upon  — or  nothing. 
Within  few  hours  I  shall  not  call  in  vain  — 
Yet  in  this  hour  I  dread  the  thing  I  dare: 
Until  this  hour  I  never  shrunk  to  gaze 
On  spirit,  good  or  evil  —  nosv  I  tremble. 
And  feel  a  strange  cold  thaw  upon  my  heart. 
But  I  can  act  even  what  I  most  abhor. 
And  champion  human  fears. —  The  night  approaches. 
iJBxit. 

SCENE    III. 

The  Summit  of  the  Jungfrau  Mountain. 

Enter  First  Destiny. 

The  moon  is  rising  broad,  and  round,  and  bright; 

And  here  on  snows,  where  never  human  foot 

Of  common  mortal  trod,  we  nightly  tread. 

And  leave  no  traces  :  o'er  Ihe  savage  sea, 

The  glassy  ocean  of  the  mountain  ice. 

We  skim  its  rugged  breakers,  which  put  on 

The  aspect  of  a  fumbling  tempest's  foam, 

Frozen  in  a  moment  —  a'deaJ  whirlpool's  image* 

And  this  most  steep  fantasic  pinnacle. 

The  fretwork  of  some  earthquake  —  where  the  c  Oudi 

Pause  to  repose  themselves  in  pissing  by  — 

Is  sacred  to  our  revels,  or  our  vigils  ; 

Here  do  I  waif  my  sifters,  on  our  way 

To  the  Hall  of  Arimanes,  for  to-night 

Is  our  great  festival  —  't  is  strange  they  come  not. 


I 

2The   story  of  Pausanias,    king  of  Sparta   (who   com 
manded  the  Greeks  at  Ihe  battle  of  Platea,  and  arterwards    I 
perished   for   an    attempt  to   betray  the    LaredemoniUM,} 
and  Cleonice.  ia  told  in  Plutarch'a  life  of  time 
the  Laconica  of  Fausanias  the  sophist,  in  his  < 
of  Greece, 


256 


MANFRED. 


[ActU. 


A  Voice  without,  tinging. 
The  Captive  Usurper, 

Hurl'd  down  from  the  throne, 
Lay  buried  in  torpor, 
Forgotten  and  lone ; 
I  broke  through  his  slumbers, 

I  shivered  his  chain, 
I  leagued  him  with  numbers  — 
He  's  Tyrant  again  ! 
With  the  blood  of  a  million  he'll  answer  my  care, 
With  a  nation's  destruction  —  his  flight  and  despair. 

Seccnd  Vnict,  without. 
The  ship  siil'd  on,  the  ship  sail'd  fast, 
But  I  left  not  a  sail,  and  I  left  not  a  mast ; 
There  is  not  a  plank  of  the  hull  or  the  deck. 
And  there  is  not  a  wretch  to  lament  o'er  his  wreck; 
Save  one,  whom  I  held,  as  he  swam,  by  the  hair, 
And  he  was  a  sutjjecl  well  worthy  my  care; 
A  traitor  on  land,  and  a  pirate  at  sea  — 
But  I  saved  him  to  wreak  further  havoc  for  me ! 

First  Destiny,  answering. 
The  city  lies  sleeping  ; 

The  morn,  to  deplore  it. 
May  dawn  on  it  weeping  : 

Sullenly,  slowly. 
The  black  plague  tie  w  o'er  it  —  * 

Thousands  lie  lowly ; 
Tens  of  thousands  shall  perish  — 

The  living  shall  fly  from 
The  sick  they  should  cherish ; 

But  nothing  can  vanquish 
The  touch  that  they  die  from. 

Sorrow  and  anguish, 
And  evil  and  dread, 

Envelope  a  nation^ 
The  blest  are  the  dead,  ^,,^ 

Who  see  riot  the  sight  <  "^ 

Of  thei*  own  desolation  — 
This  work  of  a  night  — 
This  wreck  of  a  realm  —  this  deed  of  my  doing 
For  ages  I  've  done,  and  shall  still  be  renewing! 

Enter  the  Second  and  Third  Destinies. 

The  Three. 
Our  hands  contain  the  hearts  of  men, 

Our  footsteps  are  their  graves ; 
We  only  give  to  take  again 
The  spirits  of  our  slaves ! 
Firtt  Des.  Welcome  !  —  Where  's  Nemesis? 
Second  Des.  At  some  great  work  ; 

But  what  I  know  not,  for  my  liands  were  fulL 
Third  Des.  Behold  she  cometh. 

Enter  Nemesis, 

First  Des.  Say,  where  hast  thou  been  ? 

My  sisters  and  thyself  are  slow  to-night. 

Nem.  I  was  detain'd  repairing  shatter'd  thiones, 
Marrying  fools,  restoring  dynasties. 
Avenging  men  upon  their  enemies, 
And  making  them  repent  their  own  revenge  ; 
Goading  the  wise  to  madness  ;  from  the  dull 
Shaping  out  oracles  to  rule  the  world 
Afresh,  for  they  were  waxing  out  of  date. 
And  mortals  dared  to  ponder  for  themselves. 
To  weiih  kinzs  in  the  balance,  and  to  speak 
Of  freedom,  the  forbidden  fruit. —  Away  ! 
We  have  outstay'd  the  hour  —  mount  we  our  clouds ! 
[Exeunt, 
SCENE    IV. 

ITie  Ball  of  Arimanes  —  Arimanes  on  hit  Throne,  a 
Glolie  of  Fire,  surrouudid  by  the  Spirits, 
Hymn  of  the  Spirits. 
Hail  to  our  Master  !  —  Prince  of  Eaith  and  Air  ! 

Who  walks  the  clouds  and  waters  —  in  his  hind 
The  sceptre  of  the  elements,  which  tear 
Themselves  to  chaos  at  his  high  command  ! 


He  brealhelh      and  a  tempest  shakes  the  sea  ; 

He  speaketh  —  and  the  clouds  reply  in  thunder; 
He  gazeth  —  Irom  his  glance  Ihesunbeims  flee; 

He  move;h  — earthquakes  rend  the  world  asander. 
Beneath  his  footsteps  tlie  \  olcanoes  rise  ; 

His  shadow  is  the  Pestilence  ;  his  palh 
The  comets  herald  through  the  crackling  skies} 

And  planets  turn  to  ashes  at  his  wrath. 
To  him  War  oflfers  daily  sacrifice  ; 

To  him  Death  pays  his  tribute  ;  Life  is  his, 
With  all  its  infinite  of  agonies  — 

And  his  the  spirit  of  whatever  is  ! 

Enter  the  Destinies  and  Nemais. 

First  Des.  Glory  to  Arimanes!  on  the  earth 
His  power  increaseth  —  both  my  sisters  did 
His  bidding,  nor  did  I  neglect  my  duty ! 

Second  Des.  Glory  to  Arimanes  !  we  who  bovr 
The  necks  of  men,  bow  down  before  his  throne! 

Third  Des.  Glory  to  Arimanes  I  we  await 
His  nod  ! 

Xftm.  Sovereign  of  Sovereigns !  we  are  thine, 
And  all  that  liveth,  more  or  less,  is  ours. 
And  most  things  wholly  so ;  still  to  increase 
Our  power,  increasing  thiiie,  demands  our  care, 
And  we  are  vigilant  —  Thy  late  commands 
Have  been  fulfill'd  to  the  utmost. 

Enter  Manfred. 

A  Spirit.  What  is  here  ? 

A  mortal !  —  Thou  most  rash  and  fatal  wretch, 
Bow  down  and  worship  ! 

Second  Spirit.  I  do  know  the  man  — 

A  Magian  of  great  power,  and  fearful  skill ! 

Third  Spirit.   Bow  dow  n  and   worship,  slave !  — 
What,  know'st  thou  not 
Thine  and  our  Sovereign  ?  —  Tremble,  and  obey  ! 

AlHH^  ^irils.  Prostrate  thyself,  and  thy  condemned 


Child  of  the  Earth  !  or  dread  the  worst. 

Man.  I  know  it ; 

And  yet  ye  see  I  kneel  not. 
Foutth  Spirit,  'T  will  be  taught  thee. 

Man.  'T  is  taught  already  ;  —  many  a  night  on  the 
earth. 
On  the  bare  ground,  have  I  bow'd  down  my  face. 
And  strew'd  my  head  with  ashes  ;  I  have  known 
The  fulness  of  humiliation,  for 
I  sunk  before  my  vnin  despair,  and  knelt 
To  my  own  desolation. 

Fifth  Spirit.  Dost  thou  dare 

Refuse  to  Arimanes  on  his  throne 
What  the  whole  earth  accords,  beholding  not 
The  terror  of  his  Glory?  —  Crouch  1  I  say. 

Mil  ji.  Bid  him  bow  down  to  that  which  is  above  him, 
The  overruling  Infinite  —  the  Maker 
Who  made  him  not  for  worship  —  let  him  kneel, 
And  we  will  kneel  together. 

The  Spirits.  Crush  the  worm  ! 

Tear  him  in  pieces  !  — 

First  Des.  Hence  !  Avaunt !  —  he 's  mita, 

Prince  of  the  Powers  invisible  !     This  man 
Is  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 
And  presence  here  denote  ;  his  sufferings 
Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 
Our  own  ;  his  knowledge,  and  his  powers  and  will^ 
As  fir  as  is  compatible  with  clay. 
Which  clogs  the  ethereal  essence,  have  been  such 
As  clav  haih  seldom  borne  ;  his  aspirations 
Have  been  beyond  the  dwellers  of  the  earth, 
And  they  have  only  taught  him  what  we  know  — 
I  That  knowledge  is  not  happiness,  and  science 
But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that 
VVhicli  is  another  kind  of  ignorance. 
This  is  not  all  —  the  passions,  attributes 
;  Of  earth  and  heaven,  from  which  no  power,  nor  heiog, 
I  Nor  breath  from  the  worm  upwards  is  exempt, 
;  Have  pierced  his  heart ;  and  in  their 
,  Made  him  a  thing,  which  I,  who  pity  not 
j  Yet  pardon  those  who  pity.     He  is  mice, 
1  And  thine,  it  may  be  —  be  it  »o,  or  not, 


I  Scene  IV.] 


MANFRED, 


257 


No  other  Spirit  in  this  region  hath 
A  soul  like  his  —  or  poi\  ir  upon  his  soul. 
A'cm.  What  dolh  be  here  Ihen  ? 
First  Del.  Let  him  answer  that. 

Man.  Ve  know  what  I  have  knosvu ;  and  without 
power 
I  could  not  be  amongst  ye :  but  there  are 
Powers  deeper  still  beyond  —  I  come  in  quest 
Of  such,  to  answer  uuto  what  1  seek. 
Ntm.  What  would'st  thou  •■ 

Man.  Thou  canst  not  reply  to  me. 

Call  up  the  dead—  my  question  is  for  thein. 

Ntm.  Great  Arinianes,  doth  thy  will  avouch 
The  wishes  of  this  mortal  ? 
Ari.  Yea, 

Ntm.  Whom  would'st  thou 

Uncharne!  ? 

Man.  One  without  a  tomb  —  call  up 

Astarte. 

Ntmtsis. 
Shadow  !  or  Spirit '. 

Whatever  thiu  art, 
Which  still  dolh  inherit 

The  whole  or  a  pirt 
Of  the  form  of  thy  birth. 

Of  the  mould  of  thy  clay, 
Which  returu'd  to  the  earth, 

Re-appeir  to  the  day  ! 
Bear  whit  ihnu  borest, 

The  heart  and  the  form, 

And  the  aspect  thou  worest 

Redeem  from  the  worm. 

Appear  I  —  Appear  !  —  Appear ! 

Who  sent  thee  there  requires  thee  here  ! 

{Ttie  Phantom  of  Aitartt  ruts  and 
stands  in  the  inidsl. 
Man.  Can  this  be  death?  there's  bloouoa  JaOBbher 
cheek ;  '^^    ^' 

But  now  I  see  it  is  no  living  hue, 
But  a  strange  hectic  — like  the  unnatural  red 
Which  Autumn  plants  upon  the  perish'd  leaf. 
It  is  the  same  !  Oh,  God  !  that  1  should  dre.ad 
To  look  upon  the  same  —  Astarte  I  —  No, 
I  cannot  speak  to  her —  but  bid  her  speak  — 
Forgive  me  or  condemn  me. 

By  the  power  which  ha'h  broken 

The  Krave  which  enthrali'd  thee, 
Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken, 
Or  those  who  have  call'd  theel 

Man.  She  is  silent, 

And  in  that  silence  I  am  more  thm  answer'd, 

Nem.  My  power  extends  no  fwrlher.    Prince  of  Air! 
It  rests  with  thee  alone  I  —  commaud  her  voice. 

Ari.  Spirit  —  obey  this  sceptre  ! 

Nem.  '  Silent  still ' 

She  is  not  of  our  order,  but  belonjs 
To  the  other  powers.    Mort\l !  thy  quest  is  vain, 
And  we  are  baffled  also. 

Man.  Hear  me,  hear  me  — 

Astarte  I  my  beloved  !  speak  to  me  : 
I  have  so  much  endured  —  so  much  endure  — 
Look  on  me  !  the  srrave  hath  not  changed  thee  more 
Than  I  am  changed  for  thee.     Thou  Ijvedst  me 
Too  much,  as  I  loved  thee:  we  were  npt  made 
To  torture  thus  eich  other,  though  it  were 
The  deadliest  sin  to  love  as  we  hive  loved. 
Say  that  thou  loath'st  me  not  —  thit  I  do  bear 
This  punishment  for  both  —  that  thou  wilt  be 
One  of  the  blessed  —  and  that  I  shall  die  j 
Vdt  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 
To  bind  me  in  existence  —  in  a  life 
Which  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality  — 
A  future  like  the  pas'.     1  cannot  rest. 
I  know  not  what  I  ask.  nor  what  I  seek : 
I  (eel  but  what  thou  art  —  and  what  1  am  ; 
And  I  would  hear  yet  once  before  I  perish 
The  \-oice  which  was  my  music —  Speak  to  me ! 
r  Dr  I  have  call'd  on  thee  in  the  still  night, 


Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from  the  Iiush'd  boughi, 
And  unke  the  mountain  wolves,  and  made  the  cate* 
Acquainted  »vilh  thy  vainly  echoed  name, 
VVhich  answer'd  nje  —  many  things  answer'd  mc  — 
Spirits  and  men  —  but  thou  wen  silent  all. 
Yet  speak  to  me  !  I  have  oulwatch'd  the  stars. 
And  gazed  o  er  he:tveu  in  vain  in  search  of  the«5. 
Speak  to  nie  I    I  have  wai.der'd  o'er  the  earth, 
And  never  found  ihy  likeness—  Speak  to  me  1 
Look  on  the  fiends  around  —  they  feel  for  me  : 
I  fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone  — 
Speak  to  me  !  thouzh  it  be  in  wralh  ;  — but  say — 
I  reck  not  what  — but  let  me  hear  thee  once  — 
This  once  —  once  more  ! 

Phantom  of  Astarte.     Manfred  I 

Ma7i.  Say  on,  say  on  — 

I  live  but  in  the  sound  —  it  is  thy  voice  ! 

Phan.  Manfred!  To-morrow  ends  thine  earthly  ilU. 
Farewell  ! 

Man.  Vet  one  word  more  —  am  I  forgiven? 

Phan.  Farewell! 

Man.  Say,  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

Phan.  Farewell  ! 

Man.  One  word  for  mercy  !  Say,  thou  lovest  me. 

Phan.  Manfred  ! 

\The  Spirit  of  Astarte  disappeari. 

Nem.-*  i~'        She's  gone,  and  will  not  be  reraU'd; 
Her  words  will  be  fulfiw;    Return  to  the  earth. 

A  Spirit,  rieis  convulseif -—  This  is  to  be  a  mortal 
And  seek  Ihe  things  beyond  mortality. 

Another  Spirit.  Yet,  see,  he  mastereth  himself,  and 
makes 
His  torture  tributary  to  his  will. 
Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have  made 
An  awful  spirit. 

Nem.  Has'  thou  further  question 

Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worshippers  ? 

Mvi-  None. 

Nmgf '  Then  for  a  lime  OrBwell. 

St^.  We  meet  then  !    Where  V    On  the  earth  ?— 
Even  as  thou  wilt :  and  for  the  grace  accorded 
I  now  depart  a  debtor.    Fare  ye  well ! 

lExit  ManfnL 
{Scan  doses.) 


ACT  III. 


A  Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred. 
Manfred  and  Herman. 

Man.  What  is  the  hour  ? 

Htr.  It  wants  but  one  till  suowt, 

And  promises  a  lovely  twilight. 

Man.  Say, 

Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  tower 
As  I  directed  ? 

Her.  All,  my  lord,  are  ready  : 

Here  is  the  key  and  casket. 

Man.  It  is  well : 

Thou  may'st  retire.  [Exit  Bermsn. 

Man.  (nlrme).        There  is  a  calm  upon  me  — 
Inexplicable  stillness  !  which  till  now 
Did  not  belong  to  what  I  knew  of  life. 
If  that  I  did  not  know  philosophy 
To  be  of  all  our  vanities  the  motliesf. 
The  merest  word  thit  ever  fool'd  the  ear 
From  out  the  schoolman's  jargon,  I  should  deem 
The  golden  secret,  the  sought  "  Kalon,"  found. 
And  seated  in  my  soul.     It  will  not  last, 
But  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though  but  once: 
It  hath  enlarged  my  thouehts  with  a  new  sense, 
And  I  within  my  tablets  would  note  down 
That  there  is  such  a  feeling.    Who  is  there? 

Re-enter  Herman. 
Her.  My  lord,  the  abbot  of  St.  JNIaurice  cnvH 
To  greet  your  presence. 


22* 


17 


258 


MANFRED. 


[Act  III. 


Enter  the  Allot  of  St.  Maurice. 

Abbot.  Peace  be  with  Count  M  mfred  ! 

jtfan.  Thanks,  holy  father  :  weic  >aie  to  these  walls  ; 
Thy  presence  lionouis  them,  and  bleaselh  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

Aboot.  Would  it  were  so,  Count !  — 

But  I  would  fain  confer  with  thee  alone. 

Ma7i.  Herman,  retire. — What  would  my  reverend 
guest  ? 

Abbot.  Thus,  without  prelude  :  —  Age  and  zeal,  my 
office, 
And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  privilege; 
Our  near,  though  not  acquainted  neighbourhood, 
May  also  be  my  herald.     Rumours  strange, 
And  of  unholy  nature,  are  abroad. 
And  busy  with  thy  name  ;  a  noble  name 
For  centuries:  may  he  who  bears  it  irow 
Transmit  it  unimpair'd ! 

Man.  Proceed, —  I  listen. 

Abbot.  'T  is  said  thou  holdest  converse  with  the 
things 
Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  of  man  ; 
That  with  the  dwellers  of  the  dirk  abodes, 
The  many  evil  and  uiiheavenly  spirits 
Which  walk  the  valley  of  the  shade  of  death, 
Thou  communest.     1  know  that  with  mankind, 
Thy  fellows  in  creation,  thou  dost  rarely 
Exchange  thy  thoughts,  and  that  thy  solitude 
Is  as  an  anchorite's,  were  it  but  holy. 

Man.  And   what  are  they  who  do  avouch  these 
things? 

Abbot.  My  pious  brethren  — the  scared  peasantry  — 
Even  thy  own  vassals  —  who  do  look  on  thee 
With  most  unquiet  eyes.     Thy  life's  in  peril. 

Man.  Take  it. 

Abbot.  I  come  to  save,  and  not  destroy  — 

I  would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  soul ; 
But  if  these  things  be  sooth,  there  still  is  time 
For  penitence  and  pity  :  reconcile  thee 
With  the  true  church,  and  through   the   church  to 
heaven. 

Man.  I  hear  thee.     This  is  my  reply  :  whate'er 
I  may  have  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  be' ween 
Heaven  and  myself.—  I  shall  not  choose  a  mortal 
To  be  my  mediator.     Have  I  sinn'd 
Against  your  ordinances  ?  prove  and  punish  ! 

Abbot.  My  son  !  I  did  not  speak  of  punishment. 
But  penitence  and  pardon  ;  —  with  thyself 
The  choice  of  such  remains  —  and  for  the  last. 
Our  institutions  and  our  strong  belief 
Have  given  me  power  to  smooth  the  path  from  sin 
To  higher  hope  and  better  thoughts  ;  the  first 
1  leave  to  heaven, —  '•  Vengeance  is  mine  alone  !  " 
So  saith  the  Lord,  and  with  all  humbleness 
His  servant  echoes  back  the  awful  word. 

Man.  Old  man  !  there  is  no  power  in  holy  men. 
Nor  charm  in  pnyer  —  nor  purifying  form 
Of  penitence— nor  outward  look  — nor  fast  — 
Nor  agony  —  nor,  greater  than  all  these, 
The  innate  tortures  of  that  deep  despair. 
Which  is  remorse  without  the  fear  of  hell. 
But  all  in  all  sufficient  to  itself 
Would  make  a  hell  of  heaven—  can  e.\orcise 
From  out  the  unbounded  spirit  the  quick  sense 
Of  its  own  sins,  wrongs,  sufferance,  and  revenge 
Upon  itself;  there  is  no  future  pang 
Can  deal  that  justice  on  the  self-condemn'd 
He  deals  on  his  own  soul. 

Abbot.  All  this  is  well ; 

For  this  will  pass  away,  and  be  succeeded 
By  an  auspicious  hope,  which  shall  look  up 
Wiih  calm  assurance  to  that  blessed  place. 
Which  all  who  seek  may  win,  whatever  be 
Their  earthly  errors,  so  they  be  atoned  : 
Atrd  the  commencement  of  atonement  is 
The  sense  of  its  necessity. —  Say  on  — 
And  all  our  church  can  teach  thee  shall  be  taught ; 
▲od  all  we  can  absolve  thee  shall  be  pardon'd. 


Man.  When  Rorae's  sixth  emperor*  was  near  hit 

last, 
The  victim  of  a  self- inflicted  wound. 
To  shun  the  tormeuis  of  a  public  death 
From  senates  once  his  slaves,  a  certain  soldier, 
With  show  of  loyal  pity,  would  have  s'anchd 
The  gushing  throat  with  his  officious  robe  ; 
The  dying  Roman  thrust  him  back,  and  said  — 
Some  empire  still  in  his  expiririg  glance  — 
"  It  is  too  late  —  is  this  fidelity  ?  " 

Aibut.  And  what  of  this? 

Man.  I  answer  with  the  Roman  — 

"  It  is  too  la'e  !  " 

Abbot.  It  never  can  be  so, 

To  reconcile  thyself  with  thy  own  soul. 
And  thy  own  soul  with  heaven.     Hast  thou  no  hope? 
'T  is  strange  —  even  those  who  do  despair  above. 
Yet  shape  themseKes  some  fantasy  on  earth. 
To  w  hich  frail  twig  they  cling,  like  drowning  men. 

Man.    Ay  —  father !     I    have    had    those   eartWy 
visions, 
And  noble  aspirations  in  my  youth. 
To  make  my  own  the  mind  of  other  men. 
The  eniightener  of  nations  ;  and  to  rise 
I  knew  not  whither  —  it  might  be  to  fall ; 
But  fall,  even  as  the  mountain-cataract, 
Which  having  leapt  from  its  more  dazzling  height, 
Even  in  the  foaming  strength  of  i;s  abyss, 
(Which  casts  up  niisty  columns  that  become 
Clouds  raining  from  the  re-ascended  skies,) 
Lies  low  but  mighty  slill.—  But  this  is  past, 
My  thoughts  mis.ook  themselves. 

Abbot.  And  wherefore  so  ? 

Man.  I  could  not  tame  my  nature  down  ;  for  he 
Must  serve  who  fain  would  'sway  —  and  soothe  — and 

sue  — 
And  wa'ch  all  time  — and  pry  into  all  place  — 
And  be  a  living  lie  —  who  would  become 
A  mighty  thing  anjongst  the  mean,  and  such 
The  mass  are ;  I  disdain'd  lo  mingle  with 
A  herd,  though  to  be  leader — and  of  wolves. 
The  lion  is  alone,  and  so  am  I. 

Abbot.  And  why  not  live  and  act  with  other  men  ? 

Man.  Because  my  nature  was  averse  from  life; 
And  yet  not  cruel ;  for  I  would  not  make. 
But  find  a  desol  ition  :  —  like  the  wind. 
The  red-h  >t  breath  of  the  most  lone  simoom. 
Which  dwells  but  in  the  desert,  and  sweeps  o'er 
The  barren  sands  which  bear  no  shrubs  to  bla»t, 
And  revels  o'er  their  wild  and  arid  waves. 
And  seekelh  not,  so  that  it  is  not  sought. 
But  being  met  is  deadly  ;  such  hath  been 
The  course  of  my  existence;  but  there  came 
Things  in  my  path  which  are  no  more. 

Abbot.  Alas! 

I  'gin  to  fear  that  thou  art  past  all  aid 
From  me  and  from  my  calling  ;  yet  so  young, 
I  slill  would  — 

Man.  Look  on  me !  there  is  an  order 

Of  mortals  on  the  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in  their  youth,  and  die  ere  middle  age. 
Without  the  violence  of  warlike  death  ; 
Some  perishing  of  pleasure  —  some  of  study  — 
Some  worn  with  toil  — some  of  mere  wearineM— 
Some  of  disease— and  some  insanity  — 
And  some  of  wither'd,  or  of  broken  hearts; 
For  this  last  is  a  malady  which  slays 
More  than  are  number'a  in  the  lis  s  of  Fate, 
Taking  all  sha|  es,  and  bearing  many  names. 
Look  upon  me!  for  even  of  all  these  things 
Havel  partaken  ;  and  of  all  these  things. 
One  were  enoujh  ;  then  wonder  not  that  I 
Am  what  I  am,~but  that  I  ever  was. 
Or  having  been,  that  I  am  still  on  earth. 


1  O'ho,  being  defeated  in  a  general  engagement  near 
BrUellum,  stabbed  himeelf.  Plutarch  says,  tt-.at.  though 
he  lived  full  as  badly  as  Neni,  hia  last  momenta  were 
those  of  a  philosopher.     Martial  says  :  — 

"  Sit  Cato,  dum  vivil,  sane  vel  Cesare  major, 

Dum  moritur,  oumquid  major  Othonc  (alH  "-"■• 


Scene  II.] 


MANFRED. 


259 


Abbot.  Ye'.,  hear  me  still 

Man.  Old  man  !  I  do  respect 

Tbiue  order,  and  revere  lliy  years  ;  I  deem 
Thy  purpo.«e  pious,  but  it  is  in  vain  : 
'J'liink  nie  not  churlish  ;  I  wnuld  spare  thyself, 
Fat  more  Iban  me,  in  shunning  at  this  !inie 
All  further  colloquy—  and  ao  —  farewell. 

[Exit  Manfrid. 

Abbot.  This  should  have  been  a  noble  creature  :  he 
Hatli  all  the  energy  wbich  would  have  made 
A  go  idly  fi-ame  of  glorious  elements, 
Had  they  been  wisely  mingled  ;  as  it  i-, 
It  IS  an  awful  chaos  — light  and  darkness  — 
And  mind  and  dust  — and  passions  and  pure  tbougbis 
Mix'd,  and  conleiiding  without  end  or  order, 
All  dormant  or  destructive:  he  will  peiish. 
And  yet  he  must  not ;  1  will  try  once  more. 
For  such  are  wonh  redemption  ;  and  my  duty, 
Is  to  dare  all  things  for  a  righteous  end. 
I  '11  follow  him  —  but  cautiously,  though  surely. 

lExit  Abbot. 

SCENE    II. 

Anotha-  Chamber. 

Manfred  and  .Herman. 

HiT.  My  lord,  you  bade  nie  wait  on  you  at  sunset; 
He  sinks  behind  the  mountain. 

Man.  Doth  he  so  ? 

I  will  look  on  him. 

IMaufrtd  advances  to  the  Window  of  the  Hall. 
Glorious  Orb  !  the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  vigorous  race 
Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  giant  sons  > 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  they,  which  did  draw  down 
The  erring  spirits  who  can  ne'er  return. — 
Most  gloiious  orb  !  that  wert  a  worship,  ere 
The  mys;ery  of  thy  making  was  revcil'd  ! 
Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Almighty, 
Which  gbdden'd,  on  their  mountain  tops,  the  hearts 
Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  till  they  pour'd 
Themselves  in  orisons  I     Thou  material  God  I 
And  representative  of  the  Unknown  — 
Who  chose  thee  for  his  shadow  '.    Thou  chief  star  \ 
Centre  of  many  stars  !  which  mik'st  our  earth 
Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 
And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  within  thy  rays! 
Sire  of  the  seisons '.  Monarch  of  the  climes. 
And  those  who  dwell  in  them  !  for  near  or  far, 
Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee 
Even  as  our  outuard  aspects  ;  —  thou  dost  rise, 
Aud  shine,  and  set  in  glory.     Fare  thee  well ! 
I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.     As  my  first  glance 
Of  love  and  wonder  was  f.>r  thee,  then  take 
My  latest  look  :  'hou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 
To  whom  the  sifts  of  life  and  warmth  have  been 
Of  a  more  fatal  uatuie.    He  is  gone : 
I  follow.  [Exit  Manfred. 

SCENE    III. 

The  Motintains  —  Tne  Castle  of  Manfred  at  lome 
distance  —  A  Terrace  before  a  Tower. —  Time,  Twi- 
light. 

Herman,  Manuel,  and  ether  Dependants  of  Manfred. 
Her.  'Tis  strange  enough;  night  after  night,  for 
years. 

He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower. 

Without  a  witness.     I  have  been  within  i*, — 

So  have  we  all  been  ofl  limes;  but  from  it, 

Or  its  content-;,  it  were  impossible 

To  draw  conclusions  absolute,  of  aught 


1 "'  And  it  came  to  pass,  (hat  the  Sons  of  Ood  saw  th» 
daughters  of  men,  Ihat  they  were  fair,"  A-c— "There 
were  giants  in  I  he  earlh  in  those  days;  and  also  after  that, 
when  the  Som  of  Ood  lame  in  unlu  the  daughters  of  meu, 
and  they  bare  children  to  them,  the  same  became  mighty 
men  which  were  of  old,  men  of  renown."— Geneiii,  ch. 
*i.  verses  2  aud  4. 


His  s'udies  lend  to.     To  be  sure,  there  is 
One  ch  imber  where  none  enter  :  I  would  give 
'J  he  lee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these  three  years, 
,  'Jo  pore  upon  its  mysteries. 

Manuel.  '  'T  were  dangerous ; 

Content  thyself  with  what  thou  knovv'st  already. 

Htr.  Ah  !  Manuel  !  thou  ait  elderly  and  wise. 
And  could'st  say  much ;  thou   ha=t  dwelt   within  the 

castle  — 
How  many  ytais  is 'I? 
I      Mauiiet.  Ere  Count  Manfred's  birtb, 

,  I  served  his  father,  whom  he  nought  resenibles. 
!      Htr.  Theie  be  more  sons  in  like  predicament. 
But  wherein  do  they  diHer? 
j      Manuel.  I  speak  not 

Of  fe.-iSuies  or  of  form,  but  niind  and  habits; 
I  Count  Sigismund  was  proud, —  but  gay  and  free,— . 
I  A  wariior  and  a  reveller  ;  he  duell  not 
I  With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  night 
'  A  gloomy  vigil,  but  a  festal  time. 
Merrier  than  day ;  he  did  not  walk  the  rocks 
j  And  forests  like  a  wolf,  nor  turn  aside 
From  men  and  their  delights. 

Her.  Beshrew  the  hour, 

But  those  were  jocund  times !  I  would  that  such 
Would  visit  the  old  walls  again  ;  they  look 
As  if  they  had  forgotten  them. 

Mai.iiel.  The-e  walls 

Must  change  their  chieftain  first.     Oh  !  I  have  seen 
Some  strange  things  in  them,  Herman  ! 

Hir.  Come,  be  friendly ; 

Relate  me  some  to  while  away  our  watch  : 
I  've  heard  thee  darkly  speok  of  an  event 
Which  happeii'd  hereabouts,  by  this  same  tower. 

Mainiel.  That  was  a  night  indeed  1  I  do  lemember 
'T  v\as  twiligb*,  as  it  may  "be  now,  and  such 
Another  evening  ;  — yon' red  cloud,  which  rests 
On  Eighei's  pinnacle,  so  res'ed  then, — 
So  like  that  it  might  be  the  same  ;  the  wind 
Was  faint  and  gusty,  and  ihe  mountain  snows 
Began  to  glitter  with  the  climbing  moon  ; 
Count  Manfred  was,  as  now,  within  his  toner,— 
How  occupied,  we  knew  not,  but  with  him 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
And  watchings  —  her,  whom  of  all  earthly  things 
That  lived,  the  only  thing  he  seen.'d  to  love, — 
As  he,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do, 

The  lady  Astarle,  his 

Hi;sh  !  w  ho  comes  here  ? 
ErUer  the  Abbot. 

Abbot.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Htr.  Yonder  in  the  lower. 

Abbot.  I  must  speak  with  him. 

Manuel.  'T  is  impossible  J 

He  is  most  private,  and  must  not  be  thus 
Intruded  on. 

Abbot.  Upon  myself  I  take 

The  forfeit  rf  my  fault,'  if  fault  there  be  — 
But  I  must  see  him. 

Her.  Thou  hast  seen  him  once 

This  eve  already. 

.ibbot.  '    Herman !  I  command  thee. 

Knock,  and  apprize  the  Count  of  my  approach. 

Her.  We  dai  e  not. 

Abbot.  Then  it  seems  I  must  be  herald 

Of  my  own  purpose. 

Manuel.  Reverend  father,  stop  — 

I  pray  vou  pause. 

Abb6t.  Why  so? 

Manual.  But  step  this  way, 

And  I  will  tell  you  further.  [Exeunt 

SCENE    IV. 
Interior  of  the  Tower, 
Manfred  alone. 
The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  lops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains.  —  Beautiful  1 


260 


MANFRED. 


[Act  III. 


Than  that  of  man ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 

0(  dim  and  soliUrj-  loveliness, 

I  learn'd  tne  language  of  annher  world. 

I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 

When  I  was  wandering,  —  upon  such  a  night 

I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 

'Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome. 

The  tree?  which  grew  along  the  brohen  arches 

Waved  dark  in  the  blue  mi'Jnighl,  and  the  stars 

Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 

The  walch-dog  bay"d  beyond  the  Tiber  ;  and 

More  near  from  out  the  Ciesira'  pahce  came 

The  owl's  long  cry,  and.  interruptedly, 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  filful  song 

Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 

Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 

Wiihin  a  bowshot  — Where  the  Caesirs  dwelt, 

And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 

A  grove  which  springs  through  levell'd  battlements. 

And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  ^ro«  th  ;  — 

But  the  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 

A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection  ! 

While  Ccsir's  chambers  and  the  Augustan  halls. 

Grovel  on  eirth  in  indistinct  decay. — 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling"  moon,  upon 

All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 

Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 

Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up. 

As  't  were  anew,  the  gnps  of  centuries  ; 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  slill  was  so. 

And  miking  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 

Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 

With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  I  — 

The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  stil!  rule 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns. — 

'T  wa?  such  a  night ! 
'T  IS  strange  that  F  recill  it  at  this  time; 
But  I  have'  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Themselves  iu  pensive  order. 

Enter  the  AIM. 

Abbot.  My  good  lord  ! 

I  crave  a  second  grace  for  this  approach  ; 
But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  olFend 
By  its  abruptness  — all  it  hath  of  ill 
Recoils  on  me  ;  its  good  in  the  effect 
May  light  upon  your  head  —  could  I  say  heart  — 
Could  1  touch  that,  with  words  or  prayers,  I  should 
Recall  a  noble  spirit  which  hath  wander'd  ; 
But  is  not  yet  all  lost. 

Man.  Thou  knoiv'st  me  not; 

My  days  are  Duniber"d,  and  my  deeds  recorded  : 
Retire,  or  't  will  be  dangerous  —  Away  1 

Abbot.  Thou  dost  not  mean  to  menace  me  ? 

Man.  Not  I ; 

I  simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand. 
And  would  preserve  thee. 

Abbot.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

Man.  Look  there ! 

What  dost  thou  see  ? 

Abbot.  Nothing. 

Man.  Look  there  I  siy. 

And  steadfastly  ;  —now  tell  me  what  thou  seest  ? 

Abbot.  That  which  should  shake  me, —  but  I  fear  it 
not  — 
I  see  a  dusk  and  awful  figure  rise, 
Like  an  infernal  god,  from  out  the  earth ; 
His  face  wrapt  in  a  mantle,  and  his  form 
Robed  as  with  angry  clouds  :  he  stands  between 
Thyself  and  me  — but  I  do  fear  him  not. 

Man.  Thou   hast   uo  cause — he  shall    not   harm 
thee  —  but 
His  sigh'  may  shock  thine  old  limbs  into  palsy. 
I  siy  to  thee  —  Retire  ! 

Abbot.  And  I  reply  — 

Never  —  till  I  have  battled  with  this  fiend  :  — 
■What  dolh  he  here? 


Man.  Why  —  ay  —  what  drib  be  bete?— 

I  did  not  send  for  him",—  he  is  unbidden. 
Abbot.  Alas !   lost  mortal  '.  what  with  guests  lika 
these 
Hast  thou  to  do  ?  I  tremble  for  thy  sake : 
Why  doth  he  gaze  on  ihee,  and  thou  on  him  ? 
Ah  :'  he  unveils  his  aspect :  on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven  ;  from  his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell  — 
Avaunt !  — 

Man.  Pronounce  —  what  is  thy  mission  ? 
Spirit.  Come ! 

Abbot.  What  art  thou,  unknown  being  ?  answer  I  — 

speak  : 
Spirit.  The  genius  of  this  mortal. —  Come!  't    it 

time.  I 

Man.  I  am  prepared  for  all  thing?,  but  deny  | 

The    power  « hich  summons  me.     Who  sent  thee  | 
here  ? 
Spirit.  Thou  It  know  anon  —  Come  1  come  ! 
Man.  I  hive  cjmmanded 

Things  of  an  essence  greater  far  than  thine. 
And  striven  with  thy  masters.     Get  thee  hence  ! 
Spirit.  Mortal  '.  thine  hour  is  come  —  Away  !  1  say. 
Man.  I  knew,  and  know  my  hour  is  come,  but  not 
To  render  up  my  soul  to  such  as  thee  : 
Away  1  I  'II  die  as  I  have  lived  —  alone. 
I     Spirit.  Then  I  must  summon  up  my  brethren. — 
Rise  I  [Other  S'pirtts  rise  tip, 

I     Abbot    Avaunt !  ye  evil  ones!  —  Avaunt !  I  say, — 
Ye  have  no  po.ver  whe^e  piety  hath  power, 

And  I  do  charge  ye  in  the  name 

Spirit.  Old  man ! 

We  know  ourselves,  our  mission,  and  thine  order; 
Waste  not  thy  holy  woids  on  idle  uses, 
It  were  in  vain  :  this  man  is  forfeited. 
Once  more  I  summon  him  —  Away  !  Away! 
Man.  I  do  defy  ye,— though  I  feel  my  soul 
Is  ebbing  from  me,'  yet  I  do  defy  ye  ; 
Nor  will  I  hence,  while  I  have  earthly  breath 
j  To  breathe  my  scorn  upon  ye  —  earthly  strength 
I  To  wrestle,  thoujh  with  spirits;  what  ye  take 
Shall  be  ta'en  limb  bv  limb. 
I     Spirit.  '  Reluctant  mortal! 

Is  this  the  Masian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  world  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal  ?  —  Can  it  be  that  thou 
I  Alt  thus  in  love  with  life?  the  very  life 
I  Which  made  thee  wretched  1 

I     Man.  Thou  false  fiend,  thou  lint 

;  My  life  is  in  its  last  hour,—  that  I  know. 
Nor  would  redeem  a  moment  of  that  hour; 
I  do  not  combat  against  death,  but  Ihee 
And  thy  surrounding  angels  ;  my  past  power 
VVas  purchased  by  no  compact  with  thy  crew, 
But  by  superior  science —  penance  —  daring  — 
And  length  of   watching  —  stiength  of   mind  —  and 

skill 
In  knowledge  of  our  fathers  —  when  the  earth 
Saw  men  and  >pirils  walking  side  by  side. 
And  gave  ye  no  supremacy  :  I  stand 
Upon  my  strenzlh  —  I  do  defy  —  deny  — 
Spurn  back,  and  scorn  ye  !  — 
I      Spirit.  But  thy  many  crimes 

Have  m.ade  thee 

Man.  What  are  they  to  such  as  thee  ? 

Must  crimes  be  punish 'd  but  by  other  crimes. 
And  greater  criminals? —  Back  to  thy  hell ! 
Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I'feel ; 
.  Thou  never  shall  possess  me,  that  I  know  : 
:  What  I  have  done  is  done  ;  I  hear  wiihin 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine- 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts  — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end  — 
'  And  its  own  place  and  lime  —  its  innate  senae^ 
;  When  stripp'd  of  this  moriality,  derives 
No  colour  from  t>ie  flee'ing  things  without; 
But  is  absorb'd  in  suHerance  or  in  joy, 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


s;i 


Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert. 

^^{m  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  not  tempt 

me; 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prev  — 
But  was  my  own  desiroyer,  .md  will  be 
My  own  herealter. —  Back,  ye  bathed  fiends'. 
The  band  of  death  is  on  nje —  but  not  yours  ! 

[Tilt  Demons  disappear. 
Abbot.  Alas!    how  pale   thou    art— thy  lips   are 
while  — 
And  thy  breast  heaves  —  and  in  thy  gasping  throat 
The  accents  rattle  —  Give  thy  prayers  to  heaven  — 


Pray  —  albeit  but  in  thought, —  but  die  not  thus. 

Man.  'T  is  over—  my  dull  eyes  can  fix  thee  cot  j 
But  all  things  swim  around  me,'and  the  earth 
Heaves  as  it  were  beneath  me.     Fare  thee  well  — 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Abbot.  Cold — cold  —  even  to  the  heart  — 

But  yet  one  prayer —  Alas  I  how  fares  it  with  thee? 

Man.  Old  man  !  't  is  not  so  difficult  to  die. 

[Ma7ijred  expires. 

Abbot.  He's  gone —  his  soul  hath  ta'eu  its  eartbless 
flight — 
Whither?  I  dread  to  think  —  but  he  is  gone. 


MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE  OF  VENICE; 

AN  HISTORICAL    TRAGEDY, 
IN    FIVE    ACTS.' 


"Dux  inquieti  turbidus  Adriae."— HORACE. 


PREFACE. 


The  conspiracy  of  the  Doge  Marino  Faliero  is  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  events  in  the  annals  of  the 
most  singular  government,  city,  and  people  of  modern 
history.  It  occurred  in  Ihe  year  1335.  Every  thing 
about  Venice  is,  or  was,  extr.iordinary  —  her  aspect  is 
like  a  dream,  and  her  history  is  like  a  romance.  The 
story  of  this  l)nge  is  to  be  found  in  all  her  Chronicles, 
and  particularly  derailed  in  the  "Lives  of  the  Doges," 
by  Marin  Sanuto,  which  is  given  in  the  Appendix.  It 
is  simply  and  clearly  related,  and  is  perhaps  more  dra- 
niali;  in  itself  than  any  scenes  which  can  be  founded 
upon  the  subject. 

Merino  Faliero  appeirs  to  have  been  a  man  of 
talents  and  of  courage.  I  find  him  commander-in-chief 
of  Ihe  land  forces  at  the  siege  of  Zara,  w  here  he  beat 
the  King  of  Hungary  and  his  army  of  eighty  thousand 
men,  killing  eight  thousand  men, "and  keeping  the  be- 
sieged at  the  saiiie  time  in  check  ;  an  exploit  fo  which 
I  know  none  similar  in  history,  except  that  of  Cxsar 
at  Altsia,  and  of  Prince  Eugene  at  Belgrade.  He  was 
afterwards  commander  of  the  deet  in  the  same  war. 
He  took  Capo  d'Istria.  He  was  ambassador  at  Getioa 
and  Rome, —  at  which  la^t  he  received  the  news  of  his 
election  to  the  dukertom  ;  his  absence  being  a  proof 
that  he  sought  it  by  no  intrigue,  since  he  was  apprized 
of  his  predecessor's  death  and  his  own  succession  at 
the  same  moment.  But  he  appears  to  have  been  of  an 
ungovern.>ble  temper.  A  story  is  told  by  Sanuto,  of 
his  having,  many  years  before,  w  hen  podes'a  and  cnp- 
tain  at  Treviso,  boxed  the  ears  of  the  bishop,  who  was 
somewhat  tardy  in  bringing  the  Host.  For  this,  honest 
Sanuto  "saddles  him  with  a  judsmen',''  asThwackum 
did  Square;  but  he  does  not  lell  us  whether  he  was 
punisheJ  or  rebuked  by  the  Senate  for  this  ou'rage  at 
the  lime  of  its  commission.  He  seems,  indeed,  to 
have  been  alterwards  at  peace  w  ilh  Ihe  church,  for  we 
find  liini  amhissidor  at  Rome,  and  invested  with  Ihe 
fief  of  Val  di  Marino,  in  Ihe  march  of  Treviso,  and 
with  Ihe  title  of  count,  by  Lorenzo  Cm -'.it-bishop  of 
Ceneda  For  these  fac's  my  auihorilies  are  Sanulo, 
Veltor  Sandi,  Andrei  Navaiero,  and  the  account  of  the 
siege  of  Zara,  first  published  by  the  indefatigable  Abate 


lOn  Ihe  original  MS.  sent  from  R.ivenna,  Lord  Byrnn 
hw  v»ritleu  :  — "  Beeun  April  ilh,  1^20  —  lomplcleii  July 
18th,  1820  — fiiiislied  copying  August  l«th-nih,  l^^O;  Ihe 
which  rnpying  makes  teo  times  tile  t'ul  of  composiug, 
considering  ttie  weather  — theimomeler  90 in  Ihe  stiade  — 
■Dd  my  domestic  duties." — The  tragedy  was  published 
toward*  the  close  of  lb20.— E. 


Morelli,  in  liis  "  Monument!  Veneziani  di  varia  Letfe- 
ralura,'  primed  iu  1796,  all  of  which  I  have  looked 
over  in  the  original  language.  The  moderns,  Daru, 
Sismondi,  and  Laugier,  nearly  agree  with  the  ancient 
chroniclers.  Sismondi  attributes  the  conspiracy  to  bis 
jealovsy  ;  but  I  find  this  nowhere  asserted  by  the  na- 
tional historians.    Vettor  Saudi,  indeed,  says,  that  "  Al- 

tri  scris  e.o  che dalla  gelosa  suspizion  di  esso 

Doge  siasi  fatio  (Michel  Steno)  staccar  con  violenza," 
&c.  &c.  ;  but  this  appears  to  have  been  by  no  means 
the  general  opinion,  nor  is  it  alluded  to  by  Sanuto  or 
bv  Nav.igero:  and  Sandi  himself  adds,  a  moment  alter, 
that  "  per  altre  Veneziane  memorie  traspiri,  che  non  il 
solo  desiderio  di  vendetta  lo  dispose  alia  congiura  ma 
anche  la  innata  abituale  ambizioo  sua,  per  cui  anelava 
a  farsi  principe  independei)le."  The  first  motive  ap- 
pears to  have  been  excited  by  Ihe  gros^  ntfront  of  the 
words  written  by  Michel  Steno  on  the  ducal  chair,  and 
by  the  light  and  inadequate  sentence  of  Ihe  Forty  OD 
the  ofl'euder,  who  was  one  of  their  "  tre  Capi."  The 
attentions  of  S;eno  hiniself  appear  to  have  been  di- 
rected towards  one  of  her  dam-els,  and  not  to  the 
'•  Dogaressa"  herself,  against  whose  fame  not  the 
sli^hlest  insinuation  appears,  while  she  is  praised  for 
her  benuly, and  remarked  for  her  youth.  Neither  do! 
find  it  asserted  (unless  the  hint  of  Sandi  be  an  asser- 
tion), that  the  Doge  was  actuated  by  jealousy  of  bis 
wile;  but  rather  by  respect  for  her  and  for  his  own 
honour,  warranted  by  his  past  services  and  present 
dignity. 

1  know  not  that  the  historical  fac's  are  alluded  to  in 
English,  unless  by  Dr.  Moore  in  his  View  of  llaJy. 
His  account  is  false  and  flippant,  full  of  stale  jes'ts 
about  old  men  and  youi  g  w  ives,  and  wondering  at  so 
great  an  effect  from  so  slight  a  cause.  How  so  acute 
and  severe  an  observer  of  mankind  as  the  author  of 
Zeluco  could  wonder  at  this  is  inconceivable.  He 
knew  that  a  basin  of  water  spilt  on  Mrs.  Masham's 
gown  deprived  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  of  his  com- 
mand, and  led  to  the  inglorious  peace  of  Utrecht  — 
that  Louis  XIV.  was  plunged  into  Ihe  most  desolating 
wars,  because  his  minister  was  nettled  at  his  finding 
fault  with  a  window,  and  wished  to  give  him  another 
occupation  —  that  Helen  lost  Troy  —  that  Lucretia  ex- 
pelled Ihe  'I'arquins  from  Rome  —  and  that  Cava 
brought  Ihe  Moors  to  Spain  —  thit  an  j-isulled  husb<nd 
led  the  Gauls  lo  Clusium,  and  thence  to  Rome—  that  a 
single  verse  of  Frederick  II.  of  Pru>^sia  on  the  Abbe  de 
Beriiis,  and  a  jest  on  Madame  de  Pimpadour,  led  to 
the  battle  of  Rosbach— that  the  eh|iement  of  Dear. 
bhorgil  wilh  Mac  Murchad  conducted  the  English  to 
the  slavery  of  Ireland  —  that  a  personal  pique  between 
Maria  Antoinet.e  and  Ihe  Duke  of  Orleans  precipitated 


MARINO    FALIERO, 


I  the  first  expulsion  of  the  Bourbcns  —  and,  not  to  mul- 
i  tiply  instinces,  tint  Commodus,  Dnrailiin,  and  Cali- 
gula  fell   victi;ns  not  to  their  public  tyranny,  but  to 
•  private  venjeaiico  —  and  that  aii  order  to  make  Croni- 
I  well  disembirk  fioai  the  ship  in  which  he  would  have 
I  sailed  to  America  des  rnyed  both  King  and  Dunnion- 
I  wealth.    After  these  instances,  on  the  least  reHection, 
'  it   is   indeed   extraordinary  in  Dr.  Moore  to  seem  sur- 
prised that  a  man  used  to  command,  who  hid  served 
and   swayed   iu   the  most    important  offices,   should 
fiercely  resent,  in  :\  fierce  aje,  an  unpunished  atiroul, 
the  erossesl  that  can  be  oti'ered  to  a  man,  be  he  prince 
or  peasant.     The  aje  of  Faliero  is  little  to  ihe  purpose, 
unless  to  favour  it  — 


"The  young  man*s  wrath 
Bf.t  like  red-hot  steel  is 

"Young  men  soon  give  an 
OH  age  issluw  at  bJth.'i 


forget  affroul! 


Laugier's  reflections  are  more  philosophical:  — 
"Tale  fu  il  fine  ignouiinioso  di  un'  uonio,  che  la  sua 
nascila,  la  sua  eta,  il  suo  caratlere  dovevano  tener  lon- 
tano  dalle  passioni  produltrici  di  graodi  delitti.  I  suoi 
taleiili  perlungo  tempo  eserciia'i  ne'  maggiori  impie- 
ghi,  la  sua  cijiicita  sperimentata  ne' governi  e  nellej 
ambasciate,  gli  avevano  acquistato  la  stima  e  la  fiducia 
de'  citladini,  ed  avevano  u:ii;i  i  sulfragj  per  collocarlo 
alia  testa  della  republica.  Innalzato  ad  un  grido  che 
terrainava  gloriosamenle  la  sua  vita,  il  risentimento  di  1 
un'  ingiuria  leggiera  insinui  nel  suo  cunre  tal  valeno 
che  basio  a  corrompere  le  an'iche  sue  qu^lila,  e  a  eon-  ] 
durlo  al  termine  dei  scellera  i  ;  serio  esempio,  che 
prova  non  esserv'  eta,  in  cut  la  pnidenza  umaiia  tia 
sicura,  e  che  ntW  uomo  lestano  sem}.iTe  jiassioiii  ca- 
pad  a  disonorarlo,  quando  non  Dioigiii  sopra  se 
stesso.^n 

Where  did  Dr.  Moore  find  that  Marino  Faliero  beg- 
ged his  life?  I  have  searched  the  chroniclers,  and 
find  nothing  of  the  kind  :  it  is  true  that  he  avowed  all. 
He  was  conduced  to  the  place  of  torture,  but  there  is 
no  mention  made  n(  any  applicition  for  mercy  on  his 
part ;  and  the  very  circumstance  of  their  having  taken 
him  to  the  rack  si;ems  to  argue  any  thing  but  his  hav- 
ing shown  a  want  of  firmness,  which  would  doubtless 
have  been  also  mentioned  by  those  minute  historians, 
who  by  no  me-ins  favour  him  :  such,  indeed,  would  be 
Con'rary  to  his  character  as  a  soldier,  to  Ihe  age  in 
which  he  lived,  and  at  which  he  died,  as  it  is  to  the 
truth  of  hist-.ry.  1  know  no  justification,  at  any  dis- 
tance of  time,  for  cilumniating  anhis'orical  character: 
surely  truth  belongs  to  the  dead,  and  to  the  unfortu- 
nate: and  Ihey  who  have  died  upon  a  scaffold  have 
generally  had  faul  s  enough  of  theirown,  without  at'ri- 
buting  to  them  that  «  hich  Ihe  very  incurring  of  Ihe 
perils  which  conducted  them  to  their  violent  death 
renders,  of  all  o'heris,  Ihe  most  improbable.  The  blick 
veil  which  is  pninted  over  the  |)hce  of  Marino  Fnliero 
amongst  the  Doggs,  and  the  Gi>nts'  Stnircise  where  he 
was  crowned,  and  discrowned,  and  decapila'ed,  struck 
forcibly  upon  my  imagination  ;  as  did  his  fiery  charac- 
ter and  strange  story.  I  went,  in  1919,  in  search  of  his 
tomb  more  than  once  to  the  church  San  Giovanni  e 
San  Paolo;  and,  as  I  was  standing  before  the  monu- 
ment of  another  fnniily,  a  priest  came  up  to  nie  and 
said,  "I  cm  show  vou  finer  n-onumen  s  than  thit."  I 
told  him  that  I  was  in  seirch  of  that  of  ihe  Faliero 
family,  and  particularly  of  Ihe  I)nge  Marino's.  "  Oh," 
said  he,  '•  I  will  show  'it  you  ;"  and  conducMng  me  to 
the  outside,  pointed  out  a  sarcophagus  in  the  wall  with 
an  illegible  inscription.  He  said  that  ii  had  been  in  a 
convent  adjoining,  but  was  removed  after  the  French 
came,  and  jihced  in  its  present  situation  ;  tha'  he  h:>d 
seen  Ihe  tonib  opened  at  its  removal ;  there  were  still 
some  bones  remaining,  but  no  positive  vestize  of  the 
decapitation.  The  equeslKnn  statue  of  which  I  have 
made  mention  in  the  third  act  as  before  that  church  is 
not,  h  nvever,  of  a  Faliero,  but  of  some  other  now  ob- 
solete warrior,  allhoujh  oi  a  later  dale.  There  were 
two  other  Doges  of  this  family  prior  to  Marino ;  Or- 


dehf),  who  fell  in  battle  at  Zara  in  1!17  (where  his 
descendant  afterwa:ds  conquered  the  Huns),  and  Vital 
Faliero,  who  reigned  in  lOb'2.  J  he  fanii  y,  originally 
from  Fano,  was  of  the  most  illustrious  in  blood  and 
weil;h  in  Ihe  city  of  once  the  most  wealthy  and  still 
the  m'St  ancient  families  in  Europe.  The  length  I 
have  gone  into  on  ttiis  subject  w  ill  show  the  interest  I  j 
have  taken  in  it.  Whether  I  have  succeeded  or  not  in  ] 
the  tragedy,  I  have  at  least  transferred  into  our  Ian 
guage  an  historical  fict  worthy  of  commemoration.  i 
It  is  now  four  years  that  "I  have  niedit.ated  this 
work ;  and  before  i  had  siitficienlly  examined  the  re- 
cords, I  WMS  rather  disposed  lo  have  made  it  turn  on  a 
jeal.nusy  in  Faliero.  But,  perceiving  no  found.ation  for 
this  in' historical  truth,  and  awae  that  jealousy  is  an 
e.xhaustcd  passion  in  the  drann,  I  have  given  it  a  more 
historical  Ibrni.  I  was.  besides,  well  advised  by  the 
late  Ma  thew  Lewis  on  that  point,  in  talking  with  him 
of  my  intention  at  Venice,  in  IS17.  '•  If  you  nnke 
him  jealous,"  siid  he,  •'  recollect  that  you  have  lo 
contend  with  established  writers,  to  say  nothing  of 
Shakspeare,  and  an  exhausted  subject:  —  stick  to  the 
old  fiery  Doge's  natural  character,  which  w  ill  bear 
you  out,  if  properly  drawn;  and  make  your  plot  as 
regular  as  you  can."  Sir  VVilliam  Druniinond  gave 
me  nearly  the  same  counsel.  How  far  1  have  follow- 
ed these  instructions,  or  whether  they  have  availed 
me,  is  not  for  me  lo  decide.  I  have  had  no  view  to 
Ihe  stage;  in  its  pre  ent  stale  it  is,  perhaps,  not  a  very 
exalted  object  of  ambition  ;  besides,  I  have  been  too 
much  behind  the  scenes  to  have  thought  it  so  at  any 
lime.a  And  I  cannot  conceive  any  man  of  irritable 
feeling  pulling  himself  at  the  mercies  of  an  audience. 
The  sneering  reader,  and  the  loud  critic,  and  the  tart 
review,  are  scattered  and  distant  calamities;  but  the 
trampling  of  an  intelligent  or  of  an  ignorant  audience 
on  a  production  w  hich,  be  it  gond  or  bad,  has  been  a 
mental  labour  to  the  writer,  is  a  palpable  and  imme- 
diate grievance,  heightened  by  a  man's  doubt  of  their 
competency  to  judge,  and  his  certainly  of  his  own  im- 
prudence in  electing  them  his  judges.  Weie  I  capable 
of  writing  a  play  which  could  be  deemed  stige-wor- 
thy.  success  would  give  me  no  pleasure,  and  failure 
great  pain.  It  i<  for  this  reason  that,  even  during  the 
lime  of  being  one  of  the  committee  of  one  of  the  thea- 
tres, I  never  made  Ihe  attempt,  and  never  will.*    But 


1  Licjier.  Hist,  de  la  Repub.  de  Veniw. 


2  «  It  is  like  bf-ing  at  the  whcle  process  of  a  woman's 
toilet— it  disencliants."  — MS.— E. 

3  While  I  was  in  Ihe  sob-committee  of  Drury  Lnne 
Theatre,  I  ran  voucli  for  my  colleagues,  and  I  hope  for  my- 
pelf,  that  we  did  our  best  lo  bring  ba^  k  the  legiiimale 
drama.  I  triej  what  I  could  lo  get  •■  De  Montfnrt  "  re- 
vived, but  in  vain,  and  equally  in  vain  in  favour  of 
Sotheby's  **  Ivan,"  which  was  thought  an  acting  ptav  ; 
and  I  endeavoured  also  to  wake  .Mr.  Ci.Ieridge  lo  write'  a 
tragedy.  Those  who  are  no;  in  '.he  secret  will  hardly  be- 
lieve that  the  "School  for  Srand  I  •*  is  the  play  which  has 
brought  teasl  monrj/.  averaging  Ihe  nuraher  of  times  it 
has  been  acted  since  its  proiluclion ;  so  Manager  Pibdin 
assured  me.  Of  what  h  s  occurred  since  MaturinV» 
••Bertram"  I  am  not  aware;  so  that  I  may  be  traducing, 
through  ignorance,  scjie  excellent  new  writers:  if  so,  I 
beg  their  pardon.  I  hove  been  alisent  fiom  England 
nearly  five  years,  and.  Mil  last  year,  I  never  read  an  Eng- 
lish newspaper  since  my  departure,  and  am  now  only 
aware  of  ihealrical  matters  through  Ihe  medium  of  llie 
Parisian  Gazette  of  Galignani.  and  uily  for  Ihe  la-l  twelve 
months.  Let  me  then  depircale  all  (tTence  lo  trasic  or 
comic  writers,  lo  whom  I  wish  well,  and  ot  whom  I  know 
nothing.  The  long  comp'.iiiils  of  the  actual  slate  of  the 
drama  arise,  however,  from  no  fault  of  Ihe  performers.  I 
can  conceive  nothing  bet  er  than  Kemble.  Cooke,  and 
Kean  In  their  very  ditferrnl  manners,  or  than  Elliston  in 
gentteman'$  comedy,  and  in  »■  me  parts  of  Itagedy.  Miss 
O'Neil  I  never  saw.  having  made  and  kept  a  determi- 
nation to  see  Dolhiug  which  should  divide  or  disturb  my 
recollection  of  Sidtlons.  S:d>loiis  aud  Kemble  were  the 
ideal  of  Irayic  a--tion  ;  I  never  saw  any  thing  al  all  re- 
semHine  Ihem  even  in  persim  :  r.>r  this  rea«on,  we  shall 
never  sec  again  (;ori"lanu8  or  M.ubeih.     When  Kean  is 

«  The  Rev.  Charles  Maturin  (a  curnle  in  Dublin)  di<< 
In  1624.  Hie  first  pnxlnctirn,  the  "  House  of  Monl.irio," 
a  romance,  is  Ibe  only  one  <  /  bis  works  thai  has  snrriTeJ 
him.  — E. 


Sc?ENE  L] 


DOGE  OF  VENICE. 


2631; 


mirely  there  is  dramatic  power  somewhere,  where 
Joanna  Baillie,  and  Milnian,'  and  John  Wilsons 
eiist.  The  "City  of  the  Fl.igue"  and  the  "Fall  of 
Jerusalem  "  are  full  of  the  best  ■'  inateriel  "  for  tragedy 
t';at  has  been  seen  since  Horace  VValpole,  except  pis- 
sages  of  Ethw:ild  and  De  Monlfort.  It  is  the  fashion 
to  underrate  Horace  Walpole  ;  firstly,  because  he  was 
a  nobleman,  and  secondly,  because  he  was  a  genlle- 
man  ;  but,  to  say  nothing  of  the  composition  of  his 
incomparable  letters,  and  of  the  Cas'le  of  Otraiito,  he 
is  the  '■  Ultimus  Romanorum,"  the  author  of  the  Mys- 
terious Mother,  a  tragedy  of  the  highest  order,  and  not 
a  puling  love-play.  He  is  the  father  of  the  first 
romance  and  of  the  last  tragedy  in  our  language,  and 
surely  worthy  of  a  higher  place  than  any  living  wri- 
ter, be  he  who  he  may. 

In  speaking  of  the  drama  of  Marino  Faliero,  I  for- 
got to  mention,  that  the  desire  of  preserving,  though 
still  too  remote,  a  nearer  approach  to  unity  than  the 
irregularity,  which  is  the  reproach  of  the  English 
theatrical  compositions  permits,  has  induced  me  to 
represent  the  cr>nspiracv  as  already  formed,  and  the 
Doge  acceding  to  it;  whereas,  in  fact,  it  was  of  his 
own  preparation  and  that  of  Israel  Bertuccio.  The 
other  characters  (except  that  of  the  Duchess),  inci- 
dents, and  almost  the  time,  which  was  wonderfully 
short  for  such  a  design  in  real  life,  are  strictly  histori- 
cil,  except  that  all  the  consultations  took  place  in  the 
palace.  Hid  I  followed  this,  the  unity  would  have 
been  better  preserved  ;  but  I  wished  to  produce  the 
Doge  in  the  full  as  embly  of  the  conspirators,  instead 
of  monotonously  placing  him  always  in  dialozue  with 
the  same  individuals.  For  the  real  facts,  I  refer  to  the 
Appendix. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


MEN. 
Marino  Faliero,  Dnoe  of  yenke. 
Bertuccio  Faliero,  Nephew  of  the  Doge. 
Lioni,  a  Patrician  and  Senator. 
Benintende,  Chief  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 
Michel  Steno,  One  of  the  three  Capi  of  the  Forty. 
Israel  Bertuccio,  Chief  o/"J 
the  .Arsenal,  ! 

Philip  Calendaro,  ^  Conspirators. 

Dagolino,  • 

Bertram,  J 

I  "  Signore  di  Notte,"  one  of 
Signor  of  the  Night,   }      the   Officers    belonging   to 

I      the  Republic. 
First  Citizen. 
Second  Citizen. 
Third  Citizen. 
Vincenzo,  , 

Pietro,       (  Officer)  belonging  to  the  Ducal  Palace. 
Battista,    ) 

blamed  for  want  of  dignity,  we  should  remember  that  it 
is  a  grace,  and  not  an  art,  and  nol  to  be  attained  by  study. 
In  all,  nut  super-natural  parts,  he  is  perfert ;  even  liis 
very  defects  beloce,  or  seera  to  belong,  to  the  parts  them- 
selves, and  appear  truer  In  nature.  But  of  Kemble  we 
may  say.  with  reference  to  his  acting,  what  the  Cardinal 
de  Kelz  said  of  the  Marquis  of  Muntrose,  "that  he  was 
thi!  only  man.  he  ever  saw  who  remindtd  him  uf  the 
heroes  of  I'lutarch." 

1  The  Kev.  Henry  Hart  Milman,  of  Brazen  Nose  Cnl- 
lese,  oxford,  for  some  time  Hrrifessnr  <■(  Vnetry  in  that 
University,  and  now  rector  nf  St.  Margaret's,  Westmin- 
ster. "  Fazio  "  is  the  only  one  of  bis  plays  that  has  done 
well  on  the  stage.  — -  E. 

2  John  Wilson,  of  Magdalen  Collpg»,  Oxford  now  Pro- 
fessor of  Moral  rhilosophy  in  the  Uuiversiiy  .,f  Edin- 
burgh,—the  well-liunwn  author  of  the  ••  Isle  of  Piims," 
••Margaret  Lyndsay,"  "Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish 
Life,"  &c.  &c.,  and   the   principal   critic  u  well  as    hu- 

Blackwood's  Magazine.—  E. 


Secretary  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 
Guards-;  Conspirators,  Citizens,  The  Council  of  Ten, 
The  Giunta,  ^c.  ifc. 

WOMEN. 
Angiolina,  Wife  to  the  Doge. 
Marianna,  her  Friend. 

Female  Attendants,  IfC. 
Scene  Venice —  in  the  year  1355. 


MARINO   FALIERO. 


ACT  I. 


An  Antechamber  in  the  Ducal  Palace, 
pietro  fpeaks,  in  entering,  to  Battista. 

Pie.  Is  not  the  messenger  return'd  ? 

£at.  Not  yet ; 

I  have  sent  frequently,  as  you  commanded, 
But  still  the  Signory  is  deep  in  council, 
And  long  debate  on  Steno's  accusation. 

Pie.  Too  long—  at  least  so  thinks  the  Doge. 

Bat.  How  bears  be 

These  moments  of  suspense  ? 

Pie.  With  struggling  patience. 

Placed  at  the  ducal  table,  cover'd  o'er 
With  all  the  apjiarel  of  the  stale;  );etitions, 
Despatches,  judgments,  acts,  reprieves,  reports, 
He  sits  as  rapt  in  duty  ;  but  whene'er 
He  hears  the  jarring  of  a  distant  door, 
Or  aught  that  intim.ates  a  coming  step, 
Or  murmur  of  a  voice,  his  quick  eye  wanders, 
And  he  will  start  up  from  his  chair,  then  pause, 
And  seat  himself  again,  and  fix  his  gaze 
Upon  some  edict ;  but  I  have  observed 
For  the  last  hour  he  has  not  turn'd  a  leaf. 

Bat.  'T  is  said  he  is  much  moved,—  and  douMle* 

Foul  scorn  in  Steno  to  offend  so  grossly. 

Pie.  Ay,  if  a  poor  man  :  Sleno  's  a  patrician. 
Young,  galliard,  gay,  and  haughty. 

Bat.  Then  you  think 

He  will  not  be  judged  hardly? 

Pie.  'T  were  enough 

He  be  judged  ju-tly  ;  but 't  is  not  for  us 
To  anticipate  the  sentence  of  the  Forty. 

Bat.  And  here  it  comes.— What  news,  Vincenzo? 

Enter  Vincenzo. 
Vin.  'T  is 

Decided  ;  but  as  yet  his  doom  's  unknown : 
I  saw  the  president  in  act  to  seal 
The  parchment  which  will  bear  the  Forty's  judgment 
Unto  the  Doge,  and  hasten  to  inform  him.      [Exexmt. 

SCENE    11. 

The  Ducal  Chamber. 

Maririo  Faliero,  Dcge ;  and  his  Nephew,  Bertuccio 
Faliero. 

Ber.  F.  It  cannot  be  out  they  will  do  you  justice. 

Doge.  Ay,  such  as  the  Avogadori  3  did, 
Who  sent  up  my  appeal  unto  the  Forty 
To  try  him  by  his  peers,  his  own  tribunal. 

Ber.  F.  His  peers  will  scarce  protect  him  ;  such  .in 


Would  bring  contempt  on  all  authority 


S  The  Avogadori.  three  in  number,  were 
of  criminal  prosecutions  on  the  part  r>f  the  slate;  ani  oo   i 
act  of  the    cnunciU  was  valid,  nnless   Baactioiwd  fef  tita 
presence  of  one  of  them.  —  E. 


264 


MARINO   FALIERO, 


[Act  f. 


Doge.  Kuow  you  not  Venice  ?    Know  you  not  the 
Forty  ? 
Bet  we  sball  see  anon. 

Bar.  F.  (addressing  yincenzo,  then  entering.) 
How  now  —  n  hat  tidings  ? 

Fin.  I  am  charged  to  tell  his  highness  that  the  court 
Has  pass'd  its  resolution,  and  that,  soon 
As  the  due  forms  of  judgment  are  gone  through, 
The  sentence  will  be  sent  up  to  the  Doge  j 
In  the  mean  time  the  Forty  doth  salute 
The  Prince  of  the  Republic,  and  entreat 
His  acceptation  of  their  duty. 

Doge.  Yes  — 

They  are  wond'rous  dutiful,  and  ever  humble. 
Sentence  is  pass'd,  you  say  ? 

^"i.  It  is,  your  highness; 

The  president  was  sealing  it,  when  I 
Was  call'd  in,  that  no  moment  might  be  lost 
In  forwarding  the  intimation  due 
Not  only  to  the  Chief  of  the  Republic, 
But  the  complain.iiit,  both  in  one  united. 

£er.  F.  Aie  you  aware,  from  aught  you  have  per- 
ceived, 
Of  their  decision  ? 

ym.  No,  my  lord  ;  you  know 

The  secret  custom  of  the  courts  in  Venice. 

Ber.  F.  True;  but  there  still  is  something  given  to 
guess, 
Which  ashtewd  gleaner  and  quick  eye  would  catch  at; 
A  whisjier,  or  a  murmur,  or  an  air 
More  or  less  solemn  spread  o'er  the  tribunal. 
The  Forty  are  but  men  —  most  worthy  men. 
And  wise,  and  ju3t.  and  cautious  —  this  I  grant  — 
And  secret  as  the  grave  to  which  they  doom 
The  guilty  ;  but  with  all  this,  in  their  aspects  — 
At  least  in  some,  the  juniors  of  the  number  — 
A  searching  eye,  an  eye  like  yours,  Vinceiizo, 
Would  read  the  sentence  ere  it  was  pronounced. 

yin.  My  lord,  I  came  away  upon  the  moment, 
And  had  no  leisure  to  lakd  note  of  that 
Which  pass'd  among  the  judges,  even  in  seeming; 
My  station  near  theaccused  too,  Michel  Steno, 
Made  me 

Do§e  (abniptly).  And  how  look'd  Ac  ?  deliver  that. 

yin.  Calm,  but  not  overcast,  he  stood  resign'd 
To  the  decree,  whate'er  it  were  ;  —  but  lo  ! 
It  comes,  for  the  perusal  of  his  highupss. 

Enter  the  Secretary  of  the  Forty. 

Sec.  The  high  tribunal  of  the  Forty  sends 
Health  and  respect  to  the  Doge  Faliero, 
Chief  magistrate  of  Venice,  and  requests 
His  highness  to  peruse  nnd  to  approve 
The  sentence  pa^s'd  on  Michel  Sleno,  born 
Patrician,  and  airaign'd  upon  the  charge 
Contain"d,  together  with  its  penally, 
Wi'hin  the  rescript  which  1  now  present. 

Doge.  Retire,  and  wait  without. 

[Exeunt  Secretary  and  yincenzo. 
Take  thou  this  piper: 
The  misty  letters  vanish  from  my  eyes; 
I  cannot  fix  them. 

Ber.  F.  Patience,  my  dear uicle  : 

Why  do  you  tremble  thu-s  ?  —  nay,  doubt  not,  all 
Will  be  as  could  be  wish'd. 

Doge.  Say  on. 

Ber.  F.  (rending).  "Decreed 

In  council,  without  one  dissenting  voice. 
That  Michel  Steno,  bv  hi*  own  c  infession, 
Guilty  on  the  last  night  of  Carnival 
Of  having  graven  on  the  ducal  throne 
The  following  words "' 

Dose.  Would'st  thou  repeat  them  ? 

VVould'st  thou  repeal  them —  i/iou,  a  Faliero, 
Harp  on  the  deep  dishonour  of  our  house, 
Dishonour'd  in  its  chief —  that  chief  the  prince 
Of  Venice,  first  of  cities?  — To  the  sentence. 

Ber.  F.  Forgive  me,  my  good  lord;  I  will  obey  — 
(Reads.)  "  That  Michel  Steno  be  defain'd  a  mouth 
In  close  arrest." 

Doge.  Proceed. 

Ber.  F.  My  lord,  *t  is  finishM. 


Do  I  dream?-. 

Give  me  the  paper  —  (Snatches  the  paper  and  readi 

— "  'T  is  decreed  in  council 
That  Michel  Steno"— —Nephew,  thine  arm  ' 
^  Ber.  F.  Nay 

Cheer  up,  be  calm  ;  this  transport  is  uncall'd  for  — 
Lei  me  seek  some  assistance. 

Dosa.  Stop,  sir  —  Stir  net  — 

'T  is  past. 

Ber.  F.  I  cannot  but  agree  with  you 

The  sen'ence  is  too  slight  for  the  olfence 

It  is  not  honourable  in  the  Forty 

To  affix  so  slight  a  penalty  to  that 

Which  was  a  foul  atfront  to  you,  and  even 

To  them,  as  being  your  subjects ;  but  "t  is  Lot 

Yet  without  lemedy  :  you  can  appeal 

To  them  once  more,  or  to  the  Avogadori, 

Who,  seeing  that  true  jus'ice  is  wi  hheld. 

Will  now  take  up  the  cause  they  once  declined, 

And  do  you  right  upon  the  bold  delinquent. 

Think  you  not  thus,  good  uncle  ?  why  do  you  stand 

So  fix'd  ?  You  heed  me  not :  —  I  prav  you,  hear  me ! 

JDo^e  (dashing  down  the  ducal  bcninet,  and  offer- 
xng  to  trample  upon  it,  exclaimi,  at  he  is 
withheld  by  his  nephew) 
Oh  !  that  Ihe  Saracen  were  in  St.  Mark's  ! 
Thus  would  I  do  him  homage. 

Ber.  F.                                   For  the  saks 
Of  Heaven  and  all  its  saints,  my  lord 

Doge.  Away ! 

Oh,  that  the  Genoese  were  in  Ihe  port ! 
Oh,  that  the  Huns  whom  1  o'enhrew  at  Zara 
Were  ranged  around  the  palace ! 

Ber.  F.  »T  is  not  well 

In  Venice'  Duke  to  say  so. 

Doge.  Venice'  Duke ! 

Who  now  is  Duke  in  Venice  ?  let  me  see  him, 
That  he  may  do  me  righ'. 

Ber.  F.  If  you  foreef 

Your  office,  and  its  dignity  and  duty,  ' 
Remember  that  of  man,  and  curb  this  passion. 
The  Duke  of  Venice 

Doge  (interrupting him).  There  is  no  such  thing  — 
It  is  a  word  —  nay,  worse  —  a  worthless  by-wora . 
The  most  despised,  wrong'd,  outraged,  helpless  wretch. 
Who  begs  hi-  bread,  if  't  is  refused  by  one, 
May  win  it  from  another  kinder  heirt ; 
But  he,  who  is  denied  his  right  by  those 
Whose  place  it  is  to  do  no  wrong,  is  poorer 
Than  Ihe  rejec'ed  beggar-  he  's  a  slave  — 
And  that  am  I,  and  thou,  and  all  our  house, 
Even  from  this  hour;  the  meanest  artisan 
Will  point  the  finger,  and  the  haughty  noble 
May  spit  upon  us:  —  where  i;  our  redress? 

Ber.  F.  The  law,  my  prince 

Do^e  (inteirupttnghim).  You  see  what  it  has  don»— 
I  ask'd  no  remedy  but  from  the  law  — 
I  sought  no  vengeance  but  redre,ss  by  law  — 
I  call'd  no  judges  but  those  named  by  law  — 
As  sovereign,  I  appeal'd  unto  my  subjects. 
The  very  subjects  who  had  made  me  sovereign, 
And  gave  me  thus  a  double  right  to  be  so. 
The  rights  of  place  and  choice,  of  birlh  and  service, 
Honours  and  years,  Ihe-e  scars,  these  hoary  hairs, 
The  travel,  toil,  the  perils,  the  fatijues, 
The  blood  and  sweat  of  almost  eighty  years. 
Were  weigh'd  i'  the  balance,  'gainst  the  foulest  slain, 
The  grossest  insult,  nidt  contenipMious  crime 
Of  a  rank,  rash  patrician  — aiid  found  wanting! 
And  this  is  to  be  borne ! 

Ber.  F.  I  say  not  that :  — 

In  cise  your  fresh  appeal  should  be  rejected, 
We  will  find  other  means  to  make  all  even. 

Doge.  Appeal  again",  art  thou  niy  brother's  son? 
A  scion  of  Ihe  house  of  Faliero? 
The  nephew  of  a  Doge  ?  and  of  that  blood 
Which  hath  already  given  three  dukes  to  Venice  ? 
But  thou  say'st  well —  we  must  be  humble  now. 

Ber.  F.  My  princely  uncle !    you  are   too    msd 
moved  :  — 


SCKNE  II.] 


DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


2G5! 


I  grant  it  was  a  gross  offence,  and  grossly 

Left  w.thout  titling  punistiinent :  but  still 

This  fury  dotti  exceed  ihe  prnvocalion, 

Or  any  provocation  :  if  we  aie  wrong'd, 

We  will  ask  justice;  if  it  be  denied, 

We'll  lake  it ;  but  may  do  all  lliis 

Deep  Vengeance  is  the  daugh'er  of  deep  Silence. 

I  have  yet  scarce  a  third  part  of  your  years, 

I  love  our  house,  I  honour  you,  ils  chief, 

The  guardian  of  ray  youth,  and  its  instructor  — 

But  ihou'h  1  underslaiid  your  grief,  and  euter 

In  part  of  your  aisdain,  it  doih  appal  me 

To  see  your  anger,  like  our  Adrian  waves, 

O'ersweep  all  bounds,  and  fonm  itself  lo  air. 

Doge.  1  tell  {hee  —  must  I  tell  Ihee— what  thy  fa- 
Iher 
WoJiJ  have  required  no  words  to  comprehend  ? 
Hast  thou  no  feeling  save  the  external  sense 
Of  torture  from  the  touch  ?  hast  thou  no  soul  — 
No  pride  —  no  passion  —  no  deep  sense  of  honour  ? 

£er.  F.  'T  is  the  first  time  that  honour  has  been 
doubled. 
And  were  Ihe  hst,  from  any  other  sceptic. 

Doge.  You  know  the  fuU'offence  of  his  bom  villain, 
This  creeping,  coward,  rank,  acquitted  felon, 
Who  threw  his  sling  into  a  poisonous  libel. 
And  on  the  honour  of  —  Oh  God  !  my  m  ife, 
The  nearest,  deare-.t  part  of  all  men's  honour, 
Left  a  base  slur  lo  pass  from  mouth  to  mouth 
Of  loose  mechanics,  with  all  coarse  foul  comments, 
And  villanous  jests,  and  blasphemies  obscene; 
While  sneering  nobles,  in  more  polish'd  guise, 
Whisperd  Ihe  tale,  and  smiled  upon  Ihe  lie 
Which  made  me  look  like  them  —  a  courteous  wittol, 
Patient  —  ay,  proud,  it  may  be,  of  dishonour. 

Ber.  F.  But  slill  it  was  a  lie  —you  knew  it  false. 
And  so  did  all  men. 

Doge.  Nephew,  the  high  Roman 

Said,  '•  Cass-ir's  wife  must  not  even  be  suspected," 
And  put  her  from  him. 

£er.  F.  True  —  but  in  those  days 

Doge.  What  is  it  that  a  Roman  would  not  suffer, 
That  a  Venetian  prince  must  bear  ?  old  Dandolo 
Refused  ihe  diadem  of  all  the  Caesars, 
And  wore  the  ducal  cip  I  trample  on, 
Because  't  is  now  degraded. 

Ser.  F.  'Tis  even  so. 

D'  ge.  It  is—  it  is  ;  —  I  did  not  visit  on 
The  innocent  creature  thus  most  vilely  slander'd 
Because  she  took  an  old  man  for  her  lord, 
For  Ihat  he  had  been  long  her  father's  friend 
And  patron  of  her  house,  as  if  there  were 
No  love  in  woman's  heart  but  lust  of  youth 
And  beardless  faces  ;  —  I  did  not  for  this 
Visit  the  villain's  infamy  on  her. 
But  craved  my  country's  justice  on  his  head. 
The  justice  due  unto  the  humblest  being 
Who  hath  a  wife  whose  failh  is  sweel  to  him, 
Who  hath  a  home  whose  hearlh  is  dear  to  him, 
Who  haih  a  name  whose  honour's  all  lo  him, 
When  these  are  tainted  by  the  accursing  breath 
Of  calumny  and  scorn. 

Jier.  F.  And  what  redress 

Did  you  expect  as  his  fit  punishment  ? 

Doge.  Death  !  Was  I  not  Ihe  sovereign  of  the  state — 
Insulted  on  his  very  Ihroi  e,  ai.d  made 
A  mockery  lo  Ihe  men  who  should  obey  me  ? 
W.is  1  not  injured  ^s  a  husbaiKi  ?  scorn"d 
As  man  ?  reviled,  degraded,  as  a  prince  ! 
Was  not  offence  like  his  a  complication 
Of  insult  and  of  treason?  —  and  he  lives! 
Had  he  instead  of  on  Ihe  Doge's  throne 
Slamp'd  the  same  brand  upon  a  peasant's  stool, 
His  bl"od  had  gilt  Ihe  threshold  ;  for  the  carle 
Had  stabb"d  him  on  the  instant. 

Ber.  F.  Do  not  doubt  if 

He  shall  not  live  till  sunset  —  leave  to  me 
The  means,  and  calm  yourself. 

Doge.  Hold,  nephew :  this 

Would  have  sufficed  but  yesterday  ;  at  present 
I  have  no  further  wralh  against  this  man. 

23 


Ber.  F.  What  mean  you  ?  is  not  the  offence  re- 
doubled 
By  this  most  rank  —  I  will  not  say  —  acquittal ; 
For  it  is  worse  being  lull  acknowledgment 
Of  the  offence,  and  leaving  it  unpuni^h'd  ? 

Doge.  It  is  rtdouhltd,  but  not  now  by  him : 
The  I'orty  hath  decreed  a  n:onth's  arrest  — 
We  must  obey  the  Forly. 

Ber.  F.  Obey  them  ! 

Who  have  forgot  their  duty  lo  the  sovereign  ? 

Doge.  Why  yes;  — boy,  you  perceive  it  then  at  last; 
Whether  as  lellow  citizen  who  sues 
For  justice,  or  as  sovereign  who  commands  if. 
They  have  defrauded  me  of  both  my  righls 
(For  here  the  sovereign  i;  a  citizen) ; 
But,  nolwilhstanding,  harm  not  thou  a  hair 
Of  S'eno's  head  —  he  shall  not  wear  it  long. 

Ber.  F.  Not  twelve  hours  longer,  had  you  left  to  mo 
The  mode  and  means:  if  you  had  calmly  heard  me, 
I  never  meant  this  mijcreant  should  escape, 
But  wish'd  you  to  suppress  such  gusts  of  passion, 
That  v\e  moie  surely  might  devise  together 
His  taking  off. 

D(ge.  No,  nephew,  he  must  live; 

At  least,  ju5t  now  —  a  life  so  vile  as  his 
Were  nothing  at  this  hour ;  in  th'  olden  time 
Some  sacrifices  ask'd  a  single  victim, 
Great  expiations  had  a  hecalomb. 

Ber.  F.  Your  wishes  are  my  law :  and  yet  I  faia 
Would  prove  to  you  how  near  unto  n.y  heart 
The  honour  of  our  house  must  ever  be. 

Doge.  Fear  not;  you  shall  have  time  and  place of 
proof: 
But  be  not  thou  too  rash,  as  I  have  been. 
I  am  ashamed  of  my  own  anger  now  j 
I  pray  vou,  pardon  me. 

Ber.  'F.  Why,  that 's  my  uncle  ! 

The  leader,  and  the  statesman,  and  the  chief 
Of  commonwealths,  and  sovereign  of  himself! 
I  wonder'd  to  perceive  you  so  forget 
All  prudence  in  your  fury  at  these  years, 
Although  the  cause 

Doge.  Ay.  think  upon  the  cause- 

Forget  it  not :  —  When  you  lie  down  to  rest. 
Let  it  be  black  among  your  dre.ims;  and  when 
The  morn  returns,  so  let  it  stand  between 
The  sun  and  you,  as  an  ill.omen'd  cloud 
Upon  a  summer  day  of  festival : 
So  will  it  stand  to  me ;  —  but  speak  not,  stir  not,.— 
Leave  all  lo  me :  —  we  shall  have  much  to  do, 
And  vou  shall  have  a  part. —  But  now  retire, 
'T  is  fit  I  were  alone. 

Btr.  F.  {taking  vp  and  placing  the  ducal  bonTuton 
ihstaile),  Ereldepaif, 

I  pray  you  to  resume  what  you  have  spurn'd. 
Till  you  can  change  it  haply  for  a  crown. 
And  now  1  lake  ni^y  leave,  imploring  you 
In  all  things  lo  rely  upon  my  duty 
As  doth  bec'ime  your  near  and  faithful  kinsman, 
And  not  less  loyal  citizen  and  subject. 

[Exit  Bt rtuccio  Falitro. 

Doge  (solus).  Adieu,  my  worthy  nephew. —  Hollow 
bauble  !  [Taking  up  the  ducal  caf. 

Beset  with  all  the  thorns  that  line  a  crown, 
Without  investing  the  insulted  brow 
Wi'h  Ihe  all-swaying  majesty  of  kings; 
1  hou  idle,  gilded',  and  degraded  toy. 
Lei  me  resume  thee  as  I  would  a  vizor.      [Puti  it  on 
How  my  brain  aches  beneath  thee !  and  my  temples 
Throb  feverish  under  thy  dishonest  weight. 
Could  I  not  turn  thee  to  a  diadem  ? 
Could  I  not  shatter  the  Briarean  sceptre 
Which  in  this  hundred-handed  senate  rules, 
Making  the  people  nothing,  and  the  prince 
A  pageant?  In  my  life  I  have  achieved 
Tasks  not  less  difficult -achieved  for  them. 
Who  thus  repay  me  !  —  can  I  not  requite  them  ? 
Oh  for  one  year  '.  Oh  I  but  for  even  a  day 
Of  my  full  youth,  while  yet  my  body  served 
My  soul  as  serves  the  generous  steed  his  lord, 
I  would  have  dash'd  amongst  them,  asking  few 


26G 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


[Act  I. 


In  aid  to  overthrow  these  swoln  pitricians ; 
But  now  I  must  look  round  for  olher  hands 
'io  serve  this  hoary  head  ;  —  but  it  shall  plan 
In  such  a  sort  as  will  not  leave  the  task 
Herculean,  though  as  yet 't  is  but  a  chaos 
Of  darkly  broodinz  Ihoushis:  my  fancy  is 
In  her  first  work,  more  ilearly  to  the  light 
Holding  the  sleeping  im  iges  of  lliiiiirs 
For  the  selection  of  the  pausing  judgment. — 
The  troops  are  few  in 

Enter  Vincenzn. 

Via.  There  is  one  without 

Craves  audience  of  your  highness. 

Doge.  I  'm  unwell  - 

I  can  see  no  one,  not  even  a  patrician  — 
Let  him  refer  his  business  to  the  council. 

f^'iH.  My  lord,  I  will  deliver  your  reply  ; 
It  cannot  much  import  —  he  's  a  plebeiau, 
The  master  of  a  galley,  I  believe. 

Docc   How  !  did  you  say  the  patron  of  a  galley  ? 
That  Is  —  I  mem  —  a  serv.ant  of  the  state ; 
Admit  him,  he  may  be  on  public  service. 

{Exit  Vincenzo. 

Doge  [solus).     This  patron  may  be  sounded  !    1  will 
try  him. 
I  know  Ihe  people  to  be  discontented  : 
They  have  cau^e,  since  Sapienza's  adverse  day, 
When  Genoa  conquer'd  :  they  have  further  cause, 
Since  they  are  nothing  in  the  s'ale,  and  in 
The  ci  y  wor-e  than  iiothing  — mere  machines, 
To  serve  the  nobles'  most  patrician  pleasure. 
The  troops  have  long  arrears  of  pay,  oft  promised, 
And  murmur  deeply  — any  hope  of  change 
Will  draw  them  forward  :  they  shall  pay  themselves 
With  plunder:  — but  the  piiests  — I  doubt  the  priest- 

liood 
Will  not  be  with  us ;  they  have  hated  me 
Since  that  rash  hour,  when,  madden'd  with  the  drone, 
I  smote   he  tardy  bishop  at  Treviso,i 
Quickenini  his  holy  march  ;  yet,  ne'ertheless. 
They  may  be  won,  at  least  their  chief  at  Rome, 
By  some  well-timed  concessions  ;  but,  above 
All  things.  I  must  be  speedy :  at  my  hour 
Of  twilight  little  light  of  life  remains. 
Could  I  free  Venice,  and  avenge  my  wrong?, 
I  had  lived  too  long,  and  willii'igly  would  sleep 
Next  moment  with  mv  sires ;  and,  wanting  this, 
Better  that  sixty  of  my  fourscore  years 
Had  been  already  where  —  how  soon,  I  care  not  — 
The  whole  must' be  extinguish'd  ;  —  better  that 
They  ne'er  had  been,  than  drag  me  on  to  be 
The  thing  these  arch  oppressors  f  lin  would  make  me. 
Let  me  cmsider  —  of  efficient  troops 
There  are  three  thousand  pos'ed  at 

Enter  Vincenzo  and  Israel  Btrtuceio. 
fin.  May  it  please 

Your  highness,  the  same  patron  whom  I  spake  of 
Is  here  to  crave  your  patience. 

Doge.  Leave  the  chamber, 

Vincenzo.—  [Exit  Vincenzo. 

Sir,  you  may  advance  —  what  would  you  ? 
/.  Ber.  Redress. 
Dog".  Of  whom  ? 

/.  Bcr.  Of  God  and  of  the  Doge. 

Dose.  Alas',  my  friend,  yciu  seek  it  of  the  twain 
Of  least  respect  and  interest  in  Venice. 
You  must  address  the  council. 

/.  Ber.  'T  were  in  vain  ; 

For  he  who  injured  me  is  one  of  them. 
Doge.  There 's  blood  upon  thy  face  —  how  came  it 

theie? 
/.  Ber.  "T  is  mine,  and  not  the  first  I  've  shed  for 
Venice, 


But  the  first  shed  by  a  Venetian  hand  : 
A  noble  smote  me.' 

Doge.  Doth  he  live? 

/.  Ber.  Not  long  — 

But  for  the  hope  I  had  and  have,  that  you, 
My  prince,  yourself  a  soldier,  will  redress 
Him,  whom  the  laws  of  discipline  and  Venice 
Permit  not  to  protect  himself:  —  if  not  — 
I  say  no  more. 

Doge.  But  something  you  would  do  — 

Is  it  not  so? 

/   Ber.      I  am  a  man,  my  lord. 

Duge.  Why  so  is  he  who  smote  you. 

/.  Ber.  He  is  call'd  so ; 

Nay,  more,  a  noble  one  —  at  least,  in  Venice  : 
But  since  he  hath  forgotten  that  I  am  one. 
And  treats  me  like  a  brule,  the  brute  may  turn  — 
'T  is  said  the  worm  will. 

Doge.  Say  —  his  name  and  lineage  ? 

/.  Bcr.  Barbaro. 

Duge.  What  was  Ihe  cause  ?  or  the  pretext  ? 

/.  Btr.  I  am  the  chief  of  the  arsenal, 2  employ "d 
At  present  in  repairing  certain  galleys 
But  roughly  used  by  the  Genoese  last  year. 
This  morning  comes  Ihe  noble  Barbaro 
Full  of  reproof,  because  our  artisans 
Had  left  some  frivolous  order  of  his  house, 
To  execute  the  state's  decree  :  I  dared 
To  justify  the  men—  he  raised  liis  hand  ;  — 
Behold  my  blood  '.  the  first  time  it  e'er  flow"d 
Dishonourably. 

Doge.  Have  you  long  time  served  ? 

/.  Ber.  So  long  as  to  remember  Zara's  siege, 
And  fight  beneath  the  chief  who  beat  the  Huns  there. 
Sometime  my  general,  now  the  Doge  Faliero. — 

Doge.  How  !  are  we  comrades?  —  the  state's  ducal 
robes 
Sit  newly  on  me,  and  you  were  appointed 
Chief  of  the  arsenal  ere  I  came  from  Rome  ; 
So  that  I  recognised  you  not.     Who  placed  you  ? 

/.  Ber.  Ihe  late  Doge;  keeping  still  my  old  com- 
mand 
As  patron  of  a  galley  :  my  new  office 
Was  given  as  the  reward  of  certain  scars 
(So  was  your  predecessor  pleased  to  say): 
I  little  thought  his  bounty  would  conduct  me 
To  his  successor  as  a  helpless  plaintiff; 
At  least,  in  such  a  cause. 

Duge.  Are  you  much  hurt  ? 

/.  Ber.  Irreparably  in  my  self-esteem. 

Doge.  Speak  out ;   fear    nothing :    being   stung    at 
heait. 
What  would  you  do  to  be  revenged  on  this  man  ? 

/.  Ber.  That  which  I  dare  not  name,  and  yet  will 
do. 

Doge.  Then  wherefore  came  you  here  ? 

/.  Ber.  I  come  for  justice, 

Because  my  general  is  Doge,  and  will  not 
See  his  old  soldier  trampled  on.     Had  any. 
Save  Fahero,  fill'd  the  ducal  throne. 
This  blood  had  been  wash'd  out  in  other  blood. 

Doge.  Vou  come  to  me  for  justice  — unto  me  ! 
The  Doge  of  Venice,  and  I  cmnot  give  it  ; 
I  cannot  even  obtain  it  —  't  was  denied 
To  me  most  solemnly  an  hour  ago  ! 

/.  Ber.  How  says  yc-ir  highness? 

Doge.  Steno  is  condemn'd 

To  a  month's  confinement. 

/.  Brr.  What '.  the  same  who  dared 

To  stain  the  ducal  throne  with  those  foul  words. 
That  have  cried  shame  to  every  ear  in  Venice  ? 


See  Marin  Snnuln'g  Lives  of  Ihe 
that  Heaven  touk  away  liis  senses 
for  Ihia  tiuffet,  and  nduoed  liim  to  conspire  t  — •  Pero  fu 
permeeen  rhe  il  Faliero  perdette  riiilellelto,' "  &r. — 
BjfTon  Letters.  —  K.] 


2  Thi8  officer  was  chief  of  Ihe  artisans  of    Ihe  arsenal, 
nd    commandeil  the  Biuenlonr.  for  the  Rafety  of  whiih,  i 

andaid  before  | 


i>rre?num,  and  I 


hia 


the  new  Doge  on  his  inauguration;  (or  which  1 
perquisites  were  the  ilucal  manlle,  and  Ihe  'wo  siwer  1 
basins  from  whirh  Ihe  Dnge  scattered  Ihe  regulated  pit-  I 
laoce  which  he  was  peimilted  to  throw  among  the  pto- 
f\e.—Amelot  ie  la  Houttagt,  19.  —  E.  > 


Scene  1 1.] 


DOGE  OF  VENICE. 


261 


Dogt.  Ay,  doubtless   they    have   echo'd   o'er    tlie 
arseinl, 
Keeping  due  time  wi  h  every  hammer's  clink 
As  a  good  jest  lo  jolly  arlisans  ; 
Or  making  chorus  lo  the  creiking  oar, 
In  the  vili":  tunc  of  every  g  lley-slave, 
Who,  as  he  sung  the  me  ry  slave,  exulted 
He  was  uol  a  bhamed  dotard  like  the  Doge. 

/.  Ber.  Is 't  possible?  a  month's  imprisonment ! 
No  more  for  Steno  ? 

Doge.  Vou  have  heard  the  oBence, 

And  now  you  know  his  punishment ;  and  then 
You  ask  redress  of  me  !    Go  lo  ihe  Forty, 
Who  pass"d  the  sentence  upon  Michel  Steno  j 
They  'II  do  as  much  by  Barbaro,  no  doubt. 
/.  Her.  Ah!  dared  I  speak  my  feelings  ! 
Doge.  Give  them  breath. 

Mine  have  no  further  outrage  to  enduie. 

/.  JJet:  Then,  in  a  word,'  it  rests  but  on  your  word 
To  punish  and  avenge  —  I  will  not  say 
My  petty  wrong,  for  what  is  a  mere  bh)vv, 
However  vile,  lo  such  a  thing  as  I  am  ?  — 
But  Ihe  bsse  insult  done  your  state  and  person. 

Doge.  You  overrate  my  |>o»  er,  which  is  a  pageant. 
This  cap  is  not  the  monarch's  crown  ;  these  robes 
Might  move  compassion,  like  a  beggar's  rags; 
Nay,  more,  a  beggir's  are  his  own,  and  these 
But  lent  to  the  p^ior  puppet,  who  must  play 
Its  part  with  all  its  empire  in  this  ermine. 
/.  Ber.  Wouldst  thou  be  king? 
Z).  ^£.  Ves  —  of  a  happy  people. 

/.  Ber.  Wouldst  thou  be  sovereign  lord  of  Venice  ? 
Doge.  Ay, 

If  that  the  people  shared  that  sovereignty, 
So  that  nor  they  nor  I  were  further  .-laves 
To  this  o'ergrown  aristocratic  Hydra, 
The  poisonous  heads  of  whose  envenom'd  body 
Have  breathed  a  pestilence  upon  us  all. 
/.  Ber.  Yet,   thou  wast   born,  and  still  bast  lived, 

patrician. 
Doge.  In  evil  hour  was  I  so  born  ;  my  birth 
Hath  made  me  Doge  to  be  insul  ed  :  but 
I  lived  and  toii'd  a  soldier  and  a  servant 
Of  Venice  and  her  people,  not  the  senate  ; 
Their  good  and  my  own  honour  were  my  guerdon. 
1   have   fousht  and   bled ;  commanded,  ay,  and  con- 
quered ; 
Have  made  and  marr'd  peace  oft  in  embassies. 
As  it  might  chance  lo  be  our  country's  'vantage; 
Have  traversed  land  and  sea  in  constant  duty. 
Through  almost  six'y  years,  and  s^ill  for  Venice, 
My  f  iihers'  and  my  bir.hplace,  whose  dear  spires. 
Rising  at  distance  o'er  the  blue  Ligoon, 
It  was  reward  enough  for  me  to  view 
Once  more;  but  not  for  any  knot  of  men. 
Nor  sect,  nor  facli'iu,  did  1  bleed  or  sweat ! 
But  would  you  know  why  1  have  done  all  this? 
Ask  of  the  bleeding  pelican  why  she 
Hath  rip|)"d  her  bosom  ?    Had  the  bird  a  voice, 
She'd  tell  thoe  't  vtas  for  all  her  little  ones. 
/.  Ber.  And  yet  they  made  thee  duke. 
Doge.  T/uy  made  me  so ; 

I  sought  it  not,  Ihe  flattering  fetters  met'me 
Returning  from  my  Roman  embas-y, 
And  never  having  hitherto  refused 
Toil,  charge,  or  duty  for  Ihe  stale,  I  did  not. 
At  these  late  jears,  decline     ",at  was  Ihe  highest 
Of  all  in  seeming,  but  of  all  most  base 
In  w  hat  we  have  lo  do  and  to  endure  : 
Bear  witness  for  me  thou,  my  injured  subject, 
When  I  can  neither  rijlit  myself  nor  thee. 

/.  Ber.  You  shall  do  both,  if  you  pos-es^s  the  will ; 
And  many  thousands  more  not  less  oppress'd. 
Who  wait  but  for  a  signal  —  will  you  give  it  ? 
Doge.  You  speak  in  riddles. 

/.  Ber.  Which  shall  soon  be  read 

At  peril  of  my  life ;  if  you  disdain  not 
To  lend  a  patient  ear. 
Doge.  Say  on. 

/.  Ser.  Not  thou, 

Nor  I  alone,  are  injured  and  abused, 


Contemn'd  and  trampled  on  ;  but  the  whole  people 
Groan  with  the  strong  c  inception  of  their  wronp; 

he  foreign  soldiers  in  the  senate's  pay 
Are  discontented  for  their  long  arrears; 
The  na  i\v.  m.riners,  and  civic  troops, 
Feel  with  their  Irieiids  ;  for  »  ho  is  I.e  among-    them 
Whose  brethren,  parents,  children,  wives,  or  sisters, 
Have  not  partook  oppression,  or  pollution. 
From  the  pairicians?    And  the  hopeless  war 
Against  ihe  Genoese,  which  is  still  maiutain'd 
With  the  plebeian  blood,  and  treasure  wrung 
From  their  hard  earnings,  has  iiitlamed  them  further: 
Even  now  —  but,  1  forget  that  speaking  thus, 
Perhaps  I  pass  the  sentence  of  my  death  ! 

Doge.  And  suffering  what  thou  hast  done  —  fear'st 
thou  death? 
Be  silent  then,  and  live  on,  to  be  beaten 
By  those  for  whom  thou  hast  bled. 

/.  Ber.  No,  I  will  speak 

At  every  hazard  ;  and  if  Venice'  Doge 
Should  turn  delator,  be  the  shame  on  him, 
And  sorrow  too;  for  he  will  lose  far  more 
Than  I. 

Dvge.  From  me  fear  nothing;  out  with  it! 

/.  Ber.  Know  then,  that  there  are  met  and  sworn  in 
secret 
A  band  of  brethren,  valiant  hearts  and  true ; 
Men  w  ho  have  proved  all  fortunes,  and  have  long 
Grieved  over  that  of  Venice,  and  have  righ; 
To  do  so  ;  having  served  her  in  all  climes. 
And  having  rescued  her  from  foreign  foes. 
Would  do  the  same  from  those  « ithin  her  walls. 
They  are  not  numerous,  nor  yet  tno  few 
For  their  great  purpose  ;  they  have  arms,  and  means. 
And  hearts,  and  hopes,  and  faith,  and  patient  courage. 

Doge.  For  what  then  do  they  pause? 

/.  Ber.  An  hour  to  strike. 

Doge  (aside).  Saint  Mark's  shall  s'rike  that  hour  !  » 

7.  Ber.  I  now  have  placed 

My  life,  my  honour,  all  my  earthly  hopes 
Within  thy  power,  but  in  the  tirm  belief 
That  injuries  like  ours,  sprung  fiom  one  cause. 
Will  generate  one  vengeance  :  should  it  be  so, 
Be  our  chief  now  —  our  sovereign  hereafter. 

Doge.  How  many  are  ye  ? 

/.  Ber.  1 11  not  answer  that 

Till  I  am  answer'd. 

Dcg'.  How,  sir  !  do  you  menace? 

/.  Ber.  No  ;  I  affirm.     I  have  betray'd  myself; 
But  there's  no  torruie  in  the  mystic  wells 
Which  undermine  your  palacej  nor  in  those 
Not  less  appalling  cells,  Ihe  "  leaden  roofs," 
To  force  a  single  name  from  me  of  others. 
The  Pozzi  '^  and  Ihe  Pionibi  w  ere  in  vain  ; 
Tliey  might   wring  blood    from  me,  but   treachery 

never. 
And  I  would  pass  the  fearful  "  Bridge  of  Sighs," 
Joyous  that  mine  must  be  Ihe  last  that  e'er 
Would  echo  o'er  the  Stygim  wave  which  (lows 
Between  the  murderer-,  and  the  murder'd,  washing 
The  prison  and  the  palace  walls  :  there  are 
Those  who  would  live  to  think  on  't,  and  avenge  me. 

Doge.  If  such  your  power  and  purpose,  why  come 
here 
To  sue  for  justice,  being  in  the  course 
To  do  yourself  due  right  ? 


1  Tlie  bells  of  San  Marco  were  never  rung  but  by  order 
of  the  Doge.  One  of  the  pretexts  for  ringing  this  alarm 
wan  to  have  been  an  annniir.remeiit  uf  Ihe  appearance  of  a 
Genoese  fleet  otf  the  Lagune. 

2  The  state  clunjjeons,  called  Pozzi,  or  wells,  were  suck 
in  llie  thick  walls  of  the  palace;  and  the  prisoner,  when 
taken  out  to  die,  was  conducted  across  the  gallery  to  Ihe 
other  aide,  and  being  then  led  bmk  into  the  i  Iher  <om- 
partment,  or  cell,  upon  the  bridge,  was  there  strangled. 
The  low  portal  through  wl  iclr  the  criminal  wan  taken 
into  this  cell  is  now  walled  up;  but  the  passage  ia  open, 
and  is  still  Lnown  by  the  Dhme  of  the  Bridge  of  Slfhi.— 
HOBHOUSi;.  — K. 


MARINO   FALIERO, 


[Act  II. 


I,  Ser.  Because  the  mai^ 

Who  claims  protection  from  authority, 
Showing  his  confidence  and  his  submission 
To  thai  authority,  can  hardly  be 
Suspected  of  corabinin?  lo  destroy  it. 
Had  1  sate  down  too  humbly  with  tliis  blow, 
A  miody  brow  and  mullei'd  threats  had  made  me 
A  mark'd  man  to  ihe  Forty's  inquisition; 
But  loud  complaint,  however  angrily 
It  shapes  its  phiase,  is  little  to  be  fear'd, 
And  less  distrusted.     But,  besides  all  this, 
;    had  another  reason. 

Dose.  What  was  that  ? 

1.  Ber.  Some  rumours  that  the  Doge  was  greatly 
moved 
By  the  reference  of  the  Avo»adori 
Of  .Michel  Steno's  sentence  to  the  Forty 
Had  reach'd  me.     I  had  served  you,  homur'd  you, 
And  fell  thai  you  were  dangerously  insulted, 
Being  of  an  order  of  such  spirits,  as 
Requite  tenfold  both  good  and  evil :  't  was 
My  wiih  to  prove  and  urge  ynu  to  redress. 
Now  you  know  all ;  and  that  I  speak  ihe  truth, 
Mv  peril  be  the  proof. 

'Duge.  You  have  deeply  ventured ; 

But  all  must  do  so  who  would  greatly  win  : 
Thus  far  ril  answer  you  —  your  secret 's  safe. 

/.  Btr.  And  is  this  all  ? 

Do^e.  Unless  with  all  intrusted, 

What  would  you  have  me  answer  ? 

/.  ^e,.^  I  would  have  you 

Trust  him  who  leaves  his  life  in  trust  with  you. 

/)oge.  But  1  must  know  your  plan,  your  names,  and 
numbers; 
The  last  may  then  be  doubled,  and  the  former 
Matured  and  strengtbea'd. 

/  £er.  We're  enough  already ; 

Vou  are  the  sole  ally  we  covet  now. 

Doge.  But  bring  me  to  Ihe  knowledge  of  your  chiefs. 

/.  Ber.  That  sh'ill  be  done  upon  your  formal  pledge 
To  keep  the  faith  that  we  will  pledge 


Twin-named  from  the  apostles  John  and  Paul  j 
A  gondol  1,2  n  i!h  one  oar  only,  will 
Lurk  in  Ihe  narrow  channel  which  glides  by. 
Be  there. 

/.  Ber.  I  will  not  fail. 

Doge.  And  now  retire        ■ 

1.  Ber.  In  the  full  hope  your  highness  w  ill  not  falter 
In  your  great  purpose.    Priuce,  I  take  my  leive. 

[Exit  Israel  Berluccio. 

Doge  (solus).    At  midnight,   by  the  church  Sainti 
John  and  Paul, 
Where  sleep  my  noble  falhers,  F  repair  — 
To  what  ?  to  hold  a  council  in  Ihe  diik 
With  common  ruffians  leagued  lo  ruin  states! 
And  will  not  my  great  sires  leap  from  the  vault, 
VVhere  lie  (wo  doges  who  preceded  me, 
And   pluck  me  dowu  amongst  them.'    Would  they 

could  ! 
For  I  should  rest  in  honour  with  the  honour'd. 
Alas !  1  must  not  think  of  them,  but  those 
Who  have  made  me  thus  unworthy  of  a  name 
Noble  and  brave  as  aught  of  consular 
On  Roman  marbles ;  but  I  will  rcJeem  it 
Back  to  its  antique  lustre  in  our  annals, 
By  sweet  revenge  on  all  that 's  b:jse  in  Venice, 
And  freedom  to  the  rest,  or  leive  it  black 
To  all  the  growing  calumnies  of  time. 
Which  never  spare  the  fame  of  him  who  fails, 
But  try  the  Caesar,  or  Ihe  Catiline, 
By  the  true  touebsione  of  desert  —  success. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE    I. 
An  Apartment  i?)  the  Ducal  Palace, 
Augiolina  {wife  of  the  Doge)  and  Marianna. 
ver? 


Ang.  What  was  the  Doge's 
Mar.  That  he  t 

rhat  moment  summon'd  to  a  conference  ; 


you 

Dvge.  When?  where? 

r.  Ser  This  night  I '"  ^rin?  to  your  apartment  j  -'  ,  _  ,._^^  ^^^^_    ^ 

Two  of  the  principals:  a  greater  number  ..     .        ^        .  .    K. 

Were  hazardous. 

Doge.  Stay,  I  must  think  of  this. 

What  if  I  were  to  Iru^'t  myself  amougst  you, 
And  leave  the  palace  ? 

/.  Ber.  Vou  must  come  alone. 

Doge.  With  but  my  nephe 


Not  long  ago  the  senators  embarking  ; 
And  Ihe  bst  gondola  may  now  be  seen 
Gliding  into  the  Ibrong  of  barks  which  stud 
The  glittering  waters. 

Aug.  Would  he  were  return'd ! 

He  has  been  much  disquieted  of  late  ; 
^  Not  were  he  your  son.  !  And  1  ime  which  has  not  lamed  his  fiery  spirit, 

dSL'  Wretch !  darest  thou  name  my  son  ?  He  died    ^,?l^f'^^"Jry}^.'Jl"Jjirj!^lJ?r^L 
in  arms 
At  Sapienza  for  this  fai'hless  state. 
Oh  !  thit  he  were  alive,  and  I  in  ashes! 
Or  that  he  were  alive  ere  I  be  ashes  ! 
I  should  not  need  the  dubious  aid  of  strangers. 

/.  Ecr.  Not  one  of  all   those  strangers  whom  thou 
doubtest.  1 

But  will  regard  thee  with  a  filiil  feeling,  t 

So  that  thou  keep'st  a  father's  faith  with  them. 

Doge.  The  die  is  cast.    Where  is  the  place  of  meet- 


/.  Ber.  At  midnisht  I  will  be  alone  and  mask'd 
Where'er  vour  highnes  please^i  to  direct  me. 
To  wait  your  coming,  and  conduct  you  where 
Vou  shall  receive  our  homage,  and  pronounce 
Upon  our  project. 

Doge.  At  what  hour  arises 

The  moon  ?  ,  ,    , 

/.  Ber.  Lite,  but  the  a'mosphere  is  thick  and  dusky, 
'T  is  a  sirocco. 

Doge.  At  the  midnijht  hour,  then, 

Near  to  the  church  where  sleep  my  sires  ;  i  thesime, 


Which  seems  lo  be  more  nourish'd  by  a  soul 
So  quick  and  restless  that  it  would  consume 
Les«  hnrdy  clay  —  Time  has  but  little  power 
On  his  resentments  or  his  griefs.    Unlike 
To  other  spirits  of  his  order,  who, 
In  the  first  burst  of  passion,  pour  away 
Their  wrath  or  snrrow,  ?.;i  things  wear  in  him 
An  aspect  of  eternity:  his  thoughts, 
His  feelings,  passions,  good  or  evil,  all 
Have  nothing  of  old  age  ;  and  his  bold  brow 
Bears  but  the  scnrs  of  mind,  the  thoughts  of  yeai 
Not  their  decrepitude  :  and  he  of  late 
Has  been  more  agitated  than  his  wont. 
Would  he  were  come  !  for  I  alone  have  power 
Upon  his  troubled  .spirit. 

Mar.  It  is  true, 

His  highness  has  of  late  been  greatly  moved 


Bt  St.  John's  and  Pnur*.    is  altered    from   tile    fart.  Ihey 

being  in  St.  Mark's.     Make  a  note  of  ihis,  and  rut  Eoilor 

as  Ihe  subscriplinii  to  it.     As  I  make  such  prelensions  lo 

nreuracy,  I  should  not  like  to  be  twitted  even  with  such 

trifles  on  that  score.     Of  Ihe  play  they  may  say  what  they 

please,  but  not  so  of  my  costume  and    dram,  pers—  they 

having    been   real    existeuces."— Byron    Letter$,    Oct. 

IHW.—  E. 

2  A  gondola  is  not  like  a  common  boat,  but  is  as  easily 

...th  their   families  in  their  own    rowed  with  one  oar  as  with  two  (though,  of  course,  L 

think,  by  a  kind  of  present imeot.    swif.ly),  and  often   is   so   from  motives  of  privacy 


l"The  Doges  were  all  buried  in  St.  Mark's  b-fore  Fa- 
liero.     It  is  Biuqniar  that  when    his    predec»ss  )r,  Andrea 
Dandolo,  died,  the  Ten  made   a    law    that   all    the  ful 
Doges  should  be  buried 
churches  —  one  would  .    . 

■o  that  all  that  is  said  of  hia  aneeitral  Dog, 


buried    since  the  decay  of  Venice,  of  economy. 


Scene  L] 


DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


269 


By  the  affron'  of  Steno,  and  with  cause : 
But  the  oifender  doubtless  even  now 
Is  douni'd  to  expiate  his  rnsb  insult  with 
Such  chastisement  as  will  enforce  respect 
To  female  virtue,  and  to  noble  blood. 

Jtng.  'T  Wis  a  gross  insult;  but  I  heed  it  not 
For  the  rash  scorner's  falsehood  iu  itself, 
But  for  the  effect,  the  deadly  deep  impression 
Which  it  has  made  upon  Faliero's  soul, 
The  proud,  the  tiery,  the  austere  —  aus'ere 
To  all  save  nie  :  I  tremble  when  I  think 
To  what  it  may  couduc  . 

Mar.  Assuredly 

The  Doge  can  not  suspect  you  ? 

Jng.  Suspect  me  ! 

Why  Sleno  dared  not:  when  he  scrawl'd  his  lie. 
Grovelling  by  stealth  in  the  moon's  slinimering  light, 
His  own  still  conscience  smote  him  for  the  act, 
And  every  shadow  on  the  walls  frown'd  shame 
Upon  his  coward  calumny. 

Mar.  T  were  fit 

He  should  be  punish'd  grievously. 

jlng.  He  is  so. 

Mar.  What !    is  the  Kotence  pass'd  ?   is  he  con- 
demn'd  ? 

•^ng,  1  know  not  that,  but  be  has  been  detected. 

Mar.  And  deem  you  this  enough  for  such  foul  scorn? 

Aug.  I  would  not  be  a  judge  in  my  own  caus:;, 
Nor  do  I  know  what  sense  of  punishment 
May  reich  the  soul  of  ribilds  such  as  S.eno; 
But  if  his  in^ults  sink  no  deeper  in 
The  minds  of  the  inquisitor,  than  they 
Have  rutfied  mine,  he  will,  for  all  acquittance, 
Be  left  to  his  own  shamelessness  or  shame. 

Mar.  Some  sacrifice  is  due  to  slar.der'd  virtue. 

.3/ig.  Why,  what  h  virtue  if  it  needs  a  victim  ? 
Or  if  it  mast  depend  upon  men's  words  ? 
'J'he  dying  Roman  said,  "  't  was  but  a  name :" 
It  were  indeed  no  more,  if  human  breath 
Could  make  or  mar  it. 

Mar.  Yet  full  many  a  dame, 

S  ainless  and  faithful,  would  feel  all'the  wrong 
Of  such  a  slander  ;  and  less  ligid  ladies, 
Such  as  abound  in  Venice,  would  be  loud 
And  all-inexorable  in  their  cry 
For  justice. 

.^iig.  This  but  proves  it  is  the  name 

And  not  the  quality  they  prize:  the  first 
Have  found  it  a  hard  ta>k  to  hold  their  honour, 
If  they  require  it  to  be  blazon'd  forth  ; 
And  those  who  have  not  kept  it,  seek  its  seeming 
As  they  would  look  out  for  an  ornament 
Of  which  they  feel  the  want,  but  not  because 
The.  (hink  it'so  ;  they  live  in  others'  thoughts, 
And  would  seem  honest  as  they  must  seem  fair. 

Afar.  Vou   have  strange  thoughts  for  a   patrician 
dame. 

.ang.  And  yet  they  were  my  father's;  with  his  name, 
The  sole  inheri  ance  he  left. 

Mar.  You  want  none ; 

Wife  to  a  prince,  the  chief  of  the  Republic. 

Ang.  I  should  have  sought  none  though  a  peasant's 
bride, 
But  fee!  not  less  the  love  and  gratitude 
Due  to  my  father,  who  bestowM  my  hand 
Upon  his  early,  tried,  and  trusted  friend. 
The  Count  Val  di  Marino,  now  our  Doee. 

Mar.  And  witli  that  hand  did  he  bestow  your  heart  ? 

Ang.  He  did  S3,  or  it  hid  not  been  beslow'd. 

Mar.  Yet  this  s'nnge  disproportion  in  your  years, 
And,  let  me  add,  disparity  of  tempers, 
Might  make  the  world  doubt  whether  such  an  union 
C  uld  make  you  wisely,  permanently  happy. 

Aug.  Ihc  world  will  thi:;k  with  worldlings;  but 
my  heart 
H  js  sttll  been  in  my  duties,  which  are  many. 
But  never  difficult. 

Mar.  And  do  you  love  him? 

Ang.  I  love  all  noble  qualities  which  merit 
Love,  and  I  loved  my  father,  who  first  taught  me 
To  single  out  what  we  should  love  in  others, 

23* 


And  to  subdue  all  tendency  to  lend 

The  best  and  purest  feelings  of  our  nature 

To  baser  passions.     He  beslow'd  my  hand 

Upoti  Faliero :  he  had  known  him  noble, 

B  ave,  generous;  rich  in  all  the  qualities 

Of  soldier,  citizen,  and  friend;  iu  all 

Such  h^ve  1  f  >uiid  him  as  my  father  said. 

His  faults  aie  those  that  dwell  in  the  high  bosoms 

Of  men  who  have  commanded  ;  too  much  pride, 

And  the  deep  pa-sions  fiercely  foster  d  by 

The  uses  of  patricians,  and  a  life 

Spent  in  the  storms  of  slate  and  war ;  and  also 

From  the  quick  sense  of  honour,  which  becomes 

A  duty  to  a  certain  sign,  a  vice 

VVheii  overslrain'd,  and  this  I  fe:\r  in  him. 

And  then  he  has  been  rash  from  his  youth  upwards, 

Vet  lemper'd  by  redeeming  nobleness 

In  such  sort,  that  the  w.rie  t  of  republics 

Has  lavish'd  ail  it^  chief  employs  upon  him, 

From  his  firs!  fight  to  his  la^l  embassy. 

From  which  on  his  return  the  dukedom  met  him 

Afar.  But  previous  to  this  marriage,  had  your  1  sart 
Ne'er  beat  for  nny  of  the  noble  youth. 
Such  as  in  years  had  been  more  meet  to  match 
Beauty  like  yours?  or  since  have  you  ne'er  seen 
One,  who,  if  your  fair  hand  we?e  still  to  give. 
Might  now  pretend  to  lx)redaiio's  daughter? 

Aug.  I  answer'd  your  first  question  when  I  said 
I  married. 

Mar.        And  the  second  ? 

Aug.  Needs  no  answer. 

Mar.  I  pray  you  pardon,  if  I  have  olTendtd. 

Aug.  I  feel  no  wrath,  but  some  surprise  ;  I  knew  not 
That  wedded  booms  could  permit  themselves 
To  ponder  u|)Oii  what  they  now  might  choose. 
Or  aught  save  their  past  choice. 

Mar,  'T  is  their  past  choice 

That  far  too  often  makes  them  deem  they  would 
Now  choose  more  wisely,  could  th.y  cancel  it. 

Ang.  It  may  be  so.    I  knew  not  of  such  thoughts. 

Mar.  Here  comes  the  Doge  —  shall  I  retiie  ? 

Atig.  It  may 

Be  belter  you  should  quit  me ;  he  seems  rapt 
In  thought.—  How  pensively  he  takes  his  way  ! 

[Exit  Marianna, 

Enter  the  Doge  and  Pietro. 

Doge  (musing).   There  is  a  certain  Philip  Calendaro 
Now  in  the  Arsenal,  who  holds  command 
Of  eighty  men,  and  has  great  inliuence 
I5esides  on  all  the  spirits  of  his  comrades  : 
This  man,  I  heir,  is  bfild  and  popular, 
Sudden  and  daring,  and  yet  secret ;  'twould 
Be  well  that  he  were  won  :  I  needs  must  hope 
That  Israel  Rertuccio  has  secured  him, 
But  fain  would  be 

Pie.  My  lord,  pray  pardon  me 

For  breaking  in  upon  your  meditation ; 
The  Senator  Berluccio,  your  kinsman. 
Charged  me  to  follovv  and  enquire  your  pleasure 
To  fix  an  hour  when  he  may  speak  with  you. 

Doge.  At  sunset. —  Stay  a  moment —  let  me  see  — 
Say  in  the  second  hour  of  night.  [£xtt  Pietro. 

Ang.  My  lord  ! 

D'  ge.  My  dearest  child,  forgive  me —  why  delay 
So  long  apjiroaching  me  ?  —  I  saw  you  not. 

Ang.  You  were  absorb'd  in  thought,  and  he  whonow 
His  par'ed  from  you  might  have  words  of  weight 
To  bear  you  fronj  the  senate. 

Dose.  From  the  senate  ? 

Ang.  I  would  not  interrupt  him  in  bis  duty 
And  theirs. 

Doge.  The  senate's  duty  !  you  mistake  ; 

'T  is  we  who  owe  all  service  to  the  senate. 

Ang.  1   thought  the  Duke  had  held  command  in 
Venice. 

Di'ge.  He  shall.— But  let  that  pass.— We  will  be 
jocund. 
How  fires  it  with  you  ?  have  you  been  abroad  ? 
'I  he  day  is  overcast,  but  the  calm  wave 
Favours  the  gondolier's  light  skiormiug  oar; 


(1 27U 


MARINO   FALIERO, 


[Act  II. 


Or  bave  you  held  a  levee  t  f  your  friends  ? 
Or  has  your  music  made  vou  solitary  ? 
Siy  —  is  there  aught  that' you  would  will  within 
The  little  sway  now  left  the  Duke?  or  aught 
Of  fitting  splendour,  or  of  honest  pleasure, 
Social  or  loi.ely,  that  would  glad  your  he\rt, 
To  compensate  for  many  a  dull  hour,  was'ed 
On  an  old  man  oft  moved  with  many  cares? 
Speak,  and  't  is  done. 

jl„g.  You  're  ever  kind  to  me. 

I  have  nothin?  to  desire,  or  to  request, 
Except  to  see  you  ofleiier  and  calmer. 

Doge.  Cain 


Am.  You  would  not  have  him  die  for  this  offence  ? 
Da^e.  Not  noto :  — being  still  alive,  I'd  bave  him 
live 
Long  as  he  can  ;  he  has  ceased  to  merit  death  ; 
Theguil'y  saved  hath  damn'd  his  hundred  judges, 
And  he  is  pure,  for  now  his  crime  is  theirs. 

Ang.  Oh  !  had  this  false  and  flippant  libeller 
Shed  his  young  blood  for  his  absurd  lanipooii, 
Ne'er  from  that  moment  could  this  breast  have  known 
A  jovous  hour,  or  dieamless  slumber  more. 

boge.  Dr.es  not  the  law  of  Heaven  say  blood  for 
blood  ? 
I  And  he  who  tamts  kills  more  than  he  who  sheds  if, 


Aug. 


Ay,  calmer,  my  good  lord. —  Ah,  why    ]s  it  the  pain  of  blows,  or  shaiiie  of  blows, 


Do  you  still  keep  apart,  and  walk  aloi 
Anil  let  such  strong  emotions  stamp  your  brow. 
As  not  betraying  their  full  import,  yet 
Disclose  100  much  ? 

Doge.  Disclose  too  much '.  —  of  what  ? 

What  is  there  to  disclose  ? 

A'lg.  A  heart  so  ill 

At  ease. 

Doge.  'T  is  nothing,  child.—  But  in  the  state 
You  know  what  daily  cares  oppress  all  those 
Who  govern  this  precarious  commonwealth; 
Now  suiFering  from  the  Genoese  wiihout. 
And  malcontents  within—  't  is  this  which  makes  me 
More  pensive  and  less  tranquil  than  my  wont. 

Aug.  Yet  this  existed  long  before,  and  never 
Till  in  these  late  days  did  I  see  you  thus. 
Forgive  me  ;  there  is  someihing  at  your  heart 
More  than  the  mere  discharge  of  public  duties, 
Which  long  use  and  a  talent  like  to  yours 
Have  render'd  light,  nay,  a  necessity, 
To  keep  your  mind  from  stagnating.    'T  is  not 
In  hostile  stales,  nor  perils,  thus  to  shake  you  ; 
You,  who  Inve  stood  all  storms  and  never  sunk, 
And  climb'd  up  to  the  jiinnade  of  power 
And  never  fainted  by  the  way,  and  stand 
Upon  it,  and  can  look  down  steadily 
Along  the  depth  beneath,  ard  ne'er  feel  dizzy. 
Were  Genoa's  galleys  riding  in  the  port, 
Were  civil  fury  raging  in  Saint  Mark's, 
You  are  not  to  be  wrought  on,  but  would  fall. 
As  you  have  risen,  with  an  unaller'd  brow  — 
Your  feelings  niw  are  of  a  different  kind  ; 
Something  has  stung  your  pride,  not  patriotism. 
Doge.  Pride  !  Angiolim  ?  Alas  !  none  is  left  me. 
Aug.  Yes  —  the  s?me  sin  that  overthrew  the  angels, 
And  of  all  sins  most  easily  besets 
Mortals  the  nearest  to  the  angelic  mture  : 
The  vile  are  only  vain  ;  the  great  are  )>roud. 
Doge.  I  had  the  pride  of  honour,  of  your  honour. 

Deep  at  my  heart Kut  let  us  change  the  theme. 

Aug.  Ah  no!  — As  I  have  ever  shared  your  kind 
ness 
In  all  things  else,  let  me  not  be  shut  out 
From  your  distress:  were  it  of  public  import. 
You  know  I  never  sought,  would  never  seek 
To  win  a  word  from  you  ;  but  feeling  now 
Your  grief  is  private,  it  belongs  to  me 
To  lighten  or  divide  it.    Since  the  day 
When  foolish  Steno's  ribaldry  detected 
L'nfix'd  your  quiet,  you  are  greatly  changed. 
And  I  would  soothe  you  back  to  wh\t  you  were. 
Doge.  To  what  I  was!  — have  you   heard  Steno" 

sentence  ? 
Aug.  No. 

Doge.         A  month's  arrest. 
Aug.  Is  it  not  enough  ? 

Doge.  Enough  I  —  yes,  for  a  drunken  galley  slave. 
Who,  stung  by  stripes,  may  murmur  at  his  master; 
But  not  for  a  iHibe'rat'o,  false,  cool  villain, 
Who  stains  a  lady's  and  a  prince's  honour 
Even  on  the  thro'i.e  of  his  authority. 

Aug.  There  seems  to  me  enough  in  the  conviction 
"3!  a  pafri:ian  guil'y  of  a  falsehood  : 
All  olher  punishment  were  light  unto 
His  loss  of  honour. 
Doge.  Such  men  have  no  honour 


That  makes  such  deadly  to  the  sense  of  man  ? 

Do  not  the  laws  of  man  say  blood  for  honour? 

And,  less  than  honour,  for  a  little  gold  ? 

Say  not  the  laws  of  nations  blood  for  treison  ? 

Is  't  nothing  to  have  till"d  these  veins  with  poison 

For  their  once  healthful  current  ?  is  it  nothing 

To  have  stain'd  your  name  and  mine  —  the  noblest 

names? 
Is  't  nothing  to  have  brought  into  contempt 
A  prince  before  his  people  ?  to  have  fail'd 
In  the  respect  accorded  by  mankind 
To  vouth  in  woman,  and  old  age  in  man  ? 
To  "virtue  in  vour  sex,  and  dignity 
In  ours?  — But  let  them  look  to  it  who  have  saved 
him. 
j9r)g.  Heaven  bids  us  to  forgive  our  enemies. 
Doge.  Duth   Heaven  forgive  her  own?    Is  Satan 
saved 
From  wrath  eternal  ? 

Aug.  Do  not  speak  thus  wildly  — 

Heaven  will  alike  forgive  you  and  your  foes. 
Doge.  Amen  '.  May  Heiven  forgive  them  ! 
Aug.  And  will  you? 

Doge.  Yes,  when  they  are  in  heaven  ! 
Atig.  And  not  till  then  ? 

Doge.  What  matters  my  forgiveness?  an  old  man's, 
Worn  out,  scorn'd,  spurn'd,  abused  ;  what  matters  then 
My  pardon  more  ihan  my  resentment,  both 
Being  weak  and  worthless  ?    I  have  lived  too  long. — 
But  let  us  change  the  argument.—  My  child  ! 
My  injured  wife,  the  child  of  Loreda'no, 
The  brave,  the  chivalrous,  how  litile  deem'd 
Thy  father,  wedding  thee  unto  his  friend. 
That  he  was  linking  thee  to  shame  !  —  Alas  ! 
Shame  without  sin,  for  thou  art  faultless.     Iladst  thou 
Rut  had  a  different  husband,  any  husband 
In  Venice  sive  the  Doge,  this  blight,  this  brand. 
This  blasphemy  had  never  fallen  upon  thee. 
So  voung,  so  beautiful,  so  good,  so  jiure, 
To'suffcr  this,  and  yet  be  unavenged  ! 

^7ig'.  I  am.  too  well  avenged,  for  you  still  love  me, 
And  trust,  and  honour  me;  and  all  men  know 
That  you  are  just,  and  I  am  true:  what  more 
Could  I  require,  or  you  command  ? 

Doge.  '1'  is  well, 

And  may  be  better ;  but  whate'er  betide, 
Be  thou  at  least  kmd  to  my  memory. 
Ang.  Why  speak  you  thus? 
Doge.  It  is  no  mailer  why ; 

But  I  would  still,  whatever  others  think, 
Have  your  respect  both  now  and  in  my  grave. 
Ang.  Why  should  you  doubt  it  ?  has  it  ever  fail'd? 
Dcge.  Come  hither,  child ;  I  would  a  word  with 
vou. 
Your  father  was  mv  friend  ;  unequal  fortune 
Made  him  mv  debtor  for  some  courtesies 
Which  bind  the  good  more  firmly:  when,  oppress'd 
With  his  last  malady,  he  will'd  our  union, 
It  was  not  to  repay  me.  long  repaid 
Before  by  his  great  loyally  in  friendship  ; 
His  object  was  to  place  your  orphan  beauty 
1  In  honourable  safe'y  from  the  perils, 
1  Which,  in  this  scorpion  nest  of  vice,  assail 
I  A  lonely  and  undowered  maid.     I  did  not 
Think  with  him,  but  would  not  oppofe  the  tboofht 


They  haTt  but  their  vile  lives  —  and  these  are  spared.  I  Which  soothed  his  death  bed. 


Scene  I.] 


DOGE  OF   VENICE. 


271 


Ang.  I  havo  not  forgotten 

The  nobleness  with  which  you  bnde  nie  speak 
If  my  youn;  heart  held  any  preference 
Which  would  have  made  me  happier  ;  nor  your  offer 
To  make  my  dowry  equal  to  the  rank 
Of  aught  in  Venice,  and  fotego  all  claim 
My  father's  last  injunction  gave  you. 

Do^e.  Thus, 

n"  was  not  a  foolish  dotard's  vile  caprice, 
Nor  the  false  edge  of  agei  appetite, 
Which  made  me  covetous  of  girlish  beauty, 
And  a  young  bride :  for  in  my  fieriest  youth 
I  sway'd  such  passions ;  nor  was  this  my  age 
Infected  with  that  leprosy  of  lust 
Which  taints  the  hoariest  years  of  vicious  men 
Making  them  ransack  to  the  very  list 
The  dregs  of  pleasure  for  their  vauish'd  joys  ; 
Or  buy  in  selfish  mariiage  some  young  victim, 
Too  helpless  to  refuse  a  state  that 's  honest, 
Too  feeling  not  to  know  herself  a  wretch. 
Our  Wedlock  was  not  of  this  sort ;  you  had 
Freedom  from  me  to  choose,  and  urged  in  answer 
^our  fither's  choice. 

Ang.  I  did  so  ;  I  would  do  so 

In  face  of  earth  and  heaven  ;  for  I  have  never 
Repented  for  my  sake  ;  sometimes  for  yours, 
In  pondering  o'er  your  late  disquietudes. 
Doge.  I   knew  my  heart   would    never  treat  you 
harshly  ; 
I  knew  my  days  could  not  disturb  you  long  ; 
And  then  the  daughter  of  my  earliest  friend, 
His  worthy  daughter,  free  to  choose  again, 
Wealthier  and  wiser,  in  the  ripest  bloom 
Of  womanhood,  more  skilful  to  select 
By  pissing  these  probation iry  years. 
Inheriting  a  [irince's  rmme  and  riches, 
Secured,  by  the  short  penance  of  enduring 
An  old  man  for  some  summers,  against  all 
That  law's  chicane  or  envious  kinsmen  might 
Have  urged  against  her  right;  my  best  friend's  child 
Would  choose  more  fitly  in  respect  of  years, 
And  not  less  truly  in  a  f\ithful  heart, 

^iig.  My  lord,  I  look'd  but  to  my  father's  wishes, 
Hallow'd  by  his  last  words,  and  to  my  heart 
For  doing  all  its  duties,  and  replying 
With  faith  to  him  with  whom  1  was  affianced. 
Ambitious  hopes  ne'er  cross'd  my  dreams  ;  and  should 
Tie  hour  you  speak  of  come  it  will  be  seen  so. 

Doge.  I  Jo  believe  you;  and  I  know  you  true: 
For  love,  romantic  love,  which  in  my  youth 
I  knew  m  be  illusion,  and  ne'er  saw 
Lasting,  but  often  fatal,  it  had  been 
No  lure  for  me,  in  my  most  passiona'e  days, 
And  could  not  be  so  now,  did  such  exist. 
But  such  respect,  and  mildly  paid  regard 
As  a  true  feeling  for  your  welfare,  and 
A  free  compliance  with  all  honest  wishes; 
,A  kindness  to  your  virtues,  watchfulness 
Not  shown,  but  shadowing  o'er  such  little  failings 
As  youth  is  apt  in,  so  as  not  to  check 
Rashly,  but  win  you  from  them  ere  you  knew 
You   had  been   won,  but  thought  the  change  your 

choice; 
A  pride  not  in  your  beauty,  but  your  conduct, — 
A  trust  in  you  — a  pitriaichal  love. 
And  not  a  doting  homage —  friendship,  faith  — 
Such  estimation  in  your  eyes  as  these 
Might  jiaim,  I  hoped  for. 
.i/ig-.  And  have  ever  had. 

Doge.  I  think  so.     For  the  difference  in  our  years 
You  knew  it.  choo-ing  me,  and  chose :  1  trusted 
Not  to  my  qualities,  nor  would  have  faith 
In  such,  nor  outward  ornaments  of  nature, 
Were  I  s'ill  in  my  five-and-'we.otielh  spring; 
I  trusted  to  the  blood  of  Loredano 
Pure  in  your  veins  :  I  trusted  to  the  soi.'! 
God  gave  you  —  to  the  truths  your  father  taught  yon  — 
To  your  belief  in  Heaven  —  to  your  mild  virtues  — 
To  your  own  f^ith  and  honour,  for  niv  own. 
Ang.  You  have  done  well.—  I  thank  you  for  that 
trust, 


Which  I  have  never  for  one  moment  ceased 
To  honour  you  the  more  for. 

Doge.      '  Where  is  honour, 

Innate  and  precept-strenglhen'd,  't  is  the  rock 
Of  faith  connubial :  where  it  is  not  —  where 
Light  thoughs  are  lurking,  or  the  vanities 
Of  worldly  pleasure  rankle  in  the  heart. 
Or  sensual  throbs  convulse  it,  well  I  know 
I'  were  hopeless  for  humanity  to  dream 
Of  honesty  in  such  infected  blood, 
Although  't  were  we<l  to  him  it  covets  most: 
An  mcarnation  of  the  poet's  god 
In  all  his  marble  chisell'd  beauty,  or 
The  demi-deity,  Alcides,  in 
His  majesty  of  superhuman  manhood, 
VVould  not' suffice  to  biud  where  virtue  is  nst ; 
It  is  consistency  which  forms  and  proves  it: 
Vice  cannot  fix,  and  virt  ;•  cannot  change. 
The  once  fall'n  woman  n.Jst  for  ever  fall ; 
For  vice  must  have  \ariety,  while  virtue 
Stands  like  the  sun,  and  all  which  rolls  around 
Drinks  lite,  and  light,  and  glory  from  her  aspect. 

^ng.  And  seeing,  feeling  thus  this  truth  in  others, 
(I  pray  you  pardon  me  ;)  but  wherefore  yield  you 
To  the  most  fierce  of  fatal  passions,  and 
Disquiet  your  great  thoughts  with  restless  hate 
Of  such  a  thing  as  Steno  ? 

Doge.                             Yon  mistake  me. 
It  is  not  Steno  who  could  move  me  thus  ; 
Had  it  been  so,  he  should but  let  that  pass. 

Ang.  What  is 't  you  feel  so  deeply,  then,  even  now  ? 

Doge.  The  violated  majesty  of  Venice, 
At  once  insulted  in  her  lord  and  laws. 

Aug.  Alas!  why  will  you  thus  consider  it? 

Dose.  I  have  thought  on 't  till but  let  me  lead 

you  back 
To  what  I  urged ;  all  these  things  being  noted, 
I  wedded  you  ;  the  world  then  did  me  justice 
Upon  the  motive,  and  my  conduct  proved 
They  did  me  right,  while  yours  was  all  to  praise: 
You  had  all  freedom  —  all  respect  —  all  trust 
From  me  and  mine  ;  and,  born  of  those  who  made 
Princes  at  home,  and  swept  kings  from  their  thrones 
On  foreign  shores,  in  all  things  you  appear'd 
Worthy  to  be  our  first  of  native  dames. 

Aug.  To  what  does  this  conduct  ? 

Doge.  To  thus  much  —  that 

A  miscreant's  angry  breath  may  blast  it  all  — 
A  villain,  whom  for  his  unbridled  bearing. 
Even  in  the  midst  of  our  great  festival, 
I  caused  to  be  conducted  forth,  and  taught 
How  to  demean  himself  in  ducal  chambers; 
A  wretch  like  this  may  leave  upon  the  wall 
The  blighting  venom  of  his  sweltering  heart. 
And  this  shall  spread  itself  in  general  poison  ; 
And  woman's  innocence,  mm's  honour,  pass 
In'o  a  by-word  ;  and  the  doubly  felon 
(Who  first  insulted  virgin  modesty 
By  a  gross  affront  to  j'our  attendant  damsels 
Amidst  the  noblest  of  our  dames  in  public) 
Requite  himself  for  his  most  just  expulsion 
By  blickening  public'y  bis  sovereign's  consort, 
And  be  absolved  ly  his  upright  compeers. 

Aug.  But  he  has  been  condemn'd  into  captivity. 

Doge.  For  such  as  him  a  dungeon  were  acquittal; 
And  his  brief  term  of  mock-arrest  will  piss 
Within  a  palace.     But  I  've  done  w  ith  him  ; 
The  rest  must  be  with  you. 

AtJg.  With  me,  my  lord  ? 

I     Doge.  Yes,  Angiolina.     Do  not  marvel  ;  I 
!  Have  let  this  prey  upon  me  till  I  feel 
My  life  cannot  be  long;  and  fain  would  have  you 
Re'gard  the  injunctions  you  will  find  within 
This  scroll  (G'vsvg  htr  a  paper)  —  Fear  not ;  they 

are  for  your  advantage  : 
Read  them  hereafter  at  the  fitting  hour. 

Aug.  My  lord,  in  life,  and  af  er  life,  you  shall 
Be  honour'd  still  by  me  :  but  may  your  days 
Be  many  yet  —  and  happier  than' the  present ! 
This  passion  will  give  way.  and  you  will  be 
Serene,  and  what  you  should  be  —  what  you  were. 


272 


MARINO   FALIERO, 


[AcTlLji 


Dnge.  I  will  be  what  I  should  be,  or  be  nothing; 
But  never  more  —  oh  !  never,  never  more. 
O'er  the  few  days  or  hour^  which  yet  await 
The  blishted  old  age  of  Faliero,  shall 
Siveet  (tuiel  shed  her  sunset :   Never  more 
Those  summer  shadows  risiiig  from  the  past 
Of  a  no.  ill-spent  nor  inglorious  life, 
Mellowing  the  last  hours  as  the  niglil  approaches, 
Shal\  soothe  me  to  my  moment  of  long  rest. 
I  had  but  little  more  to  task,  or  hope. 
Save  the  regards  due  to  the  blood  and  sweat, 
And  the  soul's  labour  through  which  1  had  toil'd 
To  make  my  country  honour'd.     As  her  servan  — 
Her  servant,  though  her  chief— I  would  have  gone 
Down  to  my  fathers  with  a  inme  serene 
And  pure  as  theirs  ;  but  this  has  been  denied  me. — 
VVimId  I  had  died  at  Zara  ! 

^iig.  There  you  saved 

The  state  ;  then  live  to  sive  her  still      A  day, 
Another  day  like  tliat  would  be  the  best 
Reproof  to  them,  and  sole  revenge  for  you. 

Doge,  But  one  such  day  occurs  within  an  age; 
My  life  is  little  less  than  one,  and  't  is 
Enough  for  Fortune  to  have  granted  once, 
That  which  scarce  one  more  lavour'd  citizen 
May  win  iu  many  stales  and  yeais.     But  why 
Thus  speak  I  •■  Venice  has  forgot  that  day  — 
Then  why  should  1  remembe]-  ii  ?  —  F.irewell, 
Sweet  Aogiollni  1  I  mu^t  to  my  cabinet ; 
There  's  much  for  me  to  do  —  and  the  hour  hastens. 

jing.  Remember  what  you  were. 

Duge.  It  were  in  vain  ! 

Joy's  recollection  i<  no  longer  joy. 
While  sorrow's  memory  is  a  sorrow  still. 

Aug.  At  least,  whale'er  may  urge,  let  me  implore 
That  you  will  take  some  little  pau^e  of  rest : 
Your  sleep  for  manv  nigh  s  has  been  so  turbid, 
That  it  had  been  relief  to  have  awaked  you. 
Had  I  not  hoped  that  Nature  would  o'erpower 
At  length  the  thoughts  which  shook  your  lumbers  thus. 
An  hour  of  rest  will  give  you  to  your  toils 
With  fitter  thoughts  and  freshen'd  strength. 

Doge.  I  cannot  — 

I  must  not,  if  I  could  ;  for  never  was 
Such  reason  to  be  watchful :  yet  a  few  — 
Yet  a  few  days  and  dream-perturbed  nights, 
And  I  shill  sl.mber  well  —  but  where  ?  —  no  matter. 
Adieu,  my  Angioliiia. 

Aug.  Let  me  be 

An  instant  —  yet  an  instant  your  companion  ! 
I  cannot  bear 'to  leave  you  thus. 

JJoge.  Come  then, 

My  gen'le  child  —  forgive  me;  thou  wait  made 
For  better  fortunes  than  to  share  in  mine. 
Now  darkling  in  their  close  toward  the  deep  vale 
Where  Deith  sits  robed  in  his  nil  sweeping  shadow. 
When  I  am  gone  —  it  may  be  sooner  than 
Even  these  years  warrant,  for  there  is  that  stirring 
Within  —  above —  around,  that  in  this  city 
Will  make  the  cemeteries  populous 
As  e'er  they  were  by  pestilence  or  war,— 
When  I  am  nothing,  let  that  which  1  was 
Be  still  sometimes  a  name  on  thy  sweet  lips, 
A  shadow  in  thy  f  mcy,  of  a  thing 
Which   would  not  have  thee  mourn  it :  but  remem- 

her;  — 
Let  us  beraiie,  my  child  —  the  time  is  pressing. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

A  retired  Spot  near  theArsmal. 

Israel  Bertuccio  and  Philip  Calendaro. 

Cat.  How  sped  yon,  Israel,  in  your  late  compliint? 

/.  Ber.  Why,  well. 

Cal.  Is't  possible  !  will  he  be  punish'd  ? 

/.  Ber.  Yes. 

Cal.  With  what  ?  a  mulct  or  an  arrest  ? 
I.  Ber.  With  death!  — 

Cal.  Now  you  rave,  or  must  intend  revenge, 
I    Such  as  I  couusell'd  you,  with  your  own  liand. 


/.  Ber.  Yes  ;  and  for  one  sole  draught  of  ha'e,  forego  j 
The  great  redress  we  medila  e  for  Venice, 
And  change  a  life  of  hope  for  one  of  exile ; 
Leaving  one  scorpion  crush'd,  and  thousands  stinging 
My  friends,  my  family,  my  countrymen ! 
No,  Calendaro  ;  these  same  drops  of  blood. 
Shed  shamefully,  shall  hive  the  whole  of  his 

For  their  requital Bu   not  only  his ; 

We  will  not  strike  for  |irivate  wrongs  alone: 
Such  are  for  selfish  passions  and  rash  men, 
But  are  unworthy  a  tyrannicide. 

Cal.  You  have  more  patience  Ihan  I  care  to  boast. 
Had  I  been  preeiit  when  you  bore  this  insult, 
I  must  have  slain  him,  or  e-vpired  myself 
In  the  vain  eti'ort  to  lepiess  my  wrath. 
/.  Ber.  1  hank  Heaven,  you  were  not  —  all  had  else 
been  marr  d  : 
As  't  is,  our  cause  looks  prosperous  still. 

Cal.  You  saw 

1  he  Doge —  what  answer  gave  he? 

/.  Btr.  That  there  was 

No  punishment  for  such  as  Barbaro. 

Cal.  1  told  jou  so  before,  and  that  'twas  idle 
To  think  of  jus. ice  from  such  hands. 

/.  Ber.  Ai  least, 

It  luli'd  suspicion,  showing  confidence. 
Had  1  been  silent,  not  a  sbirro  but 
Had  kept  me  in  his  eye,  as  meditating 
A  silent,  solitary,  deep  revenge. 

Cal.  But  wherefore  not  address  you  to  the  Council  ? 
The  Uoge  is  a  mere  puppe',  who  can  scarce 
Obtain  right  for  himself.     Why  speak  to  him? 
/.  Ber.  You  shall  know  that'beieafter. 
Cal.  Why  not  now  ? 

/.  Ber.  Be  patient  but    till    midnight.    Get   your 
musters. 
And  bid  our  friends  prepare  their  companies  :  — 
Set  all  ill  reidiness  to  strike  the  blow. 
Perhaps  in  a  few  hours  ;  we  have  long  waited 
For  a  fit  time —  that  hour  is  on  the  dial. 
It  may  be,  of  to-morrow's  sun  :  delay 
Beyond  may  breed  us  double  danger.     See 
That  all  be  punctual  at  our  place  of  meeting. 
And  arm'd,  excepting  those  of  the  Sixteen, 
Who  will  remain  among  the  troops  to  wait 
The  signal. 

Cal.  These  brave  words  have  breathed  new  life 
Into  my  veins  ;  I  am  sick  of  these  protracted 
And  liesi'ating  councils:  day  on  day 
CrawI'd  on,  and  added  but  another  link 
To  our  long  fetters,  and  some  fiesher  wrong 
Infiic:ed  on  our  brethren  or  ourselves. 
Helping  to  swell  our  tyrants'  bloated  strength. 
Let  us  but  deil  upon  them,  and  I  care  not 
For  the  result,  which  must  be  death  or  freedom  ! 
1  'm  we\rv  to  the  heart  of  finding  neither. 

/.  Ber.  'We  will  be  free  in  life  or  death  !  thegraw 
Is  chainless.     Have  you  all  the  musters  ready  ? 
And  are  the  £ix:eeu  companies  completed 
To  six  y  ? 

Cal.        AH  save  two,  in  which  there  are 
Twenty-five  want.ng  to  make  up  the  number. 
/.  ber.  No  matter;  we  can  do   without.    Whose 

are  they  ? 
Co/.  Bertram's  and  old  Soran-o's,  both  of  whom 
Appear  less  forward  in  the  cause  than  we  are. 

/.  Ber.  Your  fiery  nature  makes  you  deem  all  those 
Who  are  not  restless  cold  :  but  there  exists 
Ofl  in  concentred  spirits  no!  less  daring 
Than  in  more  loud  avengers.     Do  not  doubt  them, 

Cal.  1  do  not  doubt  the  elder  ;  but  iu  Bertram 
There  is  a  hesitating  softness,  fatal 
To  en  erprise  like  ours  :  I  've  seen  that  man 
Weep  like  nn  infant  o'er  the  misery 
Of  others,  heedless  of  his  own.  ihough  greater; 
And  in  a  recent  quarrel  I  beheld  him 
Turn  sick  at  siiilit  of  blood,  although  a  villain's. 

/.  Ber.  The  truly  brave  are  soft  of  he.irt  and  eyes, 
And  feel  for  what  their  duly  bids  them  do. 
I  have  known  Bertram  long;  there  doth  not  breathe 
A  soul  more  full  of  honour. 


Scene  If.] 


DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


273 


Co/,  It  may  be  so  : 

I  apprehend  less  treachery  than  weakoess  j 
Yet  as  he  h  is  uo  mistress,  and  no  wife 
To  work  upon  his  milkiuess  of  spirit, 
He  may  go  through  the  ordeil ;  it  is  well 
He  is  an  orphan,  friendless  save  in  us: 
A  woman  or  a  child  had  made  him  less 
Than  either  in  resolve. 

/.  Bei:  Such  ties  are  not 

For  those  who  are  call'd  to  the  high  destinies 
Which  purify  corrupted  commonwealths  ; 
We  must  forget  all  feelings  save  the  one  — 
We  must  resign  all  passio'ns  save  our  purpose  — 
We  must  behold  no  object  save  our  country  — 
And  only  look  on  death  as  beautiful, 
So  that  the  sacrifice  ascend  to  heaven, 
And  draw  down  freedom  on  her  evermore. 

Cal.  But  if  we  fail 

/.  Ber.  They  never  fail  who  die 

In  a  gieat  cause  :  the  block  may  soak  Iheir  pore  ; 
Their  heads  may  sodden  in  the  sun  ;  Iheir  limbs 
Be  strung  to  city  gates  and  castle  walls  — 
But  still  their  spirit  walks  abroad.    Though  years 
Elapse,  and  others  share  as  dirk  a  doom. 
They  but  augment  the  deep  and  sweeping  thoughts 
Which  overpower  all  olhers.  and  conduct 
The  world  at  last  to  freedom  :  'VUat  were  we, 
If  Brutus  had  not  lived  ?    He  diea  i,.  ^'ving 
Rome  liberiy,  but  left  a  deathless  lesson - 
A  name  which  is  a  virtue,  and  a  soul 
Which  multiplies  itself  throughout  all  time. 
When  wicked  men  wax  mighty,  and  a  state 
Turns  servile  :  he  and  his  high  friend  were  styled 
"  The  last  of  Romans !  "    Let  us  be  the  first 
Of  true  Venetians,  sprung  from  Roman  sires. 

Cal.  Our  fathers  did  not  fly  from  Attila 
Into  these  isles,  where  palaces  have  sprung 
On  banks  redeem'd  fro'm  the  rude  ocean's  ooze. 
To  own  a  thousand  despo  s  in  his  place. 
Better  bow  down  before  the  Hun,  and  call 
A  Tartar  lord,  than  these  swoln  silkworms  masters  ! 
The  first  at  least  was  man,  and  used  his  sword 
As  sceptre  :  these  unmanly  creeping  things 
Command  our  swords,  and  rule  us  with  a  word 
As  with  a  spell. 

r.  Ber.  It  shall  be  broken  soon. 

You  say  that  all  things  are  in  readiness  : 
To-day  I  have  not  been  the  usual  round, 
And  why  thou  knowest ;  but  thy  vigilance 
Will  betier  have  supplied  my  care:  these  orders 
In  recent  council  to  redouble  now 
Our  efforts  to  repair  the  g^alleys,  have 
Lent  a  fair  colour  to  the  introduction 
Of  many  of  our  cause  into  the  arsenal. 
As  new  artificers  for  their  equipment. 
Or  fresh  recruits  obtain'd  in  haste  to  man 
The  hoped-for  fleet. —  Are  all  supplied  with  arms? 

Cal.  All  who  were  deem'd  trust-worthy:  there  are 
some 
Whom  it  were  well  to  keep  in  ignorance 
Till  it  be  time  to  strike,  and  then  supply  them  ; 
When  in  the  heat  and  hurry  of  the  hour 
They  hive  no  opportunity  to  piuse. 
But  needs  must  on  with  those  who  will  surround  'hem. 

/.  Ber.  You  have  said  well.     Have  you  remark'd  all 
such? 

Cal.  1  've  noted  most ;  and  caused  the  other  chiefs 
To  use  like  caution  in  their  companies. 
As  far  as  I  have  seen,  we  are  enough 
To  make  the  enterprise  secure,  if  't  is 
Commenced  to-morrow  ;  but,  till  't  is  begun, 
Each  hour  is  pregnant  with  a  thousand  perils. 

/.  Ber.  Let  the  Sixteen  meet  at  the  wonted  hour. 
Except  Soranzo,  Nicoletio  RIondo, 
And  Marco  Giuda,  who  will  keep  Iheir  walch 
Within  the  arsenal,  and  hold  all  ready. 
Expectant  of  the  signal  we  will  fix  on. 
Cal.  We  will  not  fail. 

/.  Ber.  Let  all  the  rest  be  there ; 

I  I  have  a  stranger  to  present  to  them. 
I      Ced.  A  stranger !  doth  he  knovv  the  secret? 


l.Bei.  Yes. 

Cal.  And  have  you  dared  to  peril  your  friends'  livet 
On  a  ra>h  confidence  in  one  we  know  not  ? 

/.  Ber.  1  have  risk'd  no  man's  life  except  my  own  — 
Of  that  be  certain  :  he  is  one  who  may 
Make  our  assurance  doubly  sure,  according 
His  aid  ;  and  if  reluctant,  he  no  less 
Is  in  our  power:  he  comes  alone  with  me. 
And  cannot  'scape  us  ;  but  he  will  no:  swerve. 

Cal.  I  cannot  judge  of  this  until  I  know  him; 
Is  he  one  of  our  order  ? 

/.  Ber.  Ay,  ia  spirit. 

Although  a  child  of  greatness ;  he  is  one 
Who  would  become  a  throne,  or  overthrow  one  — 
One  who  has  done  great  deeds,  and  seen  great  changes ; 
No  tyrant,  though  bred  up  to  tyranny  ; 
Vali  int  in  war,  and  sage  in  council ;  noble 
In  nature,  although  haughty  ;  quick,  yet  wary  : 
Yet  for  all  this,  so  full  of  certain  passions. 
That  if  once  siirr'd  and  baffled,  as  he  has  been 
Upon  the  tenderest  points,  there  is  no  Fury 
In  Grecian  story  like  to  that  which  wrings 
His  vitals  with  her  burning  hands,  till  he 
Grows  capable  of  all  things  for  revenge  j 
And  add  too,  that  his  mind  is  liberal, 
He  sees  and  feels  the  people  are  oppress'd, 
And  shares  their  sull'erings.     Take  him  all  in  all, 
We  have  need  of  such,  and  such  have  need  of  us. 

Cal.  And   what  part  would  you  have  him  take 
with  us  ? 

/.  Ber.  It  may  be,  that  of  chief. 

Cal.  What!  and  resign 

Your  own  command  as  leader  ? 

I.  Ber.  Even  so. 

My  object  is  to  make  your  cause  end  well. 
And  not  to  push  myself  to  power.     Experience, 
Some  skill,  and  your  own  choice,  had  mark'd  me  out 
To  act  in  trust  as  your  commander,  till 
Some  worthier  should  appear:  if  1  have  found  such 
As  you  yourselves  shall  own  mo:e  worthy,  think  you 
That  I  would  hesitate  from  selfishness, 
And,  covetous  of  brief  authoritv. 
Slake  our  deep  interest  on  my  single  thoughts. 
Rather  than  yield  to  one  above  me  in 
All  leading  qualities  ?    No,  Calendaro, 
Know  your  friend  better ;  but  you  all  shall  judge.— 
Away  !  and  let  us  meet  at  the  fix'd  hour. 
Be  vigilant,  and  all  will  yet  go  well. 

Cal.  Worthy  Beriuccio,  I  have  known  you  ever 
Trusty  and  brave,  with  head  and  heart  to  plan 
What  I  have  still  been  prompt  to  execute. 
For  my  own  part,  I  seek  no  other  chief; 
What  the  rest  will  decide  1  know  not,  but 
I  am  with  you,  as  I  have  ever  been, 
III  all  our  undertakings.     Now  farewell. 
Until  the  hour  of  midnight  sees  us  meet.        [Exaint. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE    I. 

Scene,  the  Space  Mween  the  Canal  and  the  Cfiurth 
of  San  Giovanni  e  San  Paolo.  An  equestrian 
Statue  before  it.-^A  Gondola  lies  in  the  CancU  at 
some  distance. 

Enter  the  Doge  alone,  dispiised. 

Doge  (solus).  I  am  before  the  hour,  the  hour  whose 

voice. 
Pealing  into  the  arch  of  night,  might  strike 
These  palaces  with  ominous  tottering, 
And  rock  their  marbles  to  the  corner-stone, 
Waking  the  sleepers  from  some  hideous  dream 
Of  indistinct  but  awful  augury 
Of  that  which  will  befall  them.     Yes,  proud  city! 
Thou  must  be  cleansed  of  the  black  blood  which  mnkes 

thee 
A  lazar-house  of  tyranny  :  the  task 
Is  forced  upon  me,"  I  have  sought  it  not ; 


274 


MARINO    FALIERO, 


[Act  III. 


And  therefore  was  I  punish'd,  seeing  this 

Patrician  pestilence  spread  on  and  on. 

Until  at  length  it  snio  e  me  in  my  slumbers, 

And  I  am  tainted,  and  must  wash  away 

The  plague  spots  in  the  healing  wave.    Tall  fane  ! 

Where  sleep  my  fathers,  whose  dim  statues  shadow 

The  floor  which  doth  divide  us  from  the  dead, 

Where  all  the  pregnant  hearts  of  our  bold  blood, 

Moulder'd  into  a  mile  of  ashes,  hold 

In  one  shrunk  heap  what  once  made  many  heroes, 

When  what  is  now  a  handful  shook  the  earth  — 

Fane  of  the  tutelar  saints  who  guaid  our  house  ! 

Vault  where  iwo  Doges  rest  —  my  sires  !  who  died 

The  one  of  toil,  the  other  in  the  field. 

With  a  long  race  of  oiher  lineal  chiefs 

And  sages,  whose  great  labours,  wounds,  and  state 

I  have  inherited,—  let  the  graves  gipe, 

'I  ill  all  thine  aisles  be  peopled  with  the  dead. 

And  pour  them  from  thy  purtals  to  gaze  on  me  ! 

I  call  them  up,  and  them  and  thee  to  w  itness 

What  it  haih  been  which  put  me  to  this  task  — 

Their  pure  high  blood,  their  blazon-roll  of  gloriis, 

Their  mighty  name  dishonour'd  all  t>i  me, 

Not  by  me,  but  by  the  ungrateful  nobles 

We  fought  to  mnke  our  equals,  not  our  lords  :  — 

And  chiefly  thou,  Ordehfo  the  brave, 

Who  perish'd  in  the  field,  where  1  since  conquer'd, 

Battling  at  Zara,  did  the  hecatombs 

Of  thine  and  Venice'  foes,  there  ofier'd  up 

By  thy  descendmt,  met  it  such  acquittance  ? 

Spirits  '.  smile  down  upon  me ;  for  my  cause 

Is  yours,  in  all  life  now  cm  be  of  \ours, — 

Your  fame,  your  name,  all  mingled  up  in  mine, 

And  in  the  future  fortunes  of  our  race ! 

I>et  me  but  prosper,  and  I  make  this  city 

Free  and  immortal,  and  our  house's  name 

Worthier  of  what  you  were,  now  and  hereafter ! 

Enter  Israel  Bertwcio. 

I.  3er.  Who  goes  there  ? 

Dvge.  A  friend  to  Venice. 

/.  £er.  T  is  he. 

Welcome,  my  lord, —  you  are  before  the  time. 

Voge.  I  am  ready  to  proceed  !o  your  assembly. 

/.  Ser.  Have  with  you,—  I  am  proud  and  pleased 
to  see 
Such  confident  alacrity.     Tour  doubts 
Since  our  last  meeting,  then,  are  all  dispell'd  ? 

Doge.  Not  so  —  but  I  have  set  my  little  left 
Of  life  upon  this  cast :  the  die  was  thrown 
When  I  first  listeu'd  to  your  treason  —  Start  not! 
That  is  the  woid;  I  cannot  shape  my  tongue 
To  syllable  black  deeds  into  smooth  names. 
Though  I  be  wrought  on  to  commit  them.     VVhen 
I  heard  you  tempt  your  soveieign.  and  forbore 
To  have  you  dragg'd  to  prison,  I  became 
Your  guiltiest  accomplice  :  now  you  may, 
If  it  so  please  you,  do  as  much  by  me. 

1  Ber.  Strange  words,  my  lord,  and  most  unmerited  ; 
I  am  no  spy,  and  neilher  are  we  traitors. 

Doge.   fPe— Wi;.' —  no  matter --you  have  earn'd 
the  right 
To  talk  of  w.—  But  to  the  point.—  If  this 
Attempt  succeeds,  and  Venice,  render'd  free 
And  flourishing,  when  we  are  in  our  graves, 
Conducts  her  generations  to  our  tombs. 
And  makes  her  children  wiih  their  little  hands 
Strew  flowers  o'er  her  deliverers'  ashes,  then 
The  consequence  will  sanctify  the  deed. 
And  we  shall  be  like  the  two  Bruti  in 
The  annals  of  hereafter  ;  but  if  not, 
If  we  should  fail,  employing  bloo<ly  means 
And  secret  plot,  although  to  a  good' end, 
Still  we  are  traitors,  hohest  Israel  ;  —  thou 
No  less  than  he  who  was  thy  sovereign 
Six  hours  ago,  and  now  thy  brother  rebel. 

/.  Ber.  'T  is  not  the  moment  to  consider  thus. 
Else  1  could  answer.—  Let  us  to  the  meeting. 
Or  we  may  be  observed  in  lingering  here. 
Dogt.  We  are  observed,  and  have  been. 


We  observed ! 


/  Ber. 
Let  me  discover  —  and  this  steel 

Duge.  Put  ip ; 

Here  are  no  human  witnesses :  look  there  — 
What  see  you? 

/.  Ber.  Only  a  fall  warrior's  s'atue 

Bestriding  a  proud  steed,  in  the  dim  light 
Of  the  dull  moon. 

Doge.  Thit  warrior  was  the  sire 

Of  my  sire's  fathers,  and  that  statue  was 
Decreed  to  him  by  the  twice  rescued  city  :  — 
Think  you  itiat  be  looks  down  ou  us  or  no  ? 

/.  Btr.  My  lord,  these  are  mere  fantasies  j  there  an 
No  eyes  in  maible. 

Doge.  But  there  are  in  Death. 

I  tell  thee,  man,  there  is  a  spiri-  in 
Such  things  that  acts  and  sees,  unseen,  though  felf; 
And,  if  Ihere  be  a  spell  to  stir  'he  dead, 
'T  is  in  such  deeds  as  we  are  now  upon. 
Deem'at  thou  the  souls  of  such  a  race  as  mine 
Can  rest,  when  he,  their  last  descendant  chief. 
Stands  plotting  on  the  brink  of  their  pure  graves 
Wiih  slung  plebeians? 

/.  Ber.  It  had  been  as  well 

To  have  ponder'd  this  before, —  ere  you  embark'd 
In  our  great  enterprise. —  Do  you  repent  ? 

Duge.  No  — but  I  /ecZ,  and  shall  do  to  the  lasU 
I  cannot  quench  a  glorious  life  at  once. 
Nor  dwindle  to  the  thing  I  now  must  be. 
And  take  men's  lives  by  stealih,  without  some  paittM: 
Yet  doubt  me  not ;  it  is  Ihis  very  feeling. 
And  knowing  what  h^is  wrung  me  to  be  thus, 
Which  is  your  best  security.     There  's  not 
A  rou-ed  mechanic  in  your  busy  plot 
So  wrong'd  as  I,  so  falf'ii,  so  loudly  cill'd 
To  his  redre  s :  the  very  means  1  am  forced 
By  these  fell  tyrants  to  idnpt  is  such, 
That  I  abhor  them  doubly  for  the  deeds 
Which  I  must  do  to  pay  I'hem  bi-ck  for  theirs. 

/.  Ber.  Let  us  away  —  hark  —  the  hour  strikes. 

Doge.  On  —  on  — 

It  is  our  knell,  or  that  of  Venice  —  On. 

/.  Ber.  Say  ralher,  't  is  her  freedom's  rising  peal 

Of  triumph This  way  —  we  are  near  the  place. 

\_Exeunt 

SCENE    II. 

The  House  where  the  Conspirators  meet. 

Dagolino,  Doro,  Bertram,  Fedele  Trevisano,  Caiai- 
daro,  Antonio  delle  Bende,  ^c.  ^c 

Cal.  (entering).  Are  all  here? 

Dag.  All  with  you ;  except  the  three 

On  duly,  and  our  leader  Israel, 
Who  Is  expeeled  momently. 

Cal.  Where »«  Bertram  ? 

Ber.  Here! 

Cal.  Have  you  not  been  able  to  complete 

The  number  wanting  in  your  company  ? 

Ber.  I  had  niark'd  out  some :  hut  I  have  not  dared 
To  trust  them  with  the  secret,  till  assuied 
That  Ihev  were  worthy  faith. 

Cal.  There  is  no  need 

Of  trusting  to  their  faith  ;  who,  save  ourselves 
And  our  more  chosen  comrades,  is  aware 
Fully  of  our  intent?  they  think  themselves 
Engaged  in  secret  to  lhe'Signory,i 
To  punish  some  more  dissolute  young  nobles 
Who  have  defied  the  law  in  the'ir  exce-ses  ; 
But  once  drawn  up,  and  their  new  swords  well  flesb'd 
111  the  rank  hearts  of  the  more  odious  senators, 
Thev  will  not  hesitate  to  follow  up 
Their  blow  upon  the  others,  when  they  see 
The  example  of  their  chiefs,  and  I  for  one 
Will  set  them  such,  that  they  for  very  shame 
And  safely  will  not  pause  till  all  have  perish'd. 

Ber.  How  say  you  ?  all ! 

Cal.  Whom  wouldst  thou  (pare  ? 

I  An  historical  fact.    See  Appendix,  Note  A. 


Scene  II.] 


DOGE  OF  VENICE. 


275 


Ber.  I  >paTe  ? 

I  have  no  power  to  spare.  I  only  question'd, 
Thiiikinj  lliat  even  amongst  iliese  wicked  men 
There  niijht  be  >onie,  whose  age  and  qualilies 
Might  mark  Iheni  out  for  piiy. 

Cal.  Yes,  such  pity 

As  wheii  the  viper  hath  been  cut  to  pieces, 
The  separate  fragments  quivering  iu  the  sun, 
In  the  last  energy  of  venomous  life, 
Deserve  and  have.     Why,  I  should  think  as  soon 
Of  pitying  some  particular  fang  which  made 
One  in  the  .^aw  of  the  swoln  serpent,  as 
Of  saving  one  of  these:  they  form  but  links 
Of  one  long  chain ;  one  mass,  one  breith,  one  body ; 
They  eat,  and  drink,  and  live,  and  breed  together, 
Revel,  and  lie,  oppress,  and  kill  in  concert, — 
So  let  them  die  as  out,  '. 

Dag.  Should  one  survive. 

He  would  be  dangerous  as  the  whole;  it  is  not 
Their  number,  be  it  tens  or  thousands,  but 
The  spirit  of  this  aristoc:acy 
Which  must  be  looted  oui ;  and  if  there  svere, 
A  single  shoot  of  the  old  tree  iu  life, 
'T  would  fasen  in  the  soil,  and  spring  again 
To  gloomy  verdure  and  to  bitter  fruit. 
Berirain,  we  must  be  firm  ! 

Cal.  Look  to  It  well, 

Bertram  :  I  have  an  eye  upon  thee. 

Bcr.  Who 

Distrusts  me  ? 

Cal.  Not  I;  for  if  I  did  so. 

Thou  wouldst  not  now  be  there  to  talk  of  trust : 
It  is  thy  softness,  not  thy  want  of  faith, 
Which  makes  thee  to  be  doubted. 

Ber.  You  should  know 

Who  hear  me,  who  and  what  I  am  ;  a  man 
Roused  like  yourselves  to  overthrow  oppressiDn; 
A  kind  man,'  I  am  apt  to  think,  as  some 
Of  you  Inve  found  me;  and  if  brave  or  no. 
You,  Calendaro,  can  pronounce,  who  have  seen  me 
Put  to  the  proof;  or,  if  you  should  have  doubts, 
I'll  clear  Iheni  on  your  person  1 

Cal.  You  are  welcome, 

When  once  our  enterprise  is  o'er,  which  must  not 
Be  interrupted  by  a  private  brawl. 

Ber.  I  am  no  brawler  ;  but  can  bear  myself 
As  far  among  the  foe  as  any  he 
Who  hears  me  ;  else  why  have  I  been  selected 
To  be  of  your  chief  comrades  ?  but  no  less 
I  own  my  na  ural  we  ikne^s  ;  i  have  not 
Yet  learn'd  to  think  of  indi  criminate  murder 
Without  some  sense  of  shuddering ;  and  the  sight 
Of  blood  which  spouts  through  hoary  scalps  is  not 
To  me  a  thii:g  of  triumph,  nor  the  deith 
Of  man  surprised  a  glory.     Well—  too  well 
1  know  that  we  must  do'such  things  on  those 
Whose  acti  have  raised  up  such  avengers  ;  but 
If  there  were  some  of  these  «ho  could  be  saved 
From  out  this  sweeping  fate,  for  "ur  own  sakes 
And  for  lur  hon'ur,  to  tnke  od'  some  stain 
Of  massacre,  which  else  pollutes  it  wholly, 
I  h  id  been  glad ;  and  see  no  cause  in  this 
For  sneer,  nor  for  suspicion  ! 

Dag.  Calm  thee,  Bertram 

For  we  suspect  thee  not,  and  'ake  good  heart. 
It  is  the  cause,  and  not  our  will,  which  asks 
Such  actions  from  our  hinds  :  we  'II  wash  away 
All  stains  in  Freedom's  fountain  ! 

En  er  hratl  Bertuccio,  and  the  Doge,  ditguised. 

Dag.  Welcome,  Israel. 

Consp.  Mo  t  welcome. —  Brave  Bertuccio,  thou  art 
late  — 
Who  is  this  stranger? 

Cal.  "         It  is  time  to  name  him. 

Our  comrades  are  even  now  prepared  to  greet  him 
In  brotherhood,  as  I  have  made  it  known 
That  thou  woukUt  add  a  brother  to  our  cause. 
Approved  by  Vhee,  and  thus  approved  by  all, 
Such  is  our  trust  in  all  thine  actions.     Now 
Let  him  unfold  himself. 


/.  Ber.  Stranger,  step  forth  ! 

I'J'he  Doge  duscovers  himteJf. 
Cuiisp.  To  arms! — we   are   bttray'd-    't  is   the 
Dnge  ! 
Down  wiih  them  both  !  our  traitorous  captam,  and 
Ihe  lyriUt  he  hath  sold  us  to. 

Cal.  (drawing  kis  sword).     Hold  !  hold  ! 
Who  moves  a  step  against  them  dies.     Hold  !  hear 
Bertuccio —  What  !  are  you  appall'd  to  see 
A  lone,  unguarded,  weaponless  old  man 
Amongst  you?  —  Israel,  speak '.  what  means  thismy!- 
tery  ? 
/.  Ber.  Let  them  advance  and  strike  at  (beir  own 
bosoms. 
Ungrateful  suicides  I  for  on  our  lives 
Depend  their  own,  their  fortunes,  and  their  hopes. 
Dige.  Strike !  —  If  I  dreaded  death,  a  death  more 
fearful 
Than  any  your  rash  weapons  can  inflict, 
I  should  cot  now  he  here  :  —  Oh,  noble  Courage ! 
The  eldest  born  of  Fe:ir,  which  makes  you  brave 
Against  this  solitary  hoary  head  ! 
See  the  bold  chiefs,  who  would  reform  a  slate 
And  shake  down  senates,  mad  with  wrath  and  drtad 
At  sight  of  one  patrician  !  —  Bu'cher  me, 
You  can  ;  I  care  not.  —  Israel,  are  these  men 
The  mighty  hearts  you  spoke  of?  Inrk  upon  them  ! 
Cat.  Fai  h  !  he  hath  shamed  us,  and  deservedly. 
Was  this  your  trust  in  your  true  chief  Bertuccio, 
To  turn  your  swords  against  him  and  his  guest  ? 
Sheathe  them,  and  hear  him. 

I.  Ber.  I  disdr^in  to  speak. 

They  might  and  must  have  known  a  heart  like  mine 
Incapable  of  treachery  ;  and  the  power 
They  gwe  me  to  adopt  all  fitting  means 
To  further  their  design  was  ne'er  abused. 
They  might  be  certain  that  whoe'er  was  brought 
By  me  into  this  council  had  been  led 
'lo  lake  his  choice  —  as  brother,  or  as  victim. 

Doge.  And  which  am  I  to  be  ?  your  actions  leave 
Some  Cluse  to  doubt  the  freedom  of  the  choice. 
/.  Btr.  My  lord,  wj  would  have  perish'd  here  toge- 
ther. 
Had  these  rash  men  proceeded  ;  but,  behold. 
They  are  ashamed  of  that  mad  moment's  impulse. 
And  droop  their  heads  ;  believe  me,  they  are  such 
As  I  described  ihtm  —  Speak  to  them. 

Cal.  Ay,  speak ; 

We  are  all  listening  in  wonder. 

/.  Bfr.  (addressing  the  conspirators).  You  are  safe, 
Nay,  more,  almost  triumphant  —  listen  then, 
Aid  know  my  words  for  truth. 

Doge.  You  see  me  here 

As  one  of  you  hath  said,  an  old,  unarm'd, 
Defenceless  man  ;  and  yesterday  you  saw  me 
Presiding  in  the  hall  of  ducal  state, 
Apparent  sovereign  of  our  hundred  isles. 
Robed  in  official  purple,  dealing  out 
The  edicts  of  a  power  which  is  not  mine. 
Nor  yours,  but  of  our  mnsters  — Ihe  patricians. 
Why  I  was  there  you  know,  or  think  you  know ; 
Why  I  am  htre,  he  who  haih  been  most  wrong'd, 
He  who  among  you  hath  been  most  insulted, 
Outraged  and  trodden  on,  until  he  doubt 
If  he  be  worm  or  no,  mav  answer  for  me. 
Asking  of  his  own  heart  what  brought  him  here? 
You  know  my  recent  story,  all  men  know  it, 
And  judge  of  it  far  differently  from  those 
Who  sate  in  judgment  to  heap  scorn  on  scorn. 
But  spare  me  Ihe  recital  —  it  is  here, 
Here  .it  my  heart  the  outrage  —  but  my  words, 
Already  spent  in  unavailin?  plaints. 
Would  only  show  my  feebleness  Ihe  more. 
Ami  I  come  here  to  strengthen  even  the  strong, 
And  urge  them  nn  to  deeds,  and  not  to  war 
With  woman's  weapnns  ;  but  I  need  not  urge  you. 
Our  private  wrongs  have  sprung  from  public  vices, 
In  this —  I  cannot  call  it  commonwealth 
Nor  kingdom,  which  hath  neither  prince  nor  peoi^e. 
But  all  the  sins  of  the  old  Spartan  state 
Without  its  virtues  —  temperance  and  valour. 


MARINO    FALIERO, 


[Act  III. 


The  Lords  of  Lacedaemon  were  true  'oldiers, 

But  ours  are  Sybarites,  whili;  »e  are  Helots, 

Of  whom  I  am  the  lowest,  most  enslaved ; 

Although  dress'd  out  to  head  a  paaeant,  as 

The  Greeks  of  yore  made  drunk  their  slaves  to  form 

A  pastime  for  their  children.    You  are  met 

To  overthrow  this  monster  of  a  st^te, 

This  mockery  of  a  government,  this  spectre. 

Which  must  be  exorcised  with  blood,—  and  then 

We  will  renew  the  times  of  truth  and  justice, 

Condensing  in  a  fair  free  commonwealth 

Not  rash  ei)ualily  but  equal  rights, 

Proportion^  like  the  columns  to  the  temple. 

Giving  and  taking  strength  reciprocal, 

And  making  firm  the  whole  with  grace  and  beauty, 

So  that  nn  part  could  be  removed  without 

Infriu'emenl  of  the  general  symmetry. 

In  operating  this  great  change,  I  claim 

To  be  one  of  you  —  if  you  trust  in  me ; 

If  not,  strike  home,— my  life  is  c  impromised. 

And  I  would  rather  fill  by  freemen's  hands 

Than  live  another  diy  to  act  the  tyrant 

As  deleg:\te  of  tyrants :  such  I  am  not, 

And  never  have  been  —  read  it  in  our  annals ; 

I  cm  appeal  to  my  past  government 

In  many  lands  and  cities ;  they  can  tell  you 

If  I  were  an  oppressor,  or  a  man 

Feeling  and  thinking  for  my  fellow  men. 

Haply  had  I  been  what  the  senaie  sought, 

A  thing  of  robes  and  trinkets,  dizen'd  out 

To  sit  in  state  as  for  a  sovereign's  picture  ; 

A  popular  scourge,  a  ready  sentence-signer, 

A  stickler  for  the  Senate  and  "  the  Foriy,'' 

A  sceptic  of  all  measures  which  hid  not 

The  sanction  of  "  the  Ten,"  a  council-fawner, 

A  tool,  a  fool,  a  puppet,  —  they  had  ne'er 

Fosfer'd  the  wretch  who  slung  me.     What  I  suffer 

Has  reach'd  me  through  my  pity  for  the  people; 

Tliat  many  know,  and  they  who  know  not  yet 

Will  one  day  leirn :  meantime  I  do  devote, 

Whate'er  the  issue,  my  last  days  of  life  — 

My  present  power  such  as  it  is,  not  that 

Of  Doge,  but  of  a  man  who  has  been  great 

Before  he  was  degraded  to  a  Doge, 

And  still  has  individual  meins  and  mind  ; 

I  stake  mv  f -me  (and  I  hid  fame)  —  my  breath 

(The  leasi  of  all,  for  its  last  hours  are  nigh) 

My  heart  —  my  hope  —  my  soul  —  upon  this  cast ! 

Such  as  1  am,  i  oti'er  me  to  you 

And  to  your  chiefs,  accept  me  or  reject  me, 

A  Prince  who  fain  would  be  a  ciii  en 

Or  nothing,  and  who  has  left  his  throne  to  be  so. 

Cal.  Long  live  Fatiero  !  — Venice  shall  be  free ! 

Consp.  Long  live  Faliero  ! 

/.  Ber.  Comrades  !  did  I  well  ? 

Is  not  this  man  a  host  in  such  a  cause  ? 

Dose.  This  is  no  time  for  eulogies,  nor  place 
For  exultation.     Am  1  one  of  you  ? 

Cal.  Av,  and  the  first  amongst  us,  as  thou  hast  been 
Of  Venice  —  be  our  general  and  chief. 

Done.  Chief.  —  genenl !  —  I  was  general  at  Zara, 
And  chief  in  Rhodes  and  Cyprus,  prince  in  Venice: 

I  cannot  stoop that  is.  I  am  not  fit 

To  lead  a  band  of patriots  :  when  I  lay 

Aside  the  dignities  which  I  have  borne, 

'T  is  not  to  put  on  others,  but  to  be 

Mate  to  my  fellows  —  but  now  to  the  point : 

Israel  h«  slated  to  me  your  whole  plan  — 

T  IS  bo  1.  but  feasible  if  I  assist  it. 

And  must  be  set  in  motion  instantly. 

Cal.  E'en  when  thou  wilt.     Is  it  not  so,  my  friends? 
I  have  dispised  all  for  a  sudden  blow  ; 
When  shall  it  be  then  ? 

Doge.  At  sunrise. 

Ber  So  soon  ? 

Dogt.  So  soon  ?  —  so  late  —  each  hour  accumulates 
Peril  on  peril,  and  the  more  so  now 
Since  I  have  mingled  with  you  ;  — know  you  not 
The  Council,  and  "  the  Ten  ?  "  the  spies,  the  eyes 


Of  the  patricians  dubicus  of  their  slaves. 

And  now  mo:e  dubiouj.  of  the  prince  they  have  made 

I  tell  vou,  you  must  strike,  and  suddenly, 

Full  to  the  Hydra's  heart  —  is  heads  w'ill  follow. 

Cal.  Wjth'all  my  soul  and  sword,  I  yield  assent; 
Our  corapinies  aie  ready,  sixty  each, 
And  all  now  ur.der  arms  by  Israel's  order; 
Each  at  their  ditlerent  place  of  rendezvous. 
And  vieilant,  expectant  of  some  blow; 
Let  each  repair  for  action  to  his  post! 
And  now,  mv  lord,  the  signal  ? 

Dogt.         '  When  you  hear 

The  great  bell  of  Saint  Marks,  which  may  not  b« 
Struck  without  special  order  of  the  Doge 
(The  last  poor  privilege  they  leave  their  prince), 
March  on  Saint  Mark  s  ! 

/.  Btr.  And  there  ?  — 

Doge.  By  different  route* 

Let  your  march  be  directed,  every  sixty 
Entering  a  separate  avenue,  and  still 
Upon  the  wav  let  your  cry  be  of  war 
And  of  the  Genoese  fleet,  by  the  first  dawn 
Discern'd  before  the  port ;  form  round  the  palace, 
Within  whose  court  will  be  drawn  out  in  arms 
My  nephew  and  the  clients  of  our  house, 
Manv  and  martial  ;  while  the  bell  tolls  on. 
Shout  ye,  "  Saint  Mark  !  —  th-e  foe  is  on  our  waters  I  " 
Cal.  I  see  it  now  —  but  on,  my  noble  lord. 
Doge.  All  the  patricians  flocki'ng  to  the  Council, 
(Which  they  dare  not  refuse,  at  the  dread  signal 
Pealing  from  out  their  patron  saint's  proud  tower,) 
Will  then  be  gather'd  in  unto  the  hjrvest. 
And  we  will  reap  them  with  the  sword  for  sickle. 
If  some  few  should  be  tardy  or  absent  them, 
'T  will  be  but  to  be  taken  faint  and  single. 
When  the  majority  are  put  to  rest. 
Cal.  Would  that  the  hour  were  come!  we  will  not 
scotch. 
But  kill. 

Ber.      Once  more,  sir,  with  your  pardon,  I 
Would  now  repeat  the  question' which  I  ask'd 
Before  Bertuccio  added  to  our  cause 
This  great  ally  who  renders  it  more  sure, 
And  therefore  safer,  and  as  such  admits 
Some  dawn  of  mercy  to  a  portion  of 
Our  victims  — must  all  perish  in  this  slaughter? 

Cal.  All  who  encounter  me  and  mine,  be  sure, 
The  mercv  they  have  shown,  I  show. 

Coiisp. '  All !  all ! 

Is  this  a  time  to  talk  of  pity?  when 
Have  thev  e'er  shown,  or  felt,  or  feign'd  it  ? 

/.  Btr.'  Bertram, 

This  false  compassion  is  a  folly,  and 
Injustice  to  thy  comrades  and  thy  cause  ! 
Dost  thou  not  see,  that  if  we  single  out 
Some  for  escape,  they  live  but  to  avenge 
The  fallen  ?  and  how  distinguish  now  the  innocent 
From  out  the  guilty?  all  their  acts  are  erne  — 
A  single  emanation  from  one  body. 
Together  knit  for  our  oppression  !  'T  is 
Much  that  we  let  their  children  live ;  I  doubt 
If  all  of  these  even  should  be  set  apart : 
The  hunter  may  reserve  some  single  cub 
From  out  the  tiger's  litter,  but  who  e'er 
Would  seek  to  save  the  spotted  sire  or  dam, 
Unless  to  perish  by  their  fangs?  however, 
I  will  abide  by  Doge  Faliero's  counsel: 
Let  him  decide  if  anv  should  be  saved. 
Doge.  Ask  me  not  — tempt  me  not  with  such  a 
question  — 
Decide  vourselves. 

7.  BfT.  Tou  know  their  private  virtues 

Far  better  thin  we  can,  to  »  honi  alone 
Their  public  vices,  and  most  foul  oppression, 
Have  made  them  deadly  ;  if  there  be  amongst  them 
One  who  deserves  to  be  rtpeil'd,  pronounce. 

Dngt.  Dolfino's  father  Avas  my  f  iend,  and  Lando 
Fought  by  my  side,  and  Mire  Coimro  shaied 
My  Genoese  embassy  :  I  saved  the  life 
Of  Veniero  —  shall  I  save  it  twice  ? 


Scene  II.] 


DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


277 


Would  that  I  could  save  them  and  Venice  nlso ! 
All  these  nieu,  or  their  lathers,  w  ere  my  friends 
Til!  they  became  my  subject. ;  ihen  fell  from  me 
As  faithless  leaves  drop  from  the  o'erblown  flower, 
And  left  me  a  lone  blighted  thorny  stalk, 
Which,  in  its  soliiude,  can  shelter  nothing  ; 
So,  as  they  let  me  wither.  Jet  ihem  perish. 

Cal.  They  cannot  co-exist  with  Venice'  freedom! 

Doge.  Ye,  though  you  know  and  feel  our  mutual 
mass 
Of  many  wrongs,  even  ye  are  ignorant 
What  fatal  po'ison  to  the  springs  of  life, 
To  human  ties,  aLd  all  that 's  good  and  dear, 
Lurks  in  the  present  inslilu'es  of  Venice: 
All  these  men  were  my  friends;  I  loved  them,  they 
Requiied  honourably  my  regards; 
We  served  and   fought ;  we  smiled  aod  wept  in  con- 
cert ; 
We  reveli'd  or  we  sorrowed  side  by  side  ; 
We  made  alliances  of  blood  and  marriage  ; 
We  grew  in  years  and  honours  fairly,—  till 
Their  own  desire,  not  my  ambition,  made 
Them  choose  me  f.ir  their  prince,  and  then  farewell ! 
Farewell  all  social  memory  !  all  thoughts 
In  common  !  and  sweet  bonds  which  link  old  friend- 
ships, 
When  the  iurvivors  of  long  years  and  actions, 
Which  now  belong  to  history,  soothe  the  days 
Which  yet  remain  by  treasuring  each  other. 
And  never  meet,  but  each  beholds  the  mirror 
Of  half  a  century  on  his  brolher's  brow. 
And  sees  a  hundred  beings,  now  in  earth. 
Flit  round  them  whispering  of  the  days  gone  by. 
And  seeming  not  all  dead,  as  long  as  two 
Of  the  brave,  joyous,  reckless,  glorious  band, 
Which  once  were  one  and  many,  still  retain 
A  breath  to  sigh  for  them,  a  tongue  to  speak 
Of  deeds  that  else  were  silent,  save  on  mirble  — 
Oime  !  Oinie!  — and  must  1  do  this  deed  ? 

/.  £er.  My  lord,  you  are  much  moved  :  it  is  not  now 
That  such  things  must  be  dwell  upon. 

Dogf.  Your  patience 

A  moment —  I  recede  nol  :  mark  with  me 
The  gloomy  vices  of  this  government. 
From   the  hour  they  made  me  Doge,  the  Doge  tfiey 

made  me  — 
Farewell  ihe  p.ast !  I  died  to  all  that  had  been. 
Or  rather  they  to  me  :  no  friends,  no  kindness, 
No  privacy  of  life —  all  were  cut  off: 
They  came  not  near  me,  such  approach  gave  umbrage  ; 
They  could  not  love  me,  such  was  not  the  law  ; 
They  thwarted  me,  't  was  the  state's  policy  ; 
They  baffled  me,  H  was  a  patrician's  duty  ; 
They  wrong'd  me,  for  such  was  to  right  the  state  ; 
They  could  not  right  me,  that  would  give  suspicion  ; 
So  tlial  I  wa^  a  sl.ave  to  my  own  subjects; 
So  Ih  it  I  was  a  foe  to  my  own  friends ; 
Be?irl  wih  spies  for  guards —  with  robes  for  power  — 
With  pomp  for  freedom  —  2:aolers  for  a  council  — 
Inquisitors  for  friends  —  and  hell  for  life  ! 
I  had  one  only  fount  of  quiet  left, 
'  And  that  they  poison'd  I    My  pure  household  gods 
Were  shiver'd  on  my  hearth,  and  o'er  their  shrine 
Sate  grinning  Ribaldry  and  sneering  Scirn. 

/.  £er.  Vou   have   been  deeply  wiong'd,   and  now 
shall  be 
Nobly  avenged  before  another  night. 

Doge.  I  had  borne  all  —  it  hurt  me,  but  I  bore  it  — 
Till  this  last  running  o\er  of  the  cup 
Of  bitterness  —  until  this  last  loud  iusult, 
Not  only  unredress'd,  but  sanction'd  ;  then, 
And  thus,  I  cast  all  further  feelings  from  me  — 
The  feelings  which  they  crush'd  for  me,  long,  long 
Before,  even  in  their  oath  of  false  allegiance  ! 
Even  in  that  very  hour  ami  vow,  they  abjured 
Their  friend  and  made  a  sovereign,  as  boys  make 
Playthings,  to  do  their  iileasure  —  nnd  be  broken! 
I  from  that  hour  have  sien  bu'  senatoi-s 
In  dark  suspicious  conflict  with  the  Doge, 
Brooding  with  him  in  mutual  hate  and  fear; 
They  dreading  be  should  snatch  the  tyranny 

~2i 


From  out  their  grasp,  and  he  abhorring  tyrants. 
To  me,  then,  these  men  have  no  private  life, 
Nor  claim  to  lies  they  have  cut  off  from  others; 
As  senators  for  arbitrary  acts 
Amenable,  I  look  on  them  —  as  such 
Lei  them  be  dealt  upon, 

Cal.  And  now  to  action  ! 

Hence,  brethren,  to  our  posts,  and  may  this  be 
The  last  night  of  mere  words:  I  'd  f;iin  be  doing! 
S  lint  Mark's  great  bell  at  dawn  shall  find  me  wakefjl ! 

/.  Ser.  Disperse   then   to  your  posts :  be  firm  and 
vigilaiit ; 
Think  on  llie  wrongs  we  bear,  the  rights  we  claim. 
This  day  and  night  shall  be  the  last  of  peril ! 
Watch  for  the  signal,  and  then  march.     I  go 
To  join  my  band  ;  let  each  be  prompt  to  niarshaJ 
His  separate  charge  :  the  Doge  will  now  return 
To  the  palace  to  prepare  all  for  the  blow. 
We  part  to  meet  in  freedom  and  in  glory  ! 

Cal.  Doge,  when  1  greet  you  next,  my  homage  to 
you 
Shall  be  the  head  of  Steno  on  this  sword  ! 

Doge.  No ;  let  him  be  reserved  unto  the  last, 
Nor  turn  aside  to  strike  at  such  a  prey, 
Till  nobler  gime  is  quarried  :  his  oflence 
Was  a  mere  ebullition  of  the  vice, 
The  general  corruption  generated 
By  the  foul  aristocracy  :  he  could  nol  — 
He  dared  not  in  more  honourable  days 
Have  risk'd  it.     I  have  merged  all  p'livate  wrath 
Agiinst  him  in  the  thought  of  our  great  purpose. 
A  slave  insults  me—  I  require  his  punishment 
From  his  proud  master's  h.mds ;  if  he  refuse  it, 
'J  he  oft'cnce  grows  his,  and  let  him  answer  it. 

Cal.  Yet,  as  the  inimediate  cause  of  the  alliance 
Which  consecrates  our  undertaking  more, 
I  owe  him  such  deep  gratitude,  that  fain 
I  would  repay  him  as  he  merits ;  may  I  ? 

Doge.  You' would  but  lop  the  hand,  and  I  the  head  ; 
You  would  but  smite  the  scholir,  I  Ihe  master  j 
You  would  but  punish  Steno,  I  Ihe  tenate. 
I  cannot  pause  on  individual  hate, 
In  the  absorbing,  sweeping,  h  hole  revenge, 
Which,  like  Ihe  shee  ed  hre  from  heaven,  must  blast 
Without  distinction,  as  it  fell  of  yore. 
Where  the  Dead  Sea  hath  quench'd  two  cities'  ashes. 

/.  Ser.  Away,  then,  to  your  posts  !  I  but  remain 
A  moment  to  accomjiany  the  Doge 
To  our  late  place  of  tryst,  to  see  no  spies 
Have  been  upon  the  scout,  and  i  hence  I  hasten 
To  where  mv  allotted  band  is  under  arms. 

Cal.  Farewell,  then,—  until  dawn  ! 

/.  £er.  Success  go  with  you  ! 

Consp.  We  will  not  fail  —  Away !  My  lord,  fare- 
well ! 
[The  Conspiratorf  salute  the  Doge  and  Israel 
Bertuccio.  and  retire,  headed  by  Philip  Calen- 
daro.     The  Doge  and  Israel  Beiluccio  remain. 

I.  Ber.  We  have  them  in  the  toil  —  it  cannot  fail. 
Now  thou  'rt  indeed  a  sovereign,  and  wilt  make 
A  name  immortal  greater  than  the  greatest : 
Free  citizens  have  struck  at  kings  ere  now  ; 
Caesars  have  fallen,  and  even  patrician  hands 
Have  crush'd  dictators,  as  the  pojiular  steel 
Has  reach'd  patricians  :  but,  until  this  hour. 
What  prince  has  plotted  for  his  people's  fieedi>in? 
Or  risk'd  a  life  to  liberate  his  subjects  ? 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  they  conspire 
Against  Ihe  people,  to  abuse  their  hands 
To  chains,  but  laid  aside  to  carry  weapons 
Against  the  fellow  nations,  so  that  yoke 
On  yoke,  and  slavery  and  death  may  whet. 
Not  glut,  the  never  "gorged  Leviathan  ! 
Now,  mv  lord,  to  our  enterprise  ;  — 't  is  great, 
And  greater  Ihe  reward  ;  why  stand  you  wrapt  > 
A  moment  back,  and  you  were  all  impatience  ! 

Doze.  And  is  it  Ihen  decided  !  must  they  die  ? 

I.Bcr.  Who? 

Dng'.        My  own  friends  by  blood  and  courtesy, 
And  many  deeds  and  days  —  the  senators  ? 


278 


MARINO    FALIERO, 


LAcT  IV. 


/.  jBer.  You  pas.'d  Iheirsentence,  and  it  is  a  just  one. 
Dn^i.  Ay,  so  it  seeiiu,  ai.d  so  it  is  lo  you  ; 
Yoi;  ire  a  palriol,  plebeian  Gracctius  — 
'flic  rebePi.  oracle,  the  people's  iribune  — 
I  blame  you  not  —  you  act  in  your  vocaliin  ; 
They  sniotj  you,  and  oppres^'d  you,  and  da  pised  you; 
So  they  have  me :  but  ydu  ne'er  sprike  wi  li  iheni ; 
\o\i  never  broke  their  bread,  nor  shared  their  salt ; 
You  never  h.:d  their  wine  cup  at  your  lips; 
You  grew  not  up  with  them,  nor  l.iugh'd,  nor  wept, 
Nor  held  a  revel  in  their  company  ; 
Ne'er  smiled  to  see  them  smile,  nor  claim'd  their  smile 
lu  social  interchange  for  yours,  nor  trusted 
Nor  wore  them  in  y  lur  heart  of  hearts,  as  I  have : 
Tnese  hairs  of  niiue  are  grey,  and  so  nre  theirs, 
The  elders  of  the  council  :  I  remember 
When  all  our  locks  were  like  the  raven's  wing, 
As  we  went  fo  th  lo  lake  our  prey  around 
The  isles  wrung  from  the  false  .M^homita;: ; 
And  can  I  see  them  dabbled  o'er  with  blood  ? 
Each  stab  to  them  will  seem  my  suicide. 

I.  Ber.  Doge!  Uoge  !  this  vacillation  is  unworthy 
A  child  ;  if  you  are  not  in  second  childhood. 
Call  back  your  nerves  to  your  own  purpose,  nor 
Thus  shame  yourself  and  me.    By  heavens  1  I  'd  rather 
Forego  even  now,  or  fail  in  our  intent, 
Than  see  the  miu  I  venerate  subside 
From  high  resolves  into  such  shallow  weikness ! 
You  have  seen  blood  in  bat  le,  shed  it,  both 
Your  own  and  that  of  others;  can  you  shrink  then 
From  a  few  drops  from  veins  of  hoary  vampires. 
Who  but  give  back  what  they  have  drain'd  fiom  mil- 
lions ? 
Do%e.  Be,tr  with  me !    Step  by  step,  and   blow  on 
blow, 
I  will  divide  with  you  ;  think  not  I  waver: 
Ah  !  no  ;  it  is  Ihe  certainty  of  all 
Which  I  must  do  doth  make  me  tremble  thus. 
But  let  these  I  island  lingering  Ihoughts  hive  way, 
To  which  you  only  and  Ihe  night  are  conscious, 
^nd  both  regardless  ;  when  the  hour  arrives, 
'T  is  mine  to  sound  Ihe  ki  ell,  and  strike  the  blow, 
V/hich  shall  unpeople  many  p  daces, 
And  hew  the  highest  gtnealogic  trees 
Down  to  the  earth,  strew 'd  wi  h  their  bleeding  fruit, 
And  crush  !heir  blossoms  into  barrenness  : 
This  will  I  —  must  I  —  have  I  svvoni  to  do, 
Nor  aught  can  turn  me  from  my  destiny  ; 
But  sldl  I  quiver  to  beh  dd  what  1 
Must  be,  and  think  what  I  have  been!   Bear  with  me. 
/.  Ber.  Re-man  your  breast ;  I  feel  m  such  remorse, 
I  understand  it  not :  n  hy  should  you  chai.ge  ? 
You  acted,  and  you  act,  on  your  fiee  will. 

Doge.  Ay.  there  it  is  —  yvu  feel  not,  nor  do  I, 
Else  1  should  stab  thee  on  Ihe  spot,  to  save 
A  thousand  lives,  and,  killing,  do  no  murder; 
You  feel  not  —  you  go  to  this  butcher-work 
As  if  the-e  high-born  men  were  steers  for  shambles. 
When  all  is  over,  you  'II  be  free  and  merry. 
And  calmly  wash  those  h^nds  incarnadine'; 
But  I,  outgoing  thee  and  all  thy  fellows 
In  this  surpassing  massacre,  shall  he. 
Shall  see  and  feel  —  oh  God  !  oh  God  !  '(  is  true, 
And  thou  dost  well  to  answer  that  it  was 
"  My  own  free  will  and  act,"  and  yet  you  err, 
For  1  will  do  this  1  Doubt  not  —  fear  not ;  1 
Will  be  your  most  unrnerriful  accomplice  ! 
And  yet  I  act  no  more  on  my  free  will. 
Nor  mv  own  feelings  —  both  compel  me  back  ; 
Bui  there  is  hell  within  me  and  around. 
And  like  the  demon  who  believes  and  trembles 
Must  I  abhor  and  do.     Av.ay  1  away  ! 
Get  thee  unto  thy  fellows,  I  will  hie  me 
To  gather  Ihe  retainers  of  our  house. 
Doubt   not.  Saint  Mark's  great  bell  shall  n^ake  all 

Venice, 
Except  her  slaugh'er'd  senile  :  ere  the  sun 
Be  broad  upon  the  Adriatic,  there 
Shall  he  a  voice  ol  weeping,  which  shall  drown 
The  roar  of  waters  in  Ihe  cry  of  blood  ! 
1  am  resolved —  come  on. 


/.  Ber.  With  all  my  soul ! 

Keep  a  firm  rein  upon  these  bursts  of  passion; 
Remember  what  these  men  have  dealt  to  thee, 
And  that  this  sacrifice  will  be  succeeded 
By  ages  of  prosperity  and  freedom 
To  this  unshackled  city:  a  true  tyrant 
Would  have  depopulated  empires,  nor 
Have  felt  Ihe  strange  compunction  which  hath  wrung 

you 
To  punish  a  few  traitors  to  the  people. 
~     si  me,  such  were  a  pity  more  misplaced 
Than  Ihe  late  mercy  of  Ihe  state  to  Sieno. 

Doge.  Man,  thou  hast  struck  upon  the  chord  which 
jars 
AH  nature  from  my  heart.     Hence  to  our  task  ! 

lExeunt. 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE    I. 

Palazzo  of  the  Patrician  Lioni.     Lioni  laying  aside 
the  mask    and  aonk  which   the  f'autian  Nobles 
wote  m  public,  attended  by  a  Domestic 
Lioni.  I  will  to  rest,  right  weary  of  this  revel, 
The  giyest  we  have  held  for  many  moons. 
And  yel,  I  know  not  why,  it  cheer'd  me  not; 
There  came  a  heaviness  a''ross  my  heut_ 
Which,  in  the  lightest  movement  of  the  dance, 
Though  eye  to  eye,  and  hand  in  hand  united 
Even  with  the  lady  of  my  love,  oppress'd  me, 
And  through  my  spirit  chili'd  my  blood,  until 
A  damp  like  death  rose  o'er  my  brow ;  I  strove 
To  lauih  Ihe  thought  away,  but  'I  would  not  be; 
Through  all  the  music  ringing  in  my  ears 
A  knell  was  sounding  as  distinct  and  clear. 
Though  low  and  far,  as  e'er  Ihe  Adrian  wave 
Rose  o'er  the  city's  murmur  in  the  night. 
Dashing  against  the  outward  Lido's  bulwark  : 
So  that  I  left  Ihe  festival  before 
It  reach'd  its  zenith,  and  will  woo  my  pillow 
For  thoughts  more  tranquil,  or  forgelfulness. 
Antonio,  take  my  mask  and  cloak,  and  light 
The  lamp  wilhin  my  chamber. 

Ant.  Yes,  my  lord  : 

Command  you  no  refreshment  ? 

Lioni.  Nought,  save  sleep, 

Which  will  not  be  commanded.    Le;  me  hop?  it, 

[Exit  .37itonitK 
Though  my  breast  feels  too  anxious;  I  will  try 
Whether  Ihe  air  will  calm  my  spirits:  'tis 
A  goodly  night ;  the  cloudy  wind  which  blew 
From  the  Levant  hath  ciept  into  it-^  cave, 
And  the  broad  moon  has  brighten'd.  What  a  stillness ! 
[Goes  to  an  open  lattice. 
And  what  a  contrast  with  the  scene  I  left, 
Where  the  tall  torches'  glare,  and  silver  lamps' 
More  pallid  gleam  along  the  tapestried  walls, 
Spread  over  the  reluctant  gloom  which  haunts 
Those  vast  and  dimly-latticed  galleries 
A  daz7ling  mass  of  artificial  light. 
Which  show"d  all  things,  but  nothing  as  they  were. 
There  Age  essiying  to  recall  the  past. 
After  long  striving  for  the  hues  of  youth 
At  Ihe  sad  labour  of  the  toilet,  and 
Full  many  a  glance  at  Ihe  too  faithful  mirror, 
Prank'd  forth  in  all  Ihe  pride  of  ornament, 
Forgot  itself,  and  trusting  to  the  falsehood 
Of  the  indulgent  beims,  which  show,  yet  hide, 
Believed  itself  forgotten,  .and  w.as  fool'd. 
There  Youth,  which  needed  not,  nor  thought  of  such 
Vain  adjuncts,  lavish'd  its  true  bloom,  and  health, 
And  bridal  beauty,  in  the  unwholesome  press 
Of  flush'd  and  crowded  wassailers,  and  wasted 
Its  hours  of  rest  in  dre>niing  this  was  pleasure. 
And  so  shall  was'e  them  till  Ihe  sunrise  streams 
On  sallow  cheeks  and  sunken  eyes,  which  should  not 
Have  worn  this  aspect  yet  for  ni«ny  a  year. 
The  music,  and  the  banquet,  and  the  wine — 


Scene  I.] 


DOGE  OF  VENICE. 


279 


The  garlands  the  rose  cvlours,  and  the  flowers  — 

The  sparkli.ig  eyes,  and  flashing  ornaments  — 

The  white  arms  and  the  raven  hair —  the  br.iids 

Aid  bracelets ;  swanlike  bosoms,  and  the  necklace, 

An  India  in  itself,  yet  dazzlin;  not 

The  eye  like  whit  it  circled ;  the  thin  robes. 

Floating  like  light  clouds  't«  ixt  our  gaze  and  heaven ; 

The  niany-lwinkliiig  feet  so  small  and  sylphlike, 

Suggesting  the  more  secret  symmetry 

Of  the  fiir  forms  which  terminate  so  well — 

All  the  delusion  of  the  dizzy  scene, 

Its  fal^e  and  true  enchantments  —  art  and  nature. 

Which  swam  before  my  giddy  eyes,  that  drank 

The  sight  of  beauty  as  the  parcb'd  pilgrim's 

On  Arab  sands  the'false  mirage,  wh;ch  oiiers 

A  lucid  lake  to  his  eluded  thirst. 

Are  gone. —  Around  me  are  the  stars  and  waters  — 

Worlds  mirror'd  in  the  ocean,  goodlier  sight 

Than  torches  glared  back  by  a  gaudy  glass  ; 

And  the  great  element,  which  is  to  space 

What  ocean  is  to  earth,  spreads  its  blue  depths, 

Soften'd  with  the  first  breathings  of  the  spring ; 

The  high  moon  sails  upon  her  beauteous  way, 

Serenely  smoothing  o'er  the  lofly  walls 

Of  those  tall  piles  and  sevgirt  palaces. 

Whose  porphyry  pillars,  and  whose  costly  fronts, 

Fraught  with  the  orient  spoil  of  many  marbles. 

Like  altars  ranged  along  the  broad  canal, 

Seem  each  a  trophy  of  some  mighty  deed 

Rear'd  up  from  out  the  waiers,  scarce  less  strangely 

Than  those  more  massy  aud  mysierious  giants 

Of  architecture,  those  I'ilanian  fabrics. 

Which  point  in  Egypt's  phtiiis  to  times  that  have 

No  other  record.     All  is  gentle:  nought 

Stirs  rudely  ;  but,  congenial  wiih  the  night, 

Whatever  walks  is  gliding  like  a  spirit. 

The  liiiklings  of  some  vigilant  guitars 

Of  sleepless  lovers  to  a  wakeful  mistress. 

And  cautious  opening  of  the  casement,  showing 

That  he  is  not  unheard ;  while  her  young  hand. 

Fair  as  the  moonlight  of  which  it  seems  part, 

So  delicately  white,  it  trembles  in 

The  act  of  opening  the  forbidden  lattice. 

To  let  in  love  through  music,  makes  his  heart 

Thrill  like  his  lyre-strings  at  the  sight ;  the  dash 

Phosphoric  of  the  oar,  or  rapid  twinkle 

Of  the  far  lights  of  skimming  gondolas. 

And  the  responsive  voices  of  the  choir 

Of  boatmen  answering  bick  with  verse  for  verse; 

Some  dusky  shidow  checkering  the  Rialto  ; 

Some  glimmering  pilace  roof,  or  tapering  spire, 

Are  all  the  sights  and  sounds  which  here  pervade 

The  ocem-born  and  earth-commanding  city  — 

How  sweet  and  soo  hing  is  this  hour  of  cnlm  ! 

I  thank  thee.  Night !  for  thou  hast  chased  away 

Those  horrid  bodemenis  "  hich,  amidst  the  throng, 

I  could  not  dissipaie  :  and  with  the  blessing 

Of  thy  benign  and  quiet  influence, — 

Now 'will  I  to  my  couch,  although  to  rest 

Is  alDiost  wronging  such  a  night  as  this 

[A  knochmg  is  heard  from  without 
Hark  1  what  is  that  ?  or  who  at  such  a  moment  ? 


Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  My  lord,  a  man  w  ithout,  on  urgent  business, 
Implores  to  be  admitted. 

Lioni.  Is  he  a  stranger  ? 

Ant.  His  face  is  muffled  in  his  cloak,  but  both 
His  voice  and  gestures  seem  familiar  to  me; 
I  craved  his  name,  but  this  he  seem'd  reluctant 
To  trust,  save  to  yourself;  most  earnestly 
He  sues  to  be  permitted  to  approach  you. 

Lioni.  'T  is  a  strange  hour,  and  a  suspicious  bearing 
And  yet  there  is  slight  peril :  't  is  not  in 
Their  houses  noble  men  are  struck  at ;  still. 
Although  I  know  not  that  I  have  a  foe 
In  Venice,  't  will  be  wise  to  use  some  caution. 
Admit  him,  and  retire;  but  call  up  quickly 


Some  of  thy  fellows,  who  may  wait  without. — 
Who  can  this  man  be  ?  — 

lExit  Antonio,  and  retumt  with  Bertram  muffled. 
Ber.  My  good  lord  Lioni, 

I  have  no  lime  to  lose,  nor  thou  —  dismiss 
This  menial  hence ;  I  would  be  private  with  ycti. 
Lioni.  It  seems  the   voice  of  Bertram  —  Gc,  AU' 
tonio.  [Exit  .intonio 

Now,  stranger,  what  would  you  at  such  an  hour  ? 
Bt}-.  (discovering    hiniselj ).     A    boon,    my   noble 
patron  ;  you  have  granted 
Many  to  your  poor  client,  Bertiam  ;  add 
This  one,  and  make  him  happy. 

Liont.  Thou  hast  known  me 

From  b:)yhood,  ever  ready  to  assist  thee 
all  fair  objects  of  advancement,  which 
ieem  one  of  thy  station;  i  would  promise 
Ere  thy  request  was  heard,  but  that  the  hour. 
Thy  bearing,  and  this  strange  and  hurried  mode 
Of  suing,  gives  me  to  suspect  this  visit 
Hath  some  mysterious  import  —  but  say  on  — 
What  has  occurred,  some  rash  and  sudden  broil  ?  — 
A  cup  loo  mucli,  a  scuffle,  and  a  stab  ?  — 
Mere  things  of  every  day  ;  so  that  thou  hast  not 
Spilt  noble  blood,  1  guarantee  thy  safety  ; 
But  then  thou  must  withdraw,  for  angry  friends 
And  relatives,  in  the  first  burst  of  vengeance. 
Are  things  in  Venice  deadlier  than  the  laws. 

Ber.  My  lord,  I  thank  you  ;  but 

Lioni.  But  what  ?    You  have  not 

Raised  a  rash  hand  against  one  of  our  order  ? 
If  so,  withdraw  aud  fly,  aud  own  it  not ; 
I  would  nol  slay  —  but  then  I  must  not  save  thee  ! 

He  who  has  shed  patrician  blood 

Ber.  I  come 

To  save  patrician  blood,  snd  not  to  shed  it '. 
And  thereunto  I  must  be  speedy,  for 
Each  minute  lost  may  lose  a  life;  since  Time 
Has  changed  his  slow  scythe  for  the  two  edged  sword. 
And  is  about  lo  take,  instead  of  sand. 
The  dust  from  sepulchres  lo  fill  his  hourglass!  — 
Go  not  thou  forth  to-morrow  ! 

Lioni.  Wherefore  not  ?  — 

What  means  this  menace  ? 

Ber.  Do  not  seek  its  meaning, 

But  do  as  I  implore  thee  ;  —  stir  not  forth, 
Whale'er  be  stirring  ;  though  the  roar  of  crowds  — 
The  cry  of  wnnien,  and  the  shrieks  of  babes  — 
The  groans  of  men  —  the  clash  of  arms  —  the  sound 
Of  rolling  drum,  shrill  trump,  and  hollow  bell. 
Peal  in  one  wide  alarum  !  —  Go  not  forth. 
Until  the  tocsin  's  silent,  nor  even  then 
Till  I  return! 

Lioni.  Again,  what  does  this  mean  ? 

Ber.  Again,  I  tell  thee,  ask  not ;  but  by  all 
Thou  boldest  dear  on  earth  or  heaven  —  by  all 
The  souls  of  thy  great  fathers,  and  thy  hope 
To  emulate  them,  and  to  leave  behind 
Descendants  worthy  both  of  them  and  thee  — 
By  all  thou  hast  of  bless'd  in  hope  or  memory  — 
By  all  thou  hast  to  fear  here  or  hereafier  — 
By  all  the  good  deeds  thou  hast  cone  to  me. 
Good  I  would  now  repay  with  greater  good. 
Remain  within  —  trust  to  thy  household  gods, 
And  to  my  word  for  safety,  if  thou  dost 
As  1  now  counsel  —  but  if  not,  thou  art  lost ! 

Lioni.  I  am  indeed  already  lost  in  wonder; 
Surely  thou  ravest  !  what  have  /  to  dread  ? 
Who  are  my  foes  ?  or  if  there  be  such,  why 
Art  thou  leagued  w  ith  them  ?—  thou !  or  if  so  leagued, 
Why  comest  thou  lo  tell  me  at  this  hour, 
And  not  before  ? 

Ber.  I  cannot  answer  this. 

Wilt  thou  go  forth  despite  of  this  true  warning? 

Lioni.  I  was  not  born  to  shrink  from  idle  threats. 
The  cause  of  w  hich  I  know  not :  at  the  hour 
Of  council,  be  it  soon  or  late,  I  shall  not 
Be  found  among  the  absent. 

Ber.  Say  not  so ! 

Once  more,  art  thou  determinetl  to  go  forth? 


280 


MARINO   FALIERO, 


[Act  IV. 


13  there  aught  which  shall  im-  j  Take  it  —  I  am  unarmed,— anj  then  away  ! 
I  would  not  hold  ray  breath  on  such  a  tenure 


Ztionu  I  am.     N 

Ber.  Then,   Heaven  have  mercy  on  thy  soul  !  —  j  As  the  capricious  me: cy  of  such  things 

Farewell !  [Going-.    As  thou  and  those  who  have  set  ihee  to  thy  task  WW 

Lioni.  Stay  —  there  is  more  in  this  than  my  own  I      Btr.  Sooner  thin  spill  thy  blood,  I  peril  mine} 
jgfgty  I  Sooner  than  harm  a  h:<ir  of  thine.  1  place 

Which   makes  me  call  thee  back  ;  we  must  not  part    In  jeopardy  a  thousand  heads,  and  some 

fijyj.  I  As  noble,  nay,  e>en  nobler  than  thice  ot\'n. 

Bertram,  I  have  known  thee  long.  |      i'0»ii.  Ay,  is  it  even  so  ?    Excuse  me,  Bertram ; 

£eT.                                         From  childhood, signer,    I^ am  not  worthy  to  be  singled  out 
Tou  have  been  my  protector:  in  the  day  "^  "" 


Of  reckles.  infancy,  when  rank  forgets 

Or,  rather,  is  no'  jet  taught  to  remember 

lis  cold  prerogative,  we  play'd  together  ; 

Our  sports,  our  smiles,  our  tears,  were  mingled  oft ; 

Mv  father  was  your  father's  client,  I 

Hi's  son's  scarce  less  than  fosler-broiher  ;  years 

Saw  us  together —  happy,  heirt  full  hours  \ 

Oh  God  !  the  ditfeience  'iwixt  those  hours  and  this  ! 

Lioni.  Berram,  'tis  thou  who  hast  forjotten  them. 

Ber.  Nor  now,  nor  ever ;  whatsoe'er  betide, 
I  would  hive  saved  you :  when  to  manhood's  growth 
We  sprung,  and  you,  devoted  to  the  state 
As  suits  your  station,  the  more  humble  Bertram 
Was  left  UMO  thj  abours  of  the  humble, 
Still  vou  forsook  me  not ;  and  if  my  fortunes 
Have  not  been  towering,  'twas  no  fault  of  him 
Who  ofttimes  rescue<i  and  supported  me. 
When  struggling  with  the  tides  of  circumstance, 
Which  hear  away  the  weaker  :  noble  blood 
Ne'er  mantled  in  a  nobler  heart  than  thine 
Has  proved  to  me,  the  poor  plebeian  Bertram. 
Would  that  thy  fellow-sen \tors  were  like  thee ! 


orlhy  to  be 
From  such  exalted  heca  onibs  —  who  are  they 
That  are  in  danger,  and  iha'  make  the  danger? 

Ber.  Venice,  and  all  that  she  inherits,  are 
Divided  like  a  house  against  itself. 
And  so  will  perish  ere  to-morrow's  twilight ! 

Lioni.  More  mysteries,  and  awful  ones !    But  now 
Or  thou,  or  I,  or  both,  it  may  be,  are 
Upon  the  verge  of  ruin ;  speak  once  out, 
And  thou  art  safe  and  glorious  ;  for  't  is  more 
Glorious  to  save  than  slay,  and  slay  i'  the  dark  too  — 
Fie,  Bertram  !  that  was  not  a  craft  for  thee! 
How  would  it  look  to  see  upon  a  spear 
The  head  of  him  whose  heart  was  open  to  thee, 
Borne  by  thy  hand  before  the  shuddering  people? 
And  such  may  be  my  doom  ;  for  here  I  swear, 
Whale'er  the  peril  or  the  penalty 
Of  thy  denunciation,  I  gi  forth. 
Unless  thou  dost  detail  the  cause,  and  show 
The  consequence  of  all  which  led  ihee  here  ! 

Ber.  Is  there  no  way  to  save  Ihee?  minutes  fly 
And  thou  ar<  lost '.  —  Ihou !  my  sole  benefactor, 
T  he  only  being  who  was  constant  to  me 
Through  every  change.     Yet,  make  me  not  a  traitor  I 


Lioni.  Why,   what  hast  thou  to   say  against  the    Let  me  save  thee  —  but  spare  my  honour  1 


senate? 

Ber.  Nothing. 

Linni.  I  know  that  there  are  angry  spints 

And  turbulent  mutterers  of  stifled  treason, 
Who  lurk  in  narrow  places,  and  walk  out 
Muffled  to  whisper  curses  to  the  night ; 
Disbinded  soldiers,  discontented  ruffians. 
And  desperate  liberines  who  brawl  in  taverns; 
Thou  herdest  not  with  such  :  't  is  true,  of  late 
I  have  lost  sight  of  thee,  but  thou  wert  wont 
To  lead  a  temperate  life,  and  break  thy  bread 
With  honest  mates,  and  bear  a  cheerful  aspect. 
What  hith  come  to  thee  ?  in  thy  hollow  eye 
And  hueless  cheek,  and  thine  unquiet  motions, 
Sorrow  and  shame  and  conscience  seem  at  war 
To  waste  thee. 

Ber.  Rather  shame  and  sorrow  light 

On  the  accursed  tyranny  which  rides 
The  very  air  in  Venice,  and  makes  men 
Madden  as  in  the  last  hours  of  the  plague 
Which  sweeps  the  soul  deliriously  from  life! 

Lioni.  Some  villains  have  been  tampering  with  thee, 
Bertram ; 
This  is  not  'hv  old  language,  nor  own  thoughts  ; 
Some  svretch  has  made  thee  drunk  with  disaffection: 
But  Ihou  must  not  be  lost  st  ;  thou  wert  good 
And  kind,  and  art  not  fit  for  such  base  acts 
As  vice  and  villany  would  put  Ihee  to: 
Confess  —  conlide  in  me  —  thou  know'st  my  nature  — 
What  is  it  Ihou  and  ihine  are  bound  to  do. 
Which  should  prevent  thy  friend,  the  only  son 
Of  him  who  was  a  friend  unto  thy  father. 
So  that  our  good-will  is  a  heritage 
We  should  bequeath  to  our  posterity 
Such  as  ourselves  received  it,  or  augmented; 
I  say.  what  is  it  thou  must  do,  that  I 
Should  deem  thee  dangerous,  and  keep  the  house 
Like  a  sick  girl  ? 

Ber.                   Nay,  question  me  no  further: 
I  must  be  gone. 

Lioni.  And  I  be  murder'd  !  —  say 

Was  it  not  thus  Ihou  said'st,  mv  eenlle  Bertr.im  r 

Ber.  Who  talks  of  murder?  what  said  I  of  murder? 
T  is  false  !  I  did  not  uller  such  a  word. 

Limti.  Thou  didst  not ;  but  from  out  thy  wolfish  eye. 
So  changed  from  wliat  I  knew  it,  there  glares  forth 
The  gladiator.    If  my  life 's  thine  object, 


Lioni.  Where 

Can  lie  the  honour  in  a  league  of  murder? 
And  who  are  traitors  save  unto  the  state  ? 

Ber.  A  league  is  still  a  compact,  and  more  binding 
In  honest  hearts  when  words  nmst  stand  for  law; 
And  in  my  mind,  there  is  no  traitor  like 
He  whose  domestic  treas-m  plants  the  poniird 
VVihiii  the  breast  which  trusted  to  his  truth. 

Lioni.  And  who  will  strike  the  steel  to  mine  ? 

Ber.  Not  1 

I  could  have  wound  my  soul  up  to  all  things 
.Save  this.     Thou  must  uot  die  !  and  think  how  dear 
Thy  life  is,  when  I  risk  so  many  lives. 
Nay,  more,  the  life  of  lives,  the'liberty 
Of  future  generations,  not  to  be 
The  as3.assin  thou  miscali'st  me :  — once,  once  more 
I  do  adjure  Ihee,  pass  not  o'er  thy  threshold  ! 

Lioni.  It  is  in  vain  —  this  moment  I  go  forth. 

Ber.  Then  perish  Venice  rather  than  my  friend  ! 
I  will  disclose  —  ensnare  —  betray  —  destroy  — 
Oh,  what  a  villain  I  become  for  thee! 

Lioni.    Sav,   rather  Ihv  friend's  saviour   and    tb» 
state's':  — 
Spek  —  pause  not  —  all  rewards,  all  pledges  for 
Thy  safety  and  thy  welf  ire :  wealth  such  as 
The  state  accords  her  worthiest  servants;  nay, 
Nobili  y  itself  I  guarantee  Ihee, 
So  that 'thou  art  sincere  and  penitent. 

B^r.  I  have  thought  again:  it  must  not  be  — I  lov« 
thee  — 
Thou  knowest  it  — that  I  stand  here  is  the  proof, 
Not  least  though  last ;  but  having  done  my  duly 
By  thee,  I  now  must  do  it  by  my  country  ! 
Farewell  —  we  meet  no  more  in  life  !  —  farewell ! 

Liimi.  What,  ho  !— Antonio— Pedro— to  the  door! 

See  that  none  pass  —  arrest  this  man  ! 

Enttr  .Antonio  and  other  armed  Domatics,  who  teiu 
Bertram. 

Lioni  (continues).  Take  care 

He  hath  no  harm  ;  bring  me  my  sword  and  cloak  ; 
And  man  the  gondola  with  four  oars-  quick  — 

[Exit  Antonio. 
We  will  unto  Giovanni  Gradeni»o's, 
And  send  for  Marc  Cornaro  :  — feir  not,  Bertram  ; 
This  needful  violence  is  for  thy  safety. 
No  less  than  for  the  general  weal. 


SCENK  II.] 


DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


281 


Btr.  Where  would'sl  thou 

Bear  mc  a  prisoner  ? 

Lioni.  Firstly  to  "  the  Ten  ;" 

Next  to  the  Doge, 

Ser.  To  the  Doge  ? 

Lioni.  Assuredly: 

Is  he  not  chief  of  ihe  stale? 

Str.  Perhaps  at  sunris3  — 

Lioni,  What  mean  you  ? —  but  we  11  know  anon. 

Btr.  An  sure  ? 

Lioni.  Su  e  as  all  gentle  means  can  make  ;  and  if 
They  f\il,  you  know  "  the  Ten"  and  their  tribunal, 
And  that  St.  Maik's  has  dungeons,  and  the  dungeons 
A  rack. 

Bei:    Apply  it  then  before  the  diwn 
Now  hastening  into  heaven.— One  more  such  word, 
And  you  shall  perish  piecemeal,  by  the  death 
You  think  to  dojm  to  me. 

Re-enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  The  bark  is  ready, 

My  lord,  and  all  prepared. 

Lioni.  Look  to  the  prisoner. 

Bertram,  I  11  reason  wi'h  thee  as  we  go 
To  the  Magnifico'o,  sage  Gradenigo.  [Exertnt. 

SCENE    II. 
T/ie  Ducal  Palace.—  The  Doge's  Apartment. 
TheDoge  and  his  Nephew  Bertuccin  Faliero. 

Do^e,  Are  all  (he  people  of  our  house  in  muster  ? 

Ber.  F.  They  nre  arrayd,  and  eager  for  the  signal, 
VViihin  our  palace  precincts  at  San  Polo.i 
I  come  for  j  our  last  orders. 

Doge.  It  had  been 

As  well  had  there  been  time  to  have  got  together, 
From  my  own  fief,  Val  di  Marion,  more 
Of  our  retainers  —  but  it  is  too  laie. 

Ber.  F.  Methiiiks.  my  lord,  't  is  better  as  it  is : 
A  sudden  swelling  of  our  retinue 
Had  waked  suspicion  ;  and,  though  fierce  and  trusty, 
The  vassals  of  th^t  distriot  are  too  rude 
And  quick  in  quarrel  lo  have  long  maintain'd 
The  secret  discipline  we  need  for  such 
A  service,  till  our  foes  are  dealt  upon. 

Doge.  True;  but  when  once   the  signal  has  been 
given, 
These  are  the  men  for  such  an  enterprise ; 
These  city  slaves  have  all  their  private  bias, 
'I  heir  prejudice  oganist  or  fr,r  this  noble. 
Which  may  induce  them  to  o'erdo  or  spare 
Where  mercy  may  be  madness  ;  the  fierce  peasants, 
Serfs  of  my  couiiiy  of  Va\  di  M.rino, 
Would  do  the  bidding  of  their  lord  without 
Dis'inguishing  for  love  or  hate  his  foes  5 
Alike  10  them  Marcello  or  Cornaro, 
A  Gradenigo  or  a  Foscari  ; 
They  are  not  used  to  start  at  those  vain  names, 
Nor'bovy  the  knee  before  a  civic  senate  j 
A  chief  in  armour  is  their  Suzerain, 
And  not  a  thing  in  robes. 

Ber.  F.  We  are  enough  ; 

And  for  the  dispositions  of  our  clients 
Aeainst  Ihe  senate  I  will  answer. 

Doge.  Well, 

The  die  Is  thrown  ;  but  for  a  warlike  service. 
Done  in  the  field,  commend  me  to  my  peasmt* : 
They  made  Ihe  sun  shii  e  through  the  host  of  Huns 
When  sallow  burghers  slunk  back  to  their  tents, 
And  cower'd  to  hear  their  own  victorious  trumpet. 
If  there  be  small  resistance,  you  will  find 
The^e  citizens  all  li'^ns,  like  their  standard  ; 
But  if  there's  much  to  do,  you'll  wish  with  me, 
A  band  of  iron  rustics  at  our  backs. 

Ber.  F  Thus  Ihinkine.  I  must  marvel  you  resolve 
To  strike  the  blow  so  suddenly. 

Doee.  Such  blows 

Mut  De  struck  suddenly  or  never.     When 
I  Lad  o'ermaster'd  the  weak  false  remorse 


1  Tlie  Doge's  family  palace. 


Which  yearn'd  about  my  heart,  too  fondly  yielding 

A  moment  to  the  feelings  of  old  days, 

I  was  most  fain  to  strike;  and,  firstly,  that 

I  might  not  yield  again  to  such  emoiions; 

And,  secondly,  because.of  all  these  men, 

Save  Israel  and  Philip  Caleiidaro, 

I  know  not  well  the  courage  or  the  faith  : 

To  day  might  find  'mongst  them  a  traitor  to  UB. 

As  yesterday  a  thousand  to  the  senate; 

But  once  in,  with  ;heir  hilts  hot  in  their  hands. 

They  must  on  for  iheir  own  sakes  ;  one  stroke  struck, 

And  the  mere  instinc   of  Ihe  fiist-born  Cain, 

Which  ever  lurks  somewheie  in  human  hears. 

Though  circumstance  miy  keep  it  in  abeyance. 

Will  urge  the  rest  on  like  lo  wolves  ;  the  sight 

Of  blood  to  crowds  begels  the  thirst  of  more. 

As  ihe  first  wine-cup  leads  lo  Ihe  long  revel ; 

And  you  will  find  a  harder  lak  to  quell 

Than  urge  them  when  ihey  have  commenced,  but  till 

That  monienl,  a  mere  voice,  a  straw,  a  shadow. 

Is  capable  of  turning  them  aside. — 

How  goes  the  night  ? 

Ber.  F.  Almost  upon  the  dawn. 

Diige.  Then  it  is  time  lo  strike  upon  the  bell. 
Are  Ihe  men  posted  > 

Bar.  F.  By  this  time  Ihey  are ; 

But  they  have  orders  not  to  strike,  until 
They  have  command  from  you  through  me  in  person. 

Doge    'T  is  well.— Will  the  morn  never  put  lo  rest 
These  stars  which  twinkle  yet  o'er  all  the  heavens? 
I  am  settled  and  bound  up,  and  being  so, 
The  very  effort  which  it  cost  me  In 
Resolve 'to  cleanse  this  commonwealth  with  fire. 
Now  leaves  my  mind  more  steady.     I  have  wept, 
And  trembled  at  the  thought  of  this  dread  duly: 
But  now  I  have  put  down  all  idle  passion, 
And  look  Ihe  growing  tempest  in  the  face, 
As  doth  the  pilot  of  an  admiral  galley: 
Yet  (wouldst  thou  think  it,  kinsman  ?)  it  hath  been 
A  greater  struggle  lo  me,  than  when  nations 
Beheld  their  faie  merged  in  the  approaching  fight. 
Where  I  was  leader  of  a  phalanx,  where 
Thousands  were  sure  lo  perish  — Yes,  to  spill 
The  rank  polluted  current  from  the  veins 
Of  a  few  bloated  despots  needed  more 
To  steel  me  to  a  purpose  such  as  made 
j  Timnleoii  immortal,  than  lo  face 
T  he  loils  and  dangers  of  a  life  of  war. 

Ber.  F.  It  gladdens  me  lo  see  your  former  wisdom 
Subdue  Ihe  furies  which  so  wrung  you  ere 
You  were  decided. 

Doge.  It  was  ever  thus 

With  me  ;  the  hour  of  agitation  came 
In  the  first  glimmerings  of  a  purpose,  when 
Passion  had  too  much  room  to  sway ;  but  in 
The  hour  of  action  1  have  stood  as  calm 
As  were  Ihe  dead  who  lay  around  me:  this 
They  knew  «ho  made  me  what  I  am,  and  trusted 
To  Ihe  subduing  power  which  I  preserved 
Over  my  nvjod,  when  its  first  burst  was  spent. 
But  they  were  not  nware  that  there  are  things 
Which  make  revenge  a  virtue  by  reflection, 
And  not  an  impulse  of  mere  anger  ;  though 
The  laws  sleep,  jusice  wakes,  and  injured  souls 
Oft  do  a  public  right  with  private  wrong. 
And  justify  Iheir  deeds  unto  themselves. — 
jMcthluks  the  day  breaks —  is  it  not  so  ?  look. 
Thine  eyes  are  clear  with  youth  ;  —the  air  puts  on 
A  morning  freshness,  and,  at  least  to  me, 
The  sea  looks  greyer  through  the  lattice. 

Ba.  F.  True, 

The  morn  is  dappling  in  the  sky. 

Doge.  Away  then ! 

See  that  they  strike  without  delay,  rwid  with 
The  first  toil  from  St.  Mark's,  march  on  the  palace 
With  all  our  house's  strength  ;  here  I  will  meet  yon  — 
The  Sixteen  and  their  coni^panies  will  move 
In  separate  columns  at  the  self-sam-;  moment  — 
Be  sure  you  post  yourself  at  the  great  gate : 
I  would  not  trust  "Ihe  Ten"  except  to  ui.— 
The  rest,  the  rabble  of  pati  icians,  may 


J 


24 


263 


MARINO    FALIERO, 


tAcTiV 


Glut  the  more  careless  swords  of  those  leagued  with  us. 
K«niember  that  the  cry  is  still  "  Saint  ftLirk  ! 
The  Genoese  are  come —  ho  !  to  the  rescue  1 
Saint  Mark  and  Liberty  !  "  —  Now  —  now  to  action ! 
Ber.  F.  Farewell  then,  noble  uncle !  we  will  meet 
In  freedom  and  true  sovereignty,  or  never! 

Dn^e.  Come  hither,  my  Bertuccio  —  one  embrace  — 
Spiicu,  for  tlie  day  (jrows  broader  —  send  me  soou 
A  messenger  to  tell  me  how  all  goes 
When  you  rejoin  our  troops,  and  ihen  sound  —  sound 
The  storm-bell  from  Saint  Mark's  ! 

lEjcit  Bertuccio  Falitro. 
Dogt  {solus).  He  is  gone, 

And  on  each  footstep  moves  a  life. —  'f  is  done. 
Now  the  destroying  angel  hovers  o'er 
Venice,  and  pauses  ere  he  pours  the  vial, 
Even  as  the  eagle  ovei  looks  his  prey, 
And  for  a  moment,  poised  in  middle  air, 
Suspends  the  motion  of  his  mighty  wings, 
Then  swoops  with  his  unei  ring  beak. —  1  hou  day  ! 
That  slowly  walk'st  the  waters  !  march  —  march  on  — 
I  would  not  smite  i'  the  dark,  but  rather  see 
That  no  siroke  errs.    And  you,  ye  bhie  sea  waves  ! 
I  have  seen  you  dyed  ere  now,  and  deeply  too, 
With  Genoese,  Saracen,  and  Hunnish  gore. 
While  that  of  Venice  tiow'd  too,  but  victorious. 
Now  thou  must  wear  an  unniix'd  crimson  ;  no 
Barbaric  binod  can  reconcile  us  now 
Unto  that  horrible  incarnadine. 
But  friend  or  foe  will  roll  in  civic  slaughter. 
And  have  I  lived  to  fourscore  years  for  this? 
I,  who  was  named  Preserver  of  the  City  ? 
I,  at  whose  name  the  million's  caps  were  flung 
Into  the  air,  and  cries  from  lens  of  thousands 
Rose  up,  implo!  ing  Heaven  to  send  me  blessings, 
And  fame,  and  length  of  days —  to  see  this  day  ? 
But  this  day,  black  within  the  calendar. 
Shall  be  succeeded  by  a  bright  millennium. 
Doge  Dandolo  survived  to  ninety  summers 
To  vanquish  empires,  and  refuse  their  crown  ; 
1  will  resign  a  crown,  and  make  the  state 
Renew  its  freedom  —  but  oh  !  by  wh  t  means? 
The  noble  end  must  justify  them  — What 
Are  a  few  drops  of  human  blood?  't  is  false, 
The  blood  of  lyrants  is  not  human;  they, 
Like  to  incarnate  Molochs,  feed  on  ours. 
Until  't  is  time  to  give  them  to  the  tombs 
Which  Ihey  have  made  so  populous  —  Oh  world  ! 
Oh  men  !  what  are  ye,  and  our  best  designs, 
That  we  mu  t  work  by  crime  to  punish  crime? 
And  slay  as  if  Uea^i  had  but  this  one  gate. 
When  a  few  years  would  make  'he  sword  superfluous  ? 
And  I,  u[ion  the  verge  of  th'  unknown  realm, 
Ye'  send  so  many  heralds  on  before  me  ?  — 
I  must  not  ponder  this.  [A  pause. 

Ha'k  !  was  there  not 
A  murmur  as  of  distant  voice-,  and 
The  tramp  of  feet  in  marliil  unison  ? 
What  phantoms  even  of  sound  our  wishes  raise! 
It  cannot  be—  the  signal  h  th  not  rung  — 
Why  pauses  it?    My  nei^hew's  messenger 
Should  I.e  upon  his  way  'o  me,  and  he 
Himself  perhaps  even  now  draws  gra'ing  back 
Upon  its  ponderous  hiige  the  steep  tower  portal, 
Whe  e  swings  ihe  sullen  huge  oracular  bell. 
Which  never  knells  hut  for  a  princely  death. 
Or  for  a  st  He  in  peril,  peiling  forth  ! 
Tremendous  bodemenis  ;  let  it  do  its  office, 
And  be  this  peal  its  awfullest  and  last 
Sound  I  ill  Ihe  strong  tower  rock  !  — What !  silent  still  ? 
I  would  go  forth,  but  that  my  pos  is  here. 
To  be  the  centre  of  re-union  to 
The  oft  discordant  elements  which  form 
Leagues  of  ihis  iia'ure,  and  to  keep  compact 
The  wavei  ing  of  the  weak,  in  case  of  conflict ; 
For  if   hey  should  do  battle,  't  will  tie  here. 
Within  the  pali:e,  that  the  strife  will  thicken  : 
Then  here  mus  be  my  station,  as  becomes 
The  master-mo  'er.  — ^  Hark  !  he  comes  —  he  comes. 
My  nephew,  b  ave  Bertuccio's  messenger. — 


What  tidings  ?    Is  he  marching  ?  hath  he  sped  ?  — 
They  here  :  —  all 's  lost  —  yet  will  I  make  au  effort 

Enter  a  Signer  of  the  Night,  with  Guards,  ^c.  ^c. 

Sig.  Doge,  I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason  ! 

Doge.  Me ! 

Thy  prince,  of  treason?— Who  are  they  that  Jare   • 
Cloak  their  own  treason  under  such  an  order! 

Sig.  (.ihowing  his  ordir).    Behold  my  order  from 
the  assembled  Ten. 

Doge.  And  where  are  Ihey,  and  why  assemtled  ?  no 
Such  council  can  be  lawful,  till  the  prince 
Preside  there.,  and  tt:at  duly  's  mine  :  on  thine 
I  charge  thee,  give  nie  way,  or  m.irshal  me 
To  the  council  chmiber. 

Sig.  Duke!  it  may  not  be: 

Nor  are  they  in  the  wonted  Hall  of  Council, 
But  silting  in  the  convent  of  Saint  Saviour's. 

Doge.  You  dare  to  disobey  me,  then  ? 

Sig-  I  serve 

The  state,  and  needs  must  serve  it  faithfully  ; 
My  warrant  is  the  will  of  those  who  rule  it. 

Doge.  And  till  that  warrant  has  my  signature 
It  is  illegal,  and,  as  now  applied, 
Rebellious  — Hast  thou  weigh'd  well  thy  life's  worth, 
That  thus  you  dare  assume  a  lawless  function  ? 

S'g.  'Tis  fiol  my  office  to  reply,  but  act  — 
I  am  placed  here  as  guard  upon  thy  person, 
A.id  not  as  judge  to  hear  or  to  decide. 

Doge  (aside).    I    must   gain    lime  —  So  that   the 
storm-bell  sound, 
All  may  be  well  yet.  —  Kinsman,  speed  —  speed r- 

speed  I  — 
Our  fate  is  tiembling  in  Ihe  balance,  and 
Woe  to  the  vanquish'd  !  be  they  prince  and  people, 
Or  slaves  and  senate  — 

[The  great  bell  of  Saint  Marh^s  tolls. 
Lo!  it  sounds —  it  tolls! 

Doge   (aloud).    Hark,  Signor  of  the  Night !  and 
you,  ye  hirelings, 
V/ho  wield  your  mercenary  staves  in  fear, 
It  is  your  kiiell  —  Swell  on,  thou  lusty  feal ! 
Now  knaves,  what  ransom  for  your  lives? 

Si^.  Confusion ! 

Stand  to  your  arms,  and  guard  Ihe  door  —  all 's  lost 
Unless  that  fearful  bell  be  silenced  soon. 


The  oflicer  hn 


i'dhi 


ithor 


purpose. 


Or  met  some  ui:foieseen  and  hideous  obstacle. 

Anselmo,  with  thy  company  proceed 

Straight  to  the  tower;  the  rest  remain  with  me. 

[Exii.  part  of  the  Guard. 

Doge    Wretch  !  if  thou  wouldsl  have  thy  vile  life, 
implore  it ; 
It  is  not  now  a  lease  of  sixty  seconds. 
Ay,  send  thy  miserable  ruffians  lorth  ; 
Thev  never'shall  return. 

S'g.  So  let  it  be  ! 

They  die  then  in  their  duly,  as  will  I. 

Doge.  Fool '.  Ihe  high  eagle  flies  at  nobler  game 
Than  Ihou  and  thy  base  myrmidons, —  live  on. 
So  iliou  provnk'st  not  peril  by  resistance, 
And  learn  (if  souls  so  much  obscured  can  bear 
To  gaze  upon  Ihe  sunbeams)  to  be  free. 

S:g.  And  learn  thou  to  be  captive  —  It  hath  ceased, 
[The  bell  ceases  to  toll. 
The  traitorous  signal,  which  was  to  have  set 
The  bloodhound  mob  on  their  p-atrician  pr«y  — 
The  knell  hath  rung,  but  it  is  not  Ihe  senate's  ! 

Doge    (after  a  pause).     All 's  silent,  and  all 's  lost ! 

Sig.  Now,  Doge,  denounce  me 

As  rebel  slave  of  a  revolted  council ! 
Hive  I  not  done  my  duty  ? 

Doge.  Peace,  thou  thing ! 

Thou  hast  done  a  worthy  deed,  and  eain'd  the  price 
Of  blood,  and  they  who  use  thee  will  reward  thc«. 
But  Ihou  wert  sent  to  watch,  and  not  lo  prate. 
As  thou  said'st  even  now  —  then  do  thine  o/Tice, 
But  let  it  be  in  silence,  as  behoves  thee, 
Since,  though  thy  prisoner,  I  ain  thy  princ, 

Sig.  I  did  not  mean  to  fail  in  the  respect 
I  Due  to  your  rank :  in  this  I  shall  obey  you. 


Scene  II.] 


DOGE  OF  VENICE. 


283 


Doge  (atide).  There  now  is  nothing  left  roe  save  to 
die; 
And  yet  how  ne^r  success  !     I  would  have  fallen, 
And  proadly,  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  but 

To  miss  it  thus ! 

Enter  other  Signors  of  the  Night,  with  Bertuccio 
Faliero  prisoner. 

2d  S'g.  We  took  him  in  the  act 

Of  issuiu;  from  the  tower,  where,  at  his  order, 
As  delegated  from  the  Doge,  the  signal 
Had  thus  bezun  to  .^ouod. 

Ut  Sig.    ~  Are  nil  the  passes 

Which  lead  up  to  the  palnce  well  secured  ? 

2d  Sig.  They  are  —  besides,    it   matters    not;  the 
chiefs 
Are  all  in  clnins,  and  srime  even  now  on  trial  — 
Their  followers  are  dispersed,  and  many  taken. 

Ber.  F.  Uncle ! 

Doge.  It  is  in  vain  to  war  with  Fortune ; 

The  »lory  hath  departed  from  our  house. 

Ber.  F.  Who  uould  have  deem'd  it?  —  Ah!  one 
moment  sooner ! 

Doge.  'I  hat  moment  would  have  changed  the  face 
of  ages ; 
This  gives  us  to  eternity  —  We  'II  meet  it 
As  men  whose  trium|)h  is  not  in  success. 
But  who  can  make  their  own  minds  all  in  all, 
Equal  to  every  fortune.     Dronp  not,  't  is 
But  a  brief  passage  —  I  would  go  alone, 
Yet  if  they  send  us.  as  't  is  like,  together, 
Let  U5  go  worthy  of  our  sires  arid  selves. 

Ber.  F.  I  shall  not  shame  you,  uncle. 

\st  Sig.  Lords,  our  orders 

Are  to  keep  guird  on  both  in  separate  chambers, 
Until  the  council  call  ye  to  your  trial. 

Doge.  Our  trial !  will  they  keep  their  mockery  up 
Even  to  the  last  ?  but  let  Iheni  deal  upon  us, 
As  we  had  dealt  on  Ihem,  but  wi  h  less  pomp. 
'T  is  hut  a  game  of  mutual  homicides, 
VVho  have  cast  lo:s  for  the  first  dealli,  and  they 
Have  won   with  false  dice.  —  Who  halh   been  our 
Judas  ? 

l«t  Sig.  I  am  not  warranted  to  ansner  that. 

Ber.  F.  I  "11  ansiverforlhee  —  t  is  a  certain  Bertram, 
Even  no'.v  deposing  to  the  secret  giunla. 

Doge.  Berlram,  the  Bergamask  !    With  what  vile 
tools 
We  openle  to  slay  or  s-ave  !    This  creature, 
Black  with  a  double  treas 'n,  now  will  eirn 
Rewards  and  hou'  urs,  and  be  stampM  in  story 
With  the  geese  in  the  Capitol,  which  gabbled 
Till  Rome  awoke,  and  had  an  annual  triumph. 
While  Mmlius,  who  hurl'd  down  the  Gauls,  was  cast 
From  ihe  Tarpeian. 

Ut  S'g.  He  aspired  to  treason, 

And  s'lught  to  rule  the  stale. 

Dnge.  He  saved  the  state, 

And  sought  but  to  reform  what  he  revived  — 
But  Ihi^  is  idle Come,  sirs,  do  your  work. 

\st  S'g.  Noble  Beriuccio,  we  must  now  remove  you 
Into  an  inner  chamber. 

Ber.  F.  Farewell,  uncle! 

If  we  shall  meet  again  in  life  I  know  not, 
But  they  perhaps  will  let  our  ashes  minsle. 

Doge.  Yes,  and  our  spirits,  which  shall  yet  go  forth, 
And  do  what  our  frail  clay,  this  clogg'd,  hath  iail'd  in  1 
They  cannot  quench  the  memory  of  those 
Who  would  have  hurPd  ihem  from  their  guil'y  thrones. 
And  such  examples  will  find  heirs,  though  distant. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE    I. 


The  Hall  of  the  Council  of  Ten  asiemUed  irith  the 
additional  Senators,  who.  on  the  Trial'  of  the  Con- 
tpirators  for  the  Treason  of  Marino  Faliero,  com- 
pond  what  was  called  the  Giunta, —  Guards,  Of- 


ficers, ^c.  ^-c. —  Itrael  Bertuccio  and  Philip  Calert- 
daro  as  Prisoners. —  Bertram,  Lioni,  and  Wit- 
vcsscs,  4-c. 

The  Chief  of  the  Ten,  Senintendci 

Ben.  There  row  rests,  after  such  conviction  of 
Their  manifold  and  manifest  offences. 
But  to  pronounce  on  thete  obdurate  men 
The  sentence  of  Ihe  law  :  —  a  grievous  task 
To  those  who  hea-,  and  those  who  speak.     Alas! 
That  it  should  fall  to  me  !  and  that  my  days 
Of  ofHce  should  be  stigmatised  through  all 
The  years  of  coming  time,  as  bearing  record 
To  this  most  foul  and  complicated  treason 
Against  a  just  and  free  stale,  known  to  all 
The  earlh  as  being  the  Christian  bulwark  'gainst 
The  Saracen  and  Ihe  schismatic  Greek, 
The  savage  Hun,  and  not  less  barbarous  Frank; 
A  city  which  has  open'd  India's  wealth 
To  Europe ;  the  last  Roman  refuge  from 
O'erwiielming  Atlila  ;  Ihe  ocean's  queen  ; 
Proud  Genoa's  prouder  rival !    '1'  U  to  sap 
The  throne  of  such  a  city,  these  lost  men 
Have  risk'd  and  forfeited'  their  worthless  lives  — 
So  let  them  die  the  death. 

/.  Ber.  VVe  are  prepared  ; 

Your  racks  have  done  that  for  us.     Let  us  die. 

Ben.  If  ye  have  that  to  say  uhich  would  obtain 
Aba'ement  of  your  punishment,  ihe  Giunta 
Will  hear  you',  if  you  have  aught  to  confess, 
Now  is  your  time,  perhaps  it  may  avail  ye. 

Ber.  F.  We  stand  to  hear,  and"  not  to  speak. 

Ben.  Your  crimei 

Are  fully  proved  by  your  accomplices, 
And  all'which  circumstance  can  add  to  aid  Ihem  ; 
Yet  we  would  hear  from  your  own  lips  complete 
Avowal  of  your  treason  :  on  the  verge 
Of  thai  dread  gulf  which  none  repass,  Ihe  truth 
Alone  can  profi  you  on  ear'h  or  heaven  — 
Say  then,  what  was  your  motive? 

■/.  Ber.  Justice ! 

Btn.  What 

Your  object  ? 

/  Ber.  Freedom ! 

Ben.  You  are  brief,  sir. 

/.  Ber.  So  my  life  grows  :  I 
Was  bred  a  soldier,  not  a  senator. 

Ben.  Perhaps  you  Ihir  k  by  this  blunt  brevity 
To  brave  your  judges  to  postpine  the  sentence? 

/.  Ber.  'Do  you  be  brief  as  I  am,  and  believe  me, 
I  shall  prefer  that  mercy  to  your  pardon. 

Bl-7).  Is  this  your  sole  reply  to  the  liibunal  ? 

/.  Ber.  Go,  ask  your  ra'-ks  what  they  have  wrung 
from  us. 
Or  place  us  there  again  ;  we  have  s'ill  some  blo^d  left. 
And  some  slight  sense  of  piin  in  these  wrench'd  limbs; 
But  this  ye  dare  not  do  ,  for  if  we  die  there  — 
And  you  have  left  us  little  life  to  spend 
Upon  your  engnes,  gorged  wi  h  panjs  already  — 
Ye  lose  the  public  spectacle,  wi'h  which 
You  would  appal  your  slaves  to  further  slavery  ! 
Groans  are  not  words,  nor  agony  assent, 
Nor  affiriiiation  truih,  if  nature's  sense 
Should  overcome  the  sonl  into  a  lie, 
For  a  short  respite  —  must  we  bear  or  die  ? 

Btn.  Say,  who  were  your  accomplices? 

/  Ber.  The  Senate. 

Ben.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

/.  Ber.  Ask  of  the  suflTering  people, 

Whnni  your  patrician  crimes  have  driven  to  crime. 

Ben.  You  know  the  Doge  ? 

/.  Ber  I  served  wih  him  at  Zara 

In  the  field,  when  you  were  pleading  here  your  way 
To  present  office  ;  we  exposed  "ur  lives 
While  you  but  hazarded  ihe  lives  of  others, 

l"In  Ihe  nntes  to  Marino  Faliero,  it  may  be  ta  w^ll  am 
to  say,  Itiat  Beiiinterde  was  not  really  of  the  T«o  but 
m^-rely  Grand  Chaniellnr  —  a  separate  offio'.ttioughan  ias 
P'.rtant  one.  It  waa  an  arbitrory  alteruiion  o(  mi**."— 
Byron  Letleri.  —  E. 


284 


MARINO    FALIERO, 


[AotV. 


Alike  by  accusation  or  defence ; 

Aud  for  the  resl,    11  Venice  knows  her  Doee, 

Through  his  great  aclions,  and  the  Senate's  insults. 

Ben.  You  have  held  conference  with  him  ? 

/.  Ber.  1  am  weary  — 

Even  wearier  of  your  questions  than  your  tortures: 
I  pray  you  pass  to  judgment. 

Ben.  It  is  coming.— 

And  you,  to,  Philip  Calendaro,  what 
Have  you  to  say  why  you  sho.ld  m.t  be  doora'd? 

Ciil.  I  never  was  a  inau  of  many  words, 
Atrd  now  have  few  left  worth  the  utterance. 

Ben.  A  further  application  of  yon  engine 
M^y  change  your  tone. 

Cal.  Most  true,  it  i/mH  do  so; 

A  f  irmer  application  did  so  ;  but 
It  will  no   change  my  words,  or,  if  it  did  — 

Ben.  What  then? 

Cal.  Will  my  avowal  on  yon  rack 

Stand  good  in  law  ? 

Ben.  Assuredly. 

CaU  Whoe'er 

The  culprit  be  whom  I  accuse  of  treason  .' 

Btn.  Wiiliout  doubt,  he  will  be  brought  up  to  trial. 

Cal.  Aud  on  ih  s  leftimony  would  he  perish  ? 

Ben.  So  your  confession  be  detiifd  and  full, 
He  will  stand  here  in  peril  of  his  life. 

Cal.  'i'hen  look  well  to  thy  proud  self.  President, 
For  by  the  eternity  which  yawns  before  me, 
I  swear  that  thov,  and  only  thou,  shalt  be 
The  traitor  1  denounce  upon  that  rack. 
If  I  be  stretch'd  there  for  tlie  second  time. 

One  of  the   Giunia.  Lord   President,  't  were  best 
proceed  to  judgment ; 
There  is  no  more  lo  be  diawn  from  these  men. 

Ben.  Unhappy  men  !  prepare  for  instant  death. 
The  nature  of  your  crime  —  our  law  —  and  peril 
The  state  now  stands  in,  leave  not  an  hour's  respite  — 
Guards:  lead  ihem  forth,  and  upon  the  balcony 
Of  the  red  columns,  where,  on  festal  Thursday,! 
The  Doge  stands  to  behold  the  chase  of  bulls, 
Let  them  be  jus  ihed  :  and  leave  exposed 
Their  «  avering  relics,  in  the  place  of  judjmenf, 
To  the  lull  view  of  the  assembled  people  !  — 
And  Heaven  have  mercy  on  their  souls  ! 

The  G'unla.  Amen! 

/.  Ber.  Signors.  farewell !  we  shall  not  all  again 
Meet  in  one'place. 

Ben.  And  lest  they  should  essay 

To  stir  up  the  distracted  multitude  — 
Guards  1  let  their  mouths  be  gagg'd  2  even  in  the  act 
Of  execution.— Lead  them  hence'. 

Cal.  What !  must  we 

Not  even  say  farewell  to  some  fond  friend. 
Nor  leave  a  last  word  with  our  confessor  ? 

Ben.  ATpriest  is  waiting  in  the  an'echamber; 
But,  for  your  friends,  such  interviews  would  be 
Painful  lo  them,  and  useless  all  lo  you. 

Cal.  I  knew  that  we  were  gagg'd  in  life  ;  at  least 
All  thn?e  who  had  not  heart  to  rl-k  iheir  lives 
Upon  Iheir  open  thoughts  ;  but  still  1  deem'd 
That  in  the  last  few  moment-,  the  same  idle 
Freedom  of  speech  accorded  lo  the  dying. 
Would  not  now  be  denied  to  us  ;  but  since ^— 

/.  Ber.  Even  let  them  have  their  way,  brave  CaleU' 
daro  : 
What  matter  a  few  syllables?  let's  die 
Without  the  slightest  show  of  fivour  from  them; 
So  shall  our  blood  more  readily  arise 
To  Heaven  ajainst  them,  and  more  testify 
To  their  atrocities,  than  could  a  volume 
Spoken  or  written  of  our  dying  words  ! 
They  tremble  at  our  voices  —  nay,  they  dread 
Our  very  silence  — let  them  live 'in  fear  I  — 
Leave  them  unto  iheir  Ihoushls  and  let  us  now 
Address  our  own  above  !  — Xead  on ;  we  are  ready. 

1  "OloTedi  Krassc," — "  fat  or  Erpaxy  Thursday,"— which 
I  cannot  lileially  tiinslate  in  the  text,  was  ihe  day. 
JHlitorlcal  fact.     See  Sanuto,  Apptndtx,  Note  (A). 


Cal.  I nel,  hadst  Ihou  but  bearken'd  unto  me, 
It  had  not  now  be»-n  thus;  and  yon  jjdle  villainy 
The  coward  Bertram,  would — '— 

I.  Ber.  Peace,  Calent'aro 

What  brooks  it  now  to  ponder  upon  this? 

Beil.  Alas !  1  fain  you  died  in  peace  with  mt : 
I  did  not  seek  thi>  task  ;  'i  was  fo'ced  upon  me  ; 
Say,  you  forgive  me,  Ihoug-h  1  nevrr  can 
Rev-jeve  my  own  foieiv"=nes«  —  'rown  not  thus! 

/.  Ber.  I  die  and  pardon  tbee! 

Cal.  (.spitting  at  hiinX  I  d'".  ard  scorr  tl~« ! 

[Extuut  Israel  Bertuccio  and  ihilip  Calen- 
daro, Guards,  ^-c 

Ben.  Now  that  these  criminals  have  been  disposed  oli 
'T  is  time  that  we  proceed  to  pass  our  s.'^nteace 
Upon  the  gieatesi  traitor  upon  record 
In  any  annals,  the  Doge  Faliero! 
The  proofs  and  process  are  complete  ;  the  tincie 
And  crime  require  a  quick  procedure  :  shall 
He  now  be  cill'd  in  to  receive  the  award? 

The  Giunta.  Ay.  ay. 

Ben.  Avogadori,  order  that  the  Doge 
Be  brought  before  the  council. 

One  of  the  Gmnta.  And  the  rest, 

When  shall  ihey  be  brought  up? 

Ben.  When  all  the  chiefs 

Have  been  disposed  of.     Some  have  tied  to  Chiozza ; 
But  there  are  thousands  in  pursuit  of  them, 
And  such  precaution  ta'en  on  terra  tirma, 
As  well  as  in  the  islands,  that  we  hope 
None  will  escape  to  utier  in  strange  lands 
His  libellous  tale  cf  treasons  'gainst  the  senate. 

Enter  the  Doge  as  Prisoner,  with  Guards,  ij-e.  Ife. 

Sen.  Doge —  for  such  still  you  are,  and  by  the  law 
Must  be  consider'd,  till  the  hour  shall  come 
When  you  must  dolF  the  ducal  bonnet  from 
That  head,  ^^  hich  could  not  wear  a  crown  more  noble 
Than  empires  can  confer,  in  quiet  honour, 
But  it  must  plot  to  ovenhrow  your  peers, 
Who  made  you  what  you  are,  and  quench  in  blooj 
A  city's  glory  —  we  have  laid  already 
Before  you  in  your  chamber  at  full  length, 
By  the  Avogadori,  all  the  proofs 
Which  have  appear'd  against  yu  ;  and  more  amplt 
Ne'er  rear'd  their  s  nguinary  shadows  lo 
Confront  a  traitor.     What  have  you  to  say 
In  your  defence  ? 

Doge.  What  shall  I  say  lo  ye. 

Since  my  defence  must  be  your  condemnation  ? 
You  ate  at  once  oflenders  and  accusers, 
Judges  and  executiouers  !  —  Proceed 
Upon  your  power. 

Ben.  Your  chief  accomplices 

Having  confess'd,  there  is  no  hope  for  you. 

Doge.  And  who  be  they  ? 

Ben.  In  number  many ;  but 

The  I'lrst  now  stands  before  you  in  the  court, 
Bertram,  of  Bergamo, —  would  you  question  him 

Doge  (looking  at  him  contemptuously).  No. 

Ben.  And  two  others.  Israel  Bertuccio, 

And  Philip  Calendaro,  have  admitted 
Their  fellowship  in  treason  with  the  Doge ! 

Doge.  And  where  are  they  ? 

Ben.  Gone  to  their  place,  and  now 

Answering  to  Heaven  for  what  Ihey  did  on  earth. 

Doge.  Ah  !  the  plebeian  Brutus,  is  he  gone  ? 
And  the  quick  Cassius  of  the  arsenal  ?  — 
How  did  they  meet  their  doom  ? 

Ben.  Think  of  your  oirn : 

It  is  approaching.    You  decline  to  plead,  then? 

D'ge.  I  cannot  plead  lo  my  inferiors,  nor 
Can  recognise  your  legal  power  lo  try  me. 
Show  me  the  law  ! 

Ben.  On  great  emergencies, 

The  law  must  be  remrdell'd  or  amended  : 
Our  fathers  had  not  fix'd  the  punishment 
Of  such  a  crime,  as  on  the  old  Roman  tibles 
The  sentence  against  parricide  was  left 
In  pure  forgelfulness ;  they  could  not  render 


SCENK  I.] 


DOGE    OF    VENICE. 


285 


That  penal,  which  had  neither  name  nor  thought 

Id  their  great  bosoms:  who  would  have  foreseen 

That  nature  cou  d  be  hied  to  such  a  crime 

As  sons  'gainst  sires,  and  princes  'giinst  their  realms? 

Your  sin  h^lh  made  u>  make  a  law  which  w  ill 

Become  a  precedent  'gainst  such  hiught  traitors, 

As  would  with  treason  mount  to  tyranny; 

Not  even  contented  wiih  a  sceptre,  till 

They  can  convert  it  to  a  two-edged  sword  ! 

Was  not  the  place  of  Doge  sufficient  for  ye? 

What 's  nobler  than  the  signory  of  Venice  ? 

Doge.  The  signory  of  Venice !  You  betray'd  me  — 
Yuu  —  yoti,  who  sit  there,  traitors  as  ye  are  ! 
From  my  equalily  with  you  in  birlh, 
And  my  superiority  in  aclion, 
You  drew  me  from  my  hnnourable  toils 
In  distant  lands  —  on  ttood  —  in  field  —  in  cities  — 
YiAi.  singled  me  out  like  a  victim  to 
Stand  crown'il,  but  bound  and  helpless,  at  the  altar 
Where  you  alone  could  minister.     1  knew  not  — 
I  sought  not  —  wish"d  not  —  dream'd  not  the  election, 
Which  reach'd  me  first  at  Rome,  and  I  obey'd ; 
But  found  on  my  arrival,  that,  besides 
The  jealous  visilance  which  always  led  you 
To  mock  and  mar  your  sovereign's  best  intents, 
You  had,  even  in  the  interregnum  of 
My  journey  to  the  capital,  curtaiPd 
And  mutilited  the  few  privileges 
Yet  left  the  duke:  all  this  I  bore,  and  would 
Have  borne,  until  my  very  hearth  was  staiu'd 
By  the  pollution  of  your  ribaldry. 
And  he,  the  ribald,  whom  I  see  amongst  you  — 
Fit  judge  in  such  tribunal ! 

Be».  {interruptine  htni).  Michel  Steno 

Is  here  in  virtue  of  h>s  office,  as 
One  of  the  Forty  ;  "  the  Ten  "  having  craved 
A  Giunta  of  patricians  from  the  senate 
To  aid  our  judgment  in  a  trial  .nrduous 
And  novel  as  the  present :  he  was  set 
Free  from  the  penally  pronounced  upon  him, 
Because  the  Doge,  who  should  protect  the  law, 
Seeking  to  abrogate  all  law,  can  claim 
No  punishment  of  others  by  the  statutes 
Which  he  himself  denies  and  violates  ! 

Doge.    His  punishment  !    I  rather  see  him  tJiere, 
Where  he  now  sits,  to  glut  him  with  my  death, 
Than  in  the  mockery  of  castigation. 
Which  your  foul,  outward,  juggling  show  of  justice 
Decreed  as  sentence  !    Base  as  was  his  crime, 
'T  was  purity  compared  with  your  protection. 

Ben.  And  can  it  be,  that  the  great  Doge  of  Venice, 
With  three  parts  of  a  cenury  of  years 
And  honours  on  his  he^d,  could  thus  allow 
His  fury,  like  an  angry  boy's,  to  master 
All  feeling,  wisdom,  faith,  and  fear,  on  such 
A  provocation  as  a  young  man's  petulance  ? 

Doge.  A  spark  ere  ites  the  flame  —  't  is  the  last  drop 
Which  makes  the  cup  run  o'er,  and  mine  was  full 
Already  :  you  oppress'd  the  |  rince  and  people ; 
i  would  have  freed  both,  and  have  faii'd  in  both: 
The  price  of  such  success  would  have  been  glory, 
Vengeance,  and  victory,  and  such  a  name 
As  would  have  made  Venetian  history 
Rival  to  that  of  Greece  and  Syracuse 
When  they  were  freed,  and  tlourish'd  ages  after, 
And  mine  to  Gelon  and  to  Thrasybulus:  — 
Failing,  I  know  the  penalty  of  failure 
Is  present  infamy  and  death —  the  future 
Will  judge,  when  Venice  is  no  more,  or  free  ; 
Till  then,  the  truth  is  in  abeyance.     Pause  not ; 
I  wKild  have  shown  no  mercy,  and  I  seek  none ; 
My  life  was  staked  upon  a  miichly  hazard. 
And  being  lost,  take  what  I  would  have  taken ! 
I  would  have  stood  alone  amidst  your  tombs: 
Now  you  may  flock  round  mine,  and  trample  on  it, 
As  you  have  done  upon  my  heart  while  living. 

Be7i.  You  do  confess  then,  and  admit  the  justice 
;f  our  tribunal? 

Doge.  I  confess  to  have  faii'd  ; 

Fartune  is  female:  from  my  youth  her  favours 


Were  not  withheld  the  fault  was  mine  to  hope 
Her  former  smiles  again  at  this  late  hour, 

Ben.  You  do  not  then  in  aught  arraign  our  equity? 

Dvge.  Noble  Venetians  !  stir  me  not  with  questions. 
I  am  resign'd  to  the  worst ;  but  in  me  still 
Have  someihing  of  the  blood  of  brigher  days. 
And  am  not  over-patient.     Pray  you,  spire  me 
Further  interrogation,  which  boms  nothing, 
Except  to  turn  a  trial  to  debate. 
I  shall  but  answer  that  which  will  offend  you. 
And  please  your  enemies  —  a  host  already  ; 
'T  is  true,  these  sullen  walls  should  yield  no  echo: 
But  walls  have  eats  —  nav,  more,  they  have  tongues  ; 
and  If  "  ^       ' 

There  were  no  other  way  for  truth  to  o'erleap  them, 
You  who  condemn  me,  you  who  fear  and  slay  me. 
Yet  could  not  bear  in  silence  to  your  graves 
What  you  would  hear  from  me  of  good  or  evil ; 
The  secret  were  loo  mighty  fir  your  souls  : 
Then  let  it  sleep  in  mine,  unless  you  court 
A  danger  which  would  double  that  ynu  escape. 
Such  my  defence  would  be,  had  I  full  scope 
To  make  it  famous ;  for  true  words  are  things. 
And  dyirg  men's  ars  things  which  long  ou  live, 
And  ofientimes  avenge  them  ;  bury  miie. 
If  ye  would  fain  survive  me:  take  this  counsel. 
And  though  too  oft  ye  made  me  live  in  wrath, 
Let  me  die  calmly  ;'  you  may  grant  me  this  ;  — 
I  deny  nothing  —  defend  nothing  — nothing 
I  ask  of  you,  but  silence  for  myself. 
And  sentence  from  the  court ! 

Ben.  This  full  admission 

Spares  us  the  harsh  necessity  of  ordering 
The  torture  to  elicit  the  whole  truth. 

Doge,  'i'he  torture!  you  have  put  me  there  already, 
Daily  since  I  was  Doge ;  but  if  you  will 
Add  the  corporeal  rack,  you  may  :  these  limbs 
Will  yield  with  age  to  cru5hing  iron  ;  but 
There 's  that  within  my  heart  shall  strain  your  engines. 

E7iter  a7i  Officer. 

Officer.  Noble  Venetians  !  Duchess  Faliero 
Requests  admission  to  the  Giunta's  presence. 

Ben.  Say,  conscript  fathers,'  shall  she  be  admitted? 

One  of  the  Giunta.    She  may  have  revelations  of 
importance 
Unto  the  state,  to  justify  compliance 
With  her  request. 

Ben.  Is  this  the  general  will  ? 

Ml.  It  is. 

Dnge.         Oh,  admirable  laws  of  Venice ! 
Which  would  admit  the  wife,  in  the  full  hope 
That  she  might  testify  against  the  husband. 
VVhat  glory  to  the  chaste  Venetian  dames  ! 
But  such  blasphemers  "gainst  all  honour,  as 
Sit  here,  do  well  to  act  in  their  vocation. 
Now,  villain  Steno  I  if  this  woman  fail, 
I  'II  pardon  thee  thy  lie,  and  thy  escape. 
And  my  own  violent  death,  and"  thy  vile  life. 

The  Duchest  enters. 

Ben.  Lady!  this  just  tribunal  his  resolved, 
Though  the  request  be  strange,  to  grant  it,  and 
Whatever  be  its  purport,  to  accord 
A  patient  hearing  with  the  due  respect 
Which  fits  your  ancestry,  yonr  rank,  and  virtues 
But  you  turn  pale  —  ho  !  there,  look  to  the  lady  1 
Place  a  chair  instantly. 

.Ong.  A  moment's  faintness  — 

'T  is  past ;  I  pray  you  pardon  me, —  I  sit  not 
In  presence  of  my'prince  and  of  my  husband, 
While  he  is  on  his  feet. 

Ben.  Your  pleasure,  lady  ? 

.Sng.  Strange  rumours,  but  most  true,  if  all  I  h« 
And  see  be  sooth,  have  reach  d  me,  and  I  come 
To  know  the  worst,  even  at  the  worst ;  forgive 
The  abruptness  of  my  entrance  and  my  beariag. 


286 


MARINO    FALIERO, 


LAcT  V.  I 


la  it I  caDnct  speak  —  I  cmnot  shape 

The  question  —  but  you  answer  il  ere  spoken, 
With  eyes  averled,  and  »iih  gloomy  brows  — 
Oh  God  ;  this  is  tlie  silence  of  Ibe  grave ! 
Sen.  (a/(tT  a  paiue).    Spare  us,  and  spare  thyself 
the  repetition 
Of  our  most  awful,  but  inexorable 
Duty  10  Heaven  and  man  '. 

.ins.  Yet  speak  ;  I  cannot — 

I  cannot  —  no  —  even  now  bflieve  these  things. 
Is  he  condemu'd  ? 
Bill.  Alas ! 

Jlag.  And  was  he  guilty  ? 

Btit.  Lidy!  the  natural  distraction  of 
Thy  thoughts  at  such  a  moment  makes  the  questiOD 
Merit  forgiveness;  else  a  doubt  like  this 
Against  a  just  and  paramount  tribunal 
Were  deep  offence.     But  quesiiou  even  the  Doge, 
And  if  he  can  deny  the  proofs,  believe  him 
Guiltless  as  thy  own  bosom. 

Aitg.  Is  it  so? 

My  lord  —  my  sovereign  —  my  poor  father's  friend  — 
Tbe  mighty  in  the  tield,  the  sage  in  council ; 
Unsay  the  words  of  this  man !  —  Thou  art  silent ! 
Btii.  He  hath  already  own'd  to  his  own  guilt, 
Nor,  as  Ihou  see'st,  doth  he  deny  it  now. 

Ang.  Ay,  but  lie  must  not  die  :  Spare  his  few  years, 
Which  grief  and  shame  will  soon  cut  down  to  days  ! 
One  day  of  baffled  crime  must  not  efface 
Near  sixteen  lustres  crowded  with  brave  acts. 

Ben.  His  doom  must  be  fulfilld  without  remission 
Of  time  or  penalty  —  ':  ib  a  decree. 
Ang.  He  hath  been  guilty,  but  there  may  be  mercy. 
Ben.  Not  in  this  case  with  justice. 
Ang.  Alas !  signor, 

He  who  is  only  just  is  cruel ;  who 
Upon  the  eirlh  would  live  were  all  judged  justly  ? 
Ben.  His  punishment  is  sifeiy  to  the  stale. 
Ang.  He  was  a  subject,  and  hath  served  the  state; 
He  was  vour  general,  and  hith  sued  the  state  ; 
He  is  your  sovereign,  and  hath  ruled  the  state. 

One  of  the  Council.    He  is  a  traitor,  and  belrj^'d 

thestite. 
Ang.  And,  but  for  him,  there  now  had  been  no  state 
To  save  or  to  destroy  ;  and  you,  who  sit 
There  to  pronounce  the  death  of  your  deliverer, 
Had  now  been  groaning  at  a  Moslem  oar, 
Or  digging  in  the  Hunnish  mines  in  fetters ! 

One  of  the  Council.  No,  lady,  there  are  others  who 
would  die 
Rather  than  breathe  in  slavery! 

Ang.  If  ihere  are  so 

Within  these  walls,  thou  art  not  of  the  number: 
The  truly  brave  are  generous  to  the  fallen  !  — 
Is  the.e  no  hope? 
Ben.  Lndv,  it  cannot  be. 

.l;ig.  (turning  to  the  Doge).    Then  die,  Faliero! 
since  it  must  be  so; 
But  with  the  sririt  of  my  filher's  friend. 
Thou  hast  been  guiltv  of  a  gre.it  offence. 
Half  cancell'd  by  the'  harshness  of  these  men. 
I  would  have  sued  to  them  —  have  pray'd  lo  Ihem  — 
Have  besg'd  as  fimish'd  mendicmts  for  bread  — 
Have  wept  as  they  will  cry  unto  their  God 
For  mercy,  and  beanswer'd  as  they  answer, — 
Had  it  been  fitting  for  thy  name  or  mine. 
And  if  the  cruelty  in  their  cold  eyes 
Had  not  announced  the  heartless  wrath  within. 
Then,  as  a  prince,  address  thee  to  thy  doom  ! 

Doge.  I  have  lived  too  long  not  lo  know  how  todie  ! 
Thy  suing  to  these  men  were  but  the  bleating 
Of  the  lamb  to  the  butcher,  or  the  cry 
Of  seamen  lo  the  surje  :  I  wmild  not  take 
A  life  eternal,  granted  at  the  hards 
Of  wretches,  from  whose  mnnstious  villanies 
I  tiush:  to  free  the  groaning  nations '. 

Michel  Sleno.  Doge, 

A  word  with  thee,  and  with  this  noble  lady. 
Whom  1  have  grievously  offended.     Would 
Sorrow,  or  shame,  or  penance  on  my  part. 
Could  cance  the  inexorable  past ' 


But  since  that  cannot  be,  as  Christians  let  us 
Say  farewell,  and  in  peace:  wi  h  full  contrition 
I  crave,  not  pardon,  but  compassion  from  you. 
And  give,  however  weak,  my  prayers  for  both. 

Ang.  Sage  Benintende,  now  chief  judge  of  Venicei 
I  speak  to  thee  in  answer  to  yon  signor. 
Infoim  the  ribald  Sleno,  that  his  words 
Ne'er  weigh  d  in  mind  with  Loredano's  daughter, 
Fur;her  ttian  to  create  a  moment's  pity 
For  such  as  he  is  :  would  that  others  had 
Despised  him  as  I  pity  !  I  prefer 
My  honour  to  a  thousand  lives,  could  such 
Be  multiplied  in  mine,  but  would  not  have 
A  single  life  of  others  lost  for  that 
Which  nothing  human  can  impugn — the  sense 
Of  virtue,  looking  not  lo  what  is  calPd 
A  good  name  for  reward,  but  to  itself. 
To  me  the  scorner's  words  w  ere  as  the  wind 
Unto  the  rock  :  but  as  there  ire  —  alas  ! 
Spirits  more  sensitive,  on  w  hich  such  things 
Light  as  the  whirlwind  on  the  waters;  souls 
To  whom  dishonnur's  sh.adow  is  a  substance 
More  terrible  than  death,  here  and  hereafter; 
Men  whose  \ice  is  lo  s  art  at  vice's  scoffing. 
And  who,  though  proof  against  all  blandishments 
Of  pleasure,  and  all  pangs  of  pain,  are  feeble 
When  the  proud  name  on  which  they  pinnacled 
Their  hopes  is  breathed  on,  jealous  as  the  eagle 
Of  her  high  aiery ;  let  what  we  now 
Behold,  and  feel,  and  suffer,  be  a  lesson 
To  w  retches  how  they  tamper  in  their  spleen 
With  beings  of  a  higher  order.     Insects 
Have  made  the  lion  mad  ere  now  ;  a  shaft 
I'  the  heel  o'erlhrew  the  bravest  of  the  brave; 
A  wife's  dishonour  was  the  bane  of  Troy  ; 
A  wife's  dishonour  unkitig'd  Rome  for  ever; 
An  injured  husband  brought  the  Gauls  to  Clu.sium, 
And  thence  to  Ri.me,  which  perish'd  for  a  lime; 
An  obscei.e  gesture  cost  Caligula 
His  life,  while  Earth  yet  bore  his  cruelties  ; 
A  virgin's  wrong  made  Spain  a  Mooiish  province; 
And  Steno's  lie,  couch'd  in  two  worthless  lines, 

1  Hath  decimated  Venice,  put  in  peril 
A  senate  which  hath  stood  eight  hundred  years, 

i  Discrown'd  a  prince,  cut  off  his  crownless  head, 
And  forged  new  fetters  for  a  gioaning  people  1 
Let  the  ponr  wre'ch,  like  to  the  courtesan 

I  Who  fired  Persepolis,  be  proud  of  this, 
If  it  so  please  him  — 't  wero  a  pride  fit  for  him! 

;  But  let  him  not  insult  the  last  hours  of 

I  Him,  who,  whate'er  he  now  is,  voat  a  hero, 
By  the  intrusion  of  his  very  prayers ; 

I  Nothing  of  good  can  come  from  such  a  source, 

:  Nor  would  we  aught  with  him,  nor  now,  nor  ever; 

i  We  leave  him  to  himself,  that  lowest  depth 
Of  human  baseness.     Pardon  is  for  men. 
And  ni  t  for  reptiles —  we  have  none  for  Sleno, 
,And  no  resentment :  things  like  him  must  sling, 

'  And  higher  beings  suffer ;  'I  is  the  charter 
Of  life."   The  man  who  dies  by  the  adder's  fang 
iMay  hive  the  crawler  crush'd,  but  feels  no  anger: 
' T  was  the  worm's  nature  ;  and  some  men  are  wormi 
In  snul,  more  than  the  living  Ihines  of  tombs. 

I      Dogf.  Uo  Ben).  Signor  !  complete  that  which  jros 
"  deem  your  duty. 

j      Ben.  Before  we  can  proceed  upon  that  duty, 
W'e  would  request  the  princess  to  withdraw ; 

I 'T  will  mo\e  her  too  much  lo  be  wi'ness  to  it. 

I     Aug.  I  know  it  will,  and  yet  I  must  endure  it, 
For  't  is  a  part  of  mine  —  I  will  not  qui  , 
E.vcept  by  force,  my  husband's  side. —  Proceed  ! 
Nav,  fear  not  either  shriek,  or  sieh,  or  tear  ; 
Thbueh  my  heirt  burst,  it  shall  be  silent.—  Sptak! 
1  lia\ethal  within  which  shall  o'erni.seralU 

Ben.  Marino  Faliero.  Doge  of  Venice, 
C'lunt  of  V:il  di  Marino,  .Senator, 
And  some  time  General  of  the  Fleet  and  Army, 
Noble  Venetian,  many  times  rnd  oft 
intrusted  by  'he  slate  with  high  empli 
Even  to  the  highest,  listen  to  the  senti 
Convict  by  many  witnesses  and  proob, 


SCKNE  I.] 


DOGE  OF  VENICE, 


287 


by  thine  own  confession,  of  the  guilt  i 

Of  treachery  :ind  treason,  yet  unheard  of  | 

Until  this  trial  —  the  decree  is  dealh. 
Thy  goods  are  confiscate  unto  the  sla'e, 
Thy  name  is  razed  from  out  her  records,  save  I 

U|X)n  a  public  day  of  tbiuksgivin;  i 

For  this  our  most  miraculous  deliverance,  j 

When  thou  art  noted  in  our  calendars  ' 

With  earthquakes,  pestilence,  and  foreign  foes, 
And  the  great  enemy  of  man,  a;  subject 
Of  grateful  masses  for  Heaven's  grace  in  snatching 
Our  lives  and  coun'.ry  from  thy  wickedness. 
The  place  wherein  as  Do^e  thou  shouldst  be  painted, 
With  thine  illustrious  predecessors,  is 
To  be  left  vacant,  with  a  death-black  veil 
Flung  over  these  dim  words  engraved  beneath, — 
"  This  place  is  of  Marino  Faliero, 
Decapitated  for  his  crimes." 

Doge.  "  His  crimes ! " 

But  lei  it  be  so  :  —  it  will  be  in  vain. 
The  veil  which  blackens  o'er  this  blighted  name. 
And  hides,  or  seems  to  hide,  these  lineinunts. 
Shall  draw  more  gazers  than  the  thousand  portraits 
Which  gliter  round  it  in  their  pictured  trappings  — 

Your  delegated  slaves  —  the  people's  tyrants  ! 

*'  Decapitated  for  his  crimes  !  "—  IV/iat  crimes? 

Were  it  not  better  to  record  the  facts, 

So  that  the  conternplator  might  approve. 

Or  at  the  lei-t  learn  whence  the  crimes  arose  ? 

When  the  beholder  knows  a  Doge  conspired. 

Let  him  be  told  the  cause  —  it  is  your  history. 

Btn.  Time  must  reply  to  that ;  our  sons  will  judge 
Their  fathers'  judgment,  which  I  now  pronounce. 
As  Doge,  clad  in  the  ducal  robes  and  cap. 
Thou  Shalt  be  led  hence  lo  the  Gianis'  Staircase, 

Where  thou  and  all  our  princes  are  invested  ; 
And  there  the  ducal  crown  being  first  resumed 
Upon  the  spot  where  it  was  first  assumed. 

Thy  head  shall  be  struck  otF;  and  Heaven  have  mercy 

Upon  thy  soul ! 
Dngt.  Is  this  the  Giunta's  sentence  ? 

Btn.  It  is. 

Doge.  I  can  endure  it. —  And  the  time  ? 

Btn.  Must  be   immediate.— Make  thy  peace  with 
Gild  : 

Within  an  hour  thou  must  be  in  His  presence. 
Doge.  1  am  already  ;  and  my  blood  will  rise 

To  Heaven  before  the  souls  of  those  who  shed  it. — 

Are  all  my  lands  confiscated  ? 

Ben.  They  are ; 

And  goodi,  and  jewels,  and  all  kind  of  treasure. 

Except  two  thousand  ducats  —  these  dispose  of. 

Doge.  That's  harsh.— I  would  have  fain  reserved 
the  lands 

Near  lo  Treviso,  which  I  hold  by  investment 

From  Laurence  the  Count-bishnii  of  Ceneda, 

In  fief  perpetual  to  myself  and  heirs. 

To  portii  n  them  (leaving  my  city  spoil. 

My  palace  and  my  treasures,  to  your  forfeit) 

Between  my  consort  and  my  kinsmen. 
Ben.  These 

Lie  under  the  state's  ban  ;  their  chief,  thy  nephew, 

In  peril  of  his  own  life;  but  the  council 

Postpones  his  trial  for  the  present.     If 

Thou  will'st  a  stite  unto  thy  widow'd  princess. 

Fear  no',  for  we  will  do  her  justice. 
Ang.  Signors, 

I  share  not  in  your  spoil !     From  henceforth,  know 

I  am  devoted  unto  God  alone. 

And  take  my  refuge  in  the  cloister. 
Dose  .  Come ! 

The  hour  may  be  a  hard  one,  but  't  will  end. 

Have  1  aught  else  lo  undergo  save  death  ? 
Be^x.  Tou  have  nought  to  do,  except  confess  and  die. 

The  priest  is  robed,  the  scimitar  is  bare. 

And  both  await  wi  hout.  —  But,  above  all. 

Think  jot  to  speak  unto  the  people ;  they 

Are  no  V  by  thousands  swarming  at  the  gites. 

But  these  are  closed  :  the  Ten,  the  Avogadori, 

The  Gi  inia,  and  the  chief  men  of  the  Forty, 


Alone  will  be  beholders  of  thy  doom. 
And  I  hey  are  ready  to  attend  the  Doge. 

Doge.  The  Doge ! 

i'eji.  Yes,  Doge,  thou  hast  lived  and  thou  shaif  die 
A  sovereign  ;  till  tlie  moment  which  precedes 
The  separa  ion  of  Ihat  head  and  trunk. 
That  ducal  crown  and  Lead  shall  be  united. 
Thou  hast  forgot  thy  dignity  in  deigning 
To  plot  with  petty  traitors';  not  so  we. 
Who  in  the  very  punishment  acknowledge 
The  prince.     Thy  vile  accomplices  have  died 
The  dog's  death,  and  the  wolfs  ;  but  thou  shall  bll 
As  falls  the  lion  by  the  burners,  girt  .' 

By  those  who  feel  a  proud  con)passion  for  thee,  | 

And  mourn  even  the  ineviiable  death  I' 

Provoked  by  thy  wild  wrath  and  regal  fiercenesa.  | 

Now  we  remit  thee  to  thy  prepar.-\tion  :  ' 

Let  it  be  brief,  and  we  ourselves  will  be 
Thy  guides  unio  the  place  where  first  we  were 
United  toihee  as  thy  subjects,  and 
'J'hy  senate ;  and  must  now  be  parted  from  thee 
As  such  for  ever,  on  the  self  same  spot.— 
Guards  !  form  the  Doge's  escort  to  his  chamber. 

lExxuvt. 

SCENE  II. 

The  Doge^s  Apartment. 


Doge.  Now,  that  the  priest  is  gone,  't  were  useless  all 
To  linger  out  the  miserable  minutes  ; 
But  one  pang  more,  the  pang  of  parting  from  thee, 
And  I  will  leave  the  few  last  grains  of  sand, 
Which  yet  remain  of  the  accorded  hour. 
Still  falfing—  I  have  done  with  'J'ime. 

Ang.  Alas! 

And  1  have  been  the  cause,  the  unconscious  cause; 
And  for  this  funeral  marriage,  this  black  union, 
Which  thou,  compliant  with  my  faiher's  wish, 
Didsl  promise  at  his  death,  thou  hast  seal'd  thine  own. 

Dose.  Not  so :  there  was  that  in  my  spirit  ever 

'hi   '     ■  '       ■  

The 

And  yet  it  was  foretold  me. 

Ayi^.  How  foretold  you  ?  | 

Doge.  I^ng  years  ago  —  so  long,  they  are  a  doubt 
In  memory,  and  yet  they  live  in  annals : 
When  I  was  in  niy  youth,  and  served  the  senate 
And  signory  as  podesta  and  captain 
Of  the  town  of  Treviso,  on  a  day 
Of  festival,  the  sluggish  bishop  who 
Convey'd  the  Hostaroused  my  rash  young  anger, 
By  strange  delay,  and  arrogant  reply 
To  my  reproof:'  I  raised  my  hand  and  smote  him, 
Until  he  reeKd  benealh  his  holy  burlhen; 
And  as  he  rose  from  earth  again,  he  raised 
His  tremulous  hands  in  pious  wraih  towards  Heaven.  \\ 
Thence  pointing  to  the  Host,  which  had  fallen  from 

him. 
He  turn'd  to  nie,  and  said,  "The  hour  will  come 
When  He  thou  hast  o'erlhrown  shall  overthrow  thee: 
The  glory  shall  depart  from  out  thy  house, 
The  wisdom  shall  be  shaken  from  thy  soul. 
And  in  thy  best  maturity  of  mind 
A  nndness  of  the  heart  shall  seize  upon  t'.iee  ; 
Passion  shall  tear  thee  when  all  passions  cease 
In  other  men,  or  mellow  into  virtues; 
And  majesty,  which  decks  all  other  heads, 
Shall  crown  to  leave  thee  headless  ;  honours  shall 
Put  prove  to  thee  the  heralds  of  destruction. 
And  hoary  hairs  of  shame,  and  both  of  death. 
But  not  such  death  as  fits  an  aged  man." 
Thussaying.  he  pass'd  on That  hour  is  come. 

Ang.  And  with  this  warning  couldst  thou  not  hiw 
striven 
To  avert  the  fatal  moment,  and  a'one. 
By  penftence,  for  that  which  thou  hadst  done  ? 

'Dnge.  I  own  the  words  went  to  my  heart,  so  Buea 
That  I  remember'd  them  amid  the  maze 

■     -  - .  ■ ^ 


238 


MARINO    FALIERO, 


[Act  V.  I 


Of  life,  as  if  they  forra'd  a  spectral  voice. 

Which  shook  me  in  a  superoalural  dreaui ; 

And  I  repented  ;  but  'i  was  not  for  nie 

To  pull  in  resolution  :  what  must  be 

I  could  not  change,  and  would  not  fear. —  Nay  more, 

Thou  canst  n  it  have  forgot,  what  all  remember, 

That  on  my  day  of  landing  here  as  Doge, 

On  my  return  from  Rome,  a  mist  of  such 

Unwonted  density  weni  on  before 

The  buceniaur,  like  the  columnar  cloud 

Which  ushei'd  Israel  out  of  Egypt,  till 

The  pilot  was  milled,  and  disembark'd  us 

Between  the  pill  us  of  Saint  Mark's,  where  'I  is 

The  cusloui  of  the  state  to  put  to  death 

Its  criminals,  instead  of  touching  at 

The  Riva  della  Paglia,  as  the  wont  i?,— 

So  ihat  all  Venice  shudder'd  at  the  omen. 

Ang.  Ah  ;  little  boots  it  now  to  recollect 
Such  things. 

Doge.  And  yet  I  find  a  comfort  in 

The  thought,  that  'the  e  things  are  the  w  ork  of  Fate  ; 
For  I  would  rather  yield  lo  gods  than  men, 
Or  cling  to  any  creed  of  de-liny, 
Rilher  thin  deem  these  mortals,  most  of  whom 
I  know  10  be  as  worthless  as  the  dust, 
And  weak  as  worlliless,  more  than  instruments 
Of  an  o'er-ruling  power;  they  in  themselves 
Were  all  incipable  —  they  could  not  be 
Victors  of  him  who  oft  had  conquer'd  for  them. 

Ang.  Employ  the  minutes  left  in  aspiralioDs 
Of  a  more  healing  nature,  and  in  peace 
Even  with  these  wretches  lake  thy  hight  to  heaven. 

Doge.  I  am  at  peace  :  the  peace  of  certainty, 
That  a  sure  hour  will  come,  when  their  sons'  sons, 
And  this  proud  cily,  and  these  azure  waters, 
And  all  which  makes  them  eminent  and  bright, 
ShiU  be  a  desulation  and  a  curse, 
A  hissing  and  a  scoff  unto  the  nation?, 
A  Carthage,  and  a  Tyre,  an  Ocean  Babel. 

Aitg.  Speak  not  thus  now:  the  surge  of  passion  still 
j  Sweeps  o'er  ihee  lo  the  hst ;  thou  dost  deceive 
.  Thyself,  and  canst  not  injure  them  —  be  calmer. 

Doge..  I  sand  williin  eterniiy,  and  see 
Into  eternity,  and  I  behold  — 
Ay,  pilpable  as  I  see  thy  sweet  face 
For  the  las!  time  —  the  days  which  I  denounce 
Un:o  all  lime  against  these  wave-girt  walls, 
And  they  who  are  indwellers. 

Guard  (coming  forward).    Doge  of  Venice, 
The  Ten  are  in  a  tendance  on  you:  highness. 

Doge.  Then  farewell,  Angio'lina  I  —one  embrace- 
Forgive  the  old  man  who  hath  been  to  thee 
A  fond  but  f  .tal  husbind  —  love  my  memory  — 
I  would  not  ask  so  much  for  me  slill  living. 
But  thou  canst  judge  of  me  more  kindly  now, 
Seeing  my  evil  feelinss  are  at  rest. 
Besides,  of  all  the  fruit  of  these  long  years. 
Glory,  and  wealth,  and  power,  and  fame,  and  Dame, 
Which  generally  leave  some  flowers  to  bloom 
Even  o'er  the  grave,  I  hive  nothing  left,  not  even 
A  little  love,  01-  friendship,  or  es'eem. 
No,  not  enough  to  extract  an  epitaph 
From  oslenta:ious  kinsmen  ;  in  one  hour 
I  have  uprooted  all  my  former  life, 
And  outlived  every  thing,  except  thy  heart. 
The  pure,  the  good,  the  gentle,  which  will  oft 
With  unimpair'd  but  not  a  clamorous  grief 

Still   keep Thou   turn's!    so    pale  !  —  Alas  !    she 

faints. 
She  has   no  breath,  no  pulse  !— Guards  !  lend  your 

air  — 
I  cannot  leave  her  thus,  and  yet 't  is  better. 
Since  every  lifele«s  moment  spares  a  pang. 
When  she  shakes  off  this  temporary  death, 
I  shall  be  with  the  Eternal. —  Call  her  women  — 
One  look  !  —  how  cold  her  hand  !  —  as  cold  as  mine 
Shall  be  ere  she  recovers.—  Gently  tend  her. 

And  take  my  last  thanks 1  ani  ready  now. 

IThe  Attendants  of  AngioUna  enter,  and  sur- 
round their  Mistress,  who  has  fainted. — 
Exeunt  the  Doge,  Guards,  ifC.  SfC. 


SCENE    III 

The  Court  of  the  Ducal  Palace  :  the  outer  gates  are 
shut  against  the  people.—  The  Doge  enters  in  hi$ 
ducal  rotes,  iti  precession  with  thc'Couucil  of  Ten 
and  other  Patiicians,  anendtd  by  the  Guards,  ttU 
Ihty  arrive  at  the  tcp  of  the  "  Uinnls'  Slaircatt" 
{where  the  Doges  took  the  oaths);  the  Executioner 
is  stationed  il  ere  uith  hts  sword. —  On  arriving,  a 
Chief  of  the  Ten  lakes  off  the  ducal  cap  Jrom  Iht 
Doge^s  head. 
Doge.  So,  now  (he  Doge  is  nothing,  and  at  last 

I  am  again  Marino  Faliero  : 

'T  is  well  lo  be  so,  though  but  for  a  moment. 

Here  was  1  crow  n'd,  and  here,  bear  witness.  Heaven ! 

With  how  much  more  contentment  1  resign 

That  shining  mockery,  the  ducal  bauble, 

Than  I  received  the  fatal  ornament. 

One  of  t/ie  Ten.  Thou  tremblest,  Faliero  ! 

Doge.  ' T  is  with  age,  then.t 

Ben.  Faliero  !  hast  thou  aight  further  lo  commend, 

Com|  atible  with  justice,  lo  the  senate  ? 

Doge.  I  would  commend  my  nephew  to  their  mercy, 

My  consort  to  their  jus  ice  ;  for  methinks 

My  death,  and  such  a  death,  might  settle  all 

Between  the  state  and  me. 
Ben.  They  shall  be  cared  for  ; 

Even  notwithstanding  thine  unheard-of  crime. 
Doge.  Unheard  of :  ay,  there  's  not  a  history 

But  shows  a  thousand  ciown"d  conspirators 

Against  the  people ;  but  1 1  set  them  free, 

One  sovereign  only  died,  and  one  ia  dying. 
Ben.  And  who  were  they  who  fell' in  such  a  cause? 
Doge.  The  King  of  Sparta,  and  the  Doge  of  Ve- 

Agis  and  Faliero ! 

Ben.  Hast  thou  more 

To  uller  or  to  do  ? 

Doge.  May  I  speak  ? 

Ben.  Thou  may'st ; 

But  recollect  the  people  are  without, 
Beyond  the  compass  of  the  human  voice. 

Doge.  I  speak  to  Time  and  to  Eternity, 
Of  which  I  grow  a  portion,  not  to  man. 
Ye  elements  !  in  which  to  be  resolved 
I  hasten,  let  my  voice  be  as  a  spirit 
Upon  you  !    Ye  blue  waves  !  which  bore  my  banner, 
Ye  winds  I  which  flulter'd  o'er  as  if  you  loved  it. 
And  fill'd  my  swelling  sails  as  they  were  wafted 
To  many  a  triumph  !     Thou,  my  native  earth. 
Which  i  have  bled  for !  and  thou  foreign  earth. 
Which  drank  Ihis  willing  blood  from  many  a  wound! 
Ye  stones,  in  which  my  gore  will  not  sink,  but 
Reek  up  to  heaven  !    Ye  skies,  which  w  ill  receive  it ! 
Thou  sun  !  which  shinest  on  these  things,  and  Thou  ! 
Who  kindlest  and  who  quenche^t  suns  ! —  Attest  1 
1  am  not  innocent  —  but  are  these  guiltless  ? 
I  perish,  but  not  unavenged  ;  far  ages 
Float  up  fiom  the  abyss  of  time  to  be, 
And  show  these  eyes,  before  they  close,  the  doom 
Of  this  proud  city,  and  I  leave  my  curse 

On  her  and  hers  for  ever  ! Yes  'lie  hours 

Are  silen  ly  engendering  of  the  day. 
When  she.'  who  built  'gainst  Atlila  a  bulwark. 
Shall  yield,  and  bloodlessly  and  basely  yield. 
Unto  a  bastard  Atlila,  wit'hOLt 
Shedding  so  much  blood  in  her  last  defence. 
As  the^e  old  veins,  oft  drain'd  in  shielding  her. 
Shall  pour  in  sacrifice. —  She  shall  be  bought 
And  sold,  and  be  an  appanage  to  those 


IThis  was  the  actual  reply  of  Bailli.  maire  of  Paris,  to 
a  Freni'hmRii  who  made  him  the  same  reproach  nn  hia 
way  tn  execution,  in  Ihe  earliest  part  of  their  revolution. 
I  tind  in  leading  over  (since  the  completion  of  thia  tra- 
gedy), for  the  first  lime  these  six  years,  "  Venire  Pre- 
served," a  Fimilar  reply  on  a  dilTereDt  occasion  by  Reooult, 
and  other  coincidences  arising  from  Ihe  subject.  I  need 
baldly  remind  the  gentlest  reader,  that  such  coincidence* 
muHt  be  accidental,  from  the  very  facility  of  Iheir  detec- 
tion by  reference  to  so  popular  a  play  on  the  stafe  wid  iD 
the  closet  as  Otway's  chef-d'oeuvre. 


p^ 


Scene  Hi.] 


DOGL    OF    VENICE. 


28.9 


Who  shall  despise  her  !  '  —  She  shall  stoop  lo  be 
A  province  for  an  emiiire,  petty  town 
In 'lieu  of  capiial,  wiiji  slaves  for  senates, 
Besgars  lor  nobles,  panders  for  a  people  ! 
'J  hen  when  the  Hebrew  's  in  thy  piliices," 
The  Hiin  in  thy  high  pi  ices,  and  the  Greek 
Walk-,  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his ; 
When  thy  pa  ricians  beg  their  bitter  bread 
In  narr  w  streets,  and  in  their  shameful  need 
Make  their  nobility  a  plea  for  pity  ; 
■■  hen,  when  the  few  who  still  retain  a  wreck 


Meanness  and  weakness,  and  a  sense  of  woe 
'Gainst  which  thou  wilt  not  strive,  and  dar'st  not  1 


Of  their  great  fathers'  beiita;e  shall  fawn 

RouBd  a  birbirian  Vice  of  Kings'  Vice-gerent, 

Even  in  the  palace  where  they  sway'd  as  sovereigns, 

Even  in  the  pilace  whf^e  they  slew  their  sovereign, 

Proud  of  some  name  ihey  have  disgraced,  or  sprung 

From  an  adulteress  boastful  of  her  ^uilt 

With  some  large  gondolier  or  foreign  soldier, 

Shall  be \r  about  tneir  bastardy  in  triumph 

To  the  thiid  spurious  generati  >n  ;  —  when 

Thy  sons  are  in  the  lowest  scale  of  being, 

Slaves  turn'd  o'er  to  the  vanquish'd  by  the  victors, 

Despised  by  cowards  for  greater  cowardice. 

And  scorn'd  even  by  the  vicious  for  such  vices 

As  in  the  monstrous  grasp  of  their  concepiion 

Defy  all  codes  to  image  <ir  to  name  Ihem  ; 

Then,  when  cf  Cyprus,  now  thy  subject  kingdom, 

All  thine  inheri'ance  shill  be  her  shame 

En'ail  d  on  thy  less  virtuous  dau;<hters,  grown 

A  wider  prove,  b  for  worse  piostiiuiioii ;  — 

When  all  the  ills  of  conquer'd  states  shall  cling  tbee, 

Vice  without   plendour.  sin  without  relief 

Even  from  the  gloss  of  love  to  smooth  it  o'er, 

But  in  its  stead,  coarse  lusts  of  h  ibitude,3 

Prurient  yet  pnssionless,  cold  studied  lewdness, 

Depraving  nature's  lrail:y  lo  an  art;  — 

When  these  and  more  are  heavy  on  thee,  when 

Smiles  wi'hout  mirth,  and  pastimes  without  pleasure, 

Youth  without  honour,  age  without  respect, 

1  Should  the  drnmatic  picture  seem  liarsh.letthe  reader 
look  to  lt>e  histuriral,  of  tlie  pt-riod  prophesied,  or  rather 
of  the  few  years  preceding  thai  period.  Voltaire  calcu- 
lated their  "nostre  bene  merile  Meretrici"  at  12,000  of 
reeulars,  without  including  voUinleers  and  local  militia,  on 
what  aulliority  I  know  not;  but  it  is,  perhaps,  the  only 
part  of  the  population  not  decreased.  Venice  once  con- 
tained two  hundred  thoii.«and  inhabit  ints  :  there  are  now 
about  uinety  thousand;  and  these'.!  few  individuals  can 
conceive,  and  none  could  describe,  the  actual  ttate  into 
which  the  more  than  infernal  tyranny  of  Austria  has 
plunged  this  unhappy  city.  Kmrn'the  present  decay  and 
degeneracy  of  Veni.e  under  the  B.irbarians,  there  are 
some  honourable  iudiv;dual  exceptions.  There  is  Pas- 
qualigo,  the  last,  and,  alas  !  posthumous  eon  of  the  mar- 
riage of  the  Doges  with  the  Adiiatic,  who  fought  his  fri- 
gite  with  far  greater  gallantry  than  any  of  his  French  co- 
adjutors in  the  memoriible  action  off  I.issa.  I  came  home 
in  the  squadron  with  the  prizes  in  1611,  and  recollect  to 
have  heard  Sir  William  Hoste,  and  the  other  officers  en- 
gaged in  that  glorious  conflict,  speak  in  the  hishest  terma 
of  Pasqualigo'8  behaviour.  There  is  the  Abbate  Morelli. 
There  is  Alvise  Qcierini,  who,  atter  a  long  aod  honourable 
diplomatic  career,  finds  some  eousolalion  for  the  wrongs 
of  his  country,  in  the  pursuits  of  literature  with  his  ne- 
phew, Vitior  Benzon,  the  son  of  the  celebrated  beauty,  the 
heroine  of  "La  Bioudina  in  Gondolelta."  There  are  the 
p;itrician  poet  Mornsini,  and  the  poet  Lamberti.Ihe  author 
of  the  "Biondina,"  &c.  and  many  other  estimable  pio- 
dnctions;  and,  not  least  in  an  Englishman's  estimation, 
Madame  Michelli,  the  translator  of  Sh  kspeare.  There 
are  the  young  Dandolo  and  the  improvisatore  Carrer,  and 
Giuseppe  Albrizzi,  the  accomplished  son  of  an  accom- 
plished mother.  There  is  Aghetts  and,  were  there  no- 
thing else,  there  is  the  immortality  of  Canova.  Cicog- 
nara,  Mustoxilhi,  Buciti,  ic.  &c.  I  di  not  reckon,  be- 
cause the  one  is  a  Greek,  and  the  others  were  born  at 
least  a  hundred  miles  niT.  which,  IhrouKhout  Italy,  consti- 
tutes, if  not  a  foreigner,  at  least  a  stranger  {fnrestiere). 

a  The  chief  palaces  on  the  Brenta  now  belong  lo  the 
Jews;  whT  in  the  earlier  times  of  the  republic  were  only 
•llowed  to  inhabit  Mestri,  and  not  to  enter  the  city  of  Ve- 
nice. The  whole  commerce  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Jews 
and  Greeks,  and  the  Huns  form  the  garrison. 

9  [See  Appendix,  Note  C] 


Have  tnade  thee  last  and  worsl  of  peopled  decerti, 
'J  hen.  in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  azony, 
Amid'it  thy  many  murders,  think  ol  mine! 
i  Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  piincea!* 
Gehenn  i  of  Ihe  waters  I  thou  sea  Sodom  ! 
Thus  I  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods ! 
Thee  and  thy  serpent  seed  ! 

[Here  the  Doge  luriu  and  addresses  the  E.^eattioner. 
„    .,  Slave,  do  thine  office  ! 

Strike  as  I  struck  Ihe  foe  !     Strike  as  I  would 
I  Have  struck  those  tyrants  !     Strike  deep  as  my  curse! 
Strike  —  and  but  once  ! 

iThe  Doge  tlirows  himself  upon  his  kneei,  and 
as  the  Extcutioner  raises  his  sword  the  scene 
closes. 

SCENE    IV. 

The  Piazza  and  Piazzetta  of  St.  Markka.—  The  Peo- 


Pint  Citizen.  I  have  gain'd  the  gate,  and  can  dis- 
cern the  Ten, 
Robed  in  their  gowns  of  state,  ranged  round  the  Doge. 

Second  Cit.  I  cannot  reach  thee  with  mine  utmost 
effort. 
How  is  it  ?  let  us  hear  at  least,  since  sight 
Is  thus  prohibited  unto  Ihe  people. 
Except  the  occupiers  of  those  b\rs. 

First  Cit.  One   has  approach'd  the  Doge,  and  now 
they  strip 
The  ducal  bonnet  from  his  head  —  and  novr 
He  Faises  his  keen  eyes  to  heaven  ;  I  see 
Them  glitter,  and  hi's  lips  move  — Hush  !  hush!  — no, 
'T  was  but  a  murmur  — Curse  upon  Ihe  distance! 
His  words  are  inarticulate,  but  the  voice 
Swells  up  like  mutter'd  thunder;  would  we  could 
But  gather  a  sole  sentence ! 

Stcottd  Cit.  Hush  !  we  perhaps  may  catch  the  sound. 

4  If  the  Doge's  prophecy  seem  remarkable,  look  to  the 
following,  made  hy  Alamanni  two  hundred  and  seventy 
years  ago;  — "There  is  one  very  singular  prophecy  con- 
cerning Venice:  •  If  thou  dos-t  not  change,'  it  says  to  that 
proud  republic,  'thy  hberly.  which  is  already  on  the  wing, 
will  not  reckon  a  century  more  than  the  thousandth 
year.'  If  we  cany  back  the  ep.icha  of  Venetian  freedom 
to  the  establishment  of  the  government  under  which  the 
republic  flourish.-d,  we  shall  find  that  Ihe  date  of  the 
election  of  the  firsi  Doge  is  697;  and  if  we  add  one  cen- 
tury to  a  thousand,  that  is,  eleven  hundred  years,  we  shall 
find  the  sense  of  the  prediction  to  be  literally  this :  •  Thy 
liberty  will  not  last  till  1797.'  Recollect  that  Venice 
ceased  to  be  free  in  the  year  1796,  Ihe  fifth  year  of  the 
French  republic;  and  you  will  perceive  that  there  nevei 
was  prediction  m.ire  pointed,  or  more  exactly  f,)llowed  by 
the  event.  You  will,  therefore,  note  as  veiy  remarkable 
Ihe  three  lines  of  Alamanni  addressed  to  Venice;  which, 
however,  zrt  one  has  pointed  out :  — 

'Se  non  cangi  pensier,  «n  secol  nolo 

Non  contera  sopra  '1  millesiiao  anno 
Tua  liberta,  che  va  fuggendo  a  volo.' 
Many  prophecies   have    passed    for  such,  and  many  men 
have  been  called  prophets    ftir  much  less.— GIKGUB^NE, 
Hist.  Lit.  de  I'Jlalie,  t.  ix.  p.  144. 

6  Of  Ihe  first  fifty  Doges,  Jfue  abdicated —^re  mre 
banished  with  their  eyes  put  nut  — Jive  were  massacred 
—  and  nine  deposed  ;  so  that  nineteen  nut  of  fifty  lost  Ihe 
throne  by  violence,  besides  two  who  fell  in  battle  :  thia 
occurred  long  previous  to  Ihe  reign  of  Marino  Faliero. 
One  of  his  more  immediate  predecessors,  Andrea  Dan- 
dolo, died  of  vexation.  Marino  Faliero  himself  perished 
as  related.  Amongst  his  successors,  Foscari,  after  seeing 
his  son  repeatedly  tortured  and  banished,  was  depised,  and 
died  of  breaking  a  blood-vessel,  on  hearing  the  bell  of 
Saint  Mark's  toll  for  Ihe  election  of  his  successor.  M.v 
rosini  was  impeached  for  Ihe  loss  of  Candia;  but  th\»  wu 
previous  to  his  dukedom,  during  which  he  conquered  the 
Morea,  and  was  styled  the  Peloponnesian.  Faliero  might 
truly  say, 
"  Thou  dvn  of  drunkards  with  the  Mood  of  priJHW !  ** 


0-; 


19 


290 


APPENDIX    TO    THE 


First  at. 
I  cannot  hear  him. —  How  his  hoary  hair 
Streams  on  tbe  wiud  like  foam  upon  the  wave '. 
j^ojv  —  now  —  he  kneels  —  and  now  they  form  a  circle 
Round  him,  and  all  is  hidden  — but  1  see 

The  lifted  swoid  In  air Ah  '.  hark  !  it  falls  ! 

[The  People  murmur. 
Third  Cit.   Then   they   have   niurder'd   him   who 

would  have  freed  us. 
Fourth  Cit.  He  was  a  kind  man  to  the  conimons 
even 


'T  is  vain,    lowed  Marino  Faliero  to  go  out  of  his  right  senses,  in 
order  that  he  mijht  brmg  himself  to  an  evil  death. 

When  this  Duke  had  held  the  dukedom  during  nine 
months  and  six  days,  he,  being  wicked  and  ambitious, 
sought  to  make  himself  Lord  nf  Venice,  in  the  man- 
ner which  I  have  read  in  an  ancient  chronicle.  When 
the  Thursday  arrived  upon  which  they  were  wont  to 
hunt  the  bull,  the  bull  hunt  took  place  as  usual ;  and. 
according  to  the  usage  of  those  limes,  after  the  bull 
hunt  h  id  ended,  they  all  proceeded  unto  the  palace  of 
the  Duke,  aid  assembled  togelher  in  one  of  his  halls; 
Fifth  Cit.  Wisely  they  did  to  keep  their  portals  and  they  disported  themselves  with  the  women.  And 
barr'd.  until  the  firs!  bell  tolled  they  danced,  and  then  a  ban- 

Would  we  had  known  the  work  they  were  preparing  quet  was  served  up.  My  Lord  ihe  Duke  paid  the  ex.- 
Ere  we  were  summon'd  here  — we  would  have  brought  penses  thereof,  provided  he  had  a  Duchess,  and  after 
Weapons,  and  forced  them  I  .  the  banquet  ihey  all  returned  ;o  their  homes. 

Sixth  Cit.  Are  you  sure  he  's  dead  ?   I      Now  to  this  feast  there  cime  a  certain  Ser  Micbele 

First  Cit.  I  saw  the   sword   fall  —  Lo  !  what  have    Steno,  a  gentleman  of  poor  estate  and  very  young,  but 

we  here?  craflyand  diring,  and  who  loved  one  of  the  damsels 

£iUer   on  the   Balcony  of  the  Palace  which  front,   "^  'he  Duchess.     Ser  Michele  stood  amongst  the  wo- 

SainrMark^s   Placed  Chief  of  the  Tai,i  with  a   "''^"  upon  the  solajo;  and  he  Lt-haved  mdiscree  ly,  so 

tloody.word._  mwa.es  ,/thi^e  ^ore  the  Peo-   ^^^^^^^^^^l^^^^^  ^^^J^.^^^^^^ 

pie,  and  txclaims,  .  ^,    ^    .,     ,„  I  flung  him   down  from   Ihe  solajo  accordingly.    Ser 

"Justice  hath  dealt  upon  the  mighty  Traitor."  |  ^jchele  thought  thai  such  an  atiront  was  beyond  all 

[The  gates  are  opened;  the  pr^ulace  rush  in  towards  ,  bearing ;  and  when  the  feast  was  ever,  and  all  other 

Giants'  Staircase,''  where  the  execution  has   persons  had  left  the  palace,  he,  continuing  heated  wiih 


taken  place.     Tne  foremost  of  them  exclaims  to 
those  behind, 
The  gory  head  rolls  down  the  Giants'  Steps  • 

[The  curtain  falls. 


APPENDIX 


Note  A. 


I  am  obliged  for  Ihe  following  excellent  translation 

of  the  old  Chronicle  to  Mr.  F.  Cnhen,2  to  whom  Ihe 

reader  will  find  himself  indebted  for  a  version  that  I 

could   not   myself— though   after  many  years'  inter- 

course  with   Ilalian  — have  given   by  any  means  so  'occasioned  by  his  being  thrust  otf  the  sob  jo  in  the 

presence  of  his  mistress,  he  had  written  the  words. 
Therefore  Ihe  Council  debated  thereon.  And  the 
Council  look  his  youih  into  consideration,  and 


anger,  went  10  Ihe  hall  of  audience,  and  wrole  certain 
unseemly  words  rebling  lo  the  Duke  and  the  Duchess 
upon  the  chair  in  which  Ihe  Duke  was  used  lo  sit ;  for 
in  those  days  Ihe  Duke  did  not  cover  his  chair  wi  h 
cloih  of  sendal,  but  he  sat  in  a  chair  of  wood.  Ser 
Michele  wrote  thereon- "  JWarin  Falier,  the  Aus- 
bandof  the  fair  wife;  others  hist  her,  but  he  heipt 
her."  In  the  morning  Ihe  words  were  seen,  and  the 
matter  was  considered  to  be  very  scandalous  ;  :>nd  the 
Senate  commanded  the  Avogadori  of  the  Common- 
wealth lo  proceed  therein  with  Ihe  greatest  diligence. 
A  largess  of  great  amount  was  immediately  proffe:ed 
by  Ihe  Avogadori,  in  order  to  discover  who  had  writ- 
ten these  words.  And  at  length  it  uas  known  that 
Michele  Steno  had  written  them.  It  was  resolved  in 
Ihe  Council  of  Forty  that  he  should  be  arrested;  and 
he  then  confessed  that  in  Ihe  fit  of  vexation  and  spite, 


purely  and  so  faithfully. 
STORY  OF  MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE  XLIX. 


MCCCLIV. 

On  the  eleventh  day  nf  September,  in  Ihe  year  of  our 
Lord,  1354,  Marino  Faliero  was  elected  and  chosen  lo 
be  the  Duke  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Venice.  He 
was  Count  of  Valdemarino,  in  the  Marches  of  TreyiiO, 
and  a  Knight,  and  a  wealthy  man  to  boot.     As  soon  as 


the   election  was  completed. 


resolved  in   the  !  ?V'=*l 


lover ;  and  therefore  they  adjudged  Ih.af  he 
should  be  kept  in  close  confinement  during  two  months, 
and  that  afterwards  he  should  be  banished  from  Venice 
and  ti.e  state  <lurins  one  year.  In  consequence  of  this 
merciful  sentence  Ihe  Duke  became  exceedingly  wroth, 
ppearing  to  him,  thai  the  Council  had  not  acted  in 


■  as  was  required  by  the  respect 


Great  Council,  that  a  deputation  of  twelve  should  be 
despatched  to  Marino  Faliero  the  Duke,  who  was  the.i 
on  his  w.ay  from  Rome;  for  when  he  was  chosen,  he 
*vas  amha'ssador  at  the  court  of  Ihe  Holy  Father,  at 
Rome,— the  Holy  Father  himself  he'd  his  court  at 
Avignon.  When  Messer  Marino  Faliero  t 
was  about  to  land  in  this  city,  on  the  5th  day  of  Oc- 
tober, 1354,  a  thick  haze  came  on,  and  darkened  the 
air:  and  he  was  enforced  to  land  on  Ihe  place  of  Saint 
Mark,  between  the  two  columns  on  the  spot  where 
evil  doers  are  put  lo  death  ;  and  all  thought  that  this 
was  the  worst  of  tokens. —  Nor  must  I  forjet  to  write 
that  which  I  have  read  in  a  chronicle.  When  Messer 
Marino  Faliero  was  Pode-ta  and  Captain  of  Treviso, 
the  Bishop  delayed  coming  in  with  the  holy  sacra- 
ment, on  a  day  when  a  procession  was  to  take  place. 
Now,  the  said'  Marino  Faliero  was  so  very  proud  and 
wrathful,  that  he  buffeted  t!;e  Bishop,' and  almost 
struck  him  to  the  ground :  and,  therefore,  Heaven  al- 

otds  of   Sanulo'8 


are  the 


1 "  Un   Capo  rte'   Dieci 
CtiroDl  le. 

2  Mr.  Francis  Cohen,  now  Sir  Francis  Palgrave,  K.  H. 
the  learned  autliur  of  the  "Rise  and  Progress  of  the  F.ng 
ush  Cooatitution,"  "  Hiatory  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,"  «tc. 


lo 
his  ducal  disnily  ;  and  he  snid  that  they  ought  to  have 
condemned  Ser 'Michele  lo  be  hanged  by  the  neck,  or 
at  least  lo  be  banished  for  life. 

Now  it  was  fated  that  mv  Lord  Duke  Marino  was 
to  have  his  heid  cut  otf.  And  as  it  is  necessary  when 
the  Duke  i*"y  ^ff^ct  is  to  be  brought  about,  that  the  cause  of  such 
effect  must  happen,  it  therefore  came  to  pass,  that  on 
the  very  day  after  sentence  had  been  pronounced  on 
Ser  Michele  Steno,  being  Ihe  first  day  of  Lent,  a  gen- 
tleman of  the  house  of  Barbaro,  a  choleric  gentleman, 
went  to  the  arsenal,  and  required  certain  things  of  Ihe 
masters  of  the  galleys.  This  he  did  in  Ihe  presence  of 
the  Admiral  of  Ihe  arsenal,  and  he,  hearing  Ihe  re- 
quest,  answered. —  No,  il  cannot  be  done.  High  words 
arose  between  Ihe  gentleman  and  the  Admiral,  and 
the  gentleman  struck  him  with  his  fist  just  above  the 
eye  ;  and  as  he  happened  to  have  a  iing  on  his  finger, 
the  ring  cut  the  Admiral  and  drew  blood.  The  Ad- 
miral, all  bruised  and  bloody,  ran  straight  to  the  Duke 
lo  complain,  and  with  the' intent  of  praying  him  to 
inflict  some  heavy  punishment  upon  the  eentleman  of 
Ca  Barbaro.— "VVh't  wnuldst  thou  have  me  do  for 
ihee?"  answered  Ihe  Duke:  —  "think  upon  the 
shameful  gibe  which  hath  been  written  concerning 
me ;  ar  d  think  on  Ihe  manner  in  which  Ihey  have 
punished   that  ribald   Michele  Steno,  who  wrole  it ; 


DOGE  OF   VENICE. 


291 


and  see  how  the  Council  of  Forty  respect  our  person."  I 
—  Upon  Ibis  llie  Admiral  answered,  —  "My  Lord 
Duke,  if  ynu  would  wish  to  make  yourstlf  a  prince,  : 
and  to  cut  all  tho^e  cuckoldy  genlieuien  to  pieces,  1  \ 
have  the  heort,  if  ynu  do  but  help  n:e,  to  make  you 
prince  of  all  this  state  ;  and  then  you  may  punish  tliem  | 
all."—  Heiring  ihis,  the  Duke  said,—"  How  cm  such  ' 
a  matter  be  brought  about  ?"—  and  to  they  discoursed  I 
thereon. 

The  Duke  called  for  his  nephew,  Set-  Bertuccio  Fa-  j 
liero,  who  lived  with  him  in  the  palace,  and  they  j 
communed  about  this  plot.  And  wi  hout  leaving  the 
place,  (hey  sent  for  Philip  Calendaro,  a  seaman  of 
e;reat  repute,  and  for  Beriuccio  Uraello,  who  was  ex- 
ceedingly wily  and  cunning.  Then  tiking  counsel 
amon;sI  themselves,  they  agreed  to  call  in  some  others  ; 
and  so,  for  several  nights  successively,  they  met  with 
the  Duke  at  home  in  his  pilvce.  And  ihe  following 
men  we^e  called  in  singly;  to  wit:  —  Niccolo  Fa- 
giuolo,  Giovanni  da  Corfu,  Sefano  Fagiano,  Niccolo 
dalle  Bende,  Niccolo  Biondo,  and  Stefano  Trivisano. — 
It  was  concerted  thii  sixteen  or  seventeen  leiders 
should  be  stationed  in  various  parts  of  the  ciiy,  each 
being  at  the  he  id  of  forty  men.  armed  and  prepared  , 
but  the  followers  were  not  to  know  their  destimtion. 
On  the  appoinled  day  they  were  to  make  affrays 
amongst  themselves  here  and  there,  in  order  that  the 
Duke  might  have  a  pretence  for  tolling  the  bells  of  San 
Marco  ;  these  beils  are  never  rung  but  by  the  order  of  i 
the  Duke.  And  at  the  sound  of  the  bells,  ihese  si.xleen  j 
or  seventeen,  with  their  followers,  were  to  cime  to 
San  Marco,  thiough  the  streets  which  open  upon  Ihe 
Piazza.  And  when  the  noble  and  leading  citizens 
should  come  into  the  Piazza,  to  know  the  cause  of  the 
riot,  hen  the  conspirators  were  to  cut  them  in  pieces  ; 
and  this  work  being  finished,  my  Lord  Marino  Faliero 
the  Duke  ivas  to  be  proclaimed  the  Lord  of  Venice. 
Things  having  been  thus  settled,  they  agreed  to  fulfil 
their' intent  on  We-liiesday,  Ihe  ISth'day  of  April,  in 
the  year  1355.  So  covertly  did  they  plot,  that  no  one 
ever  dreamt  of  their  nnchinaiions. 

But  the  Lord,  w  ho  hath  always  helped  this  most  glo- 
rious city,  and  who,  loving  its  righteousness  and  holi- 
ness, hath  never  forsaken  it,  inspired  one  Beliramo 
Bergama.co  to  be  the  cause  of  bringing  Ihe  plot  to 
light,  in  the  following  manner.  This'Beltramo,  who 
belonged  to  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni  cf  Santo  Stefino,  had 
heard  a  word  or  two  of  what  was  to  take  place;  and 
so,  in  the  before-mentioned  month  of  April,  he  went 
to  the  house  of  the  aforesaid  Ser  Niccolo  l.inni.  and 
told  him  ill  the  particulars  of  the  ploi.  Ser  Niccolo, 
when  he  heard  all  these  things,  was  struck  dead,  as  it 
were,  with  atfri»hl.  He  heard  all  Ihe  particulars ;  and 
Beltramo  prayed  him  to  keep  it  all  secret;  and  if  he 
told  Ser  Niccolo,  it  was  in  order  that  Ser  Niccolo 
might  s'op  at  home  on  the  I5ih  of  April,  and  thus  save 
his  life.  Beltramo  was  going,  but  Ser  Niccolo  ordered 
his  servants  to  lay  hands  upon  him,  and  lock  him  up. 
Ser  Niccolo  then  went  to  the  house  of  Messer  Gio- 
vanni Gradenigo  Nasoni,  who  afierwards  became  Duke, 
and  who  also  lived  at  Santo  Slefano,  and  told  him  all. 
The  matter  seemed  to  him  to  be  of  the  very  greatest 
import ince,  as  indeed  it  was;  and  they  two  went  to 
the  house  of  Ser  M  irco  Cornaro,  who  lived  at  San  Fe- 
lice; and,  having  spoken  wiih  him,  'h'-y  all  three 
then  deiermiiied  to  go  b  'ck  to  the  hnu-e  of  Ser  Niccolo 
Lioni.  to  examine  the  said  Beltramo  ;  and  having  ques- 
tioned him,  and  heard  all  that  he  had  to  say,  they  left 
him  in  confinement.  And  then  ihey  all  three  went 
into  the  sacristy  of  San  Salvatore,  and  sent  their  men 
to  summon  the  Councillors,  the  Avogad  >ii,  the  Capi 
de'  Dieci,  and  those  of  the  Great  Council. 

When  all  were  assembled,  the  whole  story  was  told 
to  them.  They  were  struck  dead,  as  it  were,  with 
affright.  They  determined  to  send  for  Beltramo.  He 
was  brought  in  belore  Iheni.  They  examined  him, 
and  ascertained  that  the  matter  was  true  ;  and.al'houzh 
they  were  exceedingly  troubUd,  yet  they  de  ermined 
upon  their  measures.  And  they  sent  for'the  Capi  de' 
Quarante.  the  Signori  di  Notte,  the  Capi  de'  Sestieri, 
Utd  the  Cinque  della  Pace;  and  they  were  ordered  to 


associate  to  their  men  other  good  men  and  true,  who 
were  to  proceed  to  Ihe  houses  of  the  ringleaders  of  the 
conspiracy,  and  secure  them  And  Ihey  secured  the 
foreman  of  Ihe  arsenal,  in  order  thai  the'  conspirators 
might  not  do  mischief.  Towards  nightfall  Ihey  assem- 
bled in  the  palace.  When  they  were  assembled  in  the 
palace,  they  caused  Ihe  giles  of  he  qu  drangle  of  the 
palace  to  be  shut.  And  they  sent  to  Ihe  keeper  o(  the 
Bell-lower,  and  forbade  Ihe  lolling  of  the  bells.  All 
Ihis  was  carried  into  effect.  The  befire-mentioned 
conspirators  were  secured,  and  Ihey  were  brought  to 
the  palace,  and,  as  Ihe  Council  of  Ten  saw  that  the 
Duke  was  in  Ihe  plot,  ihey  resolved  that  twenty  of  the 
leading  men  of  the  stale  should  be  associa.'ed  to  them, 
for  the  purpose  of  consultation  and  deliberation,  but 
that  they  should  not  be  allowed  to  ballot. 

■J'he  counsellors  were  Ihe  following:  —  SerGiovanni 
Moceiiigo,  of  the  Ses:iero  of  San  Marco  ;  Ser  Almoro 
Veniero  da  Sinta  Marina,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Caslello; 
Ser  Tomaso  Viadro,  of  tne  Sestiero  of  Canaiegio  ;  Ser 
Giovanni  Sanudo,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Santa  Crrjce;  Ser 
Pieiro  Trivisano,  of  the  Sestiero  of  San  Paolo;  Ser 
Pantalioiie  Birboil  Grando,  of  lliefiestiero  of  Ossoduro. 
The  Avogadori  of  Ihe  Commonwealih  were  Zufredo 
Moro  ini,  and  Ser  Orio  Tasqualigo  ;  and  these  did  not 
ballot.  I  hose  of  the  Council  of  Ten  were  Ser  Gio- 
vanni Marcello,  Ser  Tomaso  Sanudo,  and  Ser  Miche- 
letlo  Dolhno,  Ihe  heads  of  the  aforesaid  Council  of  '1  en. 
Ser  Luca  da  Legge,  and  Ser  Pie'ro  da  Mo  to,  inquisi- 
tors of  the  aforesaid  Council.  And  Ser  Marco  Polani, 
Ser  Marino  Veniero,  Ser  Lando  Lombaido,  and  Ser  Ni- 
coletlo  Trivisano,  of  San  '  Angelo. 

Late  in  the  night,  just  before  the  dawning,  they 
chose  a  jun  a  of  twenty  noblemen  of  Venice  from 
amongs'  the  wise  t,  and  the  worthiest,  and  the  oldest. 
They  were  to  give  counsel,  but  not  to  ballot.  And 
they  w'uld  not  admit  any  one  of  Ca  Faliero.  And 
Niccolo  Faliero,  and  another  Niccolo  Faliero,  of  San 
Tomaso.  were  expelled  from  Hie  Council,  because  they 
belonged  to  the  family  of  the  Dnge.  And  this  resolu- 
tion of  creating  the  junia  of  twenty  was  much  praised 
throughout  the  slate.  The  following  were  the  mem- 
bers of  the  junta  of  tweniy  :  —  Ser  Marco  Giu-tiniani, 
Procuratore,  Ser  Andrea  Erizzo,  Prccuratore,  ,Ser  Lio- 
nardo  Giusliniani,  Procuratore,  Ser  Andrea  Contarini, 
Ser  Simone  Dmdolo,  Ser  Niccolo  Volpe,  Ser  Giovanni 
Loredano,  Ser  Marco  Diedo,  Ser  Giovanni  Gradenigo, 
Ser  Andrea  Cornaro,  Cavaliere,  Ser  Mircn  Soranzo, 
Ser  Rinieri  du  Moslo,  Ser  Gazano  Marcello,  Ser  Ma- 
rino .Morosini,  Ser  Slefano  Belegno,  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni, 
Ser  Filippo  Ori-i,  Ser  Marco  Trivisano,  Ser  Jacopo 
Bragadino,  Ser  Giovanni  Fnscarini. 

These  tweniy  were  accordingly  called  in  to  Ihe 
Council  of  Ten ;  and  they  sent  for  my  Lord  Marino 
Faliero  Ihe  Duke  :  and  my  Lord  Marino  was  then  con- 
soiting  in  the  palace  with  people  of  great  estate,  gen- 
tlemen, and  o:her  good  men,  none  of  whom  knew  yet 
how  the  fact  stood. 

At  the  same  lime  Bertucci  Israello,  who,  as  one  of 
Ihe  ringleaders,  was  to  head  the  conspirators  in  Santa 
Croce,  was  arrested  and  bound,  and  brought  before  the 
Council.  Zanello  del  Brin,  Niculelto  di  Rosa,  Nico- 
lelto  Alberto,  and  the  Guardiagi,  were  also  taken,  to- 
ge  her  with  several  seamen,  and  people  of  various 
ranks.  These  were  examined,  and  the  truth  of  the 
plot  was  ascertained. 

On  !he  16th  of  April  judgment  was  given  in  the 
Council  of  Ten,  that  Filippo  Calendaro  and  Bertuccio 
Israeilo  should  be  hanged  upon  the  red  pillars  of  the 
balcony  of  Ihe  palace,  from  which  the  Duke  is  wont  to 
look  at  the  bull  hunt :  and  they  were  haUbiH  with  gags 
iu  heir  mouths. 

The  next  day  the  following  were  condemned:^ 
Niccolo  Zuccuolo,  Niccoletto  Biondo,  Nicolello  Doro, 
Marco  Giuda.  Jacomello  Dagolino,  Nicolello  Fidele, 
the  son  of  Filippo  Calendaro,  Marco 'lorello,  called 
Israeilo,  Stefano  Trivisano,  the  money  chanier  of  S;uiU 
Margherila,  and  Antonio  dalle  Bende'.  These  were  ail 
tiken  at  Chiozzi,  for  ihey  were  endeavouring  to 
escape.  Aflerwards,  by  virtue  of  the  sentence  which 
was  passed  upon  them  in  the  Council  of  T«o,  they 


292 


APPENDIX    TO    THE 


were  banged  on  successive  days ;  some  singly  and 
some  in  couples,  upon  Ihe  columns  of  ihe  palace,  be- 
ginaing  from  ihc  red  columns,  aud  so  going  onwards 
towards  the  canal.  And  other  prisoners  were  dis- 
charged, because,  although  Ihey  had  been  involved  in 
the  conspiracy,  yet  they  had  not  assisted  in  it :  for 
they  were  given  to  uuders  and  by  some  of  the  heads 
of  the  plot,  tiiat  they  were  to  come  armed  and  pre- 
pared for  the  service  of  the  state,  and  in  order  to 
secure  certain  criminals ;  and  tl.ey  knew  nothing  else. 
Nicoletto  Albeito,  the  Guardiaga,  and  Bartolomrneo 
Ciricolo  and  his  son,  and  several  others,  who  were 
not  guilty,  were  discharged. 

Oo  Friday,  the  16th  day  of  April,  judgment  w'as 
also  given  in  tie  aloresaid  Council  of  Ten,  that  my 
Lord  Marino  Faliero,  the  Duke,  should  have  his  he  id 
cut  off;  and  that  Ihe  execution  should  be  done  on  the 
landing-place  of  the  stone  staircase,  where  the  Uukes 
take  their  oath  when  they  first  enter  the  palace.  On 
the  following  day,  Ihe  17th  of  April,  the  doors  of  Ihe 
palace  being  shut,  the  Duke  had  his  head  cut  off,  about 
the  hour  of  noon.  And  the  cap  of  eslale  was  taken 
from  the  Duke's  head  before  he  came  down  stairs. 
When  the  execution  was  over,  it  is  said  that  one  of 
the  Council  of  Ten  went  to  Ihe  columns  of  the  palace 
over  against  the  place  of  St.  Mark,  and  that  he  showed 
the  bloody  sword  unto  the  people,  crying  out  with  a 
loud  voice  —  "  The  terrible  doom  hath  fallen  upon  the 
traitor!"  —  and  Ihe  doors  were  opened,  aud  the  peo- 
ple all  rushed  in,  to  see  the  corpse  of  the  Duke,  who 
had  been  beheaded. 

It  must  be  known  that  Ser  Giovanri  Sanudn,  the 
councillor,  was  not  present  when  the  aforesaid  sen- 
tence was  pronounced;  because  he  was  unwell  and 
remained  at  home.  So  that  only  foureen  balloted; 
that  is  to  say,  five  councillors,  and  nine  of  the  Council 
of  Ten.  And  it  was  adjudged,  that  all  the  lands  and 
chattels  of  the  Duke,  as  well  as  of  the  other  traitors, 
should  be  forfeited  to  the  slate.  And  as  a  grace  to  the 
Duke,  it  was  resolved  in  the  Council  of  Ten,  that  he 
should  be  allowed  to  dispose  of  two  thousand  duca's 
out  of  his  own  property.  And  it  was  resolved,  that 
all  the  councillors  and  all  the  Avogadori  of  the  Com- 
monwealth, those  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  and  the 
members  of  the  junta,  who  had  assisted  in  passing 
sentence  on  Ihe  Duke  and  the  other  traitors,  should 
have  the  privilege  of  carrying  arms  both  by  day  and 
by  night  in  Venice,  and  fmm  Grado  to  Cavazere. 
I  And  they  were  also  to  be  allowed  two  footmen  carry- 
I  ing  arms,  the  aforesaid  footmen  living  and  boarding 
I  with  tiiem  in  their  own  houses.  And  lie  who  did  not 
j  keep  two  fo^lmen  might  transfer  the  privilege  to  his 
sons  or  his  brothers;  but  only  to  two.  Permission  of 
'  carrying  arms  was  also  granted  to  the  four  Notaries  of 
the  Chancery,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  Supreme  Court, 
who  took  the  depositions;  and  they  were,  Amedio, 
Nicoletto  di  I^rino,  Steffanello,  and  Pieiro  de  Com- 
poselli,  Ihe  secretaries  of  the  Signori  di  Nolle. 

After  Ihe  traitors  had  been  hanged,  and  Ihe  Duke 

had  had  his  head  cut  off,  Ihe  state  ren:ained  in  great 

tranquillily   and  peace.     And,  as  I  have   read   in   a 

j  Chronicle,' the  corpse  of  Ihe  Duke  was  removed  in  a 

I  barge,  wi  h  eight  torches,  to  his  tomb  in  the  church  of 

San  Giovanni   e  Paolo,  wheie   it  was  buried.     The 

tomb  is  vow  in  that  aisle  in  Ihe  middle  of  the  little 

church  of  Santa  Maria  djlla  Pace,  which  was  built  by 

Bishop  Gabriel  of  Cer^nio.     It  is  a  coffin  of  stone, 

I  with  these  words  engraven  thereon  :  "  Hcic  jncet  Do- 

mxnxts  Mariniis  Faletro  Dux.''  —  And  Ihey  did  not 

paint  his  portrait  in  the  hall  of  the  Great  Council :  — 

I  but  ic  the  place  where  it  ought  to  have  been.  y<  u  see 

these  words:  —  '-Hie  esl   tocut  Mirini  Faletro,  de- 

capitatipro  criminibus."  —  And  it  i^  thought  that  his 

house  was  granted  to  Ihe  church  of  SanI'  Apostolo  ;  it 

was  that  great  one  near  Ihe  bridse.     Yet  this  could  not 

be  the  ca^e.  or  else  the  family  bouzht  it  back  from  Ihe 

church  ;  for  it  still  belongs  to  Ca  Faliero.     I  must  not 

.  refrain   from   noting,  that  some  wi-hed  to  write  the  j 

following  words  in  the  place  where  his  portrait  ought 

to  have  been,  as  aforesaid  :  —  "  3faririj«  Fnhiro  Dux, 

Umeritat  me  cepit.     Pcenas  lui,  cUcapUatvs  pro  I 


crimt/nfcuj."  — Others,  also,  indicted  a  couplet,  wor- 
thy of  being  inscribed  upon  his  tomb. 
"Dux  Yenetum  jacet  heic,  patriam  qui  prodere  ttntmm 
Sceptra,  dtcui,  censum  perdidit,  atque  caput." 


Note  B. 

petrarch  on  the  conspiracy  of 
marino  faliero. 

"Al  giovane  Doge  Andrea  Dandolo  succedetfe  on 
vecchio,  il  quale  tardi  si  pose  al  timone  ddla  repub- 
blica,  ma  sempre  prima  di  quil,  che  facea  d'  uopo  a 
lui,  ed  alia  patria:  egli  e  Mani:o  Faliero,  personaggio 
a  me  nolo  per  anli.'a  dimesticliezza.  Falsa  era  1' 
opinione  inlorno  a  lui,  giacche  egli  si  mosiro  lornits 
piu  di  corraggio,  chedi  senno.  Non  pago  della  prima 
dignita,  entro  con  sinislro  piede  nel  pubblico  Palazzo: 
imperciocche  questo  Doge  dei  Veneti,  magistrato  sicro 
in  tuiti  i  secoli,  che  dagli  aniichi  fu  semjire  venerato 
qual  nume  in  quella  cilia.  I'altr'jeri  fu  decollalo  nel 
vestibolo  dell'  istesso  Palazzo.  Discorrerei  fin  dal 
principio  le  cause  di  un  tale  evvenio,  e  cosi  vario.  ed 
ambiguo  non  ne  fosse  il  grido.  Nessuno  |)ero  lo  ^cusa, 
tutii  affermano,  che  egl]  abbia  voluto  cangiir  qualcbe 
cosa  i.ell'  ordine  della  repubblica  a  lui  Iramandato  dai 
maggiori.  Che  desiderava  egli  dl  piu?  lo  son  d' 
avviso,  che  egli  abbia  ottenu'o  cio,  che  non  si  con- 
cedette  a  ne-sun  allro:  nienlre  adenipiva  gli  ufBcj  di 
legato  presso  il  Ponletice,  e  sulle  rive  del  Rodano 
traltava  la  pace,  che  io  prima  di  lui  avevo  indarno 
tenlaio  di  conchiudere,  gli  fu  conferilo  1'  onore  del 
Ducalo,  che  ne  chiedeva,  ne  s'  a>petiava.  Tomato  in 
patria,  penso  a  quello,  cui  nessuno  non  pose  mente 
giammai,  e  soffri  quello,  che  a  niuno  accadde  mai  di 
SKffrire  :  giacche  in  quel  luogo  celeberrimo,  e  chiaris- 
sinio,  e  bellissimo  infra  lutii  quelli,  che  io  vidi,  ove  i 
suoi  anienati  avevano  ricevuti  grandissimi  onori  in 
mezzo  alle  pompe  trionfali,  ivi  egli  fu  trascinato  in 
modo  servile,  e  spogliato  delle  insegne  ducali,  perdelte 
la  tes'.a,  e  macchio  col  proprio  sangue  le  soglie  del 
tempio,  I'alriodel  Pala/zo,  e  le  scale  marmoi-ee  ren- 
dule  spesse  volte  illusiri  o  dalle  solenni  festivita,  o 
dalle  oslili  spoglie.  Ho  notato  il  luogo,  ora  nolo  il 
tempo :  e  1'  anno  del  Natale  di  Crislo  1355,  fu  il 
giorno  18  d'  Aprile.  Si  alto  e  il  grido  sparso,  che  se 
alcnno  esaminera  la  disciplina,  e  le  costumanze  di 
quella  cilia,  e  quanio  mulamento  di  cose  venga  minac- 
cialo  dalla  niorte  di  un  sol  uomo  (quantunque  moiti 
altri,  c'lme  narrano,  essendo  complici,  o  subiroco  1' 
islesso  supplicio,  o  lo  aspettano)  si  accorgen,  che 
nulla  di  piu  grande  avvenne  ai  noslii  lenipi  nella 
Italia.  Tu  forse  qui  attendi  il  mio  giudizio  :  assolvo 
il  p  tpolo,  se  credere  alia  fama,  benche  abbia  potulo  e 
castigare  piu  miiemenle,  e  con  maggior  dolcezza  ven- 
dicare  il  suo  dolore  :  ma  non  cosi  facilmente,  si  mo- 
dera  un'  ira  giusta  insieme,  e  grande  in  un  numeroso 
j  popolo  principalmente,  nel  quale  il  precipilmo,  ed 
!  inslabile  volgo  ajuzza  gli  s  inmli  dell'  irracondia  con 
1  rapidi,  e  sconsigliili  clamori.  Comjiatisco,  e  nelP 
istesso  lempo  mi  adiro  con  quell'  infelice  uomo,  il 
quale  adorno  di  un'  insolito  onore,  non  so,  che  cosa  si 
volesse  nesli  estremi  anni  della  sua  vita  :  la  calamita 
di  lui  diviene  sempre  piu  grave,  perche  dalla  scntenza 
contra  di  e  so  promulgala  aperira,  che  egli  fu  non  solo 
misero.  ma  insano,  e  dcmeule,  e  che  con  vane  arti  si 
usurpo  per  lanii  anni  una  falsa  fima  di  sapienza. 
Ammonisco  i  Dogi,  i  quali  gli  succederano,  che  questo 
e  un'  esempio  poslci  inanzi  ai  loro  occhj,  quale  spec- 
chio,  nel  quale  veggano  d'  essere  non  Signori,  ma 
Duci.  nnzi  nemmeno  Duci,  nia  onorati  servi  della 
Repubblica.  Tu  sta  sano,  e  giacche  flulluano  le  pub- 
Irliche  cose,  sforsiamnci  di  "governar  modeslissima- 
menle  i  privati  nostri  affari. "— itwjii,  Fiaggt  rft 
Pttrarca,  vol.  iv.  p.  323. 

The  above  Iialiin  translation  from  the  Latin  epistles 
of  Petrarch  proves—  Istly,  Thnt  Miriio  Faliero  was 
a  personal  friend  of  Pe'rarch"s ;  "  antica  dimesti- 
chezza,"  old  intimacy,  is  the  plirase  of   the  ix>et. 


DOGE    OB'    VENICE. 


293, 


Wlv  That  Petrarch  thought  that  he  hrid  more  courage 
(bail  conduct,  "  piu  di  cormegio  che  di  seuno."  3dly, 
Thai  there  was  some  jealousy  on  Ihe  part  of  Petrarch  ; 
for  he  ^ays  ihat  M<riiio  Filiero  was  treating  of  Itie 
peace  which  he  himself  had  "  vainly  attempted  to  con- 
clude." 4ihly.  That  tlie  honour  f  f 'the  Dukedom  was 
conferred  upon  hliii,  which  he  neither  sought  nor  ex- 
pected, ''che  ne  chiedeva  ue  aspetiava,"  and  which 
had  never  been  granted  to  an)  other  in  like  circum- 
stances, •'  cio  che  non  si  conceiletie  a  nessun  altro,"  a 
proof  of  the  hi^h  esteem  in  which  he  must  have  been 
held.  5lhly,  that  he  had  a  reputation  fir  wisdom, 
0(Wy  forfeited  by  Ihe  last  enterprise  of  his  life,  "si 
usurpo  per  lanti  anni  una  falsa  fama  di  sapienza." — 
'■  He  had  usurped  for  so  many  years  a  false  fame  of 
wisdom,"  rather  a  difficult  task,  1  should  think.  People 
are  generally  tound  out  before  eighty  years  of  age,  at 
least  III  a  lepublic—  from  ihe-e,"ai.d  Ihe  other  histo- 
rical iio:ei  which  I  have  collected,  it  miy  be  inferred, 
that  Marino  Faliero  possessed  many  of  Ihe  qualities, 
but  not  the  success  of  a  hero ;  and  that  his  passion* 
were  too  violent.  The  paltry  and  ignorant  account  of 
Dr.  Moore  falls  to  the  ground.  Pe  rarch  says,  "  that 
there  had  been  no  greaier  event  in  his  lime»"  (cur 
times  liicrally),  "  noitri  tempi,"  in  Italy.  He  also  dif- 
fers from  Ihe'his'orian  in  saying  that  Faliero  was  "on 
Ihe  banks  of  he  Rhone.'"  iii>tead  of  at  Rome,  when 
elected;  the  other  accounts  say,  that  the  depu  a  ion  of 
the  Venetian  senate  met  him  at  Ravenna.  How  this 
may  hue  been,  ii  is  not  for  me  to  drcide,  and  is  of  nr. 
great  importance.  Had  the  man  succeeded,  he  would 
have  changed  the  fice  of  Venice,  and  perhaps  of  Italy. 
As  it  is,  what  are  they  both  ? 


Note  C. 
venetian  society  and  manners. 

"  Vice  without  splendour,  sin  witlinut  relief 
K»en  from  the  gljss  of  luve  to  smooth  it  n'er  ; 
But,  in  ilB  stead,  coarse  lusUof  habitude,"  (ic— (P.i2e9.) 

"To  these  attacks  so  frequenlly  poin'.ed  by  Ihe  go- 
vernment .agiiust  the  clergy, —  to  Ihe  co  riiniial  s'rug- 
gles  between  the  differeni  constituted  bodies,—  to  these 
enterprises  carried  on  by  Ihe  mass  of  the  nobles  'gains' 
the  depositaries  of  power,—  to  all  those  projects  of  in- 
novation, which  always  ended  by  a  stroke  of  stale 
policy  ;  we  must  add  a  cause  not  less  ,filted  to  spread 
contempt  for  ancient  doctrines ;  Ihit  was  the  excess  of 
corruption. 

"  That  freedom  of  manners,  which  had  been  long 
boasted  of  as  the  principil  charm  of  Venetian  sfciely, 
had  degenerated  into  scand.ilous  licentiousness:  the  tie 
of  marriage  was  less  sacred  in  th  it  Catholic  country, 
than  among  those  nations  where  the  laws  and  religion 
admit  of  its  being  dissolved.  Because  they  could  not 
break  the  con  lact.  they  feigned  that  it  had  not  existed  ; 
and  the  ground  of  nullity,  imiiiodesily  alleged  by  the 
married  "pair,  was  adm'itted  with  equal  facility  by 
priests  and  magistrites.  alike  corrupt.  Thesedivoices, 
veiled  under  anoth'jr  name,  became  so  frequent,  that 
the  most  important  act  of  civil  society  was  discovered 
lo  be  amenable  to  a  tribunal  of  e.vceptions  ;  and  to  re-  j 
•fraiu  the  open  scandal  of  such  proceedings  became  the 


office  of  the  police.  In  17S2,  Ihe  Council  of  Ten  d«- 
crecd,  that  every  woman  who  should  sue  for  a  dissolu- 
tion of  her  marriige  sliould  be  compelled  to  await  the 
decision  of  the  judges  in  some  convent,  to  be  named 
by  the  court.'  Soon  afterwards  the  same  council  sum- 
moned all  causes  of  lhat  nature  before  ilself.2  This 
inrringenienl  on  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction  having  occa- 
sioned some  lem  lustrance  from  Rome,  the  council 
retained  only  Ihe  right  of  rejecting  the  jetition  of  the 
married  persons,  and  consented  to  refer  such  causes  to 
the  holy  office  as  it  should  not  previously  have  re- 
jected.3 

"There  was  a  moinent  in  which,  doubtless,  the  de- 
struction of  private  fortunes,  the  ruin  of  youih,  the 
domestic  discord  occasioned  by  these  abuses,  deter- 
mined the  government  to  depart  from  its  established 
maxims  concerning  Ihe  freedom  of  manners  allowed 
Ihe  subject.  All  the  courtesans  were  biiii-hed  from 
Venice  ;  but  their  absence  was  not  enough  to  reclaim 
and  bring  back  good  morals  to  a  whole  people  brought 
up  in  the  most  iondalous  licenliousness.  Depravi.'y 
reached  the  very  bosoms  of  piivate  fimilies,  and  even 
I  into  the  cloister;  and  they  found  themselves  obliged 
to  recall,  and  even  1 1  indemnify*  women  who  some- 
tinies  gained  possession  of  important  secrets,  and  who 
might  be  usefully  employed  in  the  ruin  of  men  whose 
fortunes  might  have  rendered  ihem  dangerous.  Since 
that  time  licentiousness  has  gone  on  increasing;  and 
we  have  seen  mothers,  not  only  selling  the  innocence 
of  their  daughters,  but  selling  it  by  a  contract  authen- 
ticaed  by  Ihe  signature  of  a  public  officer,  and  the 
perf irmance  of  which  was  secured  bv  the  protection 
of  the  laws.5 

"  The  parlours  of  the  convents  of  noble  ladies,  and 
the  houses  of  Ihe  courtesans,  though  the  police  care- 
fully kept  up  a  number  of  spies  about  them,  were  the 
only  asemblies  for  society  in  Venice;  and  in  these 
two  places,  so  ditferent  from  each  other,  there  was 
equal  freedom.  Music,  c  llations,  gallantry,  were  not 
more  foibidden  in  the  parlours  than  at  ihe  casinos. 
There  were  a  number  of  casinos  for  the  purpose  of 
public  assemblies,  where  gaming  was  the  principal 
pursuit  of  he  compiny.  It  was  a  strange  sijht  to  see 
persons  of  either  sex  n'lasked,  or  grave  in  their  magis- 
terial robes,  round  a  table,  invoking  chance,  and  giving 
way  at  one  instant  to  Ihe  agonie^s  of  despair,  at  Ihe 
next  to  Ihe  illusions  of  liope,  and  that  without  uttering 
a  single  word. 

"  The  rich  had  private  casinos,  but  they  lived  ineng- 
nito  in  them  ;  and  the  wives  whom  I  hey  abandons 
found  compensation  in  Ihe  liberty  ihey  enjoyed.  The 
corruption  of  morals  h^d  deprived  Ihem  of'their  em- 
pire. We  have  just  reviev\ed  Ihe  whole  his'ory  of 
Venice,  and  we  have  not  once  seen  them  exercise  the 
slightest  intiuence  '•—  DARU:  Hist,  de  la  Rjejnib.  dc 
Venise,  vol.  v.  p.  95. 


1  Correspondence  of  M.  Schlick,  French  charge  d'afl^ires. 
Despatch  or  2Jth  August,  17t:2. 

2  Ibid.  Despatch,  Slst  August. 

3  Ibid.  Despatch  of  3d  September,  1785. 

4  The  decree  for  Iheir  recall  desijsnates  them  u  nottr* 
benemerite  meretriei :  a  fund  and  some  houaes,  cilled 
Cnse  rampane.  were  assigned  to  them;  htace  the  op;TO> 
briousarpellatioD  nf  Catampane. 

6  Miyer.  Descr'ptinn  of  Venice,  Tnl.  ii.  ;  wai  H  Aiak- 
enholi,  Picture  of  Italy,  vol.  i.  ch.  3. 


25 


\U9i 


HEAVEN   AND   EARTH. 


[Pa&t  I. 


HEAVEN   AND   EARTH: 

A    MYSTERY. 

FOUNDED    ON    THE    FOLLOWING   PASSAGE  IN    GENESIS,    CHAP.    TI. 

"And  it  came  tii  pass— that  the  sons  of  God  saw  the  daughters  of  men  that  they  were  fair  J 
and  they  took  them  wives  of  all  which  they  chose."  1 


And  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover."'  — COLERIDGE. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Angels.  —  Samiasa. 

Az.iziel. 

Raphael  the  Archangel. 
Men,     — J^oaH  and  hit  Sons. 

Irad. 

Japhet. 
Women.  — Aoxh. 

Aholibamih. 


Chorta  of  Spirits  of  the  Earth.  —  Chorus  of  Mortals. 


HEAVEN   AND   EARTH 


PART  I. 


A  woody  a7id  mountaincvs  district    near  Mount 
Ararat. —  Time,  midnight. 

Enter  Anah  and  Aholibamah. 

Anah.  Cur  father  sleeps  :  it  is  Ihe  hour  when  they 
Who  love  us  are  accusiom'd  lo  ilesceiid 
Thrr;i,'(i  Ihe  deep  clouds  o'er  rncky  Ararat:  — 
How  my  hearl  beats  '. 

Aho.  Let  us  proceed  upOQ 

Our  invocation. 

Anah.  B"t  the  stars  are  hidden. 

I  tremble. 

Aho.        So  ilo  I,  but  not  with  fear 
Of  aught  savi  their  delay. 

Anah.  My  sister,  though 

I  love  Azaziel  more  than oh,  too  much  I 

What  was  I  goin?  u>  siy  ?  my  heart  »rfnvs  impious. 

Aha    And  where  is  ti'ie  impiety  of  loving 
Celestial  natures? 

■itiah.  But.  Aholibnmah, 

I  love  our  God  less  since  his  angel  loved  me: 
This  cannot  be  of  jnod  ;  and  though  I  know  not 
That  I  do  wrun*,  I  feel  a  thousand  fears 
Which  are  not  ominous  of  right. 

Jthn.  Then  wed  thee 

Unto  some  s^n  of  c'av.  and  toil  and  spin  ! 
There  's  Jiphet  hues  thee  «ell,  hath  loved  thee  long: 
Marry,  and  bring  forth  dust ! 

Ai.ah.  I  should  have  loved 

A»aziel  not  less,  were  he  mortal  ;  yet 
I  am  plad  he  is  not.     I  en  not  outlive  h'  a. 
And  >^heii  I  think   hat  his  immortal  w.ngs 
Will  one  dnv  hover  o'er  tl  r  sfi  nlclire 
Of  the  poorchild  of  clay  which  so  adored  him, 
As  he  adores  the  Highest,  death  becomes 


Less  terrible  ;  but  yet  I  pity  him  : 

His  grief  will  be  of  ages,  or  at  least 

Mine  would  be  such  for  him,  were  I  the  seraph, 

And  he  the  perishable. 

Aho.  Rather  say, 

That  he  will  single  forth  some  other  daughter 
Of  Earth,  and  love  her  as  he  once  loved  Anah. 

Anah.  And  if  it  should  be  so,  and  she  loved  him, 
Better  thus  than  that  he  should  weep  for  me. 

.J/io.  If  1  thought  thus  of  Saniiasa's  love, 
All  seraph  as  he  is,  I  'd  spuin  him  from  me. 
But  to  our  invocation  I  — 'T  is  the  hour. 
Anah.  Seraph ! 

From  thy  sphere ! 
Whatever  star  contain  thy  elory ; 
In  the  eternal  depths  of  heaven 
Albeit  thou  waichest  with  "  the  seven,"  2 
Though  through  space  infinite  and  hoary 
Before  thy  biight  wiugs  worlds  be  driven, 
Yet  hear ! 
Oh  !  think  of  her  who  holdi  thee  dear! 

And  though  she  nothing  is  !o  thee, 
Yet  think  that  thou  ait  all  to  her. 
Thou  canst  not  tell,—  and  i.ever  be 
Such  pangs  decreed  to  aught  save  me,— . 
The  bitterness  of  tears. 
Eternity  is  in  thine  years. 
Unborn,  undying  beauty  in  thine  eyes; 
With  me  thou  canst  not  symp  thise, 
Except  in  love,  and  the'ie  thou  must 
Acknowledge  that  more  loving  dust 
Ne'er  wept  beneath  Hie  skies. 
Thou  w.ilk's'  thy  many  worlds,  thou  see'st 

'1  he  face,  of  him  who  made  thee  great, 
As  he  hath' made  me  of  the  least 
Of  those  cast  out  from  Eden's  gate : 
Yet,  Seraph  dear! 
Uh  hear! 
For  thou  hast  loved  me,  and  I  would  not  die 
Until  1  know  what  I  must  die  in  knowing, 
That  th  u  forge'st  in  thine  eernity 

Her  whose   heart  death  could  not  keep  from 
oVrllowini; 
For  thee,  immortal  essence  as  thou  art ! 
Gieat  is  their  love  who  love  in  sin  and  fear; 
And  such,  I  feel,  are  waging  in  niy  heart 
A  war  unuorthv  :  to  an  Adamite 
Forgive,  my  Seraph!  that  such  thoughts  appear, 
For  sorrow  Is  our  element ; 
Oelight 
An  Eden  kept  afar  from  sight. 

Though  soine'inies  will  our  visions  blent. 
The  I  our  is  neir 
Which  tells  nie  we  are  not  abandon'd  quite.— 
Appear!  Appear! 
Seiaph  ! 
My  own  Aziyiel  I  be  but  here. 
And  leave  the  stars  to  their  own  light 
Aho.  S  nmsa! 

Wheresoe'er 
Thou  rulest  in  the  upper  air  — 


Scene 


HEAVEN   AND  EARTH 


295 


Or  warring  with  the  spirits  who  may  dare 
Dispuie  with  him 
Who  made  all  empires,  empire ;  or  recalling 
Some  wandering  star,  which  shoots  through  the 
Rbjs5,  [tailing, 


Whose  tenants  dving 


SCENE    11. 
Enter  had  and  Japhet. 
Irad.  Despond  not :  wherefore   wilt   thou 
thus 


ihile 


Share  :he  dim  destiny  of  clay  in  this 

Or  joining  with  the  inferior  cherubim, 

Thoudeigne-t  to  partake  their  hymn  — 

Samiasa  1 

1  call  thee,  I  await  thee,  and  I  love  thee. 

Many  may  worship  thee,  that  will  1  not : 
If  that  thy  spirit  down  to  mine  may  move  thee 
Descend  and  share  mv  lot ! 
Thoujih  1  be  formd  of  clay, 

And  thou  of  beams 
More  bright  than  those  of  day 
On  Eden's  streams. 
Thine  immortality  can  not  repay 

With  love  more  warm  than  mine 
My  love.     There  is  a  ray 
III  me,  which,  though  forbidden  yet  to  shine, 
I  feel  was  lighted  at  thy  God's  and  thine. 
It  may  be  hidden  long :  death  and  decay 

Our  mother  Eve  bequeathe  us  —  but  my  heart 
Defies  it :  though  this  life  must  pass  away. 
Is  that  a  cause  for  thee  and  me  to  part? 
Thou  art  immortal  —  so  am  I :  I  feel  — 

I  feel  my  immortality  o'ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  fears,  and  pe.il. 

Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  ihe  deep, 
Into  my  ears  this  truth  —  "  Thou  liv'st  for  ever  1 " 
But  if  it  be  in  joy 
I  know  not,  nor  would  know  ; 
That  secret  rests  with  the  Almighty  giver. 

Who  folds  in  clouds  the  fonts  of  bliss  and  woe. 

But  thee  and  me  he  never  can  destroy  ; 
Change  us  he  may,  but  not  o'erwhelni ;  we  are 
Of  as  eternal  essence,  and  must  war 
With  him  if  he  will  war  with  us:  with  thee 

I  can  share  all  things,  even  inimottal  sorrow  ; 
For  thou  hasl  ventured  to  share  lite  with  »«e, 
And  shall  /  shrink  from  thine  eternity  ? 
No  1  though  the  serpent's  sting  should  pierce  me 
thorough. 
And  thou  thyself  wert  like  'he  serpent,  coil 
Around  me  still  !  and  I  will  smile, 
And  curse  thee  not ;  but  h  Id 
Thee  in  as  warm  a  fold 

As but  descend,  and  prove 

A  mortal's  love 
For  an  immortal.     If  the  skies  contain 
More  joy  than  thou  canst  give  and  take,  remain! 

Anah.  Sister!  si-ter !  I  view  them  winging 
Their  bright  way  through  the  parted  night. 

Alio.  The  clouds  from  off  their  pinions  flinging, 
As  thouzh  thev  bore  to-morrow's  light. 
Anah.  But  if  our  fuher  see  the  sizht ! 
Ahn.  He  would  but  deem  it  was  tlie  moon 
Rising  unto  some  sorcerer's  tune 
An  hour  too  soon. 
Anah.  They  come  !  /le  comes! — Azaziel! 
Aho.  Haste 

To  meet  them  !     Oh  !  for  wings  to  bear 
My  spirit,  while  they  hover  there, 
To  Samiasa's  breast ! 

Anah.  Lo  !  they  have  kindled  all  the  west. 
Like  a  returning  sunset ;  —  lo  ! 
On  Ararat's  late  secret  crest 
A  mild  and  many-colour'd  bow, 
The  remmni  of  their  flashing  path. 
Now  shines  I  and  now,  behold  !  it  hath 
Return'd  to  night,  as  rippling  foam. 
Which  the  leviathan  hath  lash'd 
From  his  unfathomable  home, 
When  sporting  on  the  face  of  the  cilm  deep, 

Subsides  soon  after  he  again  hath  dash'd 
Down,  down,  to  where  the  ocean's  fountains  sleep. 
Aho.  They  have  touch'd  earth  1    Samiasa  ! 
Analu  My  Azaziel ! 

{Exeunt 


their   world    is   To  add  thy  silence  to  the  silent  night. 


And  lift  ihy  tearful  eye  unto  the  stars? 
Thev  can  not  aid  thee. 

Jap:t.  But  they  soothe  me  —  now 

Perhaps  she  looks  upon  them  as  I  look, 
Methinks  a  being  that  is  beautiful 
Becomelh  more  so  as  it  looks  on  beauty, 
The  eternal  beauty  of  undying  things. 
Oh,  Anah! 
Irad.        But  she  loves  thee  not. 
Japh.  Alas ! 

Irad.  And  proud  Aholibamah  spurns  me  also. 
Japh.  I  feel  for  thee  too, 

Irad.  Let  ber  keep  her  pride, 

Mine  hath  enabled  me  to  bear  her  scorn  : 
It  may  be,  time  too  will  avenge  it. 

J„ph.  Canst  thou 

Find  joy  in  such  a  thrught  ? 

Irad.  Nor  joy  nor  sorrow. 

I  loved  her  well  ;  I  would  have  loved  her  better, 
Had  love  been  met  with  love :  as  't  is,  1  leave  her 
To  brighter  destinies,  if  so  she  deems  them. 
Japh.  What  destinies? 

Irad.  I  have  some  cause  to  think 

She  loves  another. 
Japh.  Anah ! 

Irad.  No;  her  sister. 

Japh.  What  other? 

Irad.  That  I  know  not ;  but  her  air, 

If  not  her  words,  tells  me  she  loves  another. 
Jnph.  Ay,  but  not  Anah  :  she  but  loves  her  God. 
Irad,  W'hate'er  she  loveth,  so  she  loves  thee  not. 
What  can  it  profit  thee  ? 

Japh.  True,  nothing ;  but 

I  love, 

Irad.  And  so  did  I. 

Japh.  And  now  thou  lovest  not, 

Or  think-st  thou  lovest  not,  art  thou  happier  ? 
Irad.  Tes. 

Jtiph.  I  pity  thee. 
had.  Me!  why? 

Japh.  For  being  happy, 

Deprived  of  that  which  makes  my  misery. 

had.  I  lake  thy  taunt  as  part  of  thy  disiemper, 
And  would  not  feel  as  thou  dost  for  more  shekels 
Than  all  our  father's  herds  would  bring,  if  weigh'd 
Against  the  metal  of  the  sons  of  Cain  — 
The  ytllow  dust  they  try  lo  barter  with  us, 
As  if  such  useless  and  discolour'd  trash, 
1  he  refuse  of  the  earth,  could  be  received 
For  milk,  and  wool,  and  flesh,  and  fruits,  and  all 
Our  flrcks  and  wilderness  aflbrd.— Go,  Japhet, 
Sigh  to  the  stars,  as  wolves  howl  to  the  moon  — 
1  must  back  to  my  rest. 

Japh.  And  so  would  I, 

If  1  could  rest. 

Irad.  Thou  wilt  not  to  our  tents  then? 

Japh.  No,  Irad  ;  I  w  ill  to  the  cavern,  whose 
Mouth  ihey  say  opens  from  the  internal  world, 
'lo  let  the  inner  spirits  of  the  earth 
Forth  when  they  walk  i  s  surface. 

Irad.  Wherefore  so  ? 

What  would^t  thou  there? 

Japh.  Soothe  further  my  «ad  spirit 

With  gloom  as  sad  :  it  is  a  hopeless  spot. 
And  I  am  hopeless. 

had.  But 't  is  dangerous ; 

Strange  sounds  and  sights  have  peopled  it  with  terrors. 
I  must  go  wi;h  thee. 

Juph.  Irad,  no  ;  believe  me 

I  feel  no  evil  though*,  and  fear  no  evil. 

had.  But  evil  things  will  be  thy  foe  the  more 
As  not  being  of  them  :  turn  thy  steps  aside. 
Or  let  mine  be  with  thine. 

Japh.  No,  neither,  Irsd ; 

1  must  proceed  alone. 


396 


HEAVEN    AND  EARTH. 


[Part  I 


Irad.  Then  peace  te  with  thee ! 

[Exit  Irad. 

Japh.  (.solw).    Peace !  I  ha\  e  sought  it  where  it 
bhould  be  found. 
In  love  —  with  love,  too,  which  perhaps  deserved  it; 
And,  in  its  stead,  a  heaviness  of  heart  — 
A  weakness  of  the  spirit  —  listless  days, 
And  nights  inexorable  to  sweet  sleep  — 
Have  come  upon  nie.     Peace!  «  hat  peace ?  the  calm 
Uf  desolaiion,  and  the  stillness  of 
The  untrodden  forest,  only  broken  by 
The  sweeping  tempest  ibiough  its  groaning  boughs ; 
Such  is  the  sullen  or  the  fitful  s:ate 
Of  my  mind  overworn.     '1  he  earth  's  grown  wicked, 
And  many  signs  and  pnrtents  have  proclaim'd 
A  change  at  hand,  and  an  o'erwhelming  doom 
To  perishable  beings.    Oh,  my  Auah  1 
When  ihe  dread  hour  denounced  shall  open  wide 
The  fountains  of  ihe  deep,  how  raightest  thou 
Have  lain  within  this  bosom,  folded  from 
The  elements;  this  bnsom,  which  in  vain 
Hath  beat  for  thee,  and  then  will  beat  more  vainly, 

While  thine Oh,  God  I  at  lea  t  remit  to  her 

Thy  wrath  ;  for  she  U  pure  amidst  the  failing 

As  a  star  in  the  clouds,  which  cannot  quench. 

Although  they  obscure  it  for  an  hour.     My  Anah  ! 

How  would  I  have  adored  thee,  but  thou  wouldst  not; 

And  still  would  I  redeem  thee—  see  thee  live 

When  ocean  is  eirth's  grave,  and,  unopposed 

By  rock  or  shallow,  the  leviathan, 

i<ord  of  the  shoreless  sea  and  watery  world, 

Shall  wonder  at  his  boundlessness  of  lealm. 

iExit  Japhet. 
Enter  Noah  and  Shem, 

Noah.  Where  is  thy  brother  Japhet? 

Shem.  He  went  forth, 

According  to  his  wont,  to  meet  with  Irad, 
He  said  ;  but.  as  I  fear,  to  bend  his  steps 
Towards  Anah's  tents,  round  which  he  hovers  nightly, 
Like  a  dove  round  and  round  i:s  pilbged  nest; 
Or  else  he  walks  the  wild  up  to  the  cavern 
Which  opens  to  the  heart  of  Ararat. 

Noah.  What  doth  he  there  ?    It  is  an  evil  spot 
Upon  an  earth  all  evil ;  for  things  worse 
Than  even  wicked  men  resort  there  :  he 
Still  loves  this  daughter  of  a  fated  race. 
Although  he  could  not  wed  her  if  she  loved  him, 
And  that  she  doth  not.     Oh,  Ihe  unhippy  hearts 
Of  men  ;  that  one  of  my  blood,  kuouing  well 
The  destiny  and  evil  of  these  days, 
And  that  Ihe  hour  approache^h,  should  indulge 
In  such  forbidden  yearnings  !    Lead  Ihe  way  ; 
He  must  be  sought  for  '. 

Shem.  Go  not  forward,  father; 

I  will  seek  Japhet. 

Noah.  Do  not  fear  for  me  : 

All  evil  things  are  powerless  on  the  man 
Selected  bv  Jehovah. —  Let  us  on. 

Shem.  To  Ihe  tents  of  Ihe  faiher  of  the  sisters? 

Noah.  No ;  to  the  cavern  of  the  Caucasus. 

[Exeunt  Noah  and  Shem. 

SCENE    III. 
JTie  mountaitis.—  A  cavern,  and  the  rocks  of  Cau- 

Jap?i.{solics).Ye  wilds,  that  look  eternal  ;  and  thou 
cave. 
Which  seem'st  unf  ilhomable  ;  and  ye  mountains, 
So  varied  and  so  terrible  in  beauty  ; 
Here,  in  your  rugged  majesty  of  rocks 
And  topplin;  trees  that  Iwjne  their  roots  with  stone 
In  perpendicular  phces,  where  (he  foot 
Of  man  would  tremble,  could  he  reach  them  —  yes, 
Ye  look  eternal  !     Yet,  in  a  few  days. 
Perhaps  even  hours,  ye  will  be  changed,  rent,  hurl'd 
Before  the  mass  of  waters  ;  and  yon^cave, 
Which  seems  to  lead  into  a  lower  world. 
Shall  have  its  depths  search'd  by  the  sweeping  wave, 
I  jlnd  dolphins  gambol  id  the  lion's  den ! 


|)  —^""'F 


'And  man Oh,  men!  my  fellow-beings!  Who 

Shall  weep  above  your  universal  grave, 

Have  I  i  VVho  sh  .Jl  be  left  to  weep  .'  JVIy  kinsmen, 

Alas  1  what  am  I  belter  than  ye  are. 

That  I  must  live  beyond  ye?  Where  shall  be 

The  pleasant  pi  ices  whore  I  thought  of  Anah 

While  I  had  hope  ?  or  the  more  savage  haunts, 

Scarce  less  beloved,  where  I  de-pair'd  for  her? 

And  can  it  be !  —  Shill  yon  exul  ing  peak. 

Whose  glittering  top  is  like  a  distant  star, 

Lie  low  beneath  the  boiling  of  the  deep? 

No  more  to  have  the  morning  sun  break  forth. 

And  scatter  back   he  mists  in  floating  folds 

From  its  tremendous  b  ow  ?  no  more  to  have 

Day's  broad  orb  drop  behind  its  head  at  even. 

Leaving  it  with  a  c  own  of  many  hues? 

No  more  to  be  the  be  con  of  tlie  world. 

For  angels  to  .^li::ht  on,  as  ihs  spot 

Nearest  the  stars  ?  And  can  those  words  "  no  more  " 

Be  memt  for  thee,  for  all  :hings,  save  for  ns. 

And  the  predestined  creeping  things  reserved 

By  my  sire  to  Jehovah"s  bidding?  May 

He  preserve  them,  and  /  not  have  the  power 

To  snatch  Ihe  loveliest  of  earth's  daughters  from 

A  doom  which  even  s  me  serpent,  wiih  his  mate, 

Shall  'scape  to  save  his  kind  to  be  prolong'd. 

To  hiss  and  sting  through  some  emerging  world. 

Reeking  and  dank  from  out  the  slime,  whose  ooze 

Shall  slumber  o'er  Ihe  wreck  of  this  until 

The  salt  morass  subside  into  a  sphere 

Beneath  the  sun,  and  be  the  monument, 

The  sole  ani  undislinguish'd  sepulchre, 

Of  yet  quick  myriads  of  all  life?    How  much 

Breath  will  be  still'd  at  once  !    All  beauteous  world  ! 

So  young,  so  mark'd  out  for  deslruclion,  I 

Wi  h  a  cleft  heart  look  on  thee  day  by  day. 

And  night  by  night,  thy  number'd  days  and  nights. 

I  cannot  save  thee,  cannot  save  even  her 

Whose  love  had  made  me  love  thee  more;  but  as 

A  portion  of  thy  dust,  I  cannot  think 

Upon  thy  coming  doom  wilhout  a  feeling 

Such  as  —  Oh  God  !  and  can^t  thou  —  [He  pauta. 

A  rushing  sound  from  the  cavern  is  heard,  and  shoutg 
of  laughter  —  afterwards  a  Spirit  passes. 

Jcph.  Id  the  name 

Of  the  Most  High,  what  art  thou  ? 

Spirit  {laii^hi).  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Jnph.  By  all  that  earth  holds  holiest,  speak  1 

Sp'rit  (laughs).  Ha!  ba! 

Japh.  By  the  approaching  deluge!  by  Ihe  earth 
Which  will  be  strangled  by  Ihe  ocean  !  by 
The  deep  which  will  lay  open  all  her  fountains  ! 
The  heaven  which  will  convert  her  clouds  to  seas, 
And  Ihe  Omnipoleul  who  makes  and  crushes ! 
Thou  unknow  n,  terrible,  and  indistinci. 
Yet  awful  Thing  of  Shadows,  speak  to  me  ! 
Whv  dosi  thou  laugh  that  horrid  laugh  ? 

.Spirit.  Why  weep'st  thou  ? 

Japh.  For  earth  and  all  her  children. 

Spirit.  Ha  I  ha  1  ha  1  [Spirit  vanishes. 

Japh.  How  the  fiend  mocks  Ihe  tortures  of  a  world, 
The  coming  desolation  of  an  orb, 
On  which  the  sun  shall  rise  and  warm  no  life! 
How  the  earth  sleeps !  and  all  that  in  it  is 
Sleep  too  u[>on  the  very  eve  of  death  I 
Why  should  they  wake  to  meet  it  ?     What  is  here. 
Which  look  like  death  in  life,  and  spenk  like  ihings 
Born  ere  this  dying  world  ?    They  come  like  clouds 
[Various  Spirits  pass  from  the  cavern 

Spirit.        Rejoice! 
The  abhorred  race 
Which  could  not  keep  in  Eden  their  high  place. 

But  lislen-d  to  the  voice 
Of  knowledge  without  power, 
Are  nigh  the  hour 
Of  death  ! 
Not  slow,  not  single,  not  by  sword,  nor  sorrow, 

Nor  years,   nor  heart-break,   nor    time's   aappiog 
motion. 


Scene  III.] 


HEAVEN   AJ\D  EARTH. 


297 


Shall  they  drop  otf.    Behold  their  last  to-morrow  ! 
E  irlh  sba;l  be  ocean  '. 

And  no  breath, 
Save  of  the  winds,  be  on  ihe  unbounded  wave  ! 
I  ATigeU  shall  tjre  iheir  wings,  but  hiid  no  spot: 
Kot  even  a  rnck  from  out  ibe  liquid  grave 

Shall  lift  its  point  to  save. 
Or  show  Ihe  place  where  strong  Despair  hath  died, 
Alter  long  looking  o'er  llie  ocean  wide 
For  the  expected  ebb  which  Cometh  not: 
All  shall  be  void, 
Uestroy'd  ! 
Another  element  shall  be  the  lord 

Of  life,  and  the  abhirr'd 
Children  of  dust  be  quench'd  ;  and  of  each  hue 
Of  earth  nought  left  but  the  unbroken  blue ; 
And  of  Ihe  variegated  niountaia 
Shall  nought  remain 
Unchanged,  or  of  the  level  plain; 
Cedar  and  pine  shall  lift  their  tops  in  vain  : 
All  merged  within  the  universal  fountain, 
Alan,  earth,  and  fire,  shall  die. 
And  sea  and  sky 
Look  vast  and  lifeless  in  the  eternal  eye. 
Upon  the  foam 
Who  shall  erect  a  home  ? 
Japh.  (coming  fvrward).  My  sire  ! 
Karth's  seed  >ball  not  expire; 
Only  the  evil  shall  be  put  away 

From  day. 
AvaunI !  ye  exulting  demons  of  the  waste ! 
Who  how  I  your  hideous  joy 
When  God  destroys  whom  you  dare  not  destroy : 
Hence!  hasxe ! 
Back  lo  your  inner  caves! 
Until  the  waves 
Shall  search  you  in  your  secret  place, 
And  drive  your  sullen  race 
Forth,  to  be  roll'd  upon  the  tossing  winds. 
In  restless  wieichedness  along  all  space  ! 
Spirit.  Son  of  the  saved  ! 

When  thou  and  thine  have  braved 
The  wide  and  warring  element ; 
When  the  great  barrier  of  Ihe  deep  is  rent, 
Shall  thou  and  thine  be  good  or  happy  ? —  No  ! 
Thy  new  world  and  new  race  shall  be  of  woe — 
Less  goodly  in  their  aspect,  in  their  years 
Less  Ihnn  the  glorious  giants,  who 
Yet  walk  the  world  in  pnde. 
The  Sons  of  Heaven  by  many  a  mortal  bride. 
Thine  shall  be  nothing  of  the  psst,  save  tears. 
And  art  thou  not  ashamed 

Thus  tn  survive. 
And  eil,  and  drink,  and  wive? 
With  a  base  heart  so  fir  sutxlued  and  tamed. 
As  even  to  hear  this  wide  destruction  named. 
Without  such  grief  and  courage,  as  should  rather 

Bid  thee  await  the  world-dissnUing  wave. 
Than  seek  a  shelter  with  thy  favour'd  father. 
And  build  thy  city  o'er  the  drowii'd  earth's  grave? 
Who  would  outlive  their  kind, 
Except  the  base  and  blind  ? 
Mine 
Hale:h  thine 
As  of  a  different  order  in  the  sphere, 
But  not  our  own. 
There  is  not  one  who  hnth  not  left  a  throne 

Vacant  in  heaven  to  dwell  in  darkness  here, 
Rather  than  see  his  mates  endure  alone. 

Go,  wretch  '■  and  give 
A  life  like  thine  to  other  wretches  —  live  I 
And  when  the  annihilating  waters  roar 

Above  what  they  have  done, 
Envy  the  giant  patriarchs  then  no  more, 
And  scorn  thy  sire  as  the  surviving  one  ! 
Thyself  for  being  his  son  ! 
Chorus  c/  Spirits  ismwg  from  l/u  cavern. 
Rejoice ! 
No  more  Ihe  human  voice 
Shall  vex  our  joys  in  .xiiddle  air 
With  prayer ; 


No  more 
Shall  they  adore ; 
And  we.  w  ho  ne'er  for  ages  hive  adored 

1  he  prajer-exactuig  L-.rd, 
To  whom  Ihe  om'ission  of  a  sacrifice 

is  vice ; 
We,  we  shall  view  Ihe  deep's  salt  sources  pour'd 
Until  one  element  shall  do  the  work 
Of  all  in  chaos  ;  until  they. 
The  creatuies  proud  of  their  poor  clay. 
Shall  perish,  and  Iheir  bleached  bones  shail  lurk 
In  caves,  in  dens,  in  clefts  of  mountains,  whera 
The  deep  shall  follow  to  their  latest  lair  ; 

Where  even  the  brutes,  in  their  despair, 
Shall  cease  lo  prey  on  man  and  on  each  othiT, 

And  Ihe  striped  tiger  shall  lie  down  lo  die 
Beside  the  lamb,  as  ih-  ugh  he  were  his  brother; 
']  ill  all  things  sh  .11  be  as  they  were, 
Silent  and  uncreated,  save  the  sky : 
While  a  brief  truce 
Is  made  with  Death,  who   hall  forbear 
The  lit  lie  remnant  of  the  past  creation, 
To  generate  new  nations  lor  his  use; 

This  lemnant,  floating  o'er  Ihe  undulation 
Of  the  subsiding  deluge,  from  its  slime. 
When  the  hot  sun  hath'baked  Ihe  reeking  soil 
Into  a  world,  shall  give  again  lo  '1  ime 
New  beings  —  years  —  disea-es  —  sorrow  _  crime  — 
With  all  companionship  of  hate  and  toil, 

Until 

Japh.  (irittirupti7]g  thim).  The  eternal  will 
Shall  deign  lo  exf^nnd  this  dream 
Of  £000  and  evil  ;  and  redeem 

Unto  himself  all  limes,  all  things; 
And,  gather'd  under  his  almighty  wings, 
Abolish  hell ! 
And  to  the  expiated  Earth 
Restore  the  beauty  of  her  birlh, 

Her  Eden  in  an  endless  paradise. 
Where  man  no  more  can  fall  as  once  he  fell, 
And  even  the  very  demons  shall  do  well ! 
Spirits.  And  when  shall  take  effect  this  wondrous 

spell  ? 
Japh,  When  Ihe  Redeemer  comelh ;  first  in  pain, 

And  then  in  glory. 
Spirit.  Meantime  still  struggle  in  Ihe  mortal  chain, 
Till  earth  wax  lioary  ; 
War  with  yourselves,  and  hell,  and  heaven,  in  vain, 

Until  the  clouds  look  gory 
With  the  blood  reeking  from  each  battle  plain; 
New  times,  new  climes,  new  arts,  new  men ;  but  still, 
The  same  old  tears,  old  crimes,  and  oldest  ill, 
Shall  be  amongst  your  race  in  different  forms  j 
But  the  same  moral  slorms 
Shill  oversweep  the  future,  as  the  waves 
In  a  few  hours  the  glorious  giants'  graves.* 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 
Brethren,  rejoice ! 
Mortal,  farewell  ! 
Hirk  I  hark  !  already  we  can  hear  the  voice 
Of  growing  ocean's  gloomy  swell ; 

The  w  inds,  too,  plume  their  piercing  wings  ; 
1  he  clouds  have  nearly  fill'd  their  springs  ; 
The  fountains  of  the  great  deep  shall  te  broken. 
And  heaven  set  wide  her  windows  ;*  while  man- 
kind 
View,  unacknowledged,  each  tremendous  token  — 
Still,  as  Ihey  were  from  the  beginning,  blind. 
We  hear  Ihe  sound  Ihey  cannot  hear, 
The  mustering  thunders  of  Ihe  threatening  sphere; 
Vet  a  few  hours  their  coming  is  delay'd  ; 
Their  flashing  banners,  folded  still  on  high, 
Yet  undisplay'd, 


2 •■The   aame   day  were   all  the  rountain*  of  tbe  great 
deep  broken  up,  and  the  windows  of  heaveu  were  optBCd." 

—  Ibid. 


298 


HEAVEN   AND  EARTH. 


LPaktI 


Save  to  U'G  Spirit's  all-pervading  eye. 

/Jowl !  howl !  oh  Earlh  ! 
Tliy  dealh  is  neaier  than  thy  recent  birlh : 
Tremble,  ye  mountains,  soon  to  shrii.k  below 

T  he  ocean's  overtiovv  I 
The  wave  shall  break  upon  your  cliffs  ;  and  shells, 

1  he  little  shells,  of  ocein's  least  things  be 
Deposed  where  now  the  eagle's  offspiing  dwells  — 
How  shall  he  shriek  o'er  the  remor.-eless  sea  ! 
And  call  his  nestlings  up  wi:h  fruitless  yell, 
Unan,»er'd,  save  by  the  encroaching  swell ;  — 
While  man  shall  long  in  vain  for  his  broad  wings, 

'I  he  wings  which  could  not  save :  — 
Where  could  he  rest  them,  while  the  whole  space  brings 
Kought  to  his  eye  beyond  tlie  deep,  his  grave? 
Brethren,  rejoice '. 
And  loudly  lilt  each  superhuman  voice  — 

All  die, 
Save  the  slight  remnant  of  Selh's  seed  — 

The  seed  of  Selh, 
Exempt  for  future  sorrow's  sake  from  death. 
But  of  the  SODS  of  Cam 
None  shall  remain  ; 
And  all  bis  goodly  daughters 
Must  lie  beneath  the  desolating  waters ; 
Or,  floating  upwaid,  with  their  long  hair  laid 
Along  the  wave,  the  cruel  heaven  upbraid. 
Which  would  not  spare 
Beings  even  in  death  so  fair. 
It  is  decreed, 
All  die! 
And  to  the  universal  human  cry 
The  universal  silence  shall  succeed  ! 
Fly,  brethren,  fly  ! 
But  still  rejoice ! 
We  fell  1 
Thev  fall  ! 
So  perish  all 
These  petty  foes  of  Heaven  who  shrink  from  hell ! 

'  [The  Spirits  disapptar,  soarmg  upwards. 
Japh.  {solus).  God  hath   pioclaim'd    the  destiny  of 
ear  h; 
My  father's  ark  of  safety  hath  announced  it ; 
The  very  demons  *hriek  it  from  their  caves  j 
The  scroll  i  of  Enoch  prophesied  it  long 
In  silent  books,  which,  in  their  silence,  say 
More  to  the  mind  than  thunder  to  the  ear  : 
And  yet  men  listen'd  not,  nor  listen  ;  but 
Walk  daikiing  to  their  doom  ;  which,  though  so  nigh, 
Shakes  them  no  more  in  their  dim  disbelief. 
Than  their  last  cries  shall  shake  the  Almighty  purpose. 
Or  deaf  obedient  ocean,  which  fulfils  it. 
No  sign  yet  hangs  its  banner  in  the  air  ; 
The  clouds  are  iifw,  and  of  their  won:ed  texture; 
The  sun  w ill  rise  upon  the  earth's  list  day 
As  on  the  fourth  d  ly  of  cieaiion,  «  hen 
God  said  unio  him,  "  Shine  :".ii:d  he  broke  forth 
Into  the  daw  n,  w  hich  lighted  not  the  yet 
Unform'd  forefather  of  mankind  —  but  roused 
Before  the  human  ori?on  the  earlier 
Made  and  far  sweeter  voices  of  the  birds, 
Which  in  the  open  firmament  of  heiven 
Have  wings  like  angels,  and  like  them  silu'e 
Heaven  first  each  diy  before  the  Ad  imi'es  ! 
'Jheir  matins  now  dnw  nish  —  the  east  i^  kindling  — 
And  thev  will  sing!  and  i^\  will  break  !  Both  near. 
So  ne^r  the  awful  close  I     For  these  must  drop 
I  Their  outworn  pinions  on  the  deep  ;  and  day, 

After  the  biijht  cour>e  of  a  few  bief  morrows, — 
I  Ay,  day  wjlfiise;  but  upon  what?  — a  chaos, 
j  Which  w  as  eie  day  ;  and  w  hich,  rei  ew  'd.  makes  time 
1  Nothing  !  for,  wiihoLt  life,  what  are  the  hours? 
No  more  to  Just  than  is  eerniiy 
Unto  Jehfivab,  who  created  boih. 
Wi  hoht  him,  even  eternity  wou'a  ^e 
A  void :  wiihout  man,  time,  as  niade  for  man. 
Dies  with  nian,  and  is  swallow'd  in  that  deep 
Which  has  no  fountain :  as  his  race  will  be 


Devour'd  by  that  which  drowns  his  mfani  world. — 
What  ha^e  we  here?  Shapes  of  both  earth  and  air? 
No  —  all  of  heaven,  they  are  so  bemtiful. 
I  cannot  trice  their  features ;  but  their  forms, 
How  lovelily  they  move  along  the  side 
t<f  the  grey  inountaiii,  scat:ering  ils  mist! 
And  after  the  swart  savage  spirits,  whose 
Infernal  immortality  pour'd  forth 
'J  he>r  impious  hymn  of  triumph,  they  shall  be 
Welcome  as  Eden.     It  may  be  they  come 
lo  tell  me  the  reprieve  of  our  young  world. 
For  w  hich  I  have  so  often  pray'd  —  They  come ! 
Anah  !  oh,  God  !  and  with  her 

Enter  Samiasa,  Azaziel,  Anah,  and  Aholibamah. 

Anah.  Japhet ! 

Sam.  Lo! 

A  son  of  Adam  : 

.iza.  Wlial  do'h  the  earth-born  here. 

While  all  his  race  are  slumbeiing  ? 

Japh.  Angel !  what 

Dost  thou  on  earlh  when  thou  shoulds'  be  on  high  ? 

Aza.  Know'st  thou  not, or  foi^ett'st  thou,  that  apart 
Of  our  great  function  is  to  guard  thine  earth  ? 

Japh.  But  all  good  angels  have  forsaken  earth, 
W'liich  is  condemn'd  ;  nay,  even  the  evil  fiy 
The  approaching  chaos.    Anah  1  Anah  !  my 
In  vain,  and  long,  and  still  to  be  beloved  ! 
Why  walk"st  thou  w  ith  this  spirit,  in  those  hours 
VVben  no  good  spirit  longer  lights  below  ? 

Anah.  Japhet,  I  cannot  answer  thee  ;  yet,  yet 
Forgive  me 

Japh.  May  the  Heaven,  which  soon  no  more 

Will  pardon,  do  so  !  for  thou  art  greatly  tempted. 

Ahn.  Back  lo  Ihy  tents,  insulting  son  of  Noah  ! 
We  know  thee  not. 

Japh.  The  hour  may  ccme  when  thou 

May'st  know  me  better  ;  and  thy  sister  know 
Me  s'ill  the  same  which  I  have  ever  been. 

5am.  Son  of  the  patriarch,  w  ho  hath  ever  been 
Upright  before  his  God,  wha'e'er  thy  gifs. 
And  thy  words  seem  of  sorrow,  mix'd  with  wrath, 
How  have  Azaziel,  or  myself,  brought  on  thee 
Wrong? 

Japh.  Wrong !  the  greatest  of  all  wrongs ;  but  thon 
Say'tt  well ;  thoui;h  she  be  dust,  I  did  not,  could  not, 
Deserve  her.     Farewell,  Anah  !  I  have  said 
That  word  so  often  !  but  now  say  it,  ne'er 
To  be  repeated.    Angel  !  or  whale'er 
Thou  art,  or  must  be  soon,  hast  thou  the  power 
To  save  this  beautiful  —  t/iesc  beautiful 
Childienof  Cain? 

Aza.  From  what  ? 

Jiijih.  And  is  it  so, 

Thit  ye  loo  know  not  ?    Angels  !  angels  !  ye 
Have'shared  man's  sin,  and,  it  may  be,  now  must 
Partike  his  punishment;  or,  at  the  least, 
i  My  sorrow. 

I     Sam.  Sorrow  !  I  ne'er  thought  till  now 

To  hear  an  Adami'e  speak  riddles  to  me. 

Japh.  And   hath  not    the  Most  High    expounded 
them  ? 
Then  ye  are  lost,  as  they  are  lost. 

Aho.  So  be  it ! 

If  they  love  as  they  are  loved,  fhey  will  not  shrink 
More  to  be  mortal,  than  I  would  to  dare 
An  immortality  of  agonies 
Willi  Samiasa! 

Anah.  Sister !  sister !  speak  not 

Thus. 

Aza.  Fearest  thou,  my  Anah  ? 
Anah.  Yes,  for  thee  : 

I  would  resign  the  grea'er  remnant  of 
This  little  life  of  mine,  before  one  hour 
Of  thine  eternity  should  know  a  pang. 

Japh.  II  is  for  Aim.  then  !  for  the  seraph  thou 
Hast  lett  nie  !     That  is  nothing,  if  thou  hast  not 
Left  thy  Gnd  too  !  for  unions  like  to  these, 
Between  a  mortal  nnd  an  immortal,  cannot 
Be  happy  or  be  hallow'd.     We  are  sent 
Upon  the  earlh  to  toil  and  die:  and  thejr 


Scene  III.] 


HEAVEN   AND  EARTH. 


299 


Are  made  to  minister  on  high  unto 
The  Hi^hes'  :  but  if  he  can  save  thee,  soon 
The  hour  will  come  in  which  celestial  aid 
Alone  can  do  so. 

Aiiixh.  Ah  !  he  speaks  of  deith. 

Sam.  Of  death  to  tw  /  and  those  who  are  with  us ! 
But  that  the  man  seems  full  of  sorrow,  I 
Could  smile. 

Japh.  I  grieve  not  for  myself,  nor  fear ; 

I  am  safe,  not  for  my  own  deserts,  but  those 
Of  a  well-doing;  sire,  who  hath  been  found 
Righteous  enough  to  save  his  children.     Would 
His  power  was  greater  of  redemption  !  or 
That  by  exchanging  my  own  life  for  hers, 
Who  could  alone  have  made  mine  happy,  she. 
The  last  and  loveliest  of  Cain's  race,  could  share 
The  ark  which  shall  receive  a  remnant  of 
The  seed  of  Seth  ! 

Alio.  And  dost  thou  think  Ihit  we, 

With  Cain's,  the  eldest  born  of  Adam's,  blood 
Warm  in  our  veins,— strong  Cain  '.  who  was  begotten 
In  Paradise,— would  mingle  with  Seth's  children? 
Seth,  the  la^t  offspring  of  old  Adam's  dotage  ? 
No,  not  to  save  all  earth,  were  earth  in  peril ! 
Our  race  hath  always  dwelt  apart  from  thine 
From  the  beginning,  and  shall  do  so  ever. 

Japh.  I  did  not  speak  to  thee.  Aholibamah  ! 
Too  much  of  the  forefather  whom  thou  vauntest 
Has  come  down  in  that  haughty  blood  which  springs 
Frtim  him  who  shed  the  first,  and  ih>t  a  brother's  ! 
But  thou,  my  Anah  !  lei  me  call  thee  mine, 
Albeit  thou  irt  not ;  'i  is  a  woid  I  cannot 
Part  with,  although  I  must  from  thee.     My  Anah  ! 
Thou  who  dost  rather  make  me  dream  that  Abel 
Had  left  a  daughter,  whose  pure  pious  race 
Survived  in  thee,  so  much  unlike  thou  art 
The  rest  of  the  sern  Caini  es,  sive  in  beauty, 
For  all  of  them  are  fairest  in  their  favour 

Aho.  {interrupliiif;  Ivtn).     And  wouldst  thou  hava 
her  like  our  faiher's  foe 
In  mind,  in  soul  ?    If  7  partook  thy  thought. 
Ami  dream'd  that  aught  of  Abel  was  in  her !  — 
Get  thee  hence,  son  of  Noah  ;  thou  makest  strife. 

Jupti.  Offspring  of  Cain,  thy  father  did  so ! 

.5/10.  But 

He  slew  not  Seth :  and  what  hast  thou  to  do 
With  other  deeds  between  his  God  and  him  ? 

Japh.  Thm  speakcst  well:   bis  God   hath  judged 
him,  and 
I  had  not  named  his  deed,  but  (hat  thyself 
Didst  seem  'o  glory  in  him,  nor  to  shrink 
From  what  he  had  doae. 

Aho.                                He  was  our  fathers'  father ; 
The  eldest  born  of  man,  the  strongest,  biavest. 
And  most  enduring  :  —  Shall  I  blu>ih  for  him 
From  whom  we  had  our  being  ?     Look  upon 
Our  race  ;  behold  their  stature  and  their  beauy, 
Their  courage,  strength,  and  leiigih  of  d lys 

Japh.  They  are  number'd. 

Aho.  Be  it  so  !  but  while  yet  their  hours  endure, 
I  glory  in  my  brethren  and  our  fathers. 

Japh.  My  sire  and  race  but  glory  in  their  God, 
Anah!  and'thou? 

Anah.  Whate'er  our  God  decrees. 

The  Gnd  of  Seth  as  Cain,  I  must  obey, 
And  will  endeavour  pjtlenily  to  obey. 
Bu'  could  I  dare  to  pray  in  his  dread  hour 
Of  universal  vengeance  (if  such  should  be), 
!t  would  not  be  to  live,  alone  exempt 
Of  all  mv  house.     My  sister  I  oh,  my  sister  ! 
What  were  the  world',  or  other  worlds,  or  all 
The  brightest  future,  without  the  sweet  paM  — 
Thy  love  —  my  father's  —  all  the  life,  and  all 
The  things  which  sprang  up  w  ilh  me,  like  the  stars. 
Miking  niy  dim  exi-tence  radiant  with 
Soft  lishs  which  were  not  mine?     Ahilibamah! 
Oh  !  if  there  should  be  mercv  —  seek  it.  find  it: 
I  abhor  death,  because  that  thou  must  die. 

Aho.  What,  hath  this  dreamer,  with  his  father's  ark, 
The  bugbear  he  hath  built  to  scare  the  worjd. 


Shaken  my  sister  ?  Are  we  not  the  loved 
Of  seraphs?  and  if  we  were  not,  must  we 
Cling  to  ,1  son  of  Noah  for  our  lives  ? 

Rather  ihan  thus But  the  enthusiast  dreams 

'Ihe  worst  of  dreams,  the  fantasies  eneender'd 
By  hopeless  love  ai.d  heated  vigils.     Who 
Shall  shake  these  solid  mountains,  this  firm  earth, 
And  bid  those  clouds  and  waters  lake  a  shape 
Distinct  fiom  that  which  we  and  all  our  sires 
Have  seen  them  wear  on  their  eternal  way  ? 
Who  shall  do  this  ? 

Japh.  He  whose  one  word  produced  them. 

Aho.  Who  heard  that  word  ? 

Japk.  The  universe,  which  leap  d 

To  life  before  it.    Ah  !  smilest  thou  still  in  scorn? 
Turn  to  thy  seraphs :  if  they  attest  it  not. 
They  are  none. 

Sam.  Aholibamah,  own  thy  God  ! 

Aho.  I  have  ever  hiil'd  our  Maker,  Samiasa, 
As  thine,  and  mine :  a  God  of  love,  not  sorrow. 

Japh.  Alas  !  what  else  is  love  but  sorrow  ?    Even 
He  who  made  earth  in  love  had  soon  to  grieve 
Above  its  first  and  best  inhabitants. 

Aho.  'T  is  said  so. 

Japh.  It  is  even  so. 

Enter  Noah  and  Shem. 

Noah.  Japhet!  What 

Dost  thou  here  with  these  children  of  the  wicked  ? 
Dread'st  thou  not  to  partake  their  coming  doom  ? 

Japh.  Father,  it  cannot  be  a  sin  to  seek 
To  save  an  earth-born  being  ;  and  behold. 
These  are  not  of  Ihe  sinful,  since  they  have 
The  fellowship  of  angels. 

Noah.  These  are  they,  then. 

Who  leave  Ihe  throne  of  God,  to  take  them  wives 
From  out  the  race  of  Cain  ;  the  sons  of  heiven, 
Who  seek  earth's  daughters  for  their  beauty  ? 

Aza.  'Patriarch  1 

Thou  bast  said  it. 

Noah.  Woe,  woe,  woe  to  such  communion  ! 

His  not  God  made  a  barrier  be' ween  earth 
And  heaven,  and  limited  each,  kind  to  kind  ? 

Sam.  Was  not  man  made  in  high  .Jehovah's  image? 
Did  God  not  love  what  he  had  made  ?    And  what 
Do  we  but  imitate  and  emulate 
His  love  unto  created  love  ? 

Noah.  I  am 

But  man,  and  was  not  made  to  judge  mankind, 
Far  less  the  sons  of  God  ;  but  as  our  God 
Has  deian'd  to  commune  w  ith  me,  and  reveal 
His  judgments,  I  reply,  that  the  descent 
Of  seraphs  from  their'everlasling  seat 
Unto  a  peri>hable  and  perishing. 
Even  on  the  very  etie  of  perishing,  world, 
Cannot  be  good. 

Aza.  What !  though  it  were  to  save? 

Noah.  Not  ye  in  all  your  glory  can  redeem 
What  he  who  made  you  glorious  hah  condemn'd. 
Were  your  immortal  mission  safety,  't  would 
Be  gen'enil,  not  for  two,  though  beautiful; 
And  beautiful  they  are,  but  not  the  less 
Condemn'd. 

Japh.  Oh,  father  !  say  it  not. 

Noah.  Son  !  son  ! 

If  thai  thou  wouldst  avoid  their  doom,  forget 
That  they  exist :  they  soon  shall  cease  to  be, 
While  thou  shall  be  the  sire  of  a  new  world, 
And  better. 

Japh.  Let  me  die  with  this,  and  them  ! 

Noah.  Thou  shouldst  for  such  a  tliought,  but  shslt 
not ;  he 
Who  can  redeems  thee. 

Sam.  And  why  him  and  thee, 

More  than  what  he,  thy  son,  prefers  to  both  ? 

Noah.  Ask  him  who  made  t"iee  greater  than  myMlf 
And  mine  but  not  less  subject  ro  his  own 
Almightiness.     And  lo  !  his  mildest  and  ' 

Least  to  be  templed  messenger  appears !  I 


300 


HEAVEN    AND  EARTH. 


[Part  I. 


£ii<er  Raphael  the  Archangel. 
Raph.  Spirits: 

Whose  sea:  is  uear  the  throne, 
What  do  ye  here? 
Is  thus  a  ser  i|.h"s  duty  lo  be  shown, 
^o«  ihtt  ihe  hour  is  near 
When  earih  must  be  alone  ? 
Return  ! 
Adore  and  burn, 
In  glorious  honnge  with  Ihe  elected  "seven." 
Your  place  i^  heiven. 
Sam.  Kiphael ; 

The  first  and  f.^irest  of  the  sons  of  God, 
Ho»-  long  h  th  this  been  law, 
That  eanh  by  :ingels  must  be  left  untrod? 

E.irlh  :  w  hich  oft  saw 
Jehovah's  loolsteps  nut  disdain  her  sod  ! 
The  world  lie  Ijved,  and  made 
For  Inve  ,  and  oft  have  we  obey'd 
His  frequen;  mission  «  ith  delishied  pinions  : 

Adoring  hini  in  hi^  leist  works  displiyM  ; 
Wa'.chiiis  this  youngest  s  ar  of  his  dominions; 
And,' as  the  latest  birth  of  Ins  i^re.it  word. 
Eager  to  keep  it  worthy  of  our  Lord. 
Why  is  thy  brow  severe  ? 
And  wherefore  speak'st  ihou  of  de'lruclion  near? 
Raph.  Had  S  imiasa  and  Azaziel  been 
lu  '.heir  true  place,  with  tne  angelic  choir, 
Written  in  hre 
Thev  would  hive  seen 
JehJvah  s  late  decree. 
And  not  enquired  their  Makei's  breath  of  me  : 
but  ignorance  must  ever  be 
A  part  of  sin  ; 
And  even  the  spirits'  knowledge  shall  grow  less 

As  they  wax  proud  within  ; 
For  Blindness  is  the  firs-boi  n  of  Excess. 

When  all  good  mgels  left  the  woild,  ye  stayd, 
Stung  with  strarge  passions,  and  deba^ed 
Bv  mortal  feelinss  lor  a  mortal  m  lid  : 
But  ye  are  pardon'd  thus  l.ir,  and  replaced 
Wih  your  pure  equ-als.     Hence  1  away  !  away ! 
Orst.y, 
And  lose  e'ernitv  by  that  deliy  ! 
Aza.  And  thou  !  if  earth  be  thus  forbidden 
In  the  decree 
To  us  until  tills  moment  hidden. 
Dust  th-'u  not  err  as  we 
In  beinx  here? 
Jlaph.  I  came  lo  call  ye  bick  to  your  fit  sphere. 
In  the  great  name  and  at  the  word  of  God. 
Dear,  dearest  in  themselves,  and  scarce  less  dear 

Thai  which  I  came  to  do  :  till  now  we  tri)d 
Together  the  eternal  space  ;  tosether 

Let  us  slill  walk  tlie  stars.     I  rue.  earth  must  die 
Her  race,  re  urn'd  into  her  womb,  must  wither. 
And  much  which  she  inherits:  bu'  oh  !  why 
Cannot  this  eaith  be  made,  or  be  des'roy'd. 
Without  involvins  ever  some  vast  void 
In  the  immortal  ranks  ?  immortal  still 

In  their  immeasurable  forfeilure. 
Our  brother  Satan  fell  ;  his  burning  will 
Ra'her  than  longer  worship  dared  endure '. 
But  \e  who  slill  are  pure  ! 
Seraph's  !  less  mighty  than  that  mightiest  one, 
'1  hink  how  he  was  undoi.e'. 
And  think  if  tempting  man  can  compensate 
For  heaven  desired  loo  late? 
Long  have  1  warr'd. 
Long  niu  t  I  war 
Wilh  him  who  deem  d  it  hard 
To  be  created,  and  to  acknowledge  him 
Who  'midst  the  cherubim 
Made  him  as  suns  to  a  dependent  star, 
Leaving  Ihe  archangels  ni  his  right  hand  dim. 

I  loved  him  —  beautiful  he  was :  oh,  heaven  ! 
Sa\e  h\t  who  ni.ade,  what  beauty  and  what  power 
Was  ever  like  to  Satan's !     Would  Ihe  hour 

In  which  he  fell  could  ever  be  forgiven  ! 
The  wish  is  impious:  but, oh  ye  ! 
Yet  undeslroy'i,  be  wam'd !    Eternity 


With  him,  or  with  his  God,  is  in  your  choice; 
He  hath  not  leinpled  you  ;  he  cannul  tempt 
Ihe  angels,  fruni  his  further  snares  exeujpt: 

But  man  hath  listen'd  to  his  voice, 
And  je   u  woman's —  beautiful  she  is. 
The  serpent's  voice  less  subtle  than  her  ki.s. 
Ttie  snake  but  vanquish'd  du^t ;  but  she  will  draw 
A  second  host  from  heaven,  lo  break  heaven's  law 
Yet,  yei.oh  liy  ! 
Y'e  caniio.  die; 
But  Ihey 
Shall  pass  away, 
While  ye  shall  hll  with  shrieks  tlie  upper  sky 

For  perishable  clay, 
Who^e  memory  in  your  immortality 

Shall  long  outlast  ihe  sun  »  liich  gave  them  day. 
Think  how  \our  essence  ditiererh  from  theirs 
liiall  butsLfferiiig!  whypariake 
The  agony  o  which  they  must  be  heirs  — 
Born  to  be  ploughd  with  years,  and  sovvn  with  cares, 
And  reap'd  by  Death,  lord  of  the  human  soil? 
Even  had  llieir  days  been  left  to  toil  iheir  path 
'J'hrouih  time  to  dust,  uiishorien'd  by  God's  wrath, 
Still  they  are  Evil's  piey  and  Sorrow's  spoil. 

JlKo.  Let  ilieni  liy  ; 

I  hear  ihe  voice  which  says  that  all  must  die. 
Sooner  thin  our  while  bearded  patriarchs  died  J 
And  tliaton  high 
An  ocean  is  prepared, 
While  from  below 
The  deep  shall  rj_-e  to  meet  heaven's  overflow. 

Few  shall  be  spared. 
It  seems ;  and,  of  ihat  few,  ihe  race  of  Cain 
Must  lift  their  eyes  to  Ad  mi's  God  in  vain. 
Sister  !  since  it  is  so. 
And  Ihe  eternal  Lord 
111  vain  would  be  implored 
For  the  remission  of  one  hour  of  woe. 
Let  us  resign  even  what  h  e  h  ive  adored. 
And  meet  Ihe  wave,  as  we  would  meet  the  sword, 

If  not  unm  >ved,  yet  undisinay'd, 
And  wailing  less  for  us  than  those  who  shall 
Survive  in  m  'rtal  or  immorlal  thrall. 

And,  when  the  fatal  waters  are  allay'd, 
Weep  for  the  mjriads  who  can  weep  no  more. 
Flv,  seraphs  '.  to  your  own  eternal  shore. 
Where  w  inds  nor  howl  nor  waters  roar. 
Our  p  rtion  is  to  die. 
And  vours  to  live  for  ever  : 
But  which  is  best,  a  dead  eternity, 
Or  living,  is  but  known  lo  the  great  Giver. 
Obey  him.  a-  we  shall  obey ; 
I  would  not  keep  this  life  of  mine  in  clay 
An  hour  beyond  his  will ; 
Nor  see  ye  lose  a  portion  of  his  grace. 
For  all  the  mercy  which  Seth  s  race 
Find  still. 
Fly! 
And  as  your  pinions  bear  ye  back  to  heaven. 
Think  that  my  love  still  mounts  with  thee  on  high, 

Sanjiasa '. 
And  if  I  look  up  wilh  a  teirless  eye, 

'T  is  that  an  angel's  bride  disdains  to  weep,— 
Farewell !    Now  rise,  inexorable  deep ! 
Anah.  And  must  we  die  ? 

And  must  I  lose  Ihee  too, 

Azaziel  ? 
Oh.  niv  heart !  my  heart ! 

Thv  prophecies  were  true! 
And  yei  thou  wert  so  happy  too! 
The  blow,  though  not  unlook'd  for,  falls  as  new: 
But  yet  depart  ! 

Ah !  why  ? 
Yet  let  me  not  retain  thee  —  fly  ! 
My  pangs  can  be  but  brief;  but  thine  would  b» 
Et'eri  al,  if  repulsed  from  heaven  for  me. 
Too  much  already  hast  Ihou  deign'd 
'1 0  one  of  Adam's  race  ! 
Our  doom  is  sorrow  :  not  to  us  alone. 
But  to  the  spirits  who  have  not  disdain'd 
;  To  love  us,  cometh  anguish  with  disgrace 


Scene  III.J 


HEAVEN   AND  EARTH. 


301 


The  first  who  taught  ts  knowledge  hath  been  hurl'd 
I      From  his  oace  archaiigclic  throne 
Into  some  unknoivn  world  : 
And  Iliou,  Azaziel !     No  — 
'J'hou  shall  not  suti'er  woe 
For  nie.     Away !  nor  weep ! 
Thou  cans!  not  weep  ;  but  yet 
May'st  sutTer  more,  not  weeping  :  then  fo^ge^ 
Her,  whom  llie  suiges  of  the  all-strangling  deep 

Can  bring  no  pang  like  this.     Fly  !  tly  ! 
Being  gone,  't  will  be  less  difficult  to  die. 
Japh.  Uh  say  not  so ! 

Father  :  and  thou,  archangel,  tbou  ! 
Surely  celestial  nieicy  lurks  below 
That  pure  severe  serenity  of  bmw  : 
Let  them  not  meet  thi's  sea  without  a  shore, 
Save  in  our  ark,  or  let  me  be  no  more  ! 
Noah.  Peice,  child  of  passion,  pe.ice  ! 
If  not  within  thy  heart,  yet  with  thy  tongue 

Do  God  no  wrong  ! 
Live  as  he  wills  it  — die,  when  he  ordains, 
A  righteous  death,  uidike  the  seed  of  Cain's. 

Cease,  or  be  sorrowful  in  silence  ;  cease 
To  weary  Heaven's  ear  with  thy  sellish  plaint. 
Wouldst  thou  have  God  conmiil  a  sin  lor  thee  ? 
Such  would  it  be 
To  alter  his  intent 
For  a  mere  nioital  stirrow.    Be  a  man  ! 
And  bear  what  Adam's  race  must  bear,  and  can. 
Japh.  Ay,  father!  but  when  they  are  gone, 
And  we  are  all  alone, 
Floating  upon  the  azure  desert,  and 
The  depth  beneath  ls  hides  our  own  dear  land, 
And  dearer,  silent  friends  .ind  brethren,  all 
Buried  in  its  immeasurable  breast, 
Who,  w  ho,  our  tears,  our  shi  ieks,  shall  then  command  ? 
Can  we  in  desolation's  peace  have  rest  ? 
Oh  God  !  be  thou  a  God,  and  spare 
Yet  while  't  is  time! 
Renew  not  Adam's  fall  : 

Mankind  \\  ere  then  but  twain. 
But  they  are  numerous  now  as  are  the  waves 

And  the  tremendous  rain. 
Whose  drops  thall  be  less  thick  than  nould  their 
graves. 
Were  graves  permitted  to  the  seed  of  Cain. 
Noah.  Silence,  vain   boy!  each   woid   of  thine 's  a 
cime. 
Angel !  forgive  this  stripling's  fond  despair. 

Raph.  Seraphs!  these  mortals  speak  in  passion:  Ye  I 
Who  are,  or  should  be,  pa  sionless  and  pure, 
May  now  return  with  me. 

Sam.  It  may  not  be: 

We  have  chosen,  and  will  endure. 
Raph.  Sty'st  thou  ? 

^za.        '  He  hath  said  it,  and  I  say,  Amen  ! 

Rafih.        Again ! 
Then  from  this  hour, 
Shorn  as  ye  are  of  all  celestial  power, 
And  aliens  from  your  God, 
Farewell ! 
Jnph.  Alas!  where  shall  they  dwell  ? 

Hark,  hark:!  Deep  sounds,  and  deeper  still. 
Are  howling  froni  the  mountain's  bosom: 
There's  not  a  breath  of  wind  upon  the  hill. 

Yet  quivers  every  leaf,  and  drops  encli  blossom: 
Earth  groans  as  if  beneath  a  heavy  loid. 
Noah.  Hark,  hark  !  the  -ea-biids  cry  ! 
In  clouds  they  overspread  the  lurid  sky, 
And  hover  round  the  mountain,  where  before 
Never  a  whiie  wing,  welted  by  the  wave, 

Yet  dared  to  soar. 
Even  when  the  waters  wax'd  too  fierce  to  brave. 
Soon  it  shall  be  their  only  shore, 
Ani  then,  no  more  ! 
Japh,  The  sun  !  the  sun! 

He  riseth,  but  his  better  light  is  gone ; 
And  a  b  nek  circle,  bound 

His  glaring  disk  around, 
Proclaims  earth's  last  of  sunimar  days  haih  shone  ! 
The  cfouds  return  into  the  hues  of  night, 

"~    2G 


Save  where  their  brazen-colour'd  edges  streak 

The  verge  where  brighter  morns  were  wont  to  break. 

Noah.  And  lo  !  yon  tl  sh  of  light. 
The  distant  thunder's  harbinger,  appears! 

It  come:h  1  hence,  away  ! 
Leave  to  the  elements  their  evil  prey  ! 
Hence  to  where  our  all-hallow'd  aik  uprears 
Its  safe  and  wreckless  sides  ! 

Japh.  Oh,  father,  stay  ! 
Leave  not  my  Anah  to  the  swallowing  tides! 

Noah.  Must  we  not  leave  all  life  to  sucii  i  Begone ! 

J.iph.  Not  L 

Noah.  Then  die 

With  them ! 
How  darest  thou  look  on  that  prophetic  ^ky, 
And  seek  lo  save  what  all  things  uovv  condemn, 
In  oversvhelming  uuiso^i 

With  just  Jehovah's  wrath  ! 

Japh.  Can  rage  and  justice  join  in  the  same  path  ? 

Noah.  Bla  phemer  !  darest  thou  murmur  even  now! 

Raph.  Patriarch,  be  still  a  father!  smooth  thy  brow: 

Thy  son,  despite  his  folly,  shall  not  sink  : 
He  knows  not  what  he  says,  yet  shall  not  driuk 

With  sobs  the  salt  foam  of  the  SHelling  waters; 
But  be,  when  passion  passeth,  good  as  thou. 

Nor    perish    like    heavens   children    with   man's 
daughters. 

A/io.  The  tempest  cometh ;  heaven  and  earth  unite 
Foi  the  ant.ihilati  n  of  all  life. 
Unequal  is  the  strife 
Between  our  strength  nnd  the  Eternal  Might ! 

Sam.  But  ours  is  with  thee;  we  will  bear  ye  far 

To  sonie  untroubled  star. 
Where  thou  and  Anah  shall  partake  our  lot : 

And  if  thou  dost  nol  weep  lor  thy  lost  earth, 
Our  forfeit  heaven  shall  also  be  forgot. 

Anah.  Oh  !  my  dear  father's  tents,  my  place    0 
birth. 
And  mountains,  land,  and  woods !  when  ye  are  not, 
Who  shall  dry  up  my  tears .' 

"Za.  Thy  spirit-lord. 

Fear  not ;  though  we  are  shut  from  heaven, 
Yet  much  is  ours,  whence  we  can  not  be  driven. 

Raph.  Rebel  !  thy  words  are  wicked,  as  thy  deeds 
Shall  henceforth  be  but  weak  :  the  tlaming  sword, 
VVhich  chased  the  tirsl-born  out  of  Paradise, 
Still  flashes  in  the  angelic  hands. 

.aza.  It  cannot  slay  us:  threaten  dust  with  death. 
And  talk  of  weipons  unto  th  t  which  bleeds. 
What  are  thy  swords  in  our  immortal  eyes? 

Raph.  The  moment  couieth  to  approve  thy  strength; 
And  learn  at  length 
How  vain  to  war  wiih  what  thy  God  commands: 
Thy  former  force  was  in  thy  faith. 

Enter  Mortals,  flying  for  refuge. 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

The  heavens  and  earth  are  mingling  —  God  !  oh  God! 

What  have  we  done  ?    Yet  spare  ! 

Hark  I  even  the  forest-beasts  howl  forlh  their  prayer! 

The  dragon  crawls  from  out  his  den. 

To  herd,  in  terror,  innocent  with  men  ; 
And  the  birds  scream  their  agony  through  air. 
Yet,  yet,  Jehovah  !  yet  withdraw  thy  r  d 
Of  wrath,  and  pity  thine  own  world's  despair. 
Hear  not  mar  only  but  all  nature  plead  I 

Raph.  Farewell,  ihou  earth  !    ye  wretchs<    i-r    •< 
clay, 
I  cannot,  must  not,  aid  you.     'T  is  decree* 

[Eru  Raphatl. 

Japh.  Some  clouds  sweep  on  as  vultures  for  their    i 
prey,  I ' 

While  others,  fix'd  as  rocks,  await  the  word 
At  which  their  w  raihful  vials  shall  be  poui'd. 
No  a/uie  more  shall  robe  the  tirmament. 
Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious  :  Death  hath  risen : 
In  the  sun's  plice  a  pale  and  ghastly  glare 
Hath  wound  itself  around  the  dying  air. 

Aza.  Come,  Anah  !  quit  this  chaos-foundtd  piia 
To  which  the  elements  again  repair. 


n 


S02 


HEAVEN   AND   EARTH. 


LPart  I. 


~1 


To  turn  it  into  what  it  was:  benea'h 

The  shelter  of  tliese  wings  thou  shall  be  safe, 

As  was  the  eigle's  nestlinj  once  within 

Its  niother's. —  Let  Ihe  coming  chaos  chafe 

VVilh  all  its  dements  !     Heed  not  their  din  ! 

A  brighter  world  than  this,  where  thou  shall  breathe 

Ethereil  life,  will  we  explore: 

These  darken'd  clouds  are  not  the  only  skies. 

l.^zaziel  aitd  Sanuasa  fly  off,  and  ditappear 

with  Jlnah  and  Jlhuiibamali. 
Jaflu  They  are  gone!  They  have  disappear'd  amidst 

the  roar 
or  the  forsaken  world  ;  and  never  mnre, 
Wheiber  they  live,  or  die  with  all  earth's  life, 
Now  near  its  last,  can  aught  restore 
Aoah  unto  these  eyes. 

Chcrnis  of  Mortals. 
Oh  son  of  Noah  1  mercy  on  thy  kind  ! 
What!  wilt  thnu  leave' us  all —  all  —  aZi  behind  ? 
While  safe  amidst  the  elemental  strife, 
Thou  sitt'st  within  thy  guarded  ark  ? 
A  Mother  {offering  hir  infant  to  Japhet).     Oh  let 
this  child  embark  ! 
I  brought  hin>  f  jrth  in  woe, 
But  thought  it  joy 
To  see  him  to  m>  bosom  clinging  so. 
Why  was  he  born  ? 
What  h:iih  he  done  — 
My  unwean'd  s/m  — 
To  move  Jehovah's  wrath  or  scorn  ? 
What  is  there  in  this  milk  of  mine,  that  death 
Should  stir  all  heaven  and  earth  up  to  destroy 

My  bny, 
And  roll  Ihe  wa  ers  o'er  his  placid  breath  ? 
Save  him,  thou  seed  of  Seth  ! 
Or  cursed  be  —  with  him  who  made 
Thee  and  'hy  race,  for  which  we  are  be'ray'd  ! 
Japh.  Peace!  't  is  no  hour  for  curses,  but  for  prayer! 

Chcnu  of  Mortals. 
For  prayer! !! 
And  where 
Shall  prayer  ascend. 
When  Ihe  swoln  clouds  unlo  Ihe  mountains  bei.d 

And  burst, 
And  gushing  oceans  every  barrier  rend, 
Until  the  very  deserts  know  no  thirst? 
Accu'sed 
Be  he  who  made  thee  and  Ihy  sire ! 
We  deem  "ur  cur5e>  vain  ;  we  must  expire; 

But  as  we  kmw  the  worst, 
Why  should  our  hym  i  be  raised,  our  knees  be  bent 
Before  the  implacnble  Omnipolent, 
Since  we  must  fall  the  same  ? 
If  he  hath  made  earth,  let  if  be  his  shame, 

To  make  a  wr.rld  f  .r  torture.—  Lo  !  they  come, 
The  loathsome  w  iters,  in  their  rage  ! 
And  with  Iheir  mar  make  wholesome  nature  dumb  ! 

The  fnrest>'  trees  (coeval  with  the  hour 
When  Paradise  upspruiig. 

Ere  Eve  gave  Adam  knowledge  for  her  dower, 
Or  Adam  his  first  hymn  of  slavery  sung), 

S3  massy,  vast,  yet  greeu  iu  their  old  age, 
Are  overtopp'd, 

Their  summer  blossoms  by  the  suiges  lopp'd. 
Which  I  ise,  and  rise,  and  rise. 


Vainly  we  look  up  to  the  lowering  skies  — 
j      Tt/ey  meet  the  seas, 
'  And  shut  out  God  from  our  beseeching  eyes. 
I      Fly.  son  of  Noah,  fly  !  ae.d  take  thine  ease, 
In  ihme  allotted  ocean-tent ; 
And  view,  all  ttoaling  o"er  the  element, 
i  The  corpses  of  the  world  of  thy  young  days: 
I  Then  to  Jehovah  raise 

I  'I"hy  song  of  praise  : 

I     .3  MarlaL  Blessed  are  Ihe  dead 
Who  die  in  the  Lord  ! 
And  though  the  waieis  be  o'er  earth  outspread, 

Vet,  as  Aw  word. 
I  Be  the  decree  adored  ! 

He  gave  me  life  —  he  takelh  but 
The  bre.ath  which  is  his  own  : 
And  though  these  eyes  should  be  for  ever  shut. 
Nor  longer  this  weak  voice  before  his  throne 
Be  heard  in  supplicating  lone. 

Still  Ijlessed  be  the  Lord, 
For  what  is  past. 
For  that  which  is: 
For  all  are  his, 
From  first  to  last  — 
Time  —  spice  —  eternity  —  life  —  death  — 

The  vast  known  :'nd  immeasurable  unknown. 
He  made,  and  cm  unm  .ke  ; 

And  shall  /,  for  a  litile  gasp  of  breath, 
Blaspheme  .md  groan  ? 

No  ;  let  me  die.  as  I  have  lived,  in  faith. 
Nor  quiver,  though  the  universe  may  quake  1 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 
Where  shall  we  fly  ? 
Not  In  the  mountains  high  ; 
For  now  their  torrents  rush,  with  double  roar, 

To  meet  the  ocean,  which,  advancing  still, 
Already  grasps  each  drowning  hill, 
Nor  leaves  an  unsearch'd  cave. 

Enter  a  Womaru 
Womaru  Oh,  save  me,  save  ! 
Our  valley  is  no  more  : 

My  father  and  my  father's  tent. 
My  brethren  and  ni'y  brethren's  herds. 

The  pleasant  trees  that  o'er  our  noonday  benh 
And  sent  forth  evening  songs  from  sweetest  birds. 
The  li;tle  rivulet  which  freshen'd  all 
Our  pastures  greeu, 
No  more  a-  e  to  be  seen. 
When  to  the  mountain  clilf  I  climb'd  this  mi   n, 

I  lurn'd  10  bless  Ihe  spot. 
And  not  a  leaf  appear'd  about  lo  fall ;  — 

And  now  ihey  are  not!  — 
Why  was  I  born  ? 

Japh.  To  die  !  in  youth  lo  die  ! 

And  happier  in  that  doom. 
Than  to  behold  the  universal  tomb, 
I  Which  I 

'  Am  thus  condemned  to  weep  above  in  vain. 
'  Why,  when  all  perish,  why  must  I  remain  ? 
I         [The  wateri  rue ;  Men  fly  in  every  direction ;  \ 

many  are  overtaken  Ly  the  waves;  the  Chorut 

I  of  Mortals  disperset  iii  search  of  saftty  up  the 

I  viutintains :  japhet   remains  Mpon    a   roch.  \ 

while  the  Ark  floats  towards  liim  in  the  di*-  j 

I  tancc 


Scene  I.] 


SARDANAPALUS. 


303 


SARDANAPALUS:' 
A   TRAGEDY. 


TO 

THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  GOETHE. 

A    STRANGER 

PRESUMES    TO    OFFER    THE    HOMAGE 

OF  A  LITERARY  VASSAL  TO  HIS  LIEGE  LORD, 

THE    FIRST   OF   EXISTING    WRITERS, 

WHO    HAS   CREATED 

THE  LITERATURE  OF  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY, 

AND   ILLUSTRATED    THAT    OF    EUROPE, 

THE    UNWORTHY    PRODUCTION 

WHICH    THE    AUTHOR     VENTURES 

TO    INSCRIBE    TO    HIM 

IS    ENTITLED 
SARDANAPALUS. 


Belcse?,  a  Chaldean  and  Soothsxi  er. 

Salenienes,  the  King's  Brolher-m-Law. 

Altnda,  an  Assyriaii  Officer  of  the  Palace, 

Pania. 

Znmes. 

Sfero. 

Balea. 

WOMEN. 
Zarina,  the  Queen. 
Myrrha,  an  Ionian  female  Slave,  and  the  Favourite 

of  Sardinapalus. 
Women    composing    the    Harem    of    Sardanapaliis, 
Guards,  Attendants,   Chaldean  Priests,  Mtda, 
i-c.  S,-c. 
Scene—  a  Hall  in  the  Royal  Palace  of  Nineveh. 


In  this  tneedy  it  has  been  my  intention  to  follow  the 
account  of  Diodorus  Siculus  ;  reducing  it,  however,  to 
svieh  dramatic  regularily  as  1  best  could,  and  trying  to 
approach  the  unities.  I  therefore  suppose  Ihe  rebel- 
lion to  explode  and  succeed  in  one  day  by  a  sudden 
conspiracy,  instead  of  the  long  war  of  the  history. 


PREFACE. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE    I, 

J  Hall  in  the  Palace. 

Salemenes  {solus).    He  hath  wrong'd  his  queen,  but 

still  he  is  her  lord  ; 

He  hath  wrong'd  my  sister,  still  he  is  my  brother; 

He  hath  wiong'd  his  people,  still  he  is  Iheir  soveieign, 


In  publishing  the  following  Tragedies  3  I  have  only 
to  repeat,  that  they  were  not  composed  with  the  most 
remote  view  to  the  stage.  On  Itie  attempt  made  by 
the  managers  in  a  former  instance,  the  public  opinion 
has  been  already  expressed.  With  regard  to  my  own 
private  feelings,  as  it  seems  thit  they  are  to  stand  for 
nothing,  I  shall  say  nothing. 

For  the  historical  foundation  of  Ihe  following  com- 
positions Ihe  reader  is  referred  to  the  Notes. 

'1  he  Author  has  in  one  instance  attempted  to  pre- 
serve, and  in  the  other  to  approach,  the  '•  unities ;  "  |  ^^j  j  ^yj,  ^^  his  friend  as  well  as  si  bject 
conceiving  that  with  any  very  distant  departure  from    j^g  „,„,,  „„,  perish  thus.     I  w  ill  not  see 
them,  ihere  may  be  poetry,  but  can  be  no  drama.     He    j[,g  ^looj  pf  Nimrod  and  Semiramis 
is  aware  of  the  unpopularity  of  this  notion  in  present  :  gj„|.  ;„  (},g  garth,  and  thirteen  hundred  years 
English  literature  ;  bul  it  is  not  a  syslem  of  his  own,    ^f  empire  ending  like  a  shepherd's  tale  ; 
being  merely  an  opinion,  which,  not  very  long  ago,    j^p  ,,,^5,  (jg  roused.     In  his  efl'eminate  heart 
was  the  law  of  literature  throughout  the  world,  and  is    There  is  a  careless  courage  which  corruption 
still  so  in  the  more  civilized  parts  of  it.    But  "  nous    ^as  not  all  quench'd,  and  latent  energies, 
avons  change  tout  cela,"  and  are  reaping  the  advan-    Repress'd  by  circumstance,  but  not  destroy'd  — 
tages  of  the  change.     The  writer  is  far  from  conceiv-  |  gtecp'd,  but  not  drown"d.  in  deep  vnluptu'ousnesi. 
ing  that  any  thing  he  can  adduce  by  personal  precept  |  jf  t,orn  a  peasant,  he  had  been  a  man 
or  example  cm  at  all  approach  his  regular,  or  even    -po  have  reach'd  an  empire:  to  an  empire  born, 
irregular  predecessors;  he  is  merely  giving  a  reason    jjg  „,i|i  bequeath  none;  nothing  but  a  name, 
why  he  preferred  the  more   regular  formation  of  a    vVhich  his  sons  will  r.ot  prize  in  heritage:  — 
structure,  however  feeble,  to  an  entire  abandonment    yg|^  „(,(  a|]  |ost,  even  vet  he  mav  redeem 
of  all   rules  whatsoever.     Where   he  has  failed,  the    His  sloth  and  shame,  bv  only  beins  that 
and  not  in  the  art. 


failure  is  in  the  architect. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Sardanapalus,  King  of  Niiuveh  and  Assyria,  S,-c. 
Arbaces,  the  Mcde  who  aspired  to  the  Throne. 


Which  he  should  be.  as  easily  as  Ihe  Ihing 
He  should  not  be  and  is.     Were  it  less  t  il 
To  sway  his  nations  than  consume  his  life? 
I  To  head  an  armv  than  to  rule  a  harem  ? 
I  He  sweats  in  palling  pleasures,  dulls  his  soul, 
I  And  saps  his  goodly  strength,  in  toils  which  yiell  not 
1  Heallh  like  the  chase,  nor  glory  like  the  war  — 
He  must  be  roused.     Ahs  1  there  is  no  sound 
I  [Sound  of  ioft  music  hea^d  from  within. 

To  rouse  him  short  of  thunder.     Hark  !  the  lute, 
The  lyre,  Ihe  timbrel  ;  Ihe  lascivious  tinklings 


1  Wrltter  a.  Ravenna,  in  the  early  part  of   1821,  and    Of  lulling  instrunients.  the  sofening  voices 
l>abliatie.l  i«  December  of  that  year.  Of  women,  and  of  bemgs  lesslhan  w-omen, 

a  "BsrdBnaralus"    originally    appeared 
■  h  "The  Two  Fosi-ari."  — F,. 


the    same    Must  chime  in  to  Ihe  echo  of  his  revel, 

1  While  Ihe  great  king  of  all  we  know  of  earth 


304 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[Act  I. 


Lolb  crown'd  with  roses,  and  his  diadem 

Lies  negli|;ntly  by  lo  be  caught  up 

By  the  first  manly  hand  w  hich  dares  to  snatch  it. 

Lo,  where  Ihey  come :  already  I  perceive 

The  reeking  odours  of  the  perfumed  trains, 

And  see  the  bright  gems  of  ihe  glittering  girls, 

At  once  his  chorus  and  his  council,  f.ash 

Along  the  gallery,  and  arnidst  the  damsels. 

As  femininely  garb  d,  and  scarce  less  female. 

The  grandson  of  Semiramis,  the  man-queen. — 

He  comes!    Sh  II  X  await  him  ?  yes,  and  front  him, 

And  tell  him  what  all  good  men  tell  eoch  other. 

Speaking  of  him  ind  his.     They  come,  Ihe  slaves 

Led  by  the  monarch  subject  to  his  slaves. 

SCENE   11. 

Enter  Sardanapalus  tffeminalety  dressed,  his  Head 
crowned  with  Fluwers,  and  his  Robe  negligently 
fiowmr,  attended  l/y  a  Train  of  Women  ana 
young's  laves. 

Sar.  {sjifahivg  to  some  of  his  attendants).  Let  the 
pavilion  over  the  Euphrates 
Be  garlanded,  and  lit,  and  furiiish'd  forth 
For  an  especial  banquet ;  at  the  hour 
Of  midnight  we  will  sup  there:  see  nought  vi'anfing. 
And  bid  tlie  galley  be  prepared.     There  is 
A  cooling  breeze  which  crisps  the  broad  clear  river: 
We  willembarb  anon.     Fair  nymphs,  who  deigo 
To  share  the  soft  hours  of  Sardanapalus, 
We  '11  meet  again  in  that  the  sweetest  hour, 
When  we  shall  gather  like  the  stars  above  us. 
And  you  will  form  a  heaven  as  bright  as  theirs; 
Till  then,  let  each  be  mistress  of  her  time, 
And  ihou,  my  own  Ionian  M\rrha,i  choose 
Wilt  thou  along  with  them  or  me? 

Myr.  My  lord  -^ 

Sar.  Mv  lord,  my  life !   why  ausvverest  thou  so 
coldly  ? 
It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  so  answer'd. 
Rule  thy  own  hours,  thou  rulest  mine  —  say,  wouldst 

thou 
Accompany  our  guests,  or  charm  away 
The  moments  from  me  ? 

Myr.  The  king's  choice  is  mine. 

Sar.  I  pray  thee  say  not  so  :  my  chiefest  joy 
Is  to  contribute  lo  thine  every  wish. 
1  do  not  dare  to  breathe  my  own  desire. 
Lest  it  should  clash  with  thine  ;  for  thou  art  still 
Too  prompt  to  sacrifice  thy  thoughts  for  others. 

Myr.  I  would  remain  :  I  have  no  happiness 
Save  in  beholding  thine ;  yet 

Sar.  Yet  !  what  yet  ? 

I  Thv  own  sweet  will  shall  be  the  only  barrier 
Which  ever  lises  betwixt  thee  and  me. 

Myr.  1  think  ihe  present  is  the  wonted  hour 
Of  council ;  it  were  better  1  reiire. 

Sal.  (.comes  forward  and  sayt).    The  (oniiD  slave 
Savs  well :  let  her  reiire. 

Sar.  Who  answers?    How  now,  brother? 

Sal.  The  queen's  brother, 

And  your  mnsf  faithful  vassal,  royal  lord. 

Sar.  (addressing  his  train).    As  I  have  said,  let  all 
dispose  their  hours 
Till  midnight,  when  again  we  pray  your  presence 

[T/.e  cr/url  retiring. 

To  Myn ha  (who  is  goitig).    Myrrhal    I   thought 
thou  wouldst  remain. 

Myr.  Great  king, 

Thou  didst  not  say  so. 

Sar.  But  thou  lookedst  it : 

I  know  each  glance  of  those  Ionic  eyes, 
Which  said  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me. 

Myr,  Sire  !  your  brother 


I- 


"Thp  lunian  name  had  been    still  more    comprehen- 

,  having  iorlutled  the  Acliaians  aud  tlie  Brntians,  who, 
tngrther  with  !ho«e  lo  wlinm  it  was  aflerwardi  conlinrd, 

would  make  nearly  the  wliole  of  the  Greek  nation;  and    „  .^  >      ,    t       i  , 

»x,nni!  the  orientals  it  wa«  always  ihe  general  name  for  ,  For  they  are  many,  whom  thy  father  lell 
Ihe  Greeks."  —  MITFORD'S  Oreece.  vol.  i.  p.  199.  |  In  heritage,  are  loud  in  wrath  agaiDst  thee. 


Snl.  His  comorVs  brother,  minion  of  Ionia  ! 
How  darest  Ihuu.  name  nic  and  not  blush  ? 
Sar.  Not  blush! 

I  Tliou  hast  DO  more  eyes  than  heart  to  make  her  crim> 
I  ton 

Like  to  the  dying  day  on  Caucasus, 
Where  sunset  tints  the  snow  with  rosy  shadows, 
And  then  reproach  her  with  ihine  own  cold  blindness. 
Which  will  not  see  it.     What  1  in  tears,  my  Myrrha? 
Sal.  Let  them   flow  on ;  she  weeps  for  more  than 
one, 
And  is  herself  the  cause  of  bitterer  tears. 
Sar.  Cursed  be  he  who  caused  those  tears  to  flow  ! 
Sal.  Curse  not  thyself—  millions  do  that  already 
Sar.   I  hou  do=t  forget  thee  :  make  me  uol  leuiember 
I  am  a  monarch. 
Sal.  Would  thou  couldsf ! 

Myr.  My  sovereign, 

I  pray,  and  thou,  too,  prince,  permit  my  absence. 

Sar.  Since  it  must  be  so,  and  this  chuil  has  check'd 
Thy  gentle  spirit,  go  ;  but  recollect 
That  we  must  forlhwiih  meet :  1  had  rather  lose 
An  empire  than  thy  pre^ence.  {Exit  Myrrha. 

Sal.  It  mav  be, 

Tht.u  wilt  lose  both,  and  both  for  ever '. 

Sar.  Brother ! 

I  can  at  least  command  myself,  who  listen 
■Jo  language  such  as  this  :"  yet  urge  me  not 
Beyond  my  easy  nature. 

Sal.  T  is  beyond 

That  easy,  far  too  e  sy,  idle  nature. 
Which  I  would  urge  thee.     O  that  I  could  rouse  thee  ! 
Though  't  were  against  myself. 

Sar.  By  the  god  Baal ! 

The  man  would  make  me  tyrant. 

Sal.  So  thou  art, 

ThinkV  thou  there  is  no  tyranny  but  that 
Of  blood  and  chains?    The  de-pntism  of  vice  — 
The  weakness  and  the  wickedness  of  luxury  — 
The  negligence—  the  apathy  —  the  evils 
Of  sen^u  1  sloih  —  produce  ten  thousand  tyrants, 
Whose  delegated  cruelty  surpasses 
The  worst  acis  of  one  energeiic  master. 
However  harsh  and  hard  in  his  own  bearing. 
The  false  and  fond  examples  of  thy  lusts 
Corrupt  no  kss  than  they  oppiess,  and  sap 
In  the  same  moment  all  thy  pageant  (lOwer 
And  three  who  should  SLs'ain  it ;  so  ihat  whether 
A  foreign  fue  invade,  or  civil  broil 
Uistiaci  within,  both  will  alike  prove  fatal : 
The  hrst  thy  subjects  have  no  heart  to  conquer  ; 
The  last  Ihey  rather  would  assist  than  vanquish. 
Sar.  Why,  w  hat  makes  thee  the  mouth-piece  of  the 

people  ? 
Sal.  forgiveness  of  the  queen,  my  sister's  wrongs; 
A  natural  love  unio  my  infint  nephews  ; 
Failh  lo  the  king,  a  faith  he  may  need  shortly. 
In  more  than  words ;  respect  for  Nimrod's  line  : 
Also,  another  thing  thou  know  est  noi. 
Sar.  What '3  that? 

Sal.  To  thee  an  unknown  word. 

Sar.  Yet  speak  it; 

I  love  to  lean). 
I     Sal.  Virtue. 

I      Sar.  Not  know  the  word  ! 

I  Never  was  word  yet  rung  sc  in  my  eais  — 
Worse  than  the  rabble's  shout,  or  splitting  trumpet: 
I  've  heard  thy  sister  talk  of  nothing  else. 
Sal.  To  change  the  irksoote  theme,  then,  bear  of 

vice. 
Sar.  From  whom  ? 

Sal.         Even  from  the  winda,  if  thou  couldst  listsil 
Umo  Ihe  ech'jes  of  the  naiion's  voice. 

Snr.  Come,  I  'm  indulsent,  as  thou  knowesl.  patieLt, 
As  thou  hast  often  proved  —  speak  out,  what  movet 
Ihee? 
Sal.  Thy  peril. 
Snr.  Say  on. 

Sal.  Thus,  then :  all  Ihe 


SCKNE  II.] 


A  TRAGEDY. 


305 


Kar.  'Gainst  me!  What  would  the  slaves  ? 

SaL  A  king. 

Snr.  And  what 

Am  I  then  ? 

Sal.  In  Iheir  eyes  a  nothing ;  but 

In  mine  a  mm  n  ho  misht  be  something  still. 

Sar.  The  railing  drunkards  1  why,  what  would  they 
have? 
Have  they  not  peace  and  plenty  ? 

Sal.  '        Of  the  first 

More  than  is  glorious;  of  the  last,  far  less 
Than  the  king  recks  of. 

Sar.  Whose  then  is  the  crime, 

Bui  the  false  satraps,  who  provide  no  bet;er? 

Sal.  And  somewhat  in  the  monarch  who  ne'er  looks 
Beyond  his  palace  walls,  or  if  he  stirs 
Beyond  them,  't  is  but  to  some  mountain  palace, 
Till  summer  heats  wear  down.     O  glorious  Baal ! 
Who  built  up  ihis  vast  empire,  and  wert  made 
A  god,  or  at  the  least  shinest  like  a  god 
Through  the  long  centuries  of  thy  renown, 
This,  thy  presumed  descendant,  ne'er  beheld 
As  king  the  kingdoms  thou  dids:  leive  as  hero. 
Won  with  thy  blood,  and  toil,  and  time,  and  peril ! 
For  whit  ?  to  furnish  imposts  for  a  revel. 
Or  multiplied  extorlions  for  a  minion. 

Sar.  1  uuderstand  thee  — thou  would=t  have  me  go 
Forth  as  a  conqueror.     By  all  the  stars 
Which  the  Chaldeans  read  —  the  restless  slaves 
Deserve  that  I  should  curse  them  with  their  wishes, 
And  lead  them  forth  to  glory. 

Sal.  Wherefore  not  ? 

Semiramis  —  a  woman  only  —  led 
These  our  Assyrians  to  the  solar  shores 
Of  Ganges. 

Sar.  T  is  most  true.    And  how  refurn'd  ? 

Sal.  Why,  likea  man  —  a  hero;  baffled,  but 
Not  vanquish'd.     Wih  but  twenty  guards,  she  mide 
Good  her  retreat  to  Bactria. 

Sar.  And  how  many 

Left  she  behind  in  India  to  the  vultures  ? 

Sal.  Our  annals  say  not. 

Sar.  Then  I  will  say  for  them  — 

That  she  had  better  woven  within  her  palace 
Some  twenty  garments,  than  with  twenty  guards 
Have  tied  to  Biclria,  leaving  to  the  ravens. 
And  wolves,  and  men  —  the  fiercer  of  the  three. 
Her  myriads  of  fund  subjects.     Is  this  glory  .' 
Then  let  me  live  in  ignominy  ever. 

Sal.  All  warlike  spirits  have  not  the  same  fate. 
Semiramis,  the  glorious  parent  of 
A  hundred  kings,  although  she  fail'd  in  India, 
Brought  Periiia,  Media,  Hactria,  to  the  realm 
Which  she  once  sway'd  —  and  thou  mighVtl  sway. 

Sar.  I  iway  them  — 

She  but  subdued  them. 

Sal.  It  may  be  ere  Ion? 

That  they  will  need  her  sword  more  than  your  sceptre. 

Sar.  There  was  a  certain  Bacchus,  was"  there  not  ? 
I  've  heard  my  Greek  girls  speak  of  such  —  they  say 
He  was  a  god,  that  is,  a  Grecian  gnd. 
An  idol  foreign  to  As-yria's  worship, 
Who  conquer'd  Ihis  sime  golden  re;ilm  of  Ind 
Thou  pral'st  of,  where  Semiramis  was  vanquish'd. 

Sal.  I  hive  heard  of  sjch  a  man;  and  thou  per- 
ceivM 
That  he  is  deem'd  a  god  for  what  he  did. 

Sar.  And  in  his  g  idship  I  wi;l  hon^u^  him  — 
Not  much  as  man.     Whit,  ho  !  my  cupbearer  ! 

Sal.  What  means  the  kin?  ? 

Sar.  To  worship  your  new  god 

And  ancient  conqueror.    SDme  wine,  I  say. 

Enter  CupUarer. 
Sar.  (addresf!i\%  the  Cupbcanr).  Bring  me  the  golden 
goblet  ihick  wi'h  gems. 
Which  bears  the  name  of  Nimrod's  chalice.     Hence, 
Fill  full,  and  bear  it  quickly.  [Exit  Cupbearer. 

Sal.  Is  this  moment 

A  fitting  one  for  the  resumption  of 
The  yet  unsleptotf  revels  ? 


i  Re-eiiter  Cupbearer,  with  wine. 

Sar.  (taking  the  cup  from  him).  Noble  ki 
If  tliese  baibuian  Greeks  of  ihe  far  shores 
And  s-kiris  of  these  our  realms  lie  not,  Ihis  B.accbui 
Conquer'd  the  whole  of  India,  did  he  no  ? 

Sul.  He  did,  and  thence  was  aeem'd  a  deity. 

Sar.  Not  so  :  — of  all  hi*  conquests  a  few  columns. 
Which  may  be  his,  and  might  be  mine,  if  I 
Thought  them  worth  purchase  and  conveyance,  are 
The  landmarks  of  the  seas  of  goie  he  shed. 
The  realms  he  wasted,  and  the  beans  he  broke. 
But  here,  here  in  this  goblet  is  his  ti  le 
To  inmiortality  —  the  immortal  grape 
From  which  he  first  express'd  the  soul,  and  gave 
To  gl  (dden  that  of  man,  as  some  atonement 
For  the  victorious  mischiefs  he  had  done. 
Had  it  not  been  for  ihis,  he  would  have  been 
A  mortal  still  in  name  as  in  his  grave  ; 
And,  like  my  ancesior  Semiramis, 
A  sort  of  seiiii-g|riri')us  human  monster. 
Here  's  that  which  deified  him  —  let  it  now 
Humanise  thee  ;  my  surly,  chiding  brother, 
Pledge  me  to  the  Greek  god  I 

Sal.  For  all  thy  realms 

I  would  not  so  blaspheme  our  country's  creed. 

Sar.  Thit  is  to  say.  thou  Ihinkest  him  a  hero, 
That  he  shed  blood  by  oceans ;  and  no  god, 
Because  he  turn'd  a  fiuit  to  an  enchantment. 
Which  cheers  the  sad,  revives  the  old,  inspires 
The  youni,  makes  weariness  forget  his  toil, 
And  fear  her  danger ;  opens  a  new  world 
When  this,  the  present, palls.  Well,  then  /pledge thee 
And  Aim  as  a  true  man,  svho  did  his  utmost 
In  good  or  evil  to  surprise  mankind.  [DrinJu. 

Sal.  Wiit  thou  resume  a  revel  at  this  hour  ? 

Sar.  And  if  I  did.  't  were  be  ter  than  a  trophy, 
Being  bought  ivilhout  a  tear.     But  that  is  not 
My  present  purpose :  since  thou  wilt  not  pledge  me. 
Continue  what  thou  pleasest. 
(To  the  Cupbearer.)  Boy,  retire. 

[Exit  CupUarer. 

Sal.  I  would  but  have  recall'd  thee  from  thy  dream ; 
Better  by  me  awaken'd  than  rebellion. 

Sar.  Who  should   rebel  ?  or   why  ?   what  cause  ? 
pretext  ? 
I  am  the  lawful  king,  descended  from 
A  race  of  kings  who  knew  no  predecessors. 
What  have  I  done  'o  thee,  or  to  the  people, 
That  thou  shoulds!  rail,  or  they  rise  up  against  me? 

S.W.  Of  what  thou  hast  done  to  me,  1  speak  not. 

Sar.  But 

Thou   think'sf  that  I  have  wrong'd  the  queen:  ist 
not  so? 

Sal.  Think !  Thou  hast  wrong'd  her  ! 

Sar.  Patience,  prince,  and  hear  me. 

She  has  all  power  and  splendour  of  her  station. 
Respect,  the  tu  ehge  of  Assyria's  heirs. 
The  homage  and  the  appmaije  of  sovereignty. 
I  married  her  as  monarchs  wed  — for  state. 
And  loved  her  is  most  husbands  love  their  wives. 
If  she  or  thou  supposeds'  I  could  link  me 
Like  a  Chaldean  pea.saDt  to  his  ma'e. 
Ye  knew  nor  me,  nor  monarchs,  nor  mankind. 

Sal.  I  pray  thee,  change  the  theme:  my  blood  d» 
daiiis 
Complaint,  and  Salemenes"  sister  seeks  not 
Reluc  ant  love  even  from  Assyri  I's  lord  : 
Nor  would  she  deign  to  accept  divided  passion 
Wi'h  foreign  slrunipets  and  Ionian  slaves. 
The  queen  is  silent. 

Sar.  And  why  not  her  brother  ? 

Sal.  I  only  echo  thee  the  voice  of  empires. 
Which  he  who  Ions  neglects  not  long  will  govern. 

Sar.  The  ungrateful   and   ungracious  slavesl  they 
murmur 
Because  I  hive  not  shed  their  blood,  nor  led  them 
To  dry  into  the  desert's  dust  by  myriads, 
Or  wliiten  with  their  b^m^s  ihe  banks  of  Ganges ; 
Nor  decima'ed  Ihem  with  sa»  ige  laws. 
Nor  sweated  them  to  build  up  pyramids. 
Or  Babylonian  walls. 


26* 


20 


306 


SARDANAPALUS: 


[Act  I. 


Sal.  Vet  these  are  trophies 

More  worthy  of  a  people  and  iheir  prince 
Than  songs,  and  luies,  and  fe>sis,  and  concubines, 
And  lavished  treasures,  and  contemned  virtues. 

Sar.  Or  for  mv  trophies  I  have  founded  cities : 
There  's  Tarsus  and  Anchialus,  both  built 
In  one  day  —  what  could  that  blood-loving  beldame, 
My  martial  grandam.  chaste  Semiramis, 
Do  more,  except  destroy  them  ? 

Sal.  'T  is  most  true; 

I  own  thy  merit  in  those  founded  cities, 
Built  for'a  whim,  recorded  with  a  verse, 
Which  shames  both  them  and  thee  to  coming  ages. 

Sar.  Shame  me !     By  Baal,  the  cities,  though  well 
built, 
Are  not  more  goodly  than  the  verse  !     Say  what 
Thou  wilt  against  me,  my  mode  of  life  or  rule. 
But  nothing  'gainst  the  truth  of  that  brief  record. 
Why,  those  few  lines  contain  the  history 
Of  all  things  humin  :  hear  —  ••  Sardanapalus, 
The  king,  and  son  of  Anacyndaiaxes, 
In  one  day  built  Anchiilus  and  Tarsus. 
Eat,  drink,  and  love  ;  the  rest 's  not  worth  a  fillip."'  i 

Sal.  A  worthy  moral,  and  a  wise  inscription, 
For  a  king  to  put  up  before  his  subjects! 

Sar.  Oh,   thou   wouldst  have  me  doubtless  set  up 
edicts  — 
"  Obey  the  king  —  contribute  to  his  treasure  — 
Recruit  his  phalanx  — spill  your  blood  at  bidding  — 
Fall  down  and  worship,  or  get  up  and  toil." 
Or  thus  —  "  Sardanapalus  on  this  spot 
Slew  filly  thousand  of  his  enemies. 
These  are  their  sepulchres,  and  this  his  trophy." 
I  leave  such  things  to  conquerors;  enough 
For  me,  if  I  can  make  my  subjects  feel 
The  weight  of  human  misery  less,  and  glide 
Ungroaning  to  the  tomb :  I  fake  no  license 
Which  I  deny  to  them.     We  all  are  men. 

Sal.  Thy  sires  have  been  revered  as  gods — 

Sar.  In  dust 

And  death,  where  they  are  neither  gods  nor  men. 


1  "For  this  expedition  he  took  only  a  small  chosen 
body  of  the  ptialanx,  but  all  his  liglit  tr<.op8.  In  the  first 
day's  march  he  reached  Anchialus,  a  town  said  to  have 
twen  founded  by  the  king  of  Assyria,  Sardanapalus.  Tlie 
fortifirations.  in  their  magnitude  and  extent,  still 
Arrian'a  lime,  bore  tlie  charjcter  of  greatness,  which  the 
Assyrians  appear  singularly  to  have  affected  in  works  of 
the  kind.  A  monument  representing  Sardanapalus  was 
found  there,  warranted  by  an  inscription  in  Agsyrmn  cha- 
racters, of  course  in  the  old  Assyrian  language,  which  the 
Greeks,  whether  well  or  ill,  interpreted  thus;  'Sardana- 
palus, eon  of  Anacyndaraxes,  in  one  day  founded  Anchia- 
lus anil  Tarsus.  Kal,  drink,  play;  all  i4lier  human  joys 
are  not  worth  a  fillip.'  Supposing  this  version  nearly 
exact  (for  Arrian  says  it  was  nnl  quite  so),  whether  the 
purpose  has  not  tieen  to  invite  to  civil  order  a  peopl 
posed  to  turbulence,  rather  than  t 
ate  luxury,  may  perhaps  reas<'nably  be  questioned.   Whi 


Talk  not  of  such  lo  me  !  the  worms  are  gods; 

At  least  they  banqueted  upon  your  gods. 

And  died  for  lack  of  farther  nutriment. 

Those  gods  were  merely  men ;  look  to  their  issue  — 

I  feel  a  ihousand  mortal  things  about  me. 

But  nothing  godlike, —  unless  it  may  be 

The  thing  which  you  condemn,  a  disposition 

To  love  and  to  be  merciful,  to  pardon 

The  follies  of  my  species,  and  (that 's  human) 

To  be  indulgent  to  my  own. 

Sal.  Alas ! 

The  doom  of  Nineveh  is  seal'd.— Woe  —  woe 
To  the  unrivall'd  city  '. 
Sar.  What  dost  dread  ! 

Sal.  Thou  art  guarded  by  thy  foes :  in  a  few  bour< 
The  tempest  may  break  out  which  overwhelms  thee, 
And  thine  and  mine  ;  and  in  another  d.iy 
What  IS  shall  be  the  pa>t  of  Belus'  race. 
Sar.  What  must  we  dread  ? 

Sal.  Ambitious  treachery, 

Which  has  environ'd  thee  with  snares  ;  but  yet 
There  is  resource  :  empower  mc  with  thy  signet 
To  quell  the  machinations,  and  I  lay 
The  heads  of  thy  chief  foes  before  thy  feet. 
.Sar.  The  heads  —  how  many  ? 
Sal.  Must  I  stay  to  number 

When  even  thine  own's  in  peril  ?    Let  me  go; 
Give  me  thy  signet  —  trust  me  with  the  rest. 

.Sar.  I  will  trus'  nn  man  with  unlimited  lives. 
When  we  take  those  from  others,  we  nor  know 
What  we  have  taken,  nor  the  thing  we  give. 
Sal.  Wouldst  thou  not  take  their  lives  who  seek  for 

thine? 
Sar.  That 's  a  hard  question  —  But  I  answer,  Yes. 
Cannot  the  ihing  be  doi.e  w  ithout  ?    Who  are  they 
Whom  thou  suspectest  ?—  Let  them  be  arrested. 
Sal.  r would  thou  wouldst   not  ask  me;  the  nejtt 
moment 
Will  send  my  answer  through  thy  babbling  troop 
Of  paramours,  and  thence  fly  o'er  the  palace, 
Even  to  the  citv,  and  so  baffle  all. — 
Trust  me, 

Sar.        Thou  knowest  I  have  done  so  ever ; 
Take  thou  the  signet.  [Gives  the  signtt. 

Sal.  I  have  one  more  request  — 

Sar.  Name  it. 

Sal.  That  thou  this  night  forbear  the  banquet 
In  the  pavilion  over  the  Euphrates. 

Sar.  Forbear  the  Kinquet !     Not  for  all  the  plotters 
That  ever  shook  a  kingdom  !     Let  them  come, 
And  do  their  worst :  1  shall  not  blench  for  them  ; 
Nor  rise  the  sooner  ;  nor  forbear  the  goblet ; 
Nor  crown  me  with  a  single  rose  the  less  ; 
Nor  lose  one  jovous  hour. —  I  fear  them  not. 
Sal.  But  ihou  wouldst  arm  thee,  wouldst  thou  not 

if  needful  ? 
Sar.  Perhaps.    I  have  the  goodliest  armour,  and 
inmend'Tninioder-  ]  A  sword  of  such  a  temper ;  and  a  bow 

What,    And  javelin,  which  might  furnish  Nimrod  forth: 

found-    A  Utile  heavy,  but  yet  not  unwieldy. 

apital,  !  And  now  I  think  on  't,  't  is  long  since  I  've  used  them. 


the  object  of  a  king  of  Assyr 
ing  such  towns  in  a  country  so  distant  from  his  capital,  \  And  now  I  think  on  't,  't  is  long 
and  so  divided   fiom  it  by  an   immense  extent  of   sandy    gven  in  the  ch  ise.     Hast  ever  seen  them,  brother? 
deserts  and  Infly  mountains,  and,  still  more,  how  the  ni-  ,       ^  j    j    ,j  j        ,j        {  f^  f^p  35,;,,  jrifling  " 

babilanis  couhl  be   at  once  in   circumstances  to  abandon  ' 


thou  wear  Ihem: 


Will  I  not  ? 


the    intemperate  j"ys  which  their  prince  l"  "'=™ 
..■■a.  uet-.,  =...pposed  to  have  recommended,  is  not  obvious:         ^ar.  u    1      „ 

1 1  but  it  may  deserve  observation  that,  in  that  line  of  coast,  '  Oh  !  if  it  must  be  SO,  and  these  rash  slaves 
the  southern  of    Lesser  Asia,  ruins  of  cities,  evidently  of  ;  Will  not  be  ruled  with  less,  I  '11  use  the  sword 
an    age  after  Alexander,  yet  boiely  named  in  hiat.iry.  at    Till  they  shall  wish  it  turn'd  into  a  distaff, 
this  day  a.sloBi8h  the  adventurous  traveller  by  Iheir  mag-        ffat.  They  sav  thy  sceptre  's  turn'd  to  that  already. 
nificeB'-e  and  clecaiice.     Amid  the  desolation  which,  on-        g^^.    xh^t 's  ' false  !  but    let    them  say  so  :  the  oli 
der  a  singularly  barbarian   government,  has  for  so  many  |  Creeks 

JbrglX".  X"hef  Lr7;:;Sf  io,l''a;d''rmaTe:"o';Trom^   Of  whom  our'captives  of^en  sing  rela^d 
opportunities   fc.r  commerce,   extraordinarv  means  must    T  he  same  of  their  chief  hero,  Hercules, 
have    been    fr.und     for    communities   to  tinurish    there;    Because  he  loved  a  Lydian  Cjucen  :  thou  seest 
■whence  it  may  seem  that  the  measures  of  Sardanapalus    The  populace  of  all  the  nations  ?ei2e 
were  directed  by  juster  views  than  have  been  comm.inly    Each  calumny  thev  can  to  sink  their  sovereigns. 

Sa;.  They  did  not  speak  thus  of  thy  fathers. 

They  dared  not.  They  were  kept  to  toil  and  combat ; 
And  never  changed  their  chains  but  for  their  armour : 
Now  they  haxe  peace  and  pastime,  and  the  license 


ascribed  to  bim  t  but  that  monarch  having  been  the  last 
of  a  dynasty  ended  by  a  levolution,  obloquy  on  his  me- 
mory would  follow  of  course  froin  the  policy  of  his  suc- 
cessors and  their  pnrtisans.  The  inconsistency  of  tra- 
ditions concerning  Sardanapalus  is  striking  In  Diodorus'a 
MITFORD'S  Greece, 


311. 


Scene  II.] 


A   TRAGEDY. 


307 


To  revel  and  to  rail ;  it  irkf  me  not. 

I  would  not  give  the  smile  of  one  fair  prl 

For  all  Itie  popular  br&ith  'hit  e'er  divided 

A  name  from  nothing.     VVhal  are  the  rank  tongues 

Of  this  vile  herd,  grown  iniolei.t  with  feeding. 

That  I  should  prize  their  noisy  jraise,  or  dread 

Their  noiiouie  clamour  ? 

Snl.  You  have  said  they  are  men; 

As  such  their  hearts  are  something. 

Sar.  So  my  Jogs'  are  ;  » 

And  t>et  er,  as  more  faithful :  —  but,  proceed  ; 
Thou  hast  my  signet :  —  since  they  are  tumultuous, 
1.6!  Ihcm  be  iemper'd,  yet  not  roughly,  till 
Necessity  enforce  it.     1  bite  all  pain, 
Given  or  received  ;  we  hue  enough  ivithin  us, 
The  meanest  vassal  as  the  loftieit  monarch. 
Not  to  add  lo  each  other's  natural  burthen 
Of  mortal  misery,  but  rather  lessen. 
By  mild  reciprool  alleviilioii, 
The  f.ttal  pen  .liies  imposed  on  life  : 
But  this  they  know  not,  or  they  will  not  know. 
I  have,  by  Bail !  done  all  I  could  to  soothe  them: 
I  made  no  wirs,  I  added  no  new  imposts, 
I  interfered  not  with  iheir  civic  lives, 
I  let  them  p  iss  their  d  lys  as  best  miiht  suit  them, 
P?.ssing  my  own  as  suited  me. 

Sal.  Thou  stopp'st 

Short  of  the  duties  of  a  king  ;  and  'herelore 
They  say  thou  art  unlit  to  be  a  niomrch. 

Sar.  They  lie.  —  Unhippily.  I  am  unfit 
To  be  augh'  save  a  monarch  ;  else  for  me 
The  meanest  Mede  mi?ht  be  the  king  instead. 

Sat.  There  is  one  Mede,  at  least,  who  seeks  lo  be  so. 

Sar.  What  meanest  thou'.  — 'tis  thy  secret;  thou 
desirest 
Few  questions,  and  I'm  not  of  curious  nature. 
Take  the  fit  steps  ;  and,  since  necessity 
Requires,  I  sanction  and  suppfirt  thee.     Ne'er 
Was  man  who  more  desired  to  rule  in  peice 
The  peaceful  only  :  if  they  rouse  me,  tjetter 
Tbey  had  conjured  up  stem  Ninirod  from  his  ashes, 
"The  mighty  hunter."    I  will  turn  these  reilms 
To  one  wide'deserl  chase  of  brutes,  who  were. 
But  vpmdd  no  more,  by  their  own  choice.  \x  human. 
What  they  have  found  me,  they  belie  ;  Ihat  which 
They  yet  may  tiiid  me  —  shall  defy  their  wish 
To  speat  it  worse ;  and  let  them  thank  themselves, 

Sal.  Then  thou  at  last  canst  feel  ? 

Sar.  Feel !  who  feels  not 

Ingratitude? 

Sal.  I  will  not  pause  to  answer 

With  words,  but  deedi.     Keep  thou  awake  that  energy 
Which  sleeps  at  times,  but  is  no'  dead  within  thee, 
And  thou  may'st  yet  be  glorious  in  thy  reign, 
As  powerful  in  ttiy  realm.     Farewell' ! 

[Exit  SaUmmci. 

Sar.  (sohit.)  Farewell '. 

He  's  gone ;  and  on  his  finger  bears  my  signet. 
Which  is  lo  him  a  sceptre.     He  is  stern 
As  I  am  heedless ;  and  the  slaves  deserve 
To  feel  a  master.     What  may  be  the  danser, 
I  know  not :  he  hath  found  it,  let  him  quell  it. 
Must  I  consume  my  life  —  this  little  life  — 
In  suaiding  against  .all  may  make  it  lei^s? 
It  is  not  worth  so  much  1     It  were  to  die 
Before  my  hour,  lo  live  in  dread  nf  death, 
Tra'-ing  revolt ;  suspecting  all  about  me. 
Because  they  are  near;  and  all  who  are  remote, 
Because  they  are  fir.     But  if  it  should  be  ^o—    _ 
If  they  should  sweep  me  off  from  earth  and  empire. 
Why,  what  is  eirtli  or  empire  nf  the  earth  ? 
I  have  loved,  and  lived,  and  multiplied  my  image; 
To  die  is  no  less  natural  thin  those 
Acts  of  this  chy  !    'T  is  true  I  have  not  shed 
Blood  as  I  m'ght  have  done,  in  oceans,  till 
My  name  bee 'me  the  synonyme  of  death  — 
A  terror  and  a  trophy.     Bu'  for  this 
I  fee  no  penitence ;  my  life  is  Icve : 


If  I  must  shed  blood,  it  shall  be  by  firce. 

Till  now,  no  drop  from  an  Assyrian  vein 

Hath  tiow'd  for  me,  nor  hath  the  smallest  coin 

Of  Nineveh's  va  t  trersures  e'er  been  lavish'd 

On  objec  s  which  could  ost  her  sons  a  leir : 

If  then  they  hate  me,  't  is  beciu?e  I  hale  not: 

if  they  rebel,  'tis  because  I  oppress  not. 

Oh,  men  '.  ye  must  be  ruled  with  bc\  thes,  not  sceptres. 

And  niow'd  down  like  the  grass,  else  all  we  reap 

Is  rank  abundance,  and  a  ro:len  harvest 

Of  discontents  infecting  the  fair  soil, 

M  ikiug  a  desert  of  fer;iliiy.— 

I'll  think  no  more. Within  there,  ho! 

£;ifer  an  Altendant. 
Sar.  SI  I  ve,  tell 

The  Ionian  Myrrha  we  would  crave  her  presence. 
Attend.  King,  she  is  here. 

Myrrha  enters. 
Sar.  {apart  lo  Attendant).  Away  ! 
{Mdresyiiig  Myrrha  )  Beautiful  being  ! 

Thou  do.t  almost  anticipate  my  heirt ; 
It  throbb'd  for  thee,  and  here  thou  comest :  let  me 
Deem   that   some    unknown    iulluence,   some    sweet 

oricle. 
Communicates  between  us,  though  unseen, 
In  absence,  and  attracts  us  to  each  other. 
Myr.  There  doth. 

Siir.  I  know  there  doth,  but  not  its  name : 

What  is  it? 

Myr.  In  my  native  land  a  God, 

And  in  my  heart  a  feeling  like  a  G  'd's, 
Exalted  ;  vet  I  own  't  is  only  mortal ; 
For  what  I  feel  is  humble,  and  yet  happy  — 

That  is,  it  would  be  happy  ;  but 

[Myrrha  patuo. 

Sar.  Theie  comes 

For  ever  somelliing  between  us  and  what 
We  deem  our  happiness:  let  me  remove 
The  barrier  which  that  hesitating  accent 
Proclaims  to  thine,  and  mi..e  is  seal'd. 

Myr.  My  lord  !  — 

Sar.  My  lord— my  king— sire— sovereign;  tbu* 
it  is  — 
For  ever  thus,  address'd  with  awe.     I  ne'er 
Can  see  ti  smile,  unless  in  some  broad  banquet's 
Intoxicating  glare,  when  the  butToons 
Have  gorged  themseKes  up  to  equality, 
Or  I  have  qu'ff'd  me  down  to  their  abisemenl. 
Myrrha,  I  can  hear  all  these   hiiigs,  these  names, 
Lord  —  king  —  sire  —  monarch— nay,    lime     was    I 

prized  them  ; 
That  is,  I  sufferd  them —  from  slaves  and  nobles; 
But  when  they  falter  from  the  lips  I  love, 
The  lips  which  have  been  press'd  to  mine,  a  chill 
Comes  o'er  my  heart,  a  cold  sense  of  the  falsehood 
Of  this  my  sla'^on,  which  represses  feeling 
In  those  for  whom  I  have  fell  most,  and  makes  me 
Wish  that  I  could  lay  down  the  dull  tiara. 
And  shire  a  cottage  on  the  Caucasus 
Wi'h  thee,    nd  wear  no  crowns  but  those  of  flowers. 

Myr.  Would  that  we  could  ! 

Snr.  And  dnst  ih'u  feel  this  ?  —  Why  f 

Myr.  Then  thou   wouldst  know   what  thou  caiut 
never  know, 

Sar.  And  that  is 

Myr.  The  true  value  of  a  heart  j 

At  least,  a  woman's. 

.Sar.  I  have  proved  a  thousand^ 

A  thousand,  and  a  thousand. 

Myr.  Hearts  ? 

Sar,  I  think  so. 

yiyr.  Not  oae  !  the  time  may  come  thou  may'st. 

.Sar.  II  »■>'•• 

Hear.  Myrrha  ;  Salemenes  has  decbred  — 
Or  why  or  how  he  hath  divined  i",  Belus. 
Who  founded  our  gieat  leilni,  knows  more  than  I  — 
But  SalemenPo  hath  declared  my  throne 
In  peril. 

Myr.    He  did  well. 


303 


SARDANAPALUS: 


[Act 


n 


Sar.  And  say'st  thou  so  ? 

Thcu  "  honi  he  spurn "d  so  harshly,  and  now  dared 
U.ive  from  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers, 
And  made  thee  ueep  and  blush  ? 

Myr.  I  should  do  both 

More  frequently,  and  he  did  well  to  call  me 
Back  10  mv  dut'v.     But  thou  spakesl  of  ^ril  — 
Feril  to  thee — — 

Sar.  Ay,  from  dark  plots  and  snares 

From  Medes  — and  discontented  trqops  and  nations. 
1  know  mt  what  —  a  l:.byiihth  of  Ihinss  — 
A  mize  of  multer'd  threats  ai  d  mysleiies: 
Thoii  know'st  the  man  —  ii  is  hi~  usuil  custom. 
But  he  is  hone<it.     Come,  we  '11  thiuk  no  more  on  'I— 
B.ii  <i(  the  midnight  festival. 

Myr.  'T  is  time 

To  ihink  of  au?ht  snve  festivals.     1  hou  bast  not 
Snurn'd  his  sage  cautions? 
Sar.  What  ?  —  and  dost  thou  fear  ? 

Myr.  Fear  !  —  I  'm  a  Greek,  and  how  should  1  fear 
death? 
A  slave,  ^nd  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  freedom  ? 
Sar.  Then  wherefore  dost  ihou  turn  so  pale  ? 
Myr.  I  love. 

Sar.  And  do  not  I  ?    I  love  thee  far  —  ftr  more 
Thin  either  ihe  brief  life  or  the  wide  realm, 
Which,  it  may  be,  are  menaced;  —  yet  I  blench  not. 
Myr.  That  means  thou  lovesl  nor  thyself  nor  mej 
For  he  who  loves  ano  her  loves  himself. 
Even  for  Ihat  other's  sake.     This  is  too  rash: 
Kingdoms  and  lives  are  not  lo  be  so  I  i-t. 
Sur.  L'stI  —  whv,  who  is  the  aspiring  chief  who 
dared 
Ass'jme  to  win  them  ? 

Myr.  Who  is  he  should  dread 

To  try  so  much  ?    When  he  who  is  iheir  ruler 
Forgets  himself,  will  they  remember  him? 
Sar.  Myriha ' 

Myr.  Frown  not  upon  me:  you  have  smiled 

Too  fiflen  on  me  not  to  ni;ike  those  f  owns 
Bitierer  to  bear  than  any  punishment 
Which  they  may  ausur  —  King,  1  am  your  subject  I 
Master,  I  •in  your  slave  I     Mali,  I  have  loved  you!  — 
Loved  you,  I  kniw  not  by  what  fatal  weakness, 
Although  a  Greek,  and  born  a  foe  to  mouarchs  — 
A  slave,  and  haling  fellers  —  an  Ionian, 
And.  therefore,  when  1  love  a  stranger,  more 
Degraded  by  that  passion  than  by  chains ! 
Slill  I  have'loved  you.     If  that  love  were  strong 
Enough  to  overcome  all  former  na  ure, 
Slnll  it  not  claim  the  |irivilcge  to  save  you  ? 

Sar.  Save  me.  my  beauty  !    Thou  art  very  fair. 
And  what  I  seek  ot'thee  is  love  —  not  safety. 
Myr.  And  «  ilhout  love  where  dwells  security  ? 
Sar.  I  sjjeak  of  won»oii"s  love. 
Myr.  The  very  first 

Of  human  life  must  spring  from  woman's  b'.eist, 
Your  first  small  words  are  taught  you  from  her  lips. 
Your  fir,t  lears  queiichM  by  her,  and  your  last  sighs 
Too  often  brcalhed  out  in  a  woman's  hearing. 
When  men  have  shrunk  from  Ihe  ignoble  caie 
Of  watching  the  las:  hour  of  him  who  led  ihem. 

Sar.  My  eliquent  Ionian  I  thou  speak'st  music; 
The  very  chorus  of  the  tragic  song 
I  have  heard  thee  alk  of  as  the  f.ivourile  pastime 
Of  thy  far  fathei-i.md.     N <y,  weep  not  —  calm   hee. 
Myr.  I  weep  not.— But  I  pray  thee,  do  not  speak 
About  my  fathers  or  their  land. 

Sar.  Yet  oft 

Than  speakes!  of  Ihem. 

Myr.  True  — true:  constant  thought 

Will  overflow  in  words  unconsciously  ; 
But  when  another  spenks  of  Greece,  it  wounds  me. 
Sar.  Well,  then,  how  wouldst  thou  save  me,  as  thou 

s»idsl? 
Myr.  By  teaching  thee  to  sive  thyself,  and  not 
Thvself  aione,  but  ihese  vast  realms,  from  all 
The  rage  of  the  worst  war  — the  w..r  of  brethren. 
Sar.  Why,  child,  I  loathe  all  war,  and  warriors; 
I  live  in  peace  and  pleasure  :  whit  can  man 
Do  more  ? 


Myr.       Alas',  my  lord,  with  common  meo 
Theie  needs  too  oft  the  show  of  war  to  keep 
The  substance  of  sweet  peace  ;  and,  for  a  king, 
'T  is  sometimes  belter  to  be  fear'd  than  loved. 
Sar.  And  1  hive  never  sought  but  for  the  list. 
Myr.  And  now  art  neither. 

Sar.  Dost  thou  say  so,  Myrrha? 

Myr.  I  speak  of  civic  popular  love,  »e//-love. 
Which  means  lhat  men  are  kept  in  awe  and  law. 
Yet  not  oppressed  —  at  least  ihey  must  not  think  so, 
Or  if  they  think  so,  deem  it  necessiry. 
To  ward  otT  worse  oppression,  their  own  passions. 
A  king  of  feasts,  and  (lowers,  and  wine,  and  revel. 
And  love,    nd  mirth,  was  never  king  of  glory. 
Sar.  Glory!  what  "s  that? 

Myr.  Ask  of  the  gods  thy  fathers. 

Sar.  They  cannot  answer ;  when  the  priests  speak 
for  Ihem, 
'T  is  for  some  small  addition  to  the  temple. 

Myr.  Look  to  Ihe  annals  of  thine  empire's  founders. 
Sar.  They  are  so  blotied  o'er  with  blood,  1  cannot 
Bui  what  wouldst  have?  Ihe  empire  has  been  founded. 
1  cannot  go  on  multiplying  empires. 
Myr.  Preserve  thine  own. 

Sar.  At  least,  I  will  enjoy  it. 

Come,  Myrrha,  let  us  go  on  to  the  Euphrates: 
The  hour  invites,  the  galley  is  prepired. 
And  Ihe  pavilion,  deck'd  for  our  return. 
In  tit  adnriimeiit  for  the  evening  banquet. 
Shall  blaze  with  beauty  and  with  light,  until 
It  seems  unto  the  stars  which  are  above  us 
It-elf  an  opposite  star;  and  we  will  sit 

Crowii'd  with  fresh  Bowers  like 

Myr.  Victims. 

Sar.  No,  like  sovereigns, 

The  shepherd  kin?  of  patriarchal  time  , 
Who  knew  no  brighter  gems  than  summer  wreath^ 
And  none  but  tearless  triumphs.     Let  us  on. 


Eriter  Pania. 
Pan.  May  the  king  live  for  ever  ! 
Sar.  Not  an  hour 

Longer  than  he  can  love.     How  my  soul  hates 
This  language,  which  makes  life  i'self  a  lie. 
Flattering  dust  wih  eternity.     Well,  Pania  ! 
Be  brief. 

Pan.     I  am  charged  by  Salemenes  to 
Reilera'e  his  prayer  unto'  the  kinu. 
That  for  this  day,  at  leist,  he  w  ill  not  quit 
The  palice  :  w  hen  the  general  returns. 
He  will  adduce  such  reasons  as  will  warrant 
His  daring,  and  perh  ps  obtain  the  pardon 
Of  his  presumption. 

Sar.  What !  am  I  then  coop'd  ? 

Already  c>ptive?  can  I  not  even  breiihe 
The  bieaih  of  heaven  ?    Tell  prince  Salemenes, 
Were  all  Assyria  raging  round  the  walls 
In  mulii:ous  myriads,  1  would  s  ill  go  forth. 

Pan.  I  mus''  obey,  and  yet 

Myr.  Oh,  monirch,  listen.- 

How  many  a  day  and  moon  thou  hast  reclined 
Within  these  palace  walls  in  silken  dalliance. 
And  never  shown  thee  to  thy  people  s  longing  ; 
Leaving  thy  sub.iecls'  eyes  ungralified, 
The  satrps  uncontroli'd,  the  gods  unworshipp'd. 
And  all  things  in  the  anarchy  of  sloth. 
Till  all.  save  evil,  slumber'd  through  the  realm  ! 
And  wilt  Ihou  not  now  tarry  for  a  day, — 
A  day  which  may  redeem  thee?    Wilt  thou  not 
Yield  to  the  few  still  faithful  a  few  hours. 
For  them,  for  thee,  for  thy  past  father's  race, 
Aid  for  thy  sons'  inheritance  ? 

Pan.  'T  is  true! 

From  the  deep  urgency  with  which  the  prince 
Despatch'd  me  to  Voiir'sicred  presence,  I 
Must  dare  to  add  my  feeble  voice  to  lhat 
Which  now  his  spoken. 
Sar.  No,  it  must  not  he, 

Myr.  For  Ihe  sake  of  thy  realm  1 
Sar.  Away! 

Pan.  For  ths 


Scene  II.] 


A  TRAGEDY. 


309 


Of  all  tby  faithful  subier^i,  who  will  rally 
Round  tbe«  and  ibiou 

Sar.  These  are  mere  fantasies : 

There  is  no  peril :  —  't  is  a  sullen  scheme 
Of  Salenienes,  to  approve  his  zeal, 
And  show  himself  iiioru  necessary  to  us. 

Alyr.  By  all   that  's    good  and  gloiious  take   this 
counsel. 

Sar.  Business  to  morrow. 

Mijr.  Ay,  or  death  to-nigbt. 

Sar.  Why  let  it  come  then  uuexpec  edly, 
'Midst  joy  and  gentleness,  and  Uiirlh  and  love; 
So  let  me  fall  like  the  pluck'd  rose!  —  far  belter 
Thus  tliau  be  witber'd. 

Myr.  Then  thou  wilt  not  yield, 

Even  for  the  sake  of  all  lint  ever  stirr'd 
A  monarch  into  action,  to  forego 
A  trifling  revel. 

Sar.  No. 

Myr.  Then  yield  for  mine; 

For  my  sake ! 

Sar.  Thine,  my  Myrrha ! 

Myr.  'T  is  the  first 

Boon  which  I  ever  ask'd  Assyria's  king. 

Sar.  That  "s  true,  and  were't  my  kingdom  must  be 
granted. 
Well,  for  thy  sike,  I  yield  me.    Paai  i,  hence  ! 
Thou  hear'st  me. 

Pan.  And  obey.  [Exit  Pania. 

S<ir.  I  marvel  at  Ihee. 

What  is  thy  motive,  Myrrhi,  thus  lo  urge  me  ? 

Myr.  Thy  safety  ;  and  the  ceriainly  that  nought 
Could  urge  the  pricxe  thy  ki.'isnip.n  to  require 
Thus  much  from  thee,  but  some  impending  d mger. 

S'ir.  And  if  1  do  not  dread  it,  why  shouldsl  thou  ? 

Myr.  Because  t/icu  do^t  not  fear,  1  fear  for  Ihee. 

Sar.  To-morrow  thou  w  ilt  smile  at  these  vain  fancies. 

Myr.  If  the  «orst  conie,  I  shall  be  where  none  weep, 
And  thai  is  better  than  the  power  to  smile. 
And  thou  ? 

Sar.  I  shall  be  king,  as  heretofore. 

Myr.  Where? 

Sar.  With  Baal,  Nimrod,  and  Semiramis, 

Sole  in  Assyria,  or  with  them  eUewhere. 
Fate  made  me  what  I  am  —  may  make  me  nothing  — 
But  either  that  or  nothing  must  i  be  : 
I  will  not  live  degraded. 

Myr.  Had-t  Ihou  felt 

Thus  alwfys,  n'^ne  W'uld  ever  dare  degrade  thee. 

Sar.  And  who  will  do  so  now  ? 

Myr.  Do^t  thou  suspect  none  ? 

Sar.  Suspect !  —  thit  's  a  spy's  oiBce.     Oh  '.  we  lose 
Ten  thousand  precious  moments  in  vain  words, 
And  vainer  fears.     Within  there '.  —  ye  slave  ,  deck 
'!  he  hall  of  Nimrod  for  the  evening  revel  : 
If  I  Kiu>t  make  a  prison  nf  our  pal  ice. 
At  leist  we  'II  wear  our  fefeis  jocundly  ; 
If  the  Euphra'es  be  f  irbid  us,  and 
The  summer  dwelling  on  iis  beauteous  border, 
Here  we  are  still  unmenaced.     Hn  '.  within  there? 

[£xif  Sardanapn'its. 

Myr.  (sola).    Why  do  I  love  tliis  man  ?    My  coun- 
try's d  ughters 
Love  none  b:it  heroes.     But  I  have  no  country  ! 
■J'he  slave  hath  lo.t  all  save  her  bond  .     I  love  him; 
And  that 's  'be  heaviest  link  of  the  long  chain  — 
j  To  bve  whom  we  esteen>  not.     Be  it  so  : 
The  hour  is  coming  »  hen  he  'II  need  all  love, 
And  find  none.     To  fill  from  him  now  were  baser 
Than  to  have  stabb'd  him  on  his  throne  w  hen  highest 
Would  have  been  noble  in  rny  country's  creed  : 
I  was  not  made  for  either.     Could  I  save  him, 
I  should  not  love  Ami  beltei,  but  myself; 
And  I  have  need  of  the  list,  for  I  have  fallen 
j  In  my  own  thoughts,  by  loving  thi.  sof'  stranger: 
And  yet  meihinks  I  love  him  more,  perceiving 
That  he  is  hated  of  his  own  barbatians. 
The  na'ural  foes  of  all  the  blond  of  Greece. 
Could  I  but  w  ke  a  single  thought  like  those 
Which  even  the  Phrygians  felt  when  battling  lorg 
'T  wixt  Ilion  and  the' sea,  wi  hin  his  heart, 


He  would  tread  down  the   barbarous  crowds,  and 

triumph. 
He  loves  me,  and  I  love  him ;  the  slave  loves 
Her  master,  and  would  fiee  him  from  his  vices. 
If  not,  1  have  a  means  of  freedom  still. 
And  if  I  cannot  teach  him  how  to  leign, 
May  show  him  how  alone  a  king  on  leave 
His  throne.    1  must  not  lose  him  fiom  my  sight. 

lExit. 


SCENE    I . 
T/u  Portal  of  the  same  HaU  of  the  Palace. 


I     BeUses (solus).  The  sun  gees  down:  methicka  he 

gets  more  slowly. 
;  Taking  his  last  look  of  Assyria's  empire. 
i  How  red  he  glares  amongst  those  deepening  clouds, 

Like  the  blood  he  predicts.     If  no!  in  v.iin, 
[  Thou  sun  that  sinkest,  and  ye  s'ars  which  rise, 

I  have  outwatch'd  je,  reading  ray  by  ray 

Tlie  edic;s  of  your'orbs,  which  make  Time  tremble 
;  For  what  he  bricgs  ihe  nations,  't  is  the  furthest 
I  Hour  of  Assyria's  years.     And  yet  how  calm  ! 

An  earthquake  should  announce  so  great  a  fall  — 

A  summer's  sun  discloses  it.     Yon  disk, 
j  To  ihe  star-read  Chaldean,  bears  upon 

Its  evei lasting  page  Ihe  end  of  what 
'  Seem'd  everlasting ;  but  oh  '.  thou  true  sun ! 
1  The  burning  oracle  of  all  that  live. 

As  fountain  of  oil  life,  and  symbol  of 
!  Him  who  bestoHs  i',  wherefore  dosi  thou  limit 

Tby  lore  unto  calamity  ?     Why  not 

Unfold  Ihe  rise  uf  days  more  worthy  thine 

All  glorious  burst  from  ocean  ?  why  not  dart 
j  A  beam  of  hope  athwart  Ihe  future  years. 

As  of  w  rath  to  its  da;,s  ?    Hear  me  !  oh,  hear  me  ! 
j  I  ani  thy  worshipper,'  thy  priest,  ihy  servant  — 
\  I  have  gazed  on  tl;ee  at  Ihy  rise  and  fall, 

And  bow"d  my  head  beneath  thy  midday  beams, 

When  my  eye  dared  not  meet  thee.     I  have  watcb'd 
j  For  Ihee,  aiid  after  thee,  and  pray'd  lo  Ihee, 
j  And  sacrificed  to  Ihee.  and  read,  and  fear'd  thee. 

And  ask'd  of  thee,  and  thou  hast  answer'd  —  but 

Only  to  thus  much  :  while  I  speak,  he  sinks  — 
I  Is  gone  —  and  leaves  his  beauty,  nrt  his  knowledge, 

To  the  delighted  west,  which  revels  m 

Its  hues  of  dying  gbry.     Yet  w  hat  is 

Death,  so  it  be  but  glorious  ?    'T  is  a  sunset ; 

And  mortals  may  be  happy  to  resemble 

The  gods  but  in  decay. 

Enter  Arbacei,  ly  an  inner  door. 
Arh.  Beleses,  why 

So  wrapt  in  thy  devotions .'    Dost  thou  stand 
Ga7ing  to  trace  Ihy  di-appearing  god 
In'o  some  realm  of  undiscover'd  day? 
Our  business  is  with  night  —  'tii  come. 

Btl.  But  not 

Gone. 
Arh.  Let  if  roll  on  —  we  are  ready. 
Ed.  Yes. 

Woul  I  it  were  over! 

Arh.  Does  the  prophet  doubt, 

To  whom  the  very  stars  shine  victory  ? 

Btl.  I  do  not  doubt  of  victory  —  but  the  victor. 
Arh.  Well,  let  thy  science  se'tle  that.     Meantime 
I  have  prepared  as  many  glittering  spe«rs 
As  w  ill  out-sparkle  our  allies  —  your  planets. 
There  is  no  more  to  thwart  us.     The  she-king, 
Tii3t  less  than  woman,  is  even  now  u|-on 
The  wa  ers  with  his  fennle  mates.     The  order 
I  Is  is-ued  for  the  feast  in  the  pavilion. 
:  The  fi:«l  cup  which  he  drains  will  be  Ihe  last 
i  Quair-d  by  the  line  of  Nimrod. 
I     Btl.  'T  was  a  braye  cne. 

I     Alb.  And   is  a   wesk  one— 'tis  worn  out  — 'sre'O 
I  mend  it. 


310 


SARDANAPALUS: 


[Act  II. 


BeU  Art  sure  of  that? 

^rb.  Its  founder  was  a  hunter  — 

I  am  a  soldier—  what  is  tbe:e  to  fear? 

£el.  The  soldier. 

jlrb.  And  the  priest,  it  may  be:  but 

If  ynu  thought  thus,  nr  Ihinll,  why  not  relaia 
Your  king  of  concubines  ?  wiiy  stir  me  up  ? 
Why  spur  me  lo  this  enterprise?  your  o»n 
Kg  less  than  mine  ? 

£el.  Look  to  the  sky  ! 

Mb.  I  look. 

Sd.  Whit  seest  lliou  ? 

Jrb.  A  fair  summer's  twilight,  and 

The  gathering  of  the  stars. 

£d.  And  'mid-t  them,  mark 

Yon  earliest,  and  the  brightest,  which  so  quivers, 
As  it  would  quit  its  place  in  the  blue  ether. 

Arb.  Well: 

Bd.  'T  is  thy  natal  ruler  —  thy  bir:h  planet. 

Mb.  {touching  his  scabbard.)  My  star  is  in  this  scab- 
bard :  when  it  shiues, 
It  shall  outdazzle  comets.     Let  us  think 
Of  what  is  lo  be  d  jne  lo  justify 
Thy  planets  and  their  porienls.     When  we  conquer, 
They  shall  have  temples  —  ay,  and  priests  —  and  thou 
Shalt  be  the  pontiff  of—  whal  gods  thou  wilt  j 
For  I  observe  that  they  are  ever  just, 
And  own  the  bravest  for  the  most  devout. 

£d.  Ay,  and  the  most  devout  for  brave  —  thou  hist 
not 
Seen  me  turn  back  from  battle. 

Arb.  No  ;  I  own  thee 

As  firm  in  fight  as  Babylonia's  captain, 
As  skilful  in  Chaldea's  worship  :  now. 
Will  it  but  please  thee  to  forget  the  priest, 
And  be  the  warrior  ? 

£el.  Whv  not  both  ? 

Arb.                              '  The  better; 

And  yet  it  almost  shames  me,  we  shall  have 
So  lillle  to  effect.     This  woman's  warfare 
Degrades  the  very  conqueror.     To  hive  pluck'd 
A  bold  and  bloody  despot  from  his  throne, 
And  grappled  w  ith  him,  dishing  steel  with  steel, 
'I  hat  were  heroic  or  to  win  or  fall  ; 
But  to  upraise  my  sword  against  this  silkworm, 
And  hear  him  whine,  it  may  be 

£d.  Do  not  deem  it : 

He  has  that  in  him  which  may  make  you  strife  yet ; 
And  were  he  all  you  think,  his  guards  are  hardy, 
And  heided  bv  the  cool,  stern  Salemenes. 

Mb.  They  '11  not  resist. 

£el.  Why  not?  they  are  soldiers. 

Mb.  True, 

And  therefore  need  a  soldier  to  command  them. 

£el.  That  Salemenes  is. 

Mb.  But  not  their  king. 

Besides,  he  hates  the  effeminate  thing  that  governs. 
For  the  queen's  sake,  his  sister.     Mark  you  not 
He  keeps  aloof  from  all  the  revels? 

£d.  But 

Not  from  the  council  —  there  he  is  ever  constant. 

Mb.  And  ever  thwarted  :  what  would  you  have  more 
To  make  a  rebel  out  of?     A  fool  reigning. 
His  blood  dishonour'd,  and  himself  disdain'd  : 
Why,  it  is  his  revenge  we  work  for. 

£d.  Could 

He  but  be  brought  to  think  so  :  (his  I  doubt  of. 

Mb.  What,  if  we  sound  him  ? 

Bel.  Yes  —  if  the  time  served. 

Fnier  £alea. 

Bnl.  Satraps!  The  king  commands  your  presence  at 
The  feist  tonight. 

£d.  To  hear  is  to  obey. 

In  the  pavilion  ? 

£al.  tio  ;  here  in  the  palace. 

Mb.  How !  in  the  palace?  it  was  not  thus  order'd. 

Bal.  It  is  so  order'a  now. 

Mb,  And  why  ? 

BaU  I  koovr  not. 

May  I  retire? 


Arb.  Slay. 

£d.  {to  Alb.  aside).  Hush  !  let  l.im  go  his  way. 
{Atteriialely  lo  £al.)  Yes,  Balea,  thank  the  nionurch, 

ki  s  ihe  hem 
Of  his  imperial  robe,  and  say,  his  slaves 
Will  take  the  crums  he  deigns  lo  scalier  from 
His  royal  table  at  he  hour  —  was 'I  midnight? 

£al.  It  was :  the  ])l3ce,  the  hall  of  Nimrod.    Lords, 
I  humble  me  befoie  you,  and  depart.        [Exit  Balea. 

Alb.  I  like  uol  this  same  sudden  change  of  place; 
There  is  some  mystery  :  wherefore  should  he  change 

Bel.  Dnlh  he  not  change  a  thousand  times  a  day  ? 
Sloth  is  of  all  things  the  most  fanciful  — 
And  moves  more  parasangs  in  its  intents 
I  Than  generals  in  Iheir  marches,  when  they  seek 
To  leave  Iheir  foe  al  fault. —  Why  dost  thou  muse  ? 

Arb.  He  loved  that  gay  pavilion, —  it  was  ever 
His  summer  dotage. 

I     Bel.  And  he  loved  his  queen  — 

I  And  ihrice  a  thousand  harlotry  besides  — 
I  And  he  has  loved  all  things  by  turns,  except 
I  Wisdom  and  glory.  ' 

Arb.  Still  —  I  like  it  not. 

If  he  has  changed  —  why,  so  must  we :  the  attack 
j  Were  easy  in  the  isolated  bower. 
Beset  wiii)  drowsy  guards  and  drunken  courtiers  ; 

I  But  in  the  hall  of  Kimrod 

BeL  Is  it  so  ? 

Melhought  Ihe  haughty  soldier  fear'd  lo  mount 
A  throne  too  easily  —does  it  disappoint  lhe<s 
lo  find  there  is  a  slipperier  step  or  two 
Than  whit  was  counted  on  ? 

Arb.  When  the  hour  comes. 

Thou  shall  perceive  how  far  I  fear  or  no. 
Thou  hast  seen  my  life  at  slake  —  and  gaily  play'd  for: 
But  here  is  more  upon  Ihe  die  — a  kingdom. 

Bd.  I  have  foretold  already—  thou  wilt  v/in  it: 
Then  on,  and  prosper. 

Arb.  Now  were  I  a  soothsayer, 

I  would  have  boded  so  much  to  myself. 
But  be  the  stars  obey'd  —  I  cannot  quarrel 
Wilh  them,  nor  their  interpreter.     Who 's  here  ? 

Enter  Salemenes. 

Sal.  Satraps! 

Bel.  My  prince ! 

Sal.  Well  met  —  I  sought  ye  both, 

But  elsen  here  than  the  palace. 

Arb.  Wherefore  so  ? 

Sal.  'T  is  not  Ihe  hour. 

Arb.  The  hour  !  —  what  hour  ? 

Sal.  Of  midnight. 

Bd.  Midnigh*,  my  lord  ! 

Sal.  What,  are  you  not  invited  ? 

Bd.  Oh !  yes  —  we  had  forgotleu. 

Sal.  Is  it  usual 

Thus  lo  forget  a  sovereign's  invitation  ? 

Arb.  Why  —  we  but  now  received  it. 

Sal.  Then  why  here  ? 

Arb.  On  duty. 

Sal.  On  what  duly? 

Bd.  On  the  state's. 

We  have  the  privilege  to  approach  the  presence; 
But  found  the  monarch  absent. 

Sal.  And  I  too 

Am  upon  duty. 

Arb.  May  we  crave  its  purport  ? 

Sal.  To  arrest  two  traitors.  Guards!  WitbiD  there! 

Enter  Guardt. 

Sal.  (continuing).  Satraps, 

Your  swords. 

Bd.  (delivering  his).  My  lord,  behold  my  scimitar. 

Arb.  (drawing  his  sword)  Take  mine. 

Sal.  (adva7iciiig).  I  will. 

Arb.  But  in  your  heart  the  blade  — 
The  hilt  quits  not  Ihis  hind. 

Sal.  (drawing).  How !  dost  thou  brave  me  > 

'T  is  well  — this  saves  a  trial,  and  5Jse  mercy. 
Soldiers,  hew  down  the  rebel ! 


SCBNK  I.J 


A   TRAGEDY. 


311 


Arb.  Soldiers  I    Ay  — 

Mone  you  dare  DOt. 

Sal.  Alone!  foolish  slave  — 

Wha:  is  there  in  thee  that  a  prince  should  shrink  from 
Of  open  force  ?  We  diead  thy  treason,  not 
Thy  s  reng  h  :  thy  looih  n  nought  without  i's  venom — 
The  serpeutV,  not  the  lious.     Cut  him  down. 

^e/.  (i/ifer;yo*t7ig).  Arbaces!    Are  you  mad  ?    Have 
1  not  reiulei'd 
My  sword  ?  Then  trust  like  meour  sovereign's  justice. 

Jlrb.  No  —  I  Will  sooner  tiust  the  stars  Ihou  pr.il'st 
of, 
And  this  slight  .irm,  and  die  a  king  at  leivt 
Of  my  own  breath  and  body  —  so  far  that 
None  else  shall  chain  them. 

Sal.  (to  the  Guards).  Tou  hear  kim  and  me. 

Take  him  not,— kill. 

[T/ie  Guards  attack  Arbaces.  who  defends  himself 
valiantly  and  dexterously  till  they  waver. 

Sal.  Is  it  even  s  > ;  and  must 

I  do  the  hangman's  office  ?    Recreants  :  ste 
How  you  should  fell  a  traitor. 

ISalemenes  attacks  Arbacet. 
Enter  Sardanapalus  and  Train. 

Sar,  Hold  your  hands  — 

Upon  your  lives,  I  say.     What,  deaf  or  drunken  ? 
My  sword  !  0  fool,  I  wear  no  sword  :  here,  fellow, 
Give  me  thy  weapon.  [To  a  Guard. 

iSardanapalus  snatches  a  sword  from  one  of 
the  soldiers,  and  rushes  between  the  combatant/ 
—  thty  separate. 

Sar.  In  my  very  palace  ! 

What  hinders  me  from  cleaving  you  in  twain, 
Audacious  brawlers  ? 

Bel.  Sire,  your  justice. 

Sal.  Or  — 

Your  weakness. 

Sar.  (raiting  the  sword).  How? 

Sal.  Strike  !  so  the  blow's  repeated 

Upon  yon  traitor —  whom  you  spare  a  moment, 
I  trust,  for  torture  —  I  'm  content. 

Sar.  What  — him! 

Who  dares  assail  Arbaces  ? 

Sal.  I ! 

Sar.  Indeed ! 

Prince,  you  forget  yiurself.    Upon  what  warrant? 

Sat.  (slunmng  the  signet).  Thine. 

Arb.  (confused).  The  king's! 

Sal.  Yes  !  and  let  the  king  conlirm  i(. 

Sar.  I  parted  not  from  this  for  such  a  purpose. 

Sal.  Tou  parted  with  it  for  your  safety  — 1 
Employ'd  it  for  the  best.     Pronounce  in  person. 
Here  I  am  but  your  slave  — a  moment  past 
I  w.as  your  repreicntative. 

Sar.  Then  sheathe 

Your  swords. 

[Arbaces  and  Sahmenes  return  their  swords  to 
the  scabbards. 

Sal.  Mine 's  sheathed :  I  pray  you  sheathe  not  yours  : 
'Tis  the  sole  sceptre  left  you  now  with  safety. 

Sar.  A  heavy  one  ,  the  hilt,  loo,  hurts  my  hand. 
(To  a  Guard.)  Here,  fellow,  take   thy  weapon   back. 

Well,  sirs, 
What  doth  this  mean  ? 

£tl.  The  prince  must  ansiver  that. 

5a/.  Truth  upon  my  part,  ireason  upon  theirs. 

Sar.  Treason  —  Arbaces  !  treachery  and  Releses  ! 
That  were  an  union  I  will  not  believe. 
Where  is  the  proof? 

Sal.  I  'II  answer  that,  if  once 

The  king  demands  your  fellow-traitor's  sword. 

Arb.  (to  Sal.t  A  sword  which  hath  been  drawn  as 
oft  as  thine 
Against  his  foes. 

Sal.  And  now  against  his  brother, 

And  in  an  hour  or  so  against  himself. 

Sar.  That  is  not  possible  :  he  dared  not ;  no  — 
No  —  I  "11  not  hear  of  such  things.    These  vain  bick- 
erings 
Are  spawn'd  in  courts  by  base  intrigues,  and  baser 


Hirelings,  who  live  by  lies  on  good  uneo'i  lives. 
Vou  must  have  been  deceived,  my  bro.her. 

Sal.  first 

Let  him  deliver  up  his  weapon,  and 
Proclaim  himself  your  subject  by  that  duty, 
And  I  will  answer  all. 

Sar.  Why,  if  I  thought  so  — 

Bui  no,  it  cannot  be  :  the  Mede  Arbaces  — 
'J'he  trusty,  rou^h,  true  soldier  —  the  best  captain 

Of  all  who  discipline  our  nations No, 

I'll  not  insult  him  thus,  to  bid  him  render 

The  scimitar  to  me  he  never  yielded 

Unto  our  enemies.     Chief,  keep  your  weapon. 

Sal.  (deiivartng  back  the  signet.)  Monarch,  lake 
back  your  signet. 

Sar.  "  No,  retain  it ; 

But  use  it  with  more  moderation. 

Sal.  Sire, 

I  used  it  far  your  honour,  and  restore  it 
Because  1  caun  it  Keep  it  with  my  own. 
Bestow  it  on  Arbaces. 

Sar.  So  I  should  : 

He  never  ask'd  it. 

Sal.  I  Doubt  not,  be  will  have  if, 

VViihout  that  hollow  semblance  of  respect. 

£cl.  I  know  not  what  bath  prejudiced  the  prince 
Sostiougly  'gainst  two  subjects,  than  whom  none 
Ha.e  been  more  zealous  for  Assyiias  weil. 

Sal.  Peace,  factious  priest,  aud  faithless  soldier! 
thou 
Unit'st  in  Ihy  own  person  the  worst  vices 
Of  the  most  dangerous  orders  of  mankind. 
Keep  thy  smooth  words  and  juggling  homilies 
For  iho.se  who  ki.ow  thee  not.     '1  hy  fell.iw's  sin 
Is,  at  the  least,  a  bold  one,  and  not  tempei  'd 
By  the  tricks  taught  thee  in  Chaldea. 

Bel.  Hear  him, 

My  liege  —  the  son  of  Belus  !  he  blasphemes 
'1  he  worship  of  the  land,  which  bows  the  knee 
Before  your  fathers. 

Sar.  Oh  !  for  that  I  pny  you 

Let  him  have  ab-olulion.     I  dispense  wiih 
The  worship  of  dead  men  ;  feeling  that  I 
Am  mortal,  ,ind  believing  that  the  race 
From   whence  I  sprung  are — what  I  see  them^ 
ashes. 


Sar.    You  shall  join  (hem  there  ere  thev  will  rise, 
If  you  preach  farther  —  Whv,  this  is  rank' Ireason. 

Sal.  .My  lord ! 

Sar.  To  school  me  in  the  worship  of 

Assyria's  idols  !    Let  him  be  released  — 
Give  him  his  sword. 

Sal.  My  lord,  and  king,  and  brother, 

I  pray  ye  pause. 

Sar.  Yes,  and  be  sermonised, 

And  dinn'd,  and  deafen'd  with  dead  men  and  Baal, 
And  all  Chaldei's  starry  mysteries. 

Bel.  Mon.uch  !  respect  them. 

Sar.  Oh  I  for  that  —  I  love  them  j 

I  love  to  watch  them  in  the  deep  blue  vault. 
And  to  compare  hem  with  my  Myrrha's  eyes; 
I  love  to  see  their  rays  redoubled  in 
The  tremulous  silver  of  Euphrates'  wave. 
As  the  light  breeze  of  midnight  crisps  the  broad 
And  rolling  water,  sighing  through  the  sedges 
Which  fringe  his  banks :  but  whether  they  may  be 
Gods,  as  Sfime  say,  or  the  abodes  of  gods. 
As  others  hold,  or  simply  lamps  of  uiglit. 
Worlds,  or  the  lights  of  worlds,  I  know  nor  care  not. 
There's  something  sweet  in  my  uncertainty 
I  would  not  change  f  jr  your  Chaldean  lore  ; 
Beidcs,  I  know  of  these  all  clay  can  ♦now 
Of  aught  above  it,  or  below  it  —  nothing. 
I  see  their  brilliancy  and  feel  their  beauty  — 
I  When  they  shine  on  my  grave  I  shall  know  neither. 
]     Bel.  For  rieillur,  sire,  say  better. 

Sar.  I  will  wait. 

If  it  so  please  you,  pontifl",  for  that  knowledge.  ' 
In  the  mean  time  receive  your  sword,  and  know 


312 


SARDANAPALUS; 


[Act  ir. 


That  I  prefer  your  service  militant 
Unto  your  ministry  —  not  loving  either. 
Sal.  (aside).  His  lusls  have  made  him  mad.     Then 
must  1  save  him, 
Spite  of  himself. 

Sar.  Pleise  you  to  hear  me,  Satraps  1 

And  chiefly  thou,  my  priest,  because  1  doubt  Ihee 
More  than  the  soldier;  aiid  would  doubt  thee  all 
Wert  thou  mt  half  a  warrior  :  let  us  part 
In  peace  —  I  'V.  not  say  pardon  —  which  must  be 
Eain'd  by  the  guilty  ;  this  I'll  no'  pronounce  ye, 
Although  u|>oii  this  brealh  of  mine  depends 
Your  own  ;  and,  deadlier  for  ye,  on  my  feirs. 
But  fear  not  —  lor  that  I  am  soft,  not  fearful  — 
And  so  live  on.     Were  I  ihe  thin»  some  think  me, 
Your  heads  would  now  be  dripping  the  last  drops 
Of  their  attainted  gore  from  the  hish  gites 
Of  this  our  pal  ice,  into  the  dry  dust. 
Their  only  portion  of  Ihe  coveted  kingdom 
They  would  be  crown'd  to  reign  o'er  — let  that  pass. 
As  1  have  said,  1  will  not  deem  ye  euiliy, 
Nor  doom  ye  guillle-s.     Albeit  better  men 
Than  ye  or  1  stand  ready  to  :irraign  you; 
And  should  I  leive  your  fa'e  to  sterner  judges, 
And  proofs  of  all  kinds,  1  mijht  sacrifice 
Two  men,  who,  «  halsoe'er  they  now  are,  were 
Once  honest.     Ye  are  fj  ee,  sirs. 

Arb.  Sire,  this  clemency 

Sel.  (interrupting  him).  Is  worthy  cf  yourseif ;  and, 
al  hough  innocent. 

We  thank 

Snr.        Priest!  keep  your  thanksgivings  for  Belus; 
His  offspring  needs  none. 
Bel.  But  being  innocent  — =- 

Har.  Be  silent  —  Guilt  is  loud.     If  ye  are  loyal. 
Ye  are  injured  men.  and  should  be  sad.  not  grateful. 

£el.  So  we  should  be,  weie  justice  always  done 
By  earthly  power  omnipotent ;  but  innocence 
Must  oft  receive  her  right  as  a  mere  favour. 

Sar.  That 's  a  good  sentence  for  a  homily. 
Though  not  for  this  occasion.     Prithee  keep  if 
To  pleid  tl:y  sovereign's  cause  before  his  people, 
Jiel.  I  trust  there  is  no  cause. 
Sar.  No  cause,  perhaps  ; 

But  many  causers  :  —  if  ye  meet  with  such 
Iq  the  esercie  of  your  inquisitive  function 
On  earth,  or  should  you  read  of  it  in  heaven 
In  some  niNSterious  twinkle  of  the  stars, 
Which  are'  your  chronicles,  I  pray  you  note. 
That  there  are  worse  things  betwixt  earth  and  heaven 
Than  him  who  ruleth  many  and  slays  none ; 
And,  hating  not  himself,  yet  loses  his  fellows 
Enough  to  spare  e\en  those  who  would  not  spare  him 
Were  they  once  misters  —  but  that 's  doubtful.  Satraps 
Your  swords  and  persons  are  at  liberty 
To  use  them  as  ye  will  —  but  from  this  hour 
I  hav*  no  call  for  either.    Salenienesl 
Follow  me. 

[Exeunt    Sardanapa'uf.   Satemenes,    and    the 
Train,  ^-c,  leaving  Arbaccs  and  Btlacs. 
Jlrb.  Seleses ! 

Bel.  Now,  what  think  you  ? 

Arb.  That  we  are  lost. 

Bel.  That  we  have  won  the  kingdom 

Arb.  What  ?  thus  suspected  —  with  the  sword  slun^ 
o'er  us 
But  by  a  single  hair,  and  that  still  wavering, 
To  be  blown  down  by  his  imperious  brealh 
Which  spared  us—  why,  I  know  not 

Bel.  Seek  not  why 

But  let  us  profit  by  the  interval. 
The  hour  is  still  our  own  — our  power  the  same  — 
The  nijht  the  same  we  destined.     He  hath  changed 
Nothing  except  our  ignorance  of  all 
Suspicion  into  such  a  certainty 
As  must  mike  madness  of  delay. 

Arb.  And  yet 

Bel.  -What,  doubling  still? 

Arb.  He  spared  our  lives,  nay,  more. 

Saved  them  from  Salemenes. 


Bel.  And  how  long 

Will  he  so  spire?  till  the  fits'  drunken  minute. 
Arb.  Or  sober,  rather.    Yet  he  did  it  nobly  ; 
Gave  royally  what  we  had  forfeited 

Basely 

Btl.  Say  bravely. 

Arb.  Somewhat  of  both,  perhaps. 

But  it  his  touch'd  me,  and,  whale'er  betide, 
1  w  ill  no  further  on. 
Bel.  And  lose  ihe  world. 

Arb.  Lose  any  thing  except  my  own  esteem. 
Bel.  I  lilush  th  it  we  should  owe  our  lives  to  such 
A  king  of  distaffs! 

Arb.  But  no  less  we  owe  them  ; 

And  I  should  blush  far  more  to  take  the  grantor's! 
Bel.  Thou  may'st  endure  whate'er  thou  wilt  — the 
stars 
Have  written  otherwise. 

Alb.  Tliough  they  came  down, 

And  marshall'd  me  the  way  in  all  their  brightness, 
I  would  not  follow. 

Bel.  This  is  weakness  —  worse 

Than  a  scared  beldam's  dreaming  of  the  dead. 
And  waking  in  the  dark.—  Go  to  —go  to. 

Arb.  Melhoiight  he  look'd  like  Nimrod  as  he  spoke, 
Even  as  the  proud  imperial  statue  stands 
Looking  the  monarch  of  the  kings  around  it, 
And  sways,  while  they  but  ornament,  the  temple. 

Bel.  I  told  you  that  you  had  too  much  despised  him, 
And  that  there  was  some  royalty  within  him  — 
What  then?  he  is  the  nobler  foe. 

Arb.  But  we 

The  meaner — Would  he  had  not  spared  us ! 

Bd.  So  — 

Wouldst  thou  be  sacrificed  thus  readily  ? 

Arb.  No  —  but  it  had  been  better  to  have  died 
Than  live  ungrateful. 

Bel.  Oh,  the  souls  of  some  men  ! 

Thou  wouldst  digest  what  some  call  treason,  and 
Fools  treachery  —  and,  behold,  upon  Ihe  sudden, 
Because  for  something  or  for  nothing,  this 
Rash  reveller  steps,  ostentatiously, 
'T  wixl  thee  and  Salemenes,  thou  art  lum'd 
Into  —  whatshill  I  say  ?  — Sardinapalus  ! 
I  know  no  name  more  ignominious. 

Arb.  But 

An  hour  ajo,  who  dared  to  term  me  such 
Had  held  his  life  but  lightly  —  as  it  is, 
I  must  forgive  you,  even  as  he  forgave  us  — 
Semiramis  herself  would  not  have  done  it. 

Bel.  No  —  the  queen  liked  no  sharers  of  the  king- 
Not  even  a  husband. 

Arb.  I  must  serve  him  truly 

Bel.  And  humbly  ? 

Arb.  No,  sir,  proudly  —  being  honest. 

I  shall  be  nearer  thrones  than  you  to  heaven; 
And  if  not  quite  so  haughty,  yet  more  lofly. 
You  may  do  your  own  deeming—  you  have  codes, 
And  mysteries,  and  corollaries  of 
Right  and  wrong,  which  I  lack  for  my  direction, 
And  must  pursue  but  what  a  plain  heart  teaches. 
And  now  you  know  me. 
Bel.  Have  you  iinish'd  ? 

.irb.  Tw- 

With  voa. 

Btl.'  And  would,  perhaps,  betray  as  well 

As  quit  me? 

Arb.  That 's  a  sacerdotal  thought. 

And  not  a  soldier's. 

Bel.  Be  it  what  you  will  — 

Truce  with  these  wranglings,  and  but  hear  me. 

Arb.  No— 

There  is  more  peril  in  your  subtle  spirit 
Thin  in  a  phalanx. 

Eel.  If  it  must  be  so  — 

I  'II  on  alone. 
Arb.  Alone ! 

Bel.  Thrones  hold  but  on?. 

Arh.  But  this  is  fiird. 


Scene  I.] 


A   TRAGEDY. 


313 


Bel.  With  worse  thin  vacancy  - 

▲  despised  monarch.     Look  to  it,  Aibsces  : 
I  have  ^till  aided,  cherlsh'd,  loved,  au.l  urged  you  ; 
Was  willing  even  to  serve  you,  iu  the  hope 
To  serve  and  s.ive  Assyria.     He  u en  itself 
Seem'd  to  consent,  and  all  events  were  friendly, 
£ven  to  the  last,  till  that  your  spii  it  shrunk  ' 

Icto  a  shallow  sofness  ;  but  now,  rather 
Than  see  my  country  Imgui  h,  I  "ill  be 
Her  saviour  or  the  viclini  of  her  tyrant, 
Or  one  or  both,  for  sometimes  both  are  one ; 
And  if  I  win,  Arbaces  is  my  servant. 

Jlrb.  Vour  servant ! 

Set.  Why  not  ?  better  than  be  sla»  •, 

The  pardon'd  si  .ve  of  she  Sardanapalus  ! 

Enter  Pania. 

Pan.  My  lords,  I  bear  an  order  from  the  king. 

^Jrfc.  It  is  obey'd  ere  spoken. 

Bel.  Notwithstanding, 

Let 's  hear  it. 

Pan.  Forthwith,  on  this  verj'  night. 

Repair  to  your  respective  satrapies 
Of  Bibylou  and  Media. 

Btl.  With  our  troops? 

Pan.  My  order  is  unto  the  satraps  and 
Their  household  train. 

.lib.  But 

Bel.  It  mu>t  be  obey'd  : 

Say,  we  depart. 

Pan.  My  order  is  to  see  you 

Depart,  and  not  to  bear  your  answer. 

Btl.  (aiirfe).  Ay! 

Well,  sir,  we  will  accompany  you  hence. 

Pan.  I  will  retire  to  marshal  forth  the  guard 
Of  honour  which  befits  your  rank,  and  wait 
Your  leisure,  so  that  it  the  hour  exceeds  not. 

[Exit  Pania. 

Bel.  Now  then  obey ! 

Art.  Doubtless. 

Sd.  Yes,  to  the  gates 

That  grate  the  palace,  which  is  now  our  prison  — 
No  further. 

Arb.  Thou  hast  hirpM  the  truth  indeed  ! 

The  realm  itself,  in  all  its  wide  extension. 
Yawns  dungeons  at  each  step  for  thee  and  me. 

Bel.  Graves! 

Arb.  If  1  thought  so,  this  good  sword  should  di; 
One  more  than  mine. 

Bel.  It  shall  have  work  enough. 

Let  me  hope  better  than  th  m  augurest ; 
At  present,  let  us  hence  as  best  we  may. 
Thou  dnst  agree  with  me  in  understanding 
This  order  as  a  sentence  ? 

Jlrb.  Why,  what  other 

Interpretation  should  it  be^r  ?  it  is 
The  very  policy  of  orient  rnonarchs  — 
Pardon  and  poison  —  favours  and  a  sword  — 
A  distant  voyage,  and  an  e'ernal  sleep. 
How  many  satraps  in  his  father's  lime  — 
For  he  I  own  is.  or  at  least  was,  bloo>iless  — 

Bel.  But  will  not,  can  not  be  so  now. 

Jlrb.  I  doubt  it. 

How  many  satnps  have  I  seen  set  out 
In  his  sire's  day  for  mighty  vice-royalties, 
Whose  tombs  are  on  their  path  !     I  know  not  how. 
But  they  all  sicken'd  by  the  way,  it  was 
So  long  and  heavy. 

Bel.  Let  us  but  regain 

The  free  air  of  the  city,  and  we  '11  shorten 
The  journey. 

Arb.  "T  w  ill  be  shorten'd  at  the  gates. 

It  mav  be. 

Bei.  No  ;  they  hardly  will  risk  that. 

They  mean  us  to  die  p  ivateiy,  but  not 
Within  the  palace  or  he  city  walls, 
Wnere  we  are  known,  and  may  have  partisans  i 
If  they  had  meant  to  si  ly  us  here,  we  were 
No  longer  with  the  living.     Let  us  hence. 

Jlrb.  If  I  but  thought  he  did  not  mean  my  life  — 


should   despotism 


Bd.   Fool  !   hence  —  wha 
alarm'd 
Mein  ?    Let  us  but  rejoin  our  troops,  and  march. 

Arb.  Towards  our  provinces? 

Bui.  No;  towards  yciir  kingdom. 

There 's  time,  there  "shejit,  and  hope,  aud  power,  and 

]  Which  their  half  measures  leave  us  in  full  scope.— 
Away  ! 

Art.  And  I  even  yet  repenting  must 
Relapse  to  guilt ! 
Btl.  Self-defence  is  a  virtue, 

I  Sole  bulwark  of  all  right.     Away,  1  say  : 
1  Let's  leave  this  place,  Iheair  grows  thick  and  choking, 
And  the  walls  have  a  scent  of  night-sh.ide  —  hence  I 
Let  us  not  leave  ihem  time  for  fuither  council. 
Our  quick  departure  proves  our  civic  zeal ; 
Our  quick  dep.rture  hinders  our  good  escort, 
The  woilhy  Pauia,  from  anticipating 
The  orders  of  tome  parasangs  trom  hence  : 

Nay,  there  's  no  oiher  choice,  bu  hence,  I  say. 

[Exit  with  Arbaces,  who  followi  reluctantly. 

Enter  Sardanapalus  and  Salemt77es. 
Sar.  Well,  all  is  remedied,  and  without  bloodshed, 
That  wor^t  of  mnckeries  of  a  remedy  ; 
We  are  now  secure  by  these  men's  exile. 

Sal.  Ye<, 

As  he  who  treads  on  flowers  is  from  the  adder 
Twined  round  their  roots. 
Sar.  Why,  what  wouldst  have  me  do? 

Sat.  Undo  what  you  have  done. 
.Sar.  Revoke  my  pardon  ? 

Sal.  Replace  the  crown  now  tottering    on  your 

temples. 
Sar.  '1  bat  were  fyrannioaL 
Sal.  But  sure. 

Sar.  We  are  so. 

What  danger  can  they  work  upon  the  frontier? 
Sal.  They  are  not  there  yet  —  never  should  they  be 
so. 
Were  I  well  lislen'd  to. 

Sar.  Nay,  I  have  listen'd 

Impartially  to  thee —  why  not  to  them  ? 

Sal.  You  may  know  that  hereafter  ;  as  it  is, 
I  take  my  leave  to  order  forth  the  guard. 
Sar.  And  you  will  join  us  at  the  banquet? 
Sal.  Sire, 

Dispense  wiih  me  —  I  am  no  wassailer  : 
Conimand  me  in  all  service  save  the  Bacchant's. 
Sir.  Nay,  but  't  is  fit  to  revel  now  and  then. 
Sal.  And  fit  that  some  should  watch  for  those  who 
revel 
Too  of  I.     A -n  I  permitted  to  depart? 

Sar.  Yes  -    -  S  ay  a  moment,  my  good  Salemenes, 
My  brother,  m,  best  subject,  be  ler  prince 
[  Tlian  I  am  king.     You  should  have  been  the  monarch. 
And  I  —  I  know  not  what,  and  care  n  t;  but 
Think  not  1  am  insensible  to  all 
'i  hine  honest  w  isdr  m,  ai  d  thy  rough  yet  kind, 
Th'ingh  of  I  reprnviiig,  sufferaixe  of  my  follies. 
If  I  have  spared  these  men  against  thy  counsel. 
That  is,  their  live^  — it  is  not  that  I  doubt 
The  advice  w  is  -ound  ;  but,  let  them  live  :  we  will  no*. 
Cavil  about  their  lives  — so  let  them  mend  them. 
Their  banishnient  wilj  leave  me  s  ill  sound  sleep, 
^  Which  their  death  had  not  left  me. 
I     Sal.  Thus  you  run 

i  The  risk  to  sleep  for  ever,  to  save  traitors  — 
]  A  moment's  jiang  now  changed  for  years  of  crime. 
Still  let  them  be  made  quiet. 
]     Sfir.  Tempt  me  not ; 

I  My  word  is  past. 

I     Sal.  But  it  may  be  recall'd. 

I     Sar.  'T  is  royal. 

I     Sal.  And  should  therefore  be  deeiiive.  1] 

This  half  indulgence  of  an  exile  serves 
But  to  provoke  —  a  pardon  should  be  full, 
Or  it  is  none. 

!      Sar.              And  w  ho  persuaded  me 
After  I  had  repeal'd  Ihem,  or  at  least  , 
^^^^^                                   Ij 


314 


SARDANAPALUS: 


[Act  hi. 


Only  dismifsM  Ihem  from  our  presence,  who 
Urged  nie  to  send  them  to  their  sal.apies  '; 

Sat.  'J  rue  ;  that  1  ha  J  forg.  tien  ;  that  is,  sire, 
If  they  e'er  reach'd  their  satrapies—  wliy,  then, 
Reprove  me  more  for  my  advice. 

Sar.  And  if 

Tbey  do  not  reach  thein  —  look  to  it !  —  in  safety, 
In  safety,  mark  me  —  and  security  — 
Lnoli  to  thine  own. 

Sal.  I'l-rmit  me  to  depart ; 

Tlieir  safely  shall  be  cared  for. 

Sar.  Get  Ihee  hence,  then: 

And,  prithee,  think  more  genlly  of  thy  btoihei. 

Sal.  Sire,  1  shall  ever  duly  serve  my  sovereign. 

[Exil  Saleinenes, 

Sar.  (solits).  That  man  is  of  a  temper  too  severe; 
Hard  but  as  lofiy  as  the  rock,  and  free 
From  all  Ihe  taints  of  common  earth —  while  I 
Am  softer  clay,  impregnated  with  Mowers: 
But  as  our  mould  is,  must  the  produce  be. 
If  I  have  etrd  this  lime,  'tis  ou  the  side 
Where  error  sits  mo,t  lighily  on  that  sense, 
I  know  not  what  to  call  it ;  but  ii  reckons 
With  me  ofttimes  for  p  lin,  and  someiimes  pleasure; 
A  spirit  which  seems  pi  iced  about  my  heart 
To  count  is  throbs,  not  quicken  'hem,  and  ask 
Questions  which  mortal  never  dared  to  ask  me. 
Nor  Baal,  though  an  oracular  deity  — 
Albeit  his  marble  fice  majeslical 
Frowns  as  the  shadows  of  'he  evening  dim 
His  brows  to  chinged  expressim,  till  at  times 
1  think  the  st  itue  I'oks  iu  act  to  speak. 
Away  with  these  vain  thoughts,  1  will  be  joyous  — 
And  here  comes  Joy's  true  herald. 

Enter  Myrrha. 

Myr.  King !  the  sky 

Is  overcast,  and  musters  muttering  thunder. 
In  clouds  that  seem  approaching  fast,  and  show 
In  forked  flashes  a  commanding  tempest. 
Will  you  then  quit  the  palace? 

Sar.  Tempest,  say'st  thou  ? 

Myr.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Sar.  For  my  own  part,  I  should  be 

Not  ill  content  to  vary  the  smooth  scene. 
And  watch  the  warring  elements  ;  but  this 
Would  little  suit  the  silken  garmenis  and 
Smooth  faces  of  our  festive  friends.     Say,  Myrrha, 
Art  thou  of  those  who  dread  the  roar  of'clouds  ? 

Myr.  In  my  own  country  we  respect  their  voices 
As  auguries  of  3o\c. 

Sar.  J  <ve  '.  —  ay,  your  Baal  — 

Ours  also  h  is  a  property  in  thunder, 
And  ever  and  anon  somt  falling  bolt 
Proves  his  divinity,—  ar.  1  yet  sometimes 
Strikes  his  own  altars. 

Myr.  T.^at  were  a  dread  omen. 

Sar.  Yes  — for  the  priests.    Well,  we  will  not  go 
forth 
Beyond  Ihe  palace  walls  to-nigh!,  but  make 
Our  feast  within. 

Myr.  Now,  Jove  be  praised  !  that  he 

Haiti  heard  the  prayer  thou  wouldst  not  hear.    The 

gods 
Are  kinder  to  thee  than  thou  to  thyself. 
And  fiash  this  s'orm  between  thee  and  thy  foes. 
To  shield  thee  from  them. 

Sar.  Child,  if  there  be  peril, 

Melhinks  it  is  the  same  within  these  walls 
As  on  the  liver's  brink. 

Myr.  Not  so  ;  these  walls 

Are  high  and  strong,  and  guarded      Treison  has 
To  pendlrale  through  many  a  winding  nay, 
I    And  massy  porial  ;  but  in  the  pavilion 
There  is  no  bulwark. 

Sar.  No,  nor  in  the  palace, 

Nor  in  the  fortress,  nor  upon  the  lop 
Of  cloud-fenced  Caucasus,  w  here  the  eagle  sits 
Nested  in  pathless  clefts,  if  treachery  be: 
Even  as  the  arrow  finds  the  airy  king. 
The  steel  will  reach  the  earthly.     But  be  calm  ; 


The  men,  or  innocent  or  guilly,  are 
Baiiisli'd,  and  far  upon  their  way. 

Myr.  They  live,  then  ? 

Sar.  So  sanguinary?  Thou! 

Myr.  I  would  not  shrink 

From  just  ii^fliction  of  due  jiunishment 
On  Ihoe  who  seek  your  life  :  were't  otherwise, 
I  should  not  merit  mine.     Besides,  you  heard 
The  princely  Salemenes. 

Sar.  This  is  strange; 

The  gentle  and  the  austere  are  both  against  me, 
And  urge  me  to  revenge. 

Myr.  'T  is  a  Greek  virtue. 

Sar.  But  not  a  kingly  one  —  1  'U  none  on 't ;  or 
If  ever  I  indulge  in  't,  it  shall  be 
With  kings  —  my  equals. 

Myr.  These  men  sought  to  (>e  so. 

Sar.  Mvrrha,  this  is  too  feminine,  and  springs 
From  fear 

Myr.  For  you. 

Sar.  No  matter,  still  'tis  fear. 

I  have  observed  your  sex,  once  roused  to  wrath, 
Are  timidly  vindictive  to  a  pi  ch 
Of  perseveance,  which  I  would  not  copy. 
1  thought  you  were  exempt  from  this,  as  from 
The  childish  helplessness  of  Asian  w  omen. 

Myr.  My  lord,  I  am  no  boaster  of  my  love. 
Nor  of  my  at  ributes  ;  I  have  shared  your  splendour, 
And  will  partake  your  fonunes.     You  may  live 
To  find  one  slave  more  true  than  subject  myriads: 
But  this  Ihe  gods  avert !    I  am  content 
To  be  beloved  on  trust  for  what  I  feel. 
Rather  than  prove  it  to  you  in  your  griefs. 
Which  might  not  yield  to  any  cares  of  mine. 

Sar.  Grief  cannot  come  w  here  perfect  love  exists. 
Except  to  heighten  il,  and  vanish  from 
That  which  il  could  not  scare  away.     Let's  in  — 
The  hour  approaches,  and  we  must  prepare 
To  meet  the  invited  guests  who  grace  our  feast. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


The  Hall  of  the  Palace  illuminattd  —  Snrdanapahu 
and  hia  Guests  at  Table.— A  slorm  without,  aiid 
Thunder  occasionally  heard  during  the  Banqvtet. 

Sar.  Fill  full  1  why  this  is  as  it  should  be :  here 
Is  my  true  realm,  amidst  bught  eyes  and  faces 
Happy  as  fair  I  Here  sorrow  cannot  reach. 

Zam.  Nor  elsewhere —  where  the  king  is,  pleasure 
sparkles. 

Sar.  Is  not  ihis  better  now  than  Nimrod's  huntings, 
Or  my  wild  grand  im's  chase  in  search  of  kingdoms 
She  could  not  keep  when  conquer'd  ? 

Mt.  Mighty  though 

They  were,  as  all  thy  royal  line  have  been. 
Yet  none  of  those  w  ho  w  ent  before  have  reach'd 
The  acme  of  Sardanap  ilus,  w  ho 
Has  placed  hi'  joy  in  peace—  Ihe  sole  true  glory. 

Sar.  And  pleasure,  good  Altada,  to  w  liich  glory 
Is  but  the  path.     What"  is  it  that  we  seek  ? 
Enjoyment !     We  have  cut  the  way  short  to  it, 
And  not  gone  tracking  it  through  human  ashes. 
Making  a  grave  with  every  footstep. 

Zam.  Ko; 

All  hearts  are  happy,  and  all  voices  bless 
The  king  of  peace,  who  holds  a  world  in  jubilee. 

Sar.  Art  sure  of  that  ?    I  have  heard  otherwise; 
Some  say  tliat  there  be  traitors. 

Zam.  Traitors  they 

Who  dare  to  say  so  !  — 'T  is  impossible. 
What  cause? 

Sar.  What  cause  ?  true,—  fill  the  goblet  up  ; 

We  will  not  think  of  them  :  there  are  none  such, 
Or  if  there  be,  they  are  gone. 

^U.  Guests,  to  my  pledg*! 

Down  on  your  knees,  and  drink  a  measure  to 


Scene  I.] 


A   TRAGEDY. 


315 


The  safety  of  the  king  —  the  monarch,  s\y  I  ? 
The  god  Sardanapalus ! 

[Zames  arid  the  Guests  kneel,  anJ.  exclaim  — 
Mightier  than 
His  father  Baal,  the  god  Sardannpalus  '. 

lit  thunders  as  they  kneel ;  some  start  up  in 
confusion. 
Zam.  Why  do  you  rise,  my  friends?  in  that  strong 
peal 
His  father  gods  consented. 

Myr.  Menaced,  rather. 

King,  uilt  ihou  bear  this  mad  impiety  ? 

Sar.  Impie  y  !  —  nay,  if  the  siies  who  reigu'd 
Before  me  can  be  gods,  I'll  not  disgrace 
'I  heir  lineage.     But  arise,  my  pinns  friends  ; 
Hoard  your  devotion  for  the  thunderer  there: 
I  seek  but  to  be  loved,  not  worshipp'd. 

Alt.  Both  — 

Both  you  must  ever  be  by  all  true  subjects. 

Sar.  Melhinks  the  tliunders  siill  increase  :  it  is 
An  awful  night. 

Myr.  Oh  yes,  for  those  who  have 

No  palace  to  protect' ihcir  worshippers. 

Sar.  That's  true,  my  Myriha  ;  and  could  I  convert 
My  realm  to  one  wide  shelter  for  the  wretched, 
I  'd  do  it. 

Myr.        Thou  'rt  no  god,  then,  not  to  be 
Able  to  work  a  will  so  good  and  general. 
As  thy  wish  would  imply. 

Sar.  And  your  gods,  then, 

Who  can,  and  do  not  ? 

Myr.  Do  nol  speak  of  that, 

Lest  we  provoke  them. 

Sar.  True,  they  love  not  censure 

Better  than  mortals.  Friends,  a  thought  has  struck  me : 
Were  there  no  temples,  would  theie,  think  ye,  be 
Air  worshippers?  that  is,  when  it  is  angry, 
And  pelting  as  even  now. 

Myr.  The  Persian  prays 

Upon  his  mountain. 
'Sar.  Yes,  when  the  sun  shines. 

Myr.  And  I  would  ask  if  this  your  pal.ice  were 
Unroof'd  and  de-olate,  how  many  flatterers 
Would  lick  the  dust  in  which  the  king  lay  low? 

Mt.  The  fair  Ionian  is  ton  sarcastic 
Upon  a  nation  whom  she  knows  not  well ; 
The  Assyrians  know  no  pleasure  but  their  king's, 
And  honiage  is  their  pride. 

Sar.  Nay,  pardon,  guests, 

The  fair  Greek's  readiness  of  speech. 

Alt.  Pardon  !  sire : 

We  honour  her  of  all  things  next  to  thee. 
Hark!  what  was  that? 

Zam.  That !  nothing  but  the  jar 

Of  distant  portals  shaken  by  the  wind. 
Alt.   It  sounded  like  the  clash  of—  hark  again  ! 
Zam.  The  big  rain  pattering  on  the  roof. 
Sar.  No  more. 

Myrrha,  my  love,  hist  thou  thy  shell  in  order? 
.Sing  me  a  song  of  Sappho,  hei,  thou  knovv'st, 
Who  in  thy  country  threw  — 

Enter  Pania,  with  his  sword  and  garments  bloody, 
and  disordered.     The  guests  rise  m  confusion. 
Pan.  {to  the  Guards).  Look  to  the  portals  ; 
And  with  your  best  speed  to  the  walls  wi:hout. 
Your  arms  !  To  arms  !  The  king 's  in  danger. 

arch  ! 
Excuse  this  haste,— 't  is  faith. 

Sar.  Speak  on. 

Pan.  It  is 

As  Salemenes  fear'd  ;  the  faithless  satraps 

Sar.  Vou  are  wounded — give  some   wine. 

breath,  good  Pania. 
Pan.  'Tis  nothing— a  mere  flesh  wound,     lam 


Mon. 


Take 


More  with  my  speed  to  v 
Thin  hurl  in  his  defence. 


my  sovereign. 


Well,  sir,  the  rebels? 
Pan.  Soon  as  Arbaces  and  Beleses  reach'd 
Their  stations  in  the  city,  they  refused 


To  march;  and  on  my  attempt  to  use  the  power 
Winch  I  was  delegated  with,  they  call'd 
Upon  their  troops,  who  rose  in  tierce 
Myr.  All  ? 
Pan.  Too  many. 

Sar.  Spare  not  of  thy  free  speech, 

To  spare  mine  ears  the  truth. 

Pan.  My  own  slight  guard 

Were  fiithful,  and  what's  left  of' it  is  slill  so 
Myr.  And  are  these  all  the  force  still  faithful  ? 
Pan.  No  — 

The  Bactrians,  now  led  on  by  Salemenes, 
Who  even  then  was  on  his  way,  still  urged 
By  strong  suspicion  of  the  Median  chiefs. 
Are  numerous,  and  nuke  strong  head  against 
'J  he  rebels,  fighting  inch  by  inch,  ar:d  forming 
An  orb  around  the  palace,  where  they  mean 
To  centre  all  their  force,  and  save  the  king. 

{Ht  htsitates.)  I  am  charged  to 

Myr.  'T  is  no  time  for  hesitation, 

Pan.  Prince  Salemenes  doth  implore  ;he  king 
To  arm  himself,  although  but  for  a  moment, 
And  show  himself  unto"^lhe  soldiers:  his 
Sole  presence  in  this  instant  might  do  more 
Th-in  hosts  can  do  in  his  behalf. 

Sar.  What,  ho! 

My  armour  there. 
Mur.  And  wilt  thou  ? 

Sar.  WiUIi-ot? 

Ho,  there  1  —  but  seek  not  for  the  buckler  :  't  ii> 
Too  heavy  :  —  a  light  cuirass  and  my  sword. 
Where  are  the  rebels? 

Pan.  Scarce  a  furlong's  leng'b 

From  ihe  outward  wall  the  fiercest  conflict  rages. 

Sar.  Then  I  may  charge  on  horseback.     Sfero,  ho  ! 
Order  my  horse  out. —  1  here  is  space  enough 
Even  in  our  courts,  and  by  the  outer  gale. 
To  marshal  half  the  horsemen  of  Arabia. 

[Exit  Sfero  fur  the  armour. 
Myr.  How  I  do  love  thee  ! 
Sar.  I  ne'er  doubted  it. 

Myr.  But  now  I  know  thee. 

Sar.  {to  his  Attendant).  Bring  down  my  spear  too.— 
Where 's  Salemenes  ? 

Pan.  Where  a  soldier  should  be, 

In  the  thick  of  the  fight. 

Sar.  Then  hasten  to  him Is 

The  pith  still  open,  and  cornmunicaliou 
Left  'twixt  the  palace  and  the  phalanx  ? 

Pan.  'T  was 

When  I  late  left  him.  and  I  have  no  fear  : 
Our  troops  were  steady,  and  the  phalanx  form'd. 

Sar,  Tell  him  to  spare  his  person  for  Ihe  present, 
And  that  I  will  not  spare  my  own  —  and  say, 
I  come. 
Pan.  There 's  victory  in  the  very  word. 

[Exit  Pania. 
Sar.  Altada  —  Zarnes  —  forth,  and  arm  ye !    There 
Is  all  in  readiness  in  the  armoury. 
See  that  the  women  are  beslow'd  in  safely 
In  the  remole  apartments  :  let  a  guard 
Be  set  before  them,  wi  h  strict  charge  to  quit 
The  post  but  wi'h  their  lives  —  command  it,  Zames. 
Altada,  arm  yourself,  and  return  here ; 
Your  post  is  near  our  person. 

[Exeujtt  Zames,  Altada,  and  all  save  Myrrha. 
Enter  Sfero  and  others  with  the  King's  Arms,  ^c. 
Sfe.  King  I  your  armour. 

Sar.  {arming  himxelf).  Give  me  the  cuirass  —  so: 
mv  baldric ;  now 
My  sword  :  I  had  forgot  the  helm  —  where  is  if  ? 
That 's  well  —  no,  't  is  too  heavy  :  you  mistake,  too  — 
It  was  not  this  I  meant,  but  that  which  bears 
A  diadem  around  it. 

Sfe.  Sire,  I  deem'd 

Th:it  too  conspicuous  from  the  precious  stones 
To  risk  your  sacred  brow  beneath  —  and  trust  mc 
This  is  of  belter  metal,  Ihouzh  less  rich. 
Sar.  You  deem'd  1  Are  you  too  turu'd  a  rebel  ?   F«- 
low ! 


(["'■ 


316 


SARDANAPALUS: 


LAcT  in.  I! 


Tour  pai  t  is  to  obey  •  return,  and  —  no  — 
It  is  too  late  —  I  «'ill  go  torth  without  it. 

Sfe.  At  least,  wear  this.  .   '■ 

Sar.  Wear  Caucasus  !  why,  H  is 

A  mountain  on  my  temples.  j 

Sfe.  Sire,  the  meanest 

Soldier  goes  not  forth  thus  exposed  to  battle.  I 

All  men  will  recognise  you  —  tor  the  storm  ! 

Has  ceased,  and  the  moon  breiks  forth  in  her  bright- 
ness. I 

Sar.  I  go  forth  to  be  recognised,  and  thus  _         | 

Shall  be  so  sooner.     Now  —  my  spear'  I'marm'd.      \ 
[III  ?oing  stnps  short,  and  turns  to  Sfao. 
Sfero  —  I  had  forgotten  —  bring  the  mirror,  i 

Sfe.  The  mirror,  sire  ? 

Sar.  Yes,  sir,  of  p-iIishM  brass, 

Brought  from  the  spoils  of  India  —  but  be  speedy.  ^ 
[Era  Sfero. 

Sar.  Myrrha,  retire  unto  a  pl.ice  of  safely. 
Why  went  you  not  forth  with  the  other  damsels  ? 

Myr.  Because  my  place  is  here. 

Sar.  And  w  hen  I  am  gone  ^— 

Myr.  I  follow. 

Sar.  You .'  to  battle  ? 

Myr.  If  it  were  so, 

'T  were  not  the  first  Greek  girl  had  trod  the  path. 
"  will  await  here  your  return. 

Sar.                   '  The  place 

Is  spacious,  and  the  first  to  be  sought  out, 
If  they  prevail ;  and,  if  it  be  so. 
And  I  return  not 

Myr.  Still  we  meet  again. 

Sar.  How  ? 

Myr.  In  the  spot  where  all  must  meet  at  last 
In  Hades '.     If  there  be,  as  I  believe, 
A  shore  beyond  the  Styx ;  and  if  there  be  not. 
In  ashes. 

Sar.        Barest  thou  so  much  ? 

Myr.  I  dire  all  things 

Except  survive  what  I  have  loved,  to  be 
\  rebel's  booty  :  forb,  and  do  your  bravest. 

Re-enter  Sfero  with  the  mirror. 
Sar.  {looking  at  himielf).    This  cuirass  fits  me 
well,  the  baldric  let'er. 
And  the  helm  not  at  all.     Methinks  I  seem 

[Flingt  away  the  hilrnet  nfier  trying  it  again. 
Passing  well  in  these  tovs ;  and  now  to  prove  them. 
Altada  1     Where  's  Altada  ? 

Sfe  Wailing,  sire, 

Without:  he  has  your  shield  in  rearfine-'S, 

Sar.  True  ;  I  forgot  he  is  my  shield -bearer 
By  right  of  blood,  derived  from  age  to  age. 
Myrrha,  embrace  me  ;  —  yet  once  more  —  once  more — 
Love  me.  whate'er  betide.     My  chiefest  glory 
Shall  be  to  make  me  worthier  of  your  love. 
Myr.  Go  forth,  and  conquer  ! 

[Exeunt  Sardanapatus  and  Sfero. 
Now,  I  am  alone. 
All  are  gone  forth,  and  of  that  all  how  few 
Perhaps  return.    Let  him  but  vanquish,  and 


1  "In  the  tliird  Art,  where  Sardanapalas  calls  for  a 
mirror  tolo  ■!(  at  tiimself  id  h  «  armour,  recollect  to  quote 
Itje  Latin  passage  from  Juvenal  upon  Oihn  (a  simi'ar  cha^ 
racier,  wtio  did  llie  same  lhine>.     Gifford  will  tielp  yru  tr 

The  trait  is,  perhaps,  too  familiar,  hut  it  is  histories 
{of  Olhn,  at  least),  and  nitural  in  an  effeminate  charac 
ler."  —  Lori  B.  to  Mr.  M.—  E. 

2  "Ille  tenet  speculum  palhici  geslamen  0th. mis, 

Actoris  .\runi  i  sp  lium,  quo  se  ille  vidihat 
Armatum,  'um  jjm  lolli  vexilla  jiheret. 
Rhs  memoranda  novis  annatibus,  aiqne  recent! 
Historia.  speculum  civilis  farcioa  belli."— 

JUV.  Sol.  ii. 
"This  gra»ps  a  mirror —  palhic  Otlio's  hoast 
(Auruncao  Actor's  Kpoil),  where,  while  his  host, 
With  Bhonis,  the  signal  of  the  flghl  required. 
He  view'd  his  mailed  form;  view'd,  and  admired  ! 
L-^  a  new  subject  for  the  hislnric  page, 
A  mirror,  'midst  the  arms  of  civil  rafe  '.  "  — 

GIFFORD.  —  E. 


Me  ])erish  !     If  he  vanquish  not,  I  perish  ; 
For  1  will  not  outlive  him.     He  has  wound 
About  my  heart,  I  know  not  how  nor  why. 
Not  for  that  he  is  king  ;  f,ir  now  his  kingdom 
Rocks  underneath  his  throne,  and  the  earth  yawns 
To  yield  him  no  more  of  it  than  a  grave ; 
And  yet  I  love  him  more.    Oh,  mighty  Jove  1 
Forgive  this  monstrous  love  fo:  a  barbarian. 
Who  knows  n  )t  of  Olvmpu^ '.  yes,  I  love  him 

Now,  now,  far  more'  than Hark  — to  the   war 

shout  ! 
Methinks  it  nears  me.     If  it  should  be  so, 

[She  draws  forth  a  small  vieU. 
This  cunning  Colchian  poison,  which  my  faiher 
Learn'd  to  compound  on  Euxine  shores,  and  taught  m« 
How  to  preserve,  shall  free  me  !     It  had  freed  me 
Long  ere  this  hour,  but  that  I  loved,  until 
I  half  forgoi  I  was  a  slave :  —  where  all 
Are  slaves  save  one,  and  proud  of  servi'ude. 
So  they  are  served  in  turn  by  something  lower 
In  the  desree  of  bondage,  we  forget 
That  shackles  worn  like  ornaments  no  less 
Are  chains.     Again  that  shout !  and  now  the  clash 

Of  arms  —  and  now  —  and  now 

Enter  Altada. 
An.  Ho,  Sfero,  ho! 

Myr.  He  is  not  here;  what  wouldst    thou  with 
him  ?    How 
Goes  on  the  conflict? 
AU.  Dubiously  and  fiercely. 

Myr.  And  the  king  ? 

Alt.  Like  a  king.     I  must  find  Sfero, 

And  bring  him  a  new  spear  and  his  own  helmet. 
He  fights  till  now  bare-headed,  and  by  far 
Too  much  exposed.     The  soldiers  knew  his  face. 
And  the  foe  too  ;  and  in  the  moonN  broad  light, 
His  silk  tiara  and  his  tlow  ing  hiir 
Make  him  a  mark  too  royal.     Every  nrrow 
Is  pointed  at  the  fnir  hair  and  fair  features. 
And  the  broad  fillet  which  crowns  both. 

Myr.  Te  gods, 

Who  fulminate  o'er  my  fathers'  land,  protect  him ! 
Were  you  sent  by  the  king  ? 

Alt.  By  Salemenes, 

Who  sent  me  privily  upon  this  charge. 
Without  the  knowledge  of  the  careles-s  sovereign. 
The  king  '.  the  king  lights  as  he  revels !  ho  1 
What,  Sfero  !  I  will  seek  the  armoury  — 
He  must  be  there.  [Exit  Altada. 

Myr.  'T  is  no  dishonour  —  no  — 

'T  is  no  dishonour  to  have  loved  this  man. 
I  almost  w  ish  now,  what  I  never  wish'd 
Before,  that  he  were  Grecian.    If  Alcides 
Were  shamed  in  we.irins  Lydian  Omphale's 
She-garb,  and  «  ieldiiig  her  vile  distaff,  surely 
He,  who  springs  up  a  Hercules  at  once, 
Nursed  in  effeminate  nrts  from  youth  to  manhood. 
And  rushes  from  the  banquet  to  the  battle. 
As  thouih  it  were  a  bed  of  love,  deserves 
That  a  Greek  giil  should  be  his  paramour, 
And  a  Greek  bard  his  minslrel.  a  Greek  tomb 
His  monument.     How  goes  the  strife,  sir? 
Enter  an  Officer. 
Officer.  Lost, 

Lost  almost  past  recovery.     Zames!  Where 
Is  Zimes? 

Myr.        Posted  with  the  guard  appoint&i 
To  watch  before  the  a|>artment  of  the  women. 

[Exit  Officer. 
Myr.  (sola).    He's  gone;  and  told  no  more  than 
that  all 's  lost ! 
Whit  need  have  I  to  know  more?    In  those  word^ 
Those  little  words,  a  kingdom  and  a  king, 
A  line  of  thirteen  aee.«,  a  d  the  lives 
Of  thousmds,  and  the  fortune  of  all  left 
With  life,  are  merged  ;  and  I,  too,  with  the  greal^ 
Like  a  small  bubble  breaking  wiih  the  wave 
Which  bore  i',  shall  be  nothing.    At  the  least, 
My  fate  is  in  my  keeping :  no  proud  victor 
Shall  count  me  with  his  spoils. 


SCEiVE  I.J 


A  TRAGEDY. 


317 


Enter  Pania. 

Pan.  Away  with  me, 

Myrrha,  without  deliy  ;  we  must  not  lose 
A  moiueot  —  all  that 's  left  us  uo'.v. 

Myr.  The  king? 

Pan.  Sent  me  here  to  conduct  you  heuce,  Leyood 
The  river,  by  a  secret  passage. 

Myr.  Then 

He  lues 

Pan.  And  cliarged  mc  to  secure  your  life, 

And  beg  you  to  live  ou  for  hU  sake,  lill 
He  can  rejoin  you. 

Myr.  Will  he  then  sive  way  ? 

Pan.  Not  till  the  last.    .Still,  srill  he  does  whale'er 
Despair  can  do  ;  and  step  by  step  disputes 
The  very  palace. 

Myr.  Thev  are  here,  then  :  —  av, 

Their  shouti  cnme  ringins;  through  the  ancient  halls. 
Never  profaned  by  rebel  echoes  till 
This  fatal  nisht.     Farewell.  Assyria's  line  ! 
Farewell  to  all  of  Nimrod  1    Even  the  name 
Is  now  no  more. 

Pan.  Away  with  me  — away! 

Myr.  No :    I  '11  die  here !  —  Away,  and  tell  your 
king 
I  loved  him  to  the  last. 

Enter  Sardanapahn  and  Salemena  with  Soldiers. 

Pania  ijuits  Myrrha,  and  ranga   hvnself  with 

them, 

Sar.  Since  it  is  thus, 

We'll  die  where  we  were  born  —  in  our  own  halls. 
Serry  your  ranks  — stand  firm.     1  have  despatched 
A  trusty  satrp  for  the  guard  of  Zanies, 
All  fresh  and  f.\ithful  ;  they  'II  be  here  anon. 
All  is  not  over. —  Pauia,  look  to  Myrrha. 

IPania  returns  towardt  Myrrha. 

Sal.  Wehivebrexthing  timej  yet  one  more  charge, 
my  friends  — 
One  for  Assyria  ! 

Sar.  Rather  sav  for  Bactrii  ! 

My  faithful  Baclrians,  I  will  henceforth  be 
King  of  your  nation,  and  we'll  hold  together 
This  realm  as  province. 

Sal.  Hark  !  (hey  come—  they  come. 

Enter  Beleset  and  Arbacet  with  the  Rebels. 

Jlrb.  Set  on,  we  have  them  in  the  toil.    Charge! 

charge ! 
Bel.  On  !  on  !  —  Heaven  fights  for  us,  and  with  us 
—  On! 
[They  charge  the  Kin^  and  Salcmenes  with  their 
Troops,  who  dtftnd  Ihenneivea  tilt  the  Arrival 
cf  Zamts  with  the  Gu'i'd  befirre  menlimied. 
The  Rebel!  are  theii  driv(n  C'ff,  and  pursiud 
by  Salenienet,  ^c.     Af  the  King  is  going  to 
join  the  purniil,  Beleses  crosses  him. 
Bel.  Ho  !  tyrant —  /  will  end  this  war. 
Sar.  Even  so, 

My  warlike  priest,  and  precious  prophet,  and 
Grateful  and  ti  us:y  subject :  yield,  I  pray  thee. 
I  would  reserve  thee  for  a  fi'ter  doom, 
Rither  than  dip  my  hands  in  holy  blood. 
Bel.  Thine  hour  is  come. 

Sar.  No.  thine. —  I  've  lately  read, 

Though  but  a  young  astrologer,  the  st  >rs ; 
And  ranging  round  the  zodiac,  found  thy  fate 
In  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion,  which  proclaims 
That  thou  wilt  now  be  crush'd. 
Bel.  But  not  by  thee. 

[They  fight ;  Beleaet  is  wounded  and  disarmed. 
Sar.  (raisinir  his  svmrd  to  despatch  Ami,  exctatmt— 
Now  call  U[ioii  rhy  planets,  will  thev  shnnt 
From  lie  sky  to  pieserve  their  seer  and  credit? 

[A  parly  of  Rebels  enter  and  rescue  Beleses. 
Thty  assail  the  K'ng.  who,  in  turn,  is  rucxitd 
by  a  Party  oj  hit  Soldieis,  who  drive  the 
Rebels  off.  i 


The  villain  was  a  prophet  after  all. 
Upon  them  —  hoi  iheie  —  victory  is  ours. 

[ExU  in  pursuit. 

Myr.  (to  Pan.)     Pursue!  Why  st.iid'it  thou  here, 
and  leavest  the  ranks 
Of  fellow-soldiers  conqueiiiig  without  thee? 

Pait.  The  king's  couimaud  wais  col  to  quit  thee. 

Myr.  j^i  I 

Thiiik  not  of  nie  —  a  single  soldiei's  arm 
Mus'  not  be  wanting  now.     I  ask  no  gund, 
1  need  uo  guird  :  n-hal,  with  a  world  at  si  .ke, 
Keep  watch  upon  a  woman  ?     Hence,  1  s  ly. 
Or  thou  art  shamed  !     Nay,  then,  /  will  go  forth, 
A  feeble  female,  'midst  their  despera:e  s  life, 
And  bid  thee  guard  Die  theie—  where  thou  shouldt 

shield 
Thy  sovereign.  [Exit  Myrrha, 

Pan.  Yet  stay,  damsnl !  —  She 's  gone. 

If  aught  of  ill  betide  her,  bet  er  1 
Had  lost  my  life.     S  rdan.palus  holds  her 
Far  de.rei  th.in  his  kingdom,  yet  he  fights 
For  that  too ;  and  can  I  do  less  than  he, 
Who  never  Haih'd  a  sciniii^.r  till  now  ; 
Myrrha,  re  urn,  and  I  obey  you,  though 
In  disobedience  to  the  inonaich.  [Exit  Pania. 

Enter  Altada  and  Sfero  by  aji  opposite  door. 

All.  Mvriha! 

What,  gone?  yet  she  was  here  when  the  fight  raged, 
And  Pania  al-o.     Can  aught  have  befallen  them  ? 

Sfe.  I  saw  both  safe,  w  hen  late  the  lebels  ted  : 
They  probably  are  but  reliied  to  make 
Their  way  back  to  the  harem. 

Alt.  If  the  king 

Prove  victor,  as  it  seems  even  now  he  must, 
And  miss  his  own  Ionian,  we  are  doom'd 
To  worse  than  captive  lebels. 

S/e.  Let  us  ti ace  them: 

She  cannot  be  fled  far  ;  and,  found,  she  makes 
A  richer  prize  to  our  soft  sovereign 
'1  han  his  recover'd  kingdom. 

Alt.  Bial  himself 

Ne'er  fought  more  fiercely  to  win  empire,  than 
His  silken  son  to  save  it :  he  defies 
All  augury  of  foes  or  fiiends  ;  and  like 
The  close  and  suliry  summer's  day,  «  hich  bodes 
A  twilight  tempest,  bursts  forth  in  such  thunder 
As  sweeps  the  air  and  deluges  the  earth. 
The  man  's  inscrutable. 

Sfe.  Not  more  than  others. 

All  :ire  the  sons  of  circums  a  nee  :  away  — 
Lei 's  seek  the  slave  out,  or  prepare  lo  be 
Tortnr'd  for  his  infituation,  and 
Condemn'd  w  ithout  a  crime.  [Exeunt, 

Enter  Salemcjus  and  Soldiers,  ^c. 

Sal.  The  triumph  is 

Flaitering :  they  are  beaten  back"  ard  from  the  palace. 
And  we  have  open'd  regular  access 
To  the  troops  slatinn'd  on  tie  other  side 
Euphrates,  w  lio  may  still  be  true  ;  nay,  must  be^ 
When  they  he  ir  of  our  victoiy.     Bui  "where 
Is  the  chief  victor  ?  w  here 's  the  king  ? 

Enter  Sardanapalus,  cum  suis,  ^c  aiid  Myrrha. 

Sar.  Here,  brotlier. 

Sal.  Unhurt,!  bope. 

Sar.                            Not  quite;  but  let  it  pasj. 
We  've  clear'd  the  palace 

Sal.  And  I  trust  the  cly 

Our  numbers  gather ;  and  I  've  orderd  onward 
A  cloud  of  Parihians,  hitherto  reserved. 
All  fresh  and  fiery,  lo  be  pour'd  upon  them 
In  their  retreat,  which  soon  will  be  a  flight. 

Sar    II  i-,  alreidy,  or  at  least  they  maich'd 
Faster  than  I  ciuld  follow  with  niy  Bactrians, 
Who  spared  no  speed.     I  am  ^peni:  give  me  a  seat.      I 

Snl.  1  here  stands  the  throne,  sire.  I 

Sar.  'T  is  no  place  to  rett  on,  i 

For  mind  nor  body  :  let  me  have  a  rouch,  j 

[TUiy  plau  a  ttmt.  ■ 


27* 


318 


SARDANAPALtJS; 


[Act  IV. 


A  peasant's  stool,  1  car 
1 1  1  breathe  more  freely. 


!  not  wliat :  so  —  now 
This  great  hour  has  proved 


Sal. 

■ight 
Sar.  And  tlie  most  tiresome.     Where's  my  cup- 
bearer? 
Bring  me  .some  water. 

Sal.  iinuliiig).  'T  is  the  first  time  he 

Ever  had  such  au  order:  even  I, 
Your  most  austere  of  counsellors,  would  now 
Suggest  a  purpler  beverage. 

Sar.  Blood  —  doubtless. 

But  there  's  enough  of  that  shed  ;  as  for  wine, 
I  hTve  learn'd  to-night  the  price  of  the  pure  element: 
Thtice  have  I  drunk  of  it,  and  thrice  renew'd, 
With  greater  s'rength  than  the  grape  ever  gave  me, 
My  charge  upon  the  rebels.     Where  's  the  soldier 
Who  gave  me  water  in  his  helmet  ? 

One  of  the  Guards.  Slain,  sire ! 

An  arrow  pierced  hi.;  brain,  while,  scattering 
The  last  drops  from  his  helm,  he  stood  in  act 
To  place  it  on  his  brows. 

Sar.  Slain  !  unrewarded  ! 

And  slain  to  serve  my  thirst :  that's  bird,  poor  slave  J 
Had  he  but  lived,  I  would  have  gorged  him  with 
Gold  :  all  the  gold  of  earth  could  ne'er  repay 
The  pleasure  of  that  draught ;  for  I  was  parch'd 
As  I  am  now.  [T/uy  irmg  waier  — he  drinks. 

I  live  again  —  from  henceforth 
The  goblet  I  reserve  for  hours  of  love, 
But  war  on  water. 

Sal.  And  that  bandage,  sire, 

Which  girds  your  arm  ? 
Sar,  A  scratch  from  brave  Beleses. 

Myr.  Oh !  hs  is  wounded  I 

Sar.  Not  too  much  of  that ; 

And  yet  it  feels  a  little  stiff  and  painful, 
Now  i  am  cooler. 

Myr.  You  have  bound  it  with 

Sar.  The  fillet  of  my  diadem  :  the  first  time 
That  ornament  was  ever  aught  to  me, 
Save  an  incumbrance. 

Myr.  (to  the  Attendants).  Summon  speedily 
A  leech  of  the  most  skilful :  pray,  reiire  : 
I  will  unbind  your  wound  and  tend  it. 

Sar.  Do  so, 

For  now  it  throbs  sufficiently  ;  but  what 
Know'st  thou  of  wounds  ?  yet  wherefore  do  I  ask  ? 
Know'st  thou,  my  brother,  where  I  lighted  on 
This  minion  ? 

Sal.  Herding  with  the  other  females, 

Like  frighten'd  antelopes. 

Sar.  No:  like  the  dam 

Of  the  young  lion,  femininely  raging, 
(And  femininely  meaiieth  furiously. 
Because  all  passions  in  excess  are  female,) 
Against  the  hunter  flying  wi  h  her  cub. 
She  urged  on  wi  h  her  voice  and  gesture,  and 
Her  tloaliiig  hair  and  flashing  eyes,  the  soldiers, 
In  the  pursuit. 
Sal.  Indeed ! 

Sar.  You  see,  this  night 

Slade  warriors  of  more  than  me.     1  paused 
To  look  upon  her,  and  her  kindled  cheek  ; 
Her  large  bl  'ck  eyes,  that  flash'd  through  her  long  hair 
As  it  stream'd  o'er  her;  her  blue  veins  that  rose 
Along  her  most  transparent  brow  ;  her  nostril 
Dilated  from  its  symmetry  ;  her  lips 
Apart ;  her  voice  that  clove  through  all  the  din, 
As  a  lute  pierceth  through  the  cymbal's  clash, 
Jarr'd  but  not  drown'd  by  the  loud  brattling;  her 
Waved  arms,   more  dazzling   with  their  own  born 

whiteness 
Than  the  steel  her  hand  held,  which  she  caught  up 
From  a  dead  soldier's  grasp  ;  —  all  these  things  made 
Her  seem  unto  the  troops  a  prophetess  of 
Victory,  or  Victory  herself, 
Come  down  to  hail  us  hers. 
Sal.  {aside).  This  is  too  much. 

I    Again  the  love-fit 's  on  him,  and  all 's  lost 
'    Unless  we  turn  his  thoughts. 


[Alinid).  But  pray  thee,  sire, 
Think  of  your  wound  — you  said  even   now  'twas 
painful. 

Sar.  That 's  true,  too  ;  biit  I  must  not  think  of  it. 

Sal.  I  have  look'd  loall  things  needful,  and  will  now 
Receive  reports  of  progress  m  .de  in  such 
Orders  as  1  had  given,  and  then  return 
To  hear  jour  further  pleasure. 

."s'ar.  Be  it  so. 

Sal.  {in  retiring).  Myrrha  ! 

Myr.  Prince! 

Sal.  You  have  shown  a  soul  to-nightj 

Which,  were  he  not  my  sister's  lord But  now 

I  have  DO  time:  thou  lovest  the  king  ? 

Myr.  I  love 

Sardauapalus. 

Sul.  But  wouldst  have  him  king  still  ? 

Myr.  I   would  not  have  him  less  than  what  he 


shoii 


be. 


Sal.  Well  then,  to  have  him  king,  and  yours,  and  ah 
He  should,  or  should  not  be  ;  to  have  him  live, 
Let  him  not  sink  back  into  luxury. 
You  have  more  power  upnn  his  spirit  than 
Wisdom  within  these  walls,  or  fierce  rebellion 
Raging  without :  lo  k  well  that  he  relapse  not. 

Myr.  There  needed  not  the  voice  of  Salemenes 
To  urge  me  on  to  this:  I  will  not  fail. 
All  that  a  woman's  weakness  can 

Sal.  Is  power 

Omnipotent  o'er  such  a  heart  as  his : 
Exert  it  wisely.  {Exit  Salemenet. 

Sar.  Myrrha!  what,  at  whispers 

With  my  stern  brother?    I  shall  .soon  be  jealous. 

Myr.  {smiling).  You   have  cause,  sire;  for  on  the 
earth  there  breathes  not 
A  man  more  worthy  of  a  woman's  love  — 
A  soldier's  trust  —  a  subject's  reverence  — 
A  king's  esteem  —  the  »  hole  world's  admiration  ! 

Sar.  Praise  him,  but  not  so  warmly.     I  must  not 
Hear  thoe  sweet  lips  grow  eloquent  in  aught 
That  throws  me  into  shade  !  yet  you  speak  truth. 

Myr.  And  now  retire,  to  have  your  wouud  look'd  to. 
Pray,  lean  on  we. 

Sar.  Yes,  love  !  but  not  from  pain. 

[Exeutit  omnet. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE    I. 

Sardanapalxis  discovered  sleeping  upcm  a  Couch,  ani 

occasionally  disluried.  in  hit  slumbers,  with  Myr- 

rl.a  watching. 

Myr.  {sola  gazing).  I  have  stolen  upon  his  rest,  if 
rest  it  be. 
Which  thus  convulses  slumber:  shall  I  wake  him? 
No,  he  seems  calmer.     Oh,  thou  God  of  Quiet  ! 
Whose  reign  is  o  er  sealed  eyelids  and  soft  dreams, 
Or  deep,  deep  sleep,  so  as  to  be  unfalhom'd. 
Look  like  thy  brother.  Death, —  so  still  —  so  slirlese  — 
For  then  we  are  h  ippies',  as  it  may  be,  we 
Are  happiest  of  all  within  the  realm 
Of  thy  stern,  silent,  and  unwakening  twin. 
Again  he  moves  — again  the  play  of  pain 
Shoots  o'er  his  features,  as  the  sudden  gust 
Crisps  the  relucant  lake  that  lay  so  calm 
Bei  eath  the  mountain  shadow  ;  or  the  blast 
Ruffles  the  autumn  leaves,  that  drooping  cling 
Faintly  and  motionless  to  their  loved  boughs. 
I  must  awake  him  —  yet  not  yet :  who  knows 
From  what  I  rouse  him  ?    It  seems  pain  ;  but  if 
1  quicken  him  to  heavier  piiii  ?    The  fever 
Of  this  tumultuous  night,  the  grief  loo  of 
His  wound,  Ihnuzli  slight,  may  causeall  this,  and  stakt 
Me  more  lo  see  Ihaii  him  to  suffer.     No : 
Let  Nature  use  her  own  maternal  means,— 
And  I  await  to  second,  not  disturb  her. 

Sar.  {aionkening).  Not  so  —  although  ye  multi|liad 
the  stars. 


Scene  I.] 


A   TRAGEDY. 


319 


'  And  gav;  them  to  me  as  a  realm  to  share 
From  yoj  and  with  you  !     I  would  not  so  purchase 
The  empire  of  eternity.     Hence  —  hence  — 
Old  hunter  of  the  earliest  brutes  !  and  yc, 
Who  hunted  fetlow  creatures  as  if  brutes  ! 
Once  bloody  mortals  —  and  now  bloodier  idols, 
If  your  priests  lie  not !     And  thou,  ghistly  beldame  ! 
Dripping  wiih  duslcy  gore,  and  trampling  on 
The  carcasses  of  Inde  —  away  '.  away  ! 

Where  am  I  ?  Where  the  spectres  ?  Where No  — 

that 
Is  no  false  phantom  :  I  should  know  it  'midst 
All  that  the  dead  dare  gloomily  raise  up 
From  their  black  gulf  to  daunt  the  living.    Myrrha! 

Myr.  Alas!  thou  art  pile,  and  on  Ihy  brow  the  drops 
Gather  like  night  dew.     My  beloved,  hush  — 
Calm  thee.    Thy  speech  seems  of  another  world, 
And  thou  art  lord  of  this.    Be  of  good  cheer: 
All  will  go  well. 

Sar.  ThyAond— so — 'tis  thy  hand; 

'T  is  flesh  ;  grasp  —  clasp  —  yet  closer,  till'  I  feel 
Myself  that  "which  I  was. 

Myr.  At  least  know  me 

For  what  I  am,  and  ever  must  be  —  thine. 

Sar.  I  know  it  now.    I  know  this  life  again. 
Ah,  Myrrha '.  I  have  been  where  we  shall  be. 

Myr.  My  lord ! 

Sar.  I  've  been  i'  the  grave  —  where  worms  are 
lords, 

And  kings  are But  I  did  not  deem  it  so; 

I  thought 't  was  nothing. 

Myr.  So  it  is ;  except 

Unto  the  timid,  who  anticipate 
That  which  may  never  be. 

Son  Oh,  Myrrha  \  if 

Sleep  shows  such  things,  what  may  not  death  disclose  ? 

Myr.  I  kr;ow  no  evil  death  can  show,  which  life 
Has  not  already  shown  to  those  w^ho  live 
Imbodied  longest.     If  there  be  indeed 
A  shore  where  mind  survives,  't  will  be  as  mmd, 
All  unincorporate:  or  if  thjre  flit^ 
A  shadow  of  this  cumbrous  clog  of  clay, 
Which  stalks,  methinks,  between  our  souls  and  heaven, 
And  fetters  us  to  earth  —  at  least  the  phantom, 
Whale'er  it  have  to  fear,  will  not  fear  death. 

Sar.  I  fear  it  not ;  but  I  have  felt  —  h  ive  seen  — 
A  legion  c/f  the  dead. 

Myr.  And  so  have  I. 

The  dust  we  tread  upon  was  once  alive, 
And  wretched.     But  proceed  :  what  hast  then  seen  ? 
Speak  it,  'twill  lighten  thy  dimm'd  mind. 

Sot.  '  Methought  — 

Myr.  Yet  pause,   thou  art    tired  — in   pain  —  ex- 
hausted ;  all 
Which  can  impair  both  strength  and  spirit:  seek 
Rather  to  sleep  agiiu. 

Sar.  IS'ot  now  —  I  would  not 

Dream  ;  though  I  know  it  now  to  be  a  dream 
What  I  have  dreamt :  —  and  canst  thou  bear  to  hear  it  ? 

Myr.  I  can  bear  all  things,  dreams  of  life  or  death, 
Whicti  I  participate  with  you  in  semblance 
Or  full  reality. 

Sar.  And  this  look'd  real, 

I  tell  you  :  after  that  these  eyes  were  open, 
I  saw  them  in  their  flight  —  for  then  they  fled. 

Myr.  Say  on. 

Sar.  I  saw,  that  is,  I  dream'd  myself 

Here  —  here  —  even  where  we  are,  g\iests  as  we  v/ere. 
Myself  a  host  that  deem'd  himself  but  guest. 
Willing  to  equal  all  in  social  freedom  ; 
But,  on  my  right  hand  and  my  left,  ins'ead 
Of  thee  and  Zanies,  and  our  cuslom'd  meeting. 
Was  ranjed  on  my  left  hind  a  hauathty,  dark, 
And  deadly  face —  I  could  not  recoVni'se  it, 
Vet  I  hnd  seen  it,  though  1  knew  not  where: 
The  features  were  a  giant's,  and  the  eye 
Was  s'ill,  yet  lighted  ;  his  long  locks 'curl'd  down 
On  his  vast  bust,  whence  a  huge  quiver  rise 
With  shaft-heads  fealher'd  from  the  eagle's  wing. 
That  peep'd  up  bristling  through  his  serpent  hair. 
I  invited  him  to  till  the  cup  which  stood 


Between  us,  bu'  he  answer'd  not  —  I  fill'd  it  — 
He  took  it  not,  but  stired  upon  me,  till 
I  trembled  at  the  tix'd  glare  of  his  eye: 
I  frowii'd  upon  him  as  a  king  should  frown  — 
He  frown'd  not  in  his  turn,  but  look'd  upon  me 
VVith  the  sime  aspect,  which  appall'd  me  more, 
Because  it  changed  not ;  and  1  turn'd  for  refuge 
To  milder  guests,  and  sought  them  on  the  right. 
Where  thou  wert  wont  to  be.    But \^He  pauses, 

Myr.  What  instead? 

•Sar.  In  thy  own  chair  —  thy  own  place  in  the  ban- 
quet — 
I  sought  thy  sweet  face  in  the  circle  —  but 
Instead  —  a  grey-hair'd,  wither'd,  bloody-eyed, 
And  bloody-lianded,  ghastly,  ghostly  thing,' 
Female  in  garb,  and  crown  d  upon  the  brow, 
Furrow'd  with  years,  yet  sneering  with  the  passion 
Of  vengeance,  leering  too  with  that  of  lust. 
Sate :  —  my  veins  curdled. 

Myr.  Is  this  all  ? 

Sar,  Upon 

Her  right  hand  — her  lank,  bird-like,  right  hand  — 

stood 
A  goblet,  bubbling  o'er  with  blood  ;  and  on 
Her  left,  another^  fill'd  with  —  what  I  saw  not. 
But  turn'd  from  it  and  her.     But  all  along 
The  tible  sate  a  range  of  crowned  wretches, 
Of  various  aspects,  but  of  one  expression. 

Myr.  And  felt  you  not  this  a  mere  vision  ? 

Sar.  No! 

It  was  so  palpable,  I  could  have  touched  them. 
I  turn'd  from  one  face  to  another,  in 
The  hope  to  find  at  last  one  which  I  knew 
Ere  1  saw  theirs:  but  no  —  all  turn'd  upon  me, 
Andstaed,  but  neither  ate  nor  dank,  but  stared, 
Till  I  grew  stone,  as  they  seem'd  hilf  to  be, 
Yet  breathing  stone,  fur  I  felt  life  in  them. 
And  life  in  me:  there  was  a  horrid  kiud 
Of  sympathy  between  us,  as  if  they 
Had  lost  a  part  of  death  to  come  to  me, 
And  1  the  half  of  life  to  sit  by  them. 
We  were  in  an  existence  all  apait 

From  heaven  or  earth And  rather  let  me  see 

Death  all  than  such  a  being  ! 

Myr.  And  the  end  ? 

Siir.  At  last  I  sate,  marble,  as  they,  when  rose 
The  hutiter  and  the  cione;  and  smiling  on  me  — 
Yes,  the  enlarged  but  noble  aspect  of 
The  hunter  smiled  upon  me  —  I  should  say, 
His  lips,  for  his  eyes  moved  not  —  and  the  v^'oman't 
Thin  lips  relax'd  to  somehing  like  a  smile. 
Boh  rose,  ai  d  ;he  crown'd  figuie*  on  each  hand 
Rose  also,  as  if  aping  their  chief  shades  — 
Mere  mimics  even  in  death  —  but  I  sale  still : 
A  desperate  courage  crept  through  every  limb, 
And  at  the  last  I  fear'd  them  no',  but  laugh'd 
Full  in  their  phantom  faces.     But  then  —  then 
The  hunter  hid  his  hand  on  mine :  1  took  it, 
And  grasp'd  it  — but  it  melted  from  my  own; 
While  he  too  vanish'd.  and  left  nothing  but 
The  memory  of  a  hero,  for  he  look'd  so. 

Myr.  And  was:  the  ancestor  of  heroes,  too, 
And  thine  no  less. 

Sar.  Ay,  Myn  ha,  but  the  woman, 

The  female  who  remnn'd,  she  flew  upon  me. 
And  burnt  my  lips  up  wi  h  her  noisome  kisses; 
And,  flinging  down  the  goblets  on  each  hand, 
Melhought  their  poisons  flow'd  around  us.  till 
Each  form'd  a  hideous  river.     Still  she  clung; 
The  other  phantoms,  like  a  row  of  statues, 
Sood  dull  as  in  our  temiiles,  but  she  still 
Embraced  me,  while  I  shru  k  from  her,  as  if, 
In  lieu  of  her  remote  descend  ii.t.  I 
Had  been  the  son  who  slew  her  for  her  incest. 
Then  —  then  —  a  chaos  of  all  Inathsnme  things 
Thtong'd  thick  and  shapeless :  I  was  dead,  yetYeelinf— 
Buried,  and  raised  again  —  consumed  by  wunns. 
Purged  by  the  fiames,  and  wither'd  in  the  air  ! 
1  can  fix  nothing  further  of  my  thnugh's, 
Save  that  I  long'd  f  r  thee,  and  sought  far  thee. 
In  all  these  agonies, —  and  woke  and  found  thee. 


3520 


SARDANAPALUS: 


[Act  IV. 


Myr.  Sn  shall  fhou  find  me  ever  at  thy  side, 
Here  and  hereifler,  if  the  last  may  be. 
But  Ihiuk  MOi  of  'hese  ihnigs—  ihe  mere  creations 
Of  late  events,  acting  upon  a  f  anie 
Unused  to  toil,  yet  over-winughl  by  toil 
Such  as  might  try  the  sternest. 

Snr.  I  am  belter. 

Noiv  that  I  see  thu  once  more,  what  was  seen 
Seems  nothing. 

EiUr  Saltm'.nts. 

SaL  Is  the  kmg  so  soon  awake  ? 

Sar.  Yes,  brother,  and  I  would  1  had  no!  slept; 
For  all  Ihe  predeces  ors  of  our  line 
Rose  up,  melhough',  to  drag  me  d  )n'n  to  them. 
My  falher  was  among-t  Ihem,  too;  but  he, 
I  kn  iw  not  why,  kept  from  me,  leaving  me 
Between  Ihe  hunler-lbuiider  of  our  race. 
And  her,  the  h'lnuc  dc  and  husband  killer, 
Whom  you  call  glorious. 

Sal.  So  I  term  you  aUo, 

Now  you  have  shown  a  spirit  like  to  lers. 
By  day.break  I  propose  that  we  set  forth, 
And  c'hirge  oiice  more  Ihe  rebel  crew,  who  still 
Keep  gathering  head,  repulsed,  but  not  quite  quell'd. 

Sar.  How  wears  the  night  ? 

Sal.  There  yet  remain  some  hours 

Of  darkness:  use  Ihem  for  your  fur  her  rest. 

Sar.  No,  not  to-night,  if  't  is  not  gone  :  methought 
I  p  isb'd  hours  in  that  vision. 

Myr.  Scarcely  one ; 

I  watch'd  by  you :  it  was  a  heavy  hour, 
But  an  hour  only. 

Sar.  Let  us  then  hold  council ; 

To-morrow  we  set  forth. 

Sal.  But  ere  that  time, 

I  had  a  grace  lo  3eek. 

Sar.  'T  is  granted. 

Sal.  Hear  it 

Ere  you  reply  too  readily  ;  and  't  is 

Prince,  I  take  ray  leave. 

[Exit  Myrrha. 
Sal.  That  slave  deserves  her  freedom. 
Sar.  Freedom  only ! 

Thai  slave  deserves  to  share  a  throne. 

Sal.  Your  patience  — 

'T  is  not  yet  vacant,  and  't  is  of  its  partner 
I  come  10  speak  with  you. 

Sar.  How  I  of  the  queen  ? 

Sal.  Even  so.     I  judged  it  filling  for  their  safety, 
Thai,  ere  Ihe  dawn,  she  sets  forth  with  her  children 
For  Paphlagonia,  where  our  kinsman  Colta 
Governs  ;  and  there  at  all  events  secure 
My  nephews  and  your  sons  their  lives,  and  with  them 
Their  just  pretensions  to  the  crown  in  cise 

Sar.  I  perish  — as  is  probable:  well  thought  — 
Let  Ihem  set  forth  w  ith  a  sure  escort. 

Sal.  That 

Is  all  provided,  and  the  galley  ready 
To  drop  down  the  Euphrates;  but  ere  they 
Depart,  will  \ou  nol  see 

Sar.  My  sons  ?    It  may 

Unman  my  heart,  and  the  poor  boys  will  weep ; 
And  what  cin  I  reply  to  comfort  them, 
Save  with  siime  hollow  hopes,  and  ill-worn  smiles? 
Ycu  k.-.0'v  i  canuol  feign. 

Sal.  But  you  can  feel ! 

At  least,  1  trust  so :  in  a  word,  the  queen 
Requests  to  see  you  ere  you  part  —  for  ever. 

Sar.  Unto  what  end  ?  what  purpose  ?    I  will  grant 
Aught  —  all  that  she  can  ask  —  but  such  a  meeting, 

Sal.  You    know,  or   ought    lo    know 


Sar.  'Twill  be  usclest: 

But  let  her  come. 

Sal.  I  go.  [Ex't  Salemtnu. 

Sar.  We  have  lived  asunder 

Too  long  to  meet  again  —  and  now  lo  meet ! 
Have  1  not  cares  enow,  and  pangs  enow. 
To  bear  alone,  that  we  must  mingle  sorrows. 
Who  have  ceased  to  mingle  love? 


Reenter  Salernenes  and  Zarina. 
Sal.  My  sister  !  Courage : 

Shame  not  our  blood  with  trembling,  but  remember 
From  whence  we  sprung.     The  queen  is  present,  sire. 
Zar.  I  pray  thee,  brother,  leave  me. 
Sal.  Since  you  ask  it. 

[Exit  Saltmaiu. 
Zar.  Alone  with  him  !  How  many  a  year  has  piss'd. 
Though  we  are  s'ill  so  young,  since  we  have  met, 
Which  I  have  worn  in  widowhood  of  heart. 
He  loved  me  nol :  yet  he  seems  lilile  changed  — 
Changed  to  me  oiilj  —  would  Ihe  change  were  mu'tial ! 
He  speaks  not  —  scarce  regards  me  —  nol  a  word  — 
Nor  look  —  yet  he  was  soft  of  voice  and  aspect, 
Indiderent,  not  austere.    My  lord  ! 
Sar.  Zarina ! 

Zar.  No,  not  Zarina  —  do  nol  say  Zarina. 
That  one  —  that  word  —  annihil  ite  long  years, 
And  things  which  make  Ihem  longer. 

Sar.  'T  is  too  late 

To  think  of  these  past  dreams.     Lei 's  not  reproach  — 

That  is,  reproach  me  not  —  for  the  last  time 

Zar.  And  first.     1  ne'er  reproach'd  you. 
Sar.  'T  is  most  true; 

And  that  reproof  comes  heavier  on  my  heart 

Than But  our  hearts  are  nol  in  our  own  power. 

Zar.  Nor  hands;  but  I  gave  both. 
Sar.  Your  brother  said 

It  was  your  will  to  see  me,  ere  you  went 

From  Nineveh  with (He  hhitates). 

Zar.  Our  children  :  it  is  true. 

I  wish'd  to  thank  you  that  you  have  not  divided 
My  heart  from  all'  thai  's  left  it  now  to  love  — 
Those  who  are  yours  and  mine,  who  look  like  you. 
And  look  u|)on  me  as  you  look'd  upon  me 

Once But  they  have  not  changed. 

Sar.  '  Nor  ever  will, 

1  fain  would  have  them  dutiful. 

Znr.  I  cherish 

Those  infan's,  not  alone  from  the  blind  love 
Of  a  fond  mother,  but  as  a  fond  woman 
They  are  now  the  only  tie  between  us. 

Sar.  '  Deem  not 

I  have  not  done  you  jus'ice:  ralhet  make  them 
Resemble  your  own  line  than  their  own  sire. 
I  trust  them  with  you  — to  you  :  fit  them  for 

A  throtie,  or,  if  that  be  denied You  have  heard 

Of  this  night's  tumults? 

Zir.  I  had  half  forgotten, 

And  could  have  welcomed  any  grief  save  \ours, 
Which  gave  me  to  behold  your  fa?e  again. 

Sar   The  throne —  I  say  ii  not  in  fe<r  — but  1i» 
In  peril :  they  perhaps  may  never  mount  it : 
But  let  Ihem  no'  for  this  lose  sigh!  of  it. 
I  will  d  ire  all  Ihinjs  to  bequeath  it  them  ; 
But  if  I  fail,  then  they  must  win  it  back 
Bravelv  —  and,  won,  'wear  it  wisely,  not  as  I 
Hsve  wasted  down  my  roy.<lty. 

Zar.  They  ne'er 

Shall  know  from  me  of  aught  but  what  may  hoDOUf 
Their  falher"s  memory, 

Sar.  Rather  let  Ihem  hear 

The  truth  from  you  than  from  a  trampling  world, 
enough  of  If  they  be  in  adversity,  they  'II  learn 

Too  soon  Ihe  scorn  of  crowds  for  crownless  princet. 
Since  you  have  studied  them  so  steadily,                        'And  find  that  all  their  father's  sins  are  theirs. 
That  what  Ihev  ask  in  aught  that  touches  on                  ;  My  bovs  I  —  I  could  have  borne  it  were  I  childlofs. 
The  heart,  is  dearer  to  their  feelinesor                            |     Zar.  Oh  !  do  not  say  so  —  do  not  poison  all 
Their  fancy,  than  the  whole  external  world                    Mv  peace  left,  by  unwishing  that  thou  wert 
I  I'.mk  as  you  do  of  my  sister's  wish  ;                              A  father.     If  tliou  conqueresi,  they  shall  reign, 
But  'I  was  her  wish  — she  is  my  sister  — y                      I  And  honour  him  who  saved  Ihe  realm  for  them, 
Her  husband  —  will  vou  grant  it  ?  So  I  itile  cared  for  as  his  own  ;  and  if 


Scene  I. 


H      IKAlih.  UV 


321 


Sar.  'T  is  lost,  all  earth  will  cry  out,  thank  your 
father ! 
Aiid  they  will  swell  the  echo  with  a  curse. 

Zar.   That  Ihey  shall  uever  dr>;  bui  raiher  honour 
The  name  of  him,  who,  dying  like  a  king. 
In  his  la>t  hours  did  nioie'for  his  own  memory 
Than  many  monarcbs  in  a  length  of  days 
Which  dale  the  (tight  of  time,  but  make  no  annals. 

Sar.  Our  annate  diaw  perchance  unto  their  close; 
But  at  the  least,  whale'er  the  past,  their  end 
Shall  be  like  their  beginning  —  memorable. 

Zar.  Y'et  be  not  rash  —  be  careful  of  your  life, 
Live  but  for  thoie  who  love. 

Sar.                                         And  who  are  Ihey  ? 
A  tiave,  who  loves  from  passion  —  1  Ml  not  say 
Ambition  —  she  hath  seen  thrones  shake,  and  loves ; 
A  few  friend,  who  have  reveli'd  till  we  are 
As  one,  for  they  are  nothing  if  I  fall ; 
A  brother  I  have  injured  — children  whom 
1  have  neglected,  and  a  spouse 

Zar.  Who  loves. 

Sar.  And  pardons  ? 

Zar.  I  have  never  thought  of  this, 

And  cannot  pardon  till  1  have  cjndemu'd. 

Sar.  My  wife ! 

Zir.  Now  blessings  on  thee  for  that  word ! 

I  never  thought  to  hear  it  more  — from  thee. 

Sm.  Oh  '.  thou  wilt  heir  it  from  my  subjects.  Yes 

These  slaves  whom  I  have  nurtured,  pnniper'd,  fed. 
And  swoln  with  peace,  and  gorged  with  plenty,  till 
They  reign  themselves  —  all  monarchs  in  their  man- 
sions — 
Now  swarm  forth  in  rebellion,  and  demand 
His  death,  who  made  their  lives  a  jubilee ; 
While  the  few  upon  whom  1  have  no  claim 
Are  faithful  !    This  is  true,  yet  monstrous. 

Zar.  IT  IS 

Perhaps  (oo  natural  ;  for  oenefils 
Turn  poison  in  bad  minds. 

Sar.  And  good  ones  make 

Good  out  of  evil.     Happier  Ihnn'the  bee, 
Which  hives  not  but  from  wholesome  flowers. 

Zar.  Then  reap 

The  honey,  nor  inquire  whence  't  is  derived. 
Be  satisfied  —  you  are  not  all  abandon'd.  [vou, 

Sar.  My  life  insures  me  that.     How  long,  bethink 
Were  not  I  yet  a  king,  should  I  be  mortal  ; 
Thit  is,  where  mortals  are,  not  where  they  must  be? 

Zar.  I  know  not.     But  yet  live  for  my  —  that  is, 
Your  children's  sake ! 

Sar.  My  gentle,  wrong'd  Zarioa ! 

I  am  the  very  slave  of  circumstance 
And  impulse  —  borne  away  with  every  breath  ! 
Misplaced  upon  the  throne  —  misplaced  in  life. 
I  know  not  what  I  could  have  been,  but  feel 
I  am  not  what  I  should  be  —  let  it  end. 
But  take  this  with  thee  :  if  I  was  not  form'd 
To  prize  a  love  like  Ihine,  a  mind  like  thine. 
Nor  dote  even  on  thy  beauty  — as  I  've  doted 
On  lesser  charm?,  for  no  cause  save  that  such 
Devotion  was  a  duty,  and  I  hated 
All  that  look'd  like  a  chain  for  me  or  others 
(This  even  rebellion  must  avouch) ;  yet  hear 
These  words,  perhaps  among  my  last  — that  none 
E'er  valued  more  thy  virtues,  though  he  knew  not 
To  profit  by  them  —  as  the  miner  lights 
Upon  a  vein  of  virgin  ore,  discovering 
Thit  which  avails  him  nothing:  he  hath  found  if, 
But 't  is  not  his  —  but  some  superior's,  who 
Placed  him  to  dig,  but  not  divide  the  wealth 
Which  sparkles  at  his  feet ;  nor  dare  he  lift 
Nor  poise  it,  but  must  grovel  on,  upturning 
The  sullen  earih. 

Zar.  Oh  !  if  thou  hast  at  length 

niscover'd  that  my  love  is  worth  esteem, 
1  ask  no  more  —  but  let  us  hence  together, 
And  /—  let  me  sav  we  —  shall  yet  be  happy. 
Assyria  is  not  all  the  earth—  we'll  find 
A  world  out  of  our  own  —  and  be  more  bless'd 
Than  I  have  ever  been,  or  thou,  with  all 
An  empire  to  indulge  thee. 

"  21 


Enter  .Salemenes. 

Sill.  I  must  part  ye  — 

The  moments,  which  must  not  be  lost,  are  passing. 

Zar.  Inhuman  brother!  wilt  thou  thus  weigh  oot 
Instants  so  high  and  blest  ? 

Sal.  Blest ! 

Zar.  He  hath  been 

So  gentle  with  me,  that  I  cannot  think 
Of  ifuii  ing. 

Sal.  So  —  this  feminine  farewell 

End-  as  such  partings  end,  in  7io  departure. 
I  Ihouglit  as  much,  and  yielded  against  all 
My  belter  bodings.     But  it  must  cot  be. 

Zar.  Not  be? 

Sal.  Remain,  and  perish 

Zar.  With  my  husband  — 

Sal.  And  children. 

Zar.  Alas '. 

Sal.                                     Hear  me,  sister,  like 
My  sister  :  —  all 's  prepared  to  make  your  safety 
Certain,  and  of  the  boys  too,  our  last  hopes ; 
'T  is  not  a  single  question  of  mere  feeling. 
Though  Ih  It  were  much  —  but  't  is  a  point  of  state : 
The  rebels  would  do  more  to  seize  upon 
The  offspring  of  their  sovereign,  and  so  crush 

Zar.  Ah  !  do  not  name  it. 

Sal.  Well,  then,  mark  me  ;  when 

They  are  safe  beyond  the  Median's  grasp,  the  rebels 
Have  miss'd  their  chief  aim  —  the  extinction  of 
The  line  of  Nimrod.     Though  ihe  present  king 
Fall,  his  sons  live  for  victory  and  vengeance. 

Zar.  But  could  not  I  remain,  alone  ? 

Sil.  What !  leave 

Your  children,  with  two  parents  and  yet  orphans  — 
In  a  strange  land  —  so  young,  so  disUnt  ? 

Z.,r.  ■  No— 

My  heart  will  break. 

Sal.  Now  you  know  all  —  decide. 

Sar.  Zarina,  he  hath  spoken  well,  and  we 
Must  yield  awhile  to  this  necessity. 
Remaining  here,  vou  may  lose  all ;  departing. 
You  save  the  better  part  of  what  is  left, 
To  both  of  us,  and  to  such  loyal  hearts 
As  yet  beat  in  these  kingdoms. 

Sal.  The  time  presses. 

Sar.  Go,  then.    If  e'er  we  meet  again,  perhaps 
I  may  be  worthier  of  you  —  and,  if  not. 
Remember  that  my  fai'ilts,  though  not  atoned  for, 
Are  ended.     Ye',  1  dread  thv  nature  will 
Grieve  more  above  the  blighted  name  and  ashei 
Which  once  were  mightiest  in  Assvria— than  — 
But  I  grow  womanish  again,  and  must  not ; 
I  must  learn  sterrcess  now.     My  sins  have  all 

Been  of  the  softer  order hide  thy  tears  — 

I  do  not  bid  thee  not  to  shed  tliem  —  -t  were 
Easier  to  s  op  Euphrates  at  its  source 
Than  one  tear  of  a  true  and  tender  heart  — 
But  let  me  not  behold  them ;  thev  unman  me 
Here  when  I  had  remaon'd  myself.    My  brother, 
Lead  her  away. 

Zar.  Oh,  God  !  I  never  shall 

Behold  him  more ! 

Sal.  {striving  to  conditct  her).    Nay,  sister,  I  mud 
be  obey'd. 

Zar.  I  must  remain  — away  !  you  shall  not  hold  me. 
What,  shall  he  die  alone  ?  —  /  live  alone  ? 

Sal.  He  shall  jiot  die  alone  ;  but  lonely  you 
Have  lived  for  years. 

Zar.  That 's  false  !    I  knew  Ae  lived, 

And  lived  upon  his  image  —  let  me  go ! 

Sal.  (conducting  her  off  the  stage).    Nay,  then,  I 
must  use  some  fraternal  force. 
Which  you  will  pardon. 

Zar.  Never.    Help  me '.Oh! 

Sardanapalus,  wilt  thou  thus  behold  me 
Torn  from  thee  ? 

Sal.  Nay  —  then  all  is  lost  again, 

If  that  this  moment  is  not  gain'd. 

Zar.  My  bram 

My  eyes  fail  —  where  is  he  ?  [She 


323 


SARDANAPALUS; 


[Act  IV.  i 


Sar.  (advancing).  No  —  set  her  down  — 

She 's  dead  —  aud  j  ou  have  slain  her. 

Sal.  'T  is  the  mere 

Faintness  of  o'erwrought  passion:  in  the  air 
She  will  recover.     Fray,  keep  back. —  [Jiside.]  1  must 
Avail  myself  of  this  sole  moment  to 
Bear  her  to  where  her  children  are  enibark'd, 
I"  ihe  royal  galley  on  the  river. 

ISalemenes  bears  her  off. 

Sar.  (,solia).  This,  too  — 

And  this  too  must  I  suffer—  I,  who  never 
Jntlicted  purposely  on  human  hearts 
A  voluntary  pang  !    But  that  is  false  — 
She  loved  me,  and  I  loved  her.—  Fata!  passion  ! 
Why  dost  thou  not  expire  al  once  in  hearts 
Which  thou  hast  lighied  up  at  once  ?    Zarina  ! 
I  must  pay  dearly  for  the  desolation 
Now  brought  upon  thee.     Had  I  never  loved 
But  thee,  I  should  have  been  an  unopposed 
Monarch  of  honouring  nalions.     To  what  gulfs 
A  single  deviation  from  the  track 
Of  human  du'ies  leads  even  those  who  claim 
The  homage  of  mankind  as  their  born  due, 
And  find  it,  till  they  forfeit  it  themselves  '. 
Enter  Myrrha. 

Sar.  You  here '.  Who  call'd  you  ? 

Myr.  '  No  one  —  but  I  heard 

Far  otf  a  voice  of  wail  and  lamentation, 
And  thought 

Sar.  It  forms  no  portion  of  your  duties 

To  enter  here  till  sought  for. 

Myr.  Though  I  might, 

Perhaps,  recall  some  softer  words  of  yours 
(Allhiiugh  they  too  voere  chiding),  which  reproved  me, 
Because  I  ever  dreaded  to  intrude  ; 
Resisting  my  own  wish  and  your  injunction 
To  heed  no  time  nor  presence,  but  approach  you 
Uncall'd  for  :  —  I  retire. 

Sar.  Yet  stay  —  being  here. 

I  pray  you  pardon  me  :  events  have  s'mr'd  me 
Till  I  wax  peevish  —  heed  it  not:  I  shall 
Soon  be  myself  again. 

Myr.  I  wait  with  patience, 

What  I  shall  see  with  pleasuie. 

Sar.  Scarce  a  moment 

Before  your  entrance  in  this  hall,  Zarina, 
Queen  of  Assyria,  departed  hence. 

Myr.  Ah! 

Sar.  Wherefore  do  you  start  ? 

Myr.  Did  1  do  so  ? 

Sar.  'T  was  well  you  enter'd  by  another  portal, 
Else  you  had  met.     That  pang  at  least  is  spared  her ! 

Myr.  I  know  to  feel  for  her. 

Sar.  That  is  too  much, 

And  beyond  nature  — 't  is  nor  natural 
Nor  possible.  You  cannot  pity  her. 
Nor  she  aught  but 

Myr.  Despise  the  favourite  slave  ? 

Not  more  than  I  have  ever  scorn'd  myself. 

Sar.  Scorn'd  1  what,  to  be  the  envy  of  your  sex. 
And  lord  it  o'er  the  heart  of  the  world's  lord  ? 

Jkfyi".  Were  you   Ihe  lord  of  twice  ten  thousand 
worlds  — 
As  you  are  like  to  lose  the  one  you  sway'd  — 
I  did  abase  myself  as  much  in  being 
Your  paramour,  as  though  you  were  a  peasant  — 
Nay,  more,  if  that  the  peasant  were  a  Greek. 

Sar.  You  talk  it  well ■ 

Myr  And  truly. 

Sar.  In  the  hour 

Of  man's  adversity  all  things  grow  daring 
Against  Ihe  falling;  but  as  I  am  not 
Quite  fall'n,  nor  now  disposed  to  hear  reproaches. 
Perhaps  because  I  merit  iheni  too  nfien, 
Let  us  then  part  while  peace  is  still  between  us. 
Myr.  Part! 

Sar.  Have  not  all  past  human  beings  parted, 

And  must  not  all  the  present  one  day  part  ? 
Myr.  Why? 
Stir.  For  your  safety,  which  I  will  have  look'd  to. 


With  a  strong  escort  to  your  native  land  ; 
And  such  gifis,  as,  if  you  had  not  been  all 
A  queen,  shall  make  your  dosvry  worth  a  kingdom. 

Myr.  I  pray  you  talk  not  thus. 

Sar.  The  queen  is  gone : 

You  need  not  shame  to  follow.    I  would  fall 
Alone  —  I  seek  no  partners  but  in  pleasure. 

Myr.  And  1  no  pleasure  but  in  paiting  not. 
You  shall  not  force  me  from  you. 

Sar.  Think  well  ot  it— • 

It  soon  may  be  too  late 

Myr.  Sc  let  it  be ; 

For  ihen  you  cannot  separate  me  from  you. 

Sar.  And  will  not ;  but  1  thought  you  wish'd  iU 

Myr.  I! 

Sar.  You  spoke  of  your  abasement. 

Myr.  And  I  feel  it 

Deeply  —  more  deepiv  than  all  things  but  love. 

Sar.  Then  Hy  from  it. 

Myr.  'T  will  not  recall  the  pa»t  — 

'T  will  not  restore  my  honour,  nor  my  heart. 
No  —  here  I  stand  or  fall,    if  that  you  conquer, 
1  live  to  joy  in  your  great  triumph :  should 
Your  lot  be  ditt'erent,  1  'II  not  weep,  but  share  it. 
You  did  not  dout»t  me  a  few  hours  ago. 

Sar.  Your  courage  never —  nor  your  love  till  now  ; 
And  none  could  make  me  doubt  it  save  yourself. 
Those  woids 

Myr.  Were  words.     I  pray  yoa,  let  the  proois 

Be  in  the  past  acts  you  were  pleased  to  praise 
1  his  very  night,  and  in  my  further  bearing, 
Beside,  wherever  you  are  borne  by  fate. 

Sar.  I  am  content :  and,  trusting  in  my  cause, 
Think  we  may  yet  be  victors  and  return 
'I'o  peace  —  the  only  victory  I  covet. 
To  me  war  is  no  glory  —  conquest  no 
Renown.     To  be  forced  Ihus  lo  uphold  my  right 
Sits  heavier  on  my  heart  than  all  the  wrongs 
These  men  would  bow  me  down  wiih.     Never,  never 
Can  I  forget  this  night,  even  should  1  live 
To  add  it  to  the  memory  of  olheis. 
I  thought  to  have  made  mine  inoffensive  rule 
An  era  of  sweet  peace  'midst  bloody  annals, 
A  green  spot  amidst  desert  centuries. 
On  which  the  future  would  turn  back  and  smile. 
And  cultivate,  or  sigh  when  it  could  not 
Recall  Sardanapalus'  golden  reign. 
I  thought  to  have  made  my  realm  a  paradise. 
And  every  moon  an  epoch  of  new  pleasu'es. 
1  took  the  rabble's  shouts  for  Inve  —  the  breath 
Of  friends  for  truth  —  the  lips  of  woman  for 
My  only  gueidon  —  so  they  are,  my  Myrrha : 

[He  kitset  her. 
Kiss  me.     Now  le'  them  take  my  realm  and  life ! 
They  shall  have  both,  but  never  ihee ! 

Myr.  No,  never ! 

Man  may  de=poil  his  brother  man  of  all 
That's    great   or    gliitering  — kingdoms    fall  —  hosti 

yield  — 
Friends  fail  — slaves  fly  — and  all  betray  — and,  mor» 
Than  all,  the  most  indebted  —  but  a  heart 
That  loves  without  self-love !  'T  is  here— now  prove  it. 

Enter  Salemenes. 

Sal.  I  sought  you  —  How  !  the  here  again? 

Sar.  Return  no! 

Now  to  reproof:  methinks  your  aspect  speaks 
Of  higher  matter  than  a  woman's  presence. 

Sal.  The  only  woman  whom  it  much  imports  me 
At  such  a  moment  now  is  safe  in  absence  — 
The  queen  's  embark 'd. 

Sar.  And  well  ?  say  that  much. 

Sal.  Tee. 

Her  transient  weakness  has  pass'd  o'er;  at  least, 
It  settled  into  tearless  silence  :  her 
Pale  face  and  glittering  eye,  after  a  glance 
Upon  her  sleeping  children,  were  stiil  lix'd 
U|  on  the  palace  towers  as  the  swift  galley 
Stole  down  the  hurrying  stream  beneath  the  (ttrligfat ; 
But  she  said  nothing. 


Scene  I. 


A    TRAGEDY. 


323 


Sar.  Would  I  fell  no  more 

Tlian  slie  baa  snid ! 

Sal.  'T  is  now  too  late  to  feel. 

Your  feelings  cannot  cancel  a  sole  pang: 
To  change  Ihein,  my  advices  bring  suie  tidings 
That  ihe  rebellious  Medes  and  Clialdees,  niifbhaird 
By  their  two  le.ide^s,  are  already  up 
In  arms  again  ;  and,  serrying  their  ranks, 
Prepare  to  attack  :  ihey  have  apparent  y 
Been  joiu'd  by  other  satraps. 

Sar.  What !  more  rebels? 

Let  us  be  first,  then. 

Sal.  That  were  hardly  prudent 

Now,  though  it  was  our  first  intention.     If 
By  noon  to-morrow  we  a?e  join'd  by  those 
I  "ve  sent  for  by  sure  niesrengers,  we  shall  be 
In  strength  enough  to  venture  an  attack. 
Ay,  and  pursuit  loo ;  but,  till  then,  my  voice 
Is  to  await  the  onset. 

.Sar.  Idet8:t 

That  wailing;  though  it  seems  so  safe  to  fight 
Behind  high  walls,  and  huil  down  foes  into 
Deep  fosses,  or  behold  them  sprawl  on  spikes 
Strew'd  to  receive  them,  still  1  like  it  not  — 
My  soul  seems  lukewarm  ;  but  when  I  set  on  them, 
'1  hough  they  weie  piled  on  mountains,  I  would  have 
A  pluck  at  them,  or  perish  in  hot  blood  1  — 
Let  me  then  charge. 

Sal  Tou  talk  like  a  young  soldier. 

Sar.  I  am  no  soldier,  but  a  man  :  ^peak  not 
Of  soldiership,  I  lo.iihe  the  word,  and  those 
Who  pride  llieniselves  upon  it;  but  direct  me 
Where  I  may  pour  upon  them. 

Sal.  You  must  spare 

To  expose  your  life  too  hastily  ;  't  is  not 
Like  mine  or  any  o  her  subject's  breath  : 
The  whole  war  turns  upon  it —  with  it ;  this 
Alone  creates  it,  kindles,  and  may  quench  it  — 
Prolong  it  —  end  it. 

Sar.  Then  let  us  end  both  ! 

'T  were  better  thus,  perhaps,  than  prolong  either  ; 
I  'm  sick  of  one,  pei  chance  of  both. 

[A  trumpet  sounds  withcnit. 

Sal.  Hark '. 

Sar.  Let  us 

Reply,  not  listen. 

Sal.  And  vour  wound  I 

Sar.  '  'T  is  bound  — 

'T  is  heal'd  —  I  had  forg-.tlen  it.     Away  ! 
A  leech's  lancet  would  have  scia'ch'd  nie  deeper; 
The  slave  that  gave  it  might  be  well  ashamed 
To  have  struck  so  weakly. 

Sal.  Now,  may  none  this  hour 

Strike  with  a  better  aim  ! 

Sar.  Ay,  if  we  conquer; 

But  if  not,  thev  will  only  leave  to  me 
A  task  Ihey   might   have  spared  tl  eir  king.    Upon 
them  !  [Triitr.ptt  sounds  again. 

Sal.  I  am  with  you. 

Sar.  Ho,  my  arms !  again,  my  arms  ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 


Th*  same  Hall  i>i  the  Palace. 
Myrrha  and  Balea. 
Myr.  {at  a  wijidow).  The  day  at  last  has   broken. 
What  a  night 
Hath  usher'd  it !     How  beautiful  in  heaven  ! 
Though  varied  with  a  transitory  storm, 
More  "beautiful  in  that  variety  ! 
How  hideous  upon  eaith  I  where  peace  and  hope. 
And  love  and  revel,  io  an  hour  were  trampled 
By  human  passions  to  a  human  chaos, 
Not  yet  rcsolve<l  to  separate  elements  — 
T  is  warring  still !    And  can  the  sun  so  rise, 


So  bright,  so  rolling  back  the  clouds  in'o 

Vapnuls  nioie  lovely  than  the  unclouded  sky, 

With  golden  pinnacles,  and  snowy  nioun  ains, 

And  billows  purpler  th  n  Ihe  ocean's,  making 

In  heaven  a  glorii.us  mockery  of  ihe  earlh, 

So  like  we  almost  deem  It  permanent ; 

So  Heeling,  we  can  scarcely  call  it  aught 

Be_\oiid  a  vision,  'tis  so  iransieotly 

Scillei  'd  along  the  eternal  vault :  and  yet 

It  dwells  upon  Ihe  soul,  and  soothes  the  soul, 

And  blends  itself  into  Ihe  s  .ul,  uniil 

Sunrise  and  sunset  foiui  Ihe  baunied  epoch 

Of  soriow  and  of  love  ;  which  Ihey  who  mark  not 

Know  not   he  le  Ims  where  hose  twin  genii 

(Who  chasten  and  who  purify  our  he  nts, 

So  lh.1t  we  would  not  change  tt.eir  s«eet  rebuke* 

For  all  the  boisterous  joys  that  ever  shook 

The  air  with  clamour)  build  the  palaces 

Where  Iheir  fond  voiaiies  repo.se  and  biea'he 

Brieliy  ;  —  but  in  that  brief  cool  cilm  iuhale 

Enough  of  heaven  to  enable  Ihem  to  bear 

The  I  est  of  common,  heavy,  human  hours, 

And  dream  tliem  through  in  placid  suti'erance, 

'J'hough  seemingly  employ'd  like  all  ihe  rest 

Uf  toiling  bieaihers  in  allotted  tasks 

(If  pain  or  pleasure,  two  names  for  one  feeling, 

Which  our  imernal,  restless  agony 

Would  vary  in  the  sound,  although  the  sense 

Escapes  our  highest  efforts  to  be  happy. 

£al.  Vou  mu^e  right  calmly  :  and  can  you  so  watch 
T  he  sunrise  which  may  be  our  last  } 

Myr.  It  is 

Therefore  tliat  I  so  watch  it,  and  reproach 
Those  eyes,  which  never  may  behold  it  more, 
For  having  look'd  upon  it  oft,  loo  oft. 
Without  the  reverence  and  the  rapture  due 
To  that  which  keeps  all  earth  from  being  as  fragile 
As  I  am  in  this  form.     Come,  look  upo.'i  it, 
1  he  Chaldee's  god,  which,  when  1  gaze  upon 
I  glow  almost  a  convert  to  your  Baal. 

Sal.  As  now  he  reigns  in  heaven,  so  once  on  earth 
He  sway'd. 

Myr.  He  sways  it  now  far  more,  then  ;  never 

Had  earthly  monarch  half  Ihe  power  and  glory 
Which  centres  in  a  single  ray  of  his. 

£at.  Surely  he  is  a  god  ! 

Myr.  So  we  Greeks  deem  too ; 

And  yet  I  sometimes  Ihink  that  gorgeous  orb 
Must  rather  be  the  abode  of  gods  than  one 
Of  Ihe  immorial  sovereigns.     Now  he  breaks 
Through  all  the  clouds,  and  fills  my  eyes  with  light 
Thai  shuts  the  world  out.     I  can  look  no  more. 

Sal.  Hark  !  heard  you  not  a  sound  ? 

Myr.  No,  'I  was  mere  fancy  1 

They  battle  it  beyond  Ihe  wall,  and  not 


Since  t|iat  insidious  hour;  and  here,  within 
The  very  centre,  girded  by  vasi  courts 
And  regal  halls  of  pyramid  proporti.ins. 
Which  must  be  carried  one  by  one  before 
They  penelrate  to  where  they  then  arrived. 
We  are  as  much  shut  in  even  from  the  sound 
Of  peril  as  from  glory. 

Sal.  But  they  reach'd 

Thus  far  before. 

Myr.  Yes,  by  surprise,  and  were 

Bea:  back  by  valour :  now  at  once  we  have 
Courage  and  vigilance  to  guard  us. 

Sal.  May  they 

Prosper ! 

Myr.  That  is  the  prayer  of  many,  and 
The  dread  of  more  :  it  is  an  anxious  hour  ; 
I  strive  to  keep  it  from  my  thoughts.  Alas ! 
How  vainly ! 

Sal.  It  Is  said  Ihe  king's  demeanour 

In  Ihe  late  action  scarcely  moreappall'd 
The  rebels  than  astonish  d  his  true  subjects. 

Myr.  'T  is  easy  to  astonish  or  appal 
The  vulgar  mass  which  niouUs  a  horde  of  slav« 
But  he  did  bravely. 


3ii4 


SARDANAPALUS: 


[Act  V. 


KoJ.  Slew  he  not  Beleses  ? 

I  heard  the  soldiers  say  he  struck  him  dfuvn. 

Myr   The  wretch  was  overthrown,  but  re-cued  to 
Triumph,  perhaps,  o'er  one  who  vanquish "d  him 
In  fight,  as  he  had  spared  him  in  his  peril ; 
And  by  that  heedless  pity  risk'd  a  crown. 

Bal.  Hark ! 

Myr.  You    are  right;   some    steps    approach,  but 
slowly. 


Etnltr  Sntdiers,  learmg  in  Salemenes  wovnded,  with 
a  hroktn  javelin  in  his  side:  they  seat  him  upon 
one  of  the  couches  whidi  furniJi  the  Apartmtnt. 

Myr.  Oh,  Jove ! 

Bdl.  Then  all  is  over. 

Sal.  That  is  false ! 

Hew  do%vn  the  slave  who  says  so,  if  a  soldier. 

Myr.  Spare  him  — he's  none:  a  mere  court  but- 
lerrty, 
That  flutters  in  the  pageant  of  a  monarch 

Sal.  Let  him  live  on,  then. 

Myr.  So  wilt  thou,  I  trust. 

Sal.  I  fam  would  live  this  hour  out,  and  the  event. 
But  doubt  it.     Wherefore  did  ye  bear  me  here. 

Sol.  By  the  king's  order.     When  the  javelin  struck 

You  fell  and  fainted  :  't  was  bis  strict  command 
To  bear  you  to  this  hall. 

Sal.  'T  was  not  ill  done : 

For  seeming  slain  in  that  cold  dizzy  trance. 
The  sight  might  shake  our  soldiers  —  but  —  't  is  vain, 
1  feel  it  ebbing  ! 

Myr.  Let  me  see  the  wound  ; 

I  am  not  quite  skilless :  in  my  native  land 
'T  is  part  of  our  instruction.     War  being  constant, 
We  are  nerved  to  look  on  such  things. 

Sol.  Best  extract 

The  javelin. 
Myr.  Hold  !  no,  no,  it  cannot  be. 

Sal.  I  am  sped,  then! 

Myr.  With  the  blood  that  fast  must  follow 

The  extracted  weapon,  I  do  fear  thy  life. 
SaL  And  I  not  death.     Where  was  the  king  when 
you 
Convey'd  me  from  the  spot  where  I  was  stricken  ? 

Sol.  Upon  the  same  ground,  and  encouraging 
With  voice  and  gesture  the  dispirited  troops 
Who  had  seen  you  fall,  and  falter'd  b'Ck. 

Sal.  Whom  heard  ye 

Named  next  to  the  command  ? 
Sol.  I  did  not  hear. 

Sal.  Fly,  then,  and  tell  him,  't  was  my  last  request 
That  Zames  lake  my  post  until  the  junction. 
So  hoped  for,  yet  delay'd,  of  Ofratanes, 
Satrap  of  Susa.     Leave  me  here :  our  troops 
Are  not  so  numerous  as  to  spire  your  absence. 

Sol.  But  prince 

Sal.  Hence,  I  say !    Here 's  a  courlier  and 

A  woman,  the  best  chimber  company. 
As  you  would  not  permit  me  to  expire 
Upon  the  field,  1  'II  have  no  idle  soldiers 
About  my  sick  couch.     Hence!  and  do  my  bidding! 
[Exeunt  the  Soldiert. 
Myr.  Gallant  and  glorious  spirit!  must  the  earth 
So  soon  resign  thee  ? 

Sal.  Gentle  Myrrha,  't  is 

The  end  I  would  have  chosen,  had  I  saved 
The  monarch  or  the  monarchy  by  this; 
As  't  is,  I  have  not  outlived  them. 
M'jr.  You  wax  paler. 

Sal.  Your  hand  ;  this  broken  weapon  but  prolongs 
My  panjs,  without  sustaining  life  enough 
To  make  me  useful :  I  would  draw  it  forth 
And  my  life  with  it,  could  I  but  hear  how 
The  fight  goes. 


Sar    (dcspondingly).    You  see  me /n  re. 

Sal.  I  'd  rather  >ee  you  thus! 

[He  draws  out  the  weapon  front  the  vomiud, 
and  dies. 

Sar.  And  thus  1  will  be  seen;  unless  the  succour, 
The  last  frail  reed  of  our  beleaguer'd  hopes. 
Arrive  with  Ofratanes. 

Myr.  Did  you  not 

Receive  a  token  from  your  dying  brother, 
Appointing  Zanies  chief? 

Sar.  I  did. 

Myr.  W  here 's  Zames  ? 

Sar.  Dead. 

Myr.  And  Altad  i  ? 

Sar.  Dying. 

Myr.  Pania  ?  Sfero  ? 

Sar.  Pania  yet  lives ;  but  Sfero 's  f5ed  or  captive. 
I  am  alone. 


And  is  all  lost  ? 


r.v 

aol 

Iilon? 


Enter  Sardanapalus  and  Soldiers. 
My  best  brother 


And  the  battle 


Myr, 

Sar.  Our  walls, 

Thuugh  thinly  mann'd,  may  still  hold  out  against 
Their  presep  force,  or  aught  save  treachery  : 
But  i'lheheid 

Myr.  I  thought 't  was  tne  inttjt 

Of  Salemenes  not  to  risk  a  sally 
Till  ye  were  strengthen'd  by  the  expected  succours. 

Sar.  /over-ruled  him. 

Myr.  Well,  the  fault 's  a  brave  one 

Sar.  But  fatal.  Oh,  my  brother:  I  would  give 
These  realms,  of  which  thou  wert  the  ornament. 
The  sword  and  shield,  the  sole  redeeming  honour, 

To  call  back But  1  will  not  weep  for  thee  ; 

Thou  Shalt  be  mourn"d  for  as  thou  wouldst  be  niouroM. 

It  grieves  me  most  that  thou  couldsl  quit  this  life 

Relieving  that  I  could  survive  what  Ihou 

Hast  died  for  —  our  long  royalty  of  race. 

If  I  redeem  it,  I  will  give  thee  blood 

Of  thousands,  tears  of  millions,  for  atonement 

(The  tears  of  all  the  good  are  thine  already). 

If  not.  we  meet  again  soon,—  if  the  spirit 

Wilhin  us  lives  beyond  :  —  thou  readest  mine, 

And  dost  me  justice  now.     Let  me  once  clasp 

That  yet  warm  hand,  and  fold  that  throbless  heart 

[Embraces  the  body. 
To  this  which  beats  so  bitterly.     Now,  bear 
The  bodv  hence. 

Soldtcr.  Where  ? 

Sar.  To  my  proper  chamber. 

PInce  it  beneath  my  canopy,  as  though 
T  he  king  lay  there':  when  this  is  done,  we  will 
Speak  further  of  the  rites  due  to  such  ashes. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers  with  the  body  of  ScUemenet. 

Enter  Pania. 

Sar.  Well,  Pania !  have  you  placed  the  guards,  and 
issued 
The  orders  fix'd  on  ? 

Pan.  Sire,  I  have  obey'd. 

Sar.  And  do  the  soldiers  keep  their  hearts  up  ? 

Pan.  Sire? 

Sar.  I  'm  answered  !    When  a  king  asks  twice,  and 
has 
A  question  as  an  answer  to  his  question. 
It  is  a  portent.     What !  they  are  dishearten'd  ? 

Pan.  The  death  of  Salemenes,  and  the  shcuts 
Of  the  exulting  rebels  on  his  fall. 
Have  made  them 

Sar.  Rage  —  not  droop  —  it  should  aave  been. 

We  Ml  find  the  means  to  rouse  them. 

Pan.  Such  a  loss 

Might  sadden  even  a  victory. 

Sar.  Alas ! 

Who  can  so  feel  it  as  I  feel  ?  out  vet, 
Though  coop'd  within  these  walls,  they  are  strong, 

and  we 
Have  those  without  will  breik  their  way  through  hotto, 
To  make  their  sovereign's  dwelling  what  it  was  — 
A  palace  ;  not  a  prison,  nor  a  fortress. 
Enter  an  Officer,  hastily. 

Sar.  Thy  face  seems  ominous.    Speak ! 


Scene  I.j 


A   TRAGEDY 


325 


OjgL  I  dare  not. 

Sar.  Dare  not  ? 

While  millicrw  lare  revolt  with  sword  in  band  ! 
Tbat  's  strange.     I  pr.iy  thee  break  Ih  X  loy.il  silence 
Which  loathes  lo  shock  ils  sovereign ;  \ve  can  hear 
Worse  han  thou  hasi  to  tell. 

Pan.  Proceed,  thou  hearest. 

Offi~  The  waJl  which  skirted  near  the  river's  brink 
Is  thrown  down  by  the  sudden  inundation 
Of  the  Euphrates,  which  now  rolliug,  swoln 
From   heeaorinous  mountains  where  il  rises, 
By  the  late  rains  of  thnt  tempestuous  region, 
U'ertioods  ils  banks,  and  haih  de^troy'd  the  bulwark. 

Pan.  That 's  a  black  sugury  !  i-  his  been  said 
For  ages,  "  That  the  ci'y  ne'er  should  yield 
To  man,  until  the  river  grew  ils  foe." 

6a)-.  I  can  forgive  ihe  omen,  not  the  ravage. 
How  much  is  swept  down  of  the  wall  ? 

Offi..  About 

Some  twenty  stadli.^ 

Sar.  And  all  this  is  left 

Pervious  to  the  assailants? 

OffL.  For  the  present 

The  river's  fury  must  impede  'he  assiLit ; 
But  when  he  shrinks  into  his  wonted  channel, 
And  may  be  cross'd  by  the  accustom'd  barks, 
The  palace  is  their  own. 

Sar.  That  shall  be  never. 

Though  men,  and  gods,  and  elemen's,  and  omens, 
Have  ri  en  up  'giinst  one  who  ne'er  provoked  them, 
My  fathers'  h  lu^e  shall  never  be  a  cave 
For  wolves  lo  horde  and  howl  in. 

Pan.  With  your  srnclion, 

I  will  proceed  to  the  spot,  and  take  such  measures 
For  the  assurance  of  the  vacant  space 
As  time  and  means  permit. 

Sar.  About  it  straight ; 

And  bring  me  bick,  as  speedily  as  full 
And  fair  investigation  nisy  permit, 
Report  of  ihe  true  state  of  this  irruption 
Of  waters.  [Extunl  Pania  and  the  Officer. 

Myr.        Thus  Ihe  very  waves  rise  up 
Against  you. 

Sar.  They  are  not  my  subjects,  girl, 

And  may  be  pardon'd,  since  they  can't  be  punish'd. 

Myr.  I  joy  lo  see  thi>  porlent  shakes  you  not. 

Sar.  I  am  p.ast  the  fear  of  portents  :  ihey  can  tell  me 
Nothing  I  have  not  told  myself  since  midnight : 
Despair  anticipates  such  things. 

Myr.  Despair! 

Sar.  No  ;  not  despair  precisely.     When  we  know 
All  that  can  come,  and  how  lo  meet  ii,  our 
Resolves,  if  firm,  may  merit  a  more  noble 
Word  than  this  is  to  give  il  utterance. 
But  what  are  words  To  us  ?  we  have  well  nigh  done 
With  them  and  all  things. 

Myr.  Sive  one  deed  —  the  last 

And  greatest  to  all  mortals  ;  crowning  act 
Of  all  that  was  —  oris  —  or  is  to  be  — 
The  only  'hing  common  to  all  mankind. 
So  different  in  their  binhs,  tonsues,  sexes,  natures, 
Hues,  features,  climes,  times,  feelings,  intellects, 
VVithout  one  point  of  union  save  in  this. 
To  which  we  tend,  for  which  we  're  born,  and  thread 
The  labyrinth  of  mystery,  call'd  life. 

Sar.  Our  clew  being  well  nigh  wound  out,  let 's  be 
cheerful. 
They  who  have  nothing  more  to  fear  may  well 
Indulge  a  smile  at  ihat  which  once  appall'd  ; 
As  children  at  discover'd  bugbears. 

Re-enter  Pania. 
Pan.  T  is 

As  was  rejwrted  ;  I  have  order'd  there 
A  double  guard,  withdrawing  from  the  wall 
Where  it  was  strongest  the  required  addition 
To  watch  the  breach  occasion  d  by  the  waers. 
Sar.  You  have  done  your  duty  faithfully,  and  as 


About  two  milea  and  a  half. 


;  My  worthy  Pania  !  further  ties  between  us 

Draw  near  a  close,     1  pray  you  take  this  key : 
!  {Givea  a  kOf. 

It  opens  to  a  secret  chamber,  placed 
Behind  the  couch  in  my  own  chamber.     (Now 
I  Pres.'d  by  a  nobler  weight  than  e'er  it  bore  — 
!  Though  a  long  line  of  sovereigns  have  lain  down 
Along  its  g  iliien  frame—  as  bearing  for 
A  time  what  late  was  Salemenes.)    Search 
The  secret  covert  to  which  this  will  lead  you 
'T  is  full  of  treasure ;  lake  il  for  yourself 
And  your  companions  :  there's  enough  lo  load  ye, 
Though  ye  be  many.     Let  Ihe  slaves  be  freed,  too; 
And  all  the  inmates  of  Ihe  palace,  of 
Wha  ever  tex,  now  quit  it  in  an  hour. 
Thence  launch  the  regal  barks,  once  form'd  for  pleasure, 
And  now  to  ;erve  for  safety,  and  embark. 
I  Thtf  river's  broad  and  swoln,  and  unc  ^mmanded 
;  (More  po'ent  than  a  king)  by  these  besiegers. 
j  Fly  :  and  be  happy  1 

I      Pail.  Under  your  protection  ! 

So  you  accompany  your  fai  hful  guard. 

Sar.  No,  Pania  I  that  must  not  be ;  get  thee  hence, 
And  leave  me  to  my  fate. 

Pan.                                'T  is  the  first  time 
I  ever  disobey 'd  :  but  now 

Sar.  '  So  all  men 

Dare  beard  me  now,  and  Insolence  wiihin 
Apes  Treason  from  wiihoui.     Question  no  further; 
'T  is  my  command,  my  last  command.    Wilt  thou 
Oppose  it?  thou! 

Pan.  But  yet  —  not  yet. 

Sar.  Well,  then, 

Swear  that  you  will  obey  when  I  shall  give 
The  signal. 

Pan.  With  a  heavy  but  true  heart, 

I  promise. 

Sar.  'T  is  emugh.     Now  order  here 

Faggots,  piae-nus,  and  wilher'd  leaves,  and  such 
Things  as  catch  fire  and  blaze  wilh  one  sole  spark; 
Bring  cedar,  too,  and  precious  drugs,  and  spices, 
And  mighty  planks,  lo  nourish  a  tall  pi!e ; 
Bring  frankincense  and  m\rrh,  too,  lor  it  is 
For  a  great  sacrifice  I  build  Ihe  pyre  ! 
And  heap  them  round  yon  throne. 

Pan.  My  lord  ! 

Sar.  I  have  said  it, 

And  you  have  sworn. 

Pan.  And  could  keep  my  faith 

Without  a  vow.  [Exit  Pania. 

Myr.  What  mean  you  ? 

Sar.  You  shall  know 

Anon  —  what  the  whole  earth  shall  ne'er  forget 

Pania,  returning  with  a  Herald. 

Pan.  My  king,  in  going  forth  upon  my  duty, 
This  herald  has  been  brought  before  me,  craving 
An  audience. 

Sar.  Let  him  speak. 

Her.  The  King  Arbaces 

.Sar.  What,  crown'd  already  ?  —  But,  proceed. 

Her.  Seleses, 

The  anointed  high-priest  —— 

Sar.  Of  what  god  or  demon? 

Wilh  new  kings  rise  new  altars.  But,  proceed  ; 
You  are  sent  to  prate  your  mailer's  will,  and  not 
Reply  to  mine. 

Hr.  And  Satrap  Ofratanes — 

Sar.  Why,  ht.  is  ours.  / 

Her.  {showing  a  ring.)  Be  sure  that  he  is  now 
In  the  camp  of  the  conquerors ;  behold 
His  signet  ring. 

Sar.  T  is  his.    A  worthy  triad  ! 

Poor  Salemenes  !  thou  hast  died  in  time 
To  see  one  treichery  the  less:  this  man 
Was  thy  true  friend  and  my  most  trusted  subject. 
Proceed. 

Her.        They  offer  thee  thy  life,  and  freedom 
Of  choice  to  single  out  a  residence 


28 


326 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[ActV  }' 


In  anv  of  the  fur  her  provinces, 
Guaided  and  watch'd,  but  not  cnnfined  in  person, 
Where  thnu  shah  pass  thy  days  in  peace  ;  but  on 
Condition  thai  the  three  young  princes  are 
Given  up  as  hosiages. 
Sar.  (ironically).      The  generous  victois  I 
Her.  I  wait  the  answer. 

Sar.  Answer,  slave".    How  long 

Have  slaves  decided  on  the  doom  of  kings  ? 
Her.  Since  they  were  free. 

Sar.  Mouthpiece  of  mutiny ! 

Thou  at  the  leist  shalt  learn  the  penilty 
Of  trenson,  thoujh  its  proxy  only.     Pania  ! 
Let  his  head  be  thrown  from  our  walls  within 
The  rebels'  lines,  his  carcase  down  the  river. 
Away  with  hini '. 

[Payiia  and  the  Guards  seizing  him. 
Pan.  I  never  yet  obey'd 

Your  orders  with  more  pleasure  than  the  present. 
Hence  with  him,  soldiers!  do  not  soil  this  hall 
Of  royalty  with  treasonable  gore; 
Put  him  to  rest  without.      - 

Her.  A  single  word : 

My  office,  king,  is  sacred. 

Sar.  And  what 's  mine  ? 

That  thou  shouldst  come  and  dare  to  ask  of  me 
To  lay  it  down  ? 

Her,  I  but  obey'd  my  orders, 

At  the  same  peril  if  refused,  as  now 
Incurr'd  by  my  obedience. 

Sar.  So  there  are 

New  monarchs  of  an  hour's  growth  as  despotic 
As  sovereigns  swathed  in  purple,  and  enthroned 
From  birth  to  manhOL;d  ! 

Her.  Mv  life  waits  your  breath. 

Yours  (I  speak  humbly)  —  hut  it  may  be  —  yours 
May  also  be  in  danger  scarce  less  imminent: 
Would  it  then  suit  the  last  hours  of  a  line 
Such  as  is  that  of  Nimrod,  to  destroy 
A  peaceful  herald,  unarm'd,  in  his  office  ; 
And  violate  not  only  all  that  man 
Holds  sacred  between  man  and  man  — but  that 
More  holy  tie  which  links  us  with  the  gods? 

Sar.  He's  light.— Let  him  go  free  — My  life's  last 
act 
Shall  not  be  one  of  wrath.     Here,  fellow,  take 

[Gives  h'm  a  golden  cup  from  a  table  near. 
This  golden  goblet,  let  it  hold  your  wine. 
And  think  of  me;  or  melt  it  into  ingots. 
And  think  of  nothin»  but  their  weight  and  value. 

Her.  I  thank  you  doubly  for  my  life,  and  this 
Most  gorgeous  gift,  which  renders  it  more  precious. 
But  must  I  bear  no  answer? 

Sar.  Yes,—  I  ask 

An  hour's  truce  to  consider. 
Htr.  But  an  hou  's  ? 

Sar.  An  hour's  :  if  at  the  expira  ion  of 
That  time  your  masters  hear  no  further  from  me, 
rhey  are  to  deem  that  I  reject  their  terms. 
And  act  befitlingly. 

Her.  I  shall  not  fail 

To  be  a  faithful  lejate  of  your  pleasure. 
Sar.  And  hark  1  a  word  more. 
Her.  I  shall  not  forget  it, 

Whate'er  it  be. 

Sar.  Commend  me  to  Beleses  ; 

And  tell  him,  ere  a  year  expire,  I  summon 
Him  hence  to  meet  me. 

Her.  Where? 

Sar.  At  Babylon. 

At  least  from  thence  he  will  depart  to  meei  me. 
Her.  I  shall  obey  you  to  the  letter.      [Exit  Herald. 
Sar.  Pania:- 

Now,  my  good  Pania  !  —  quick  —  with  what  I  order'd. 

Pan.  My  lord,—  the  soldiers  are  already  chirged. 
And  see  :  they  enter. 

[Soldiers  enter,  and  form  a  Pile  about  the 
Throne,  SfC. 
Sar.  Higher,  my  good  soldiers, 

And  thicker  yet ;  and  see  that  the  foundation 


Be  such  as  will  not  speedily  exhaust 
Its  own  too  subtle  tlanie  ;  nor  yet  be  quench'd 
With  auiht  officious  aid  would  bring  lo  quell  if. 
Let  the  throne  form  the  core  of  it ;  1  would  not 
Leave  that,  save  fraughi  with  fire  unquenchable, 
To  the  new  comers.    Frame  the  whole  .as  if 
'T  were  to  enkindle  the  strong  tower  of  our 
Inveterate  enemiea.     Now  it  be  .rs  an  aspect ! 
How  say  jou,  fania,  will  this  pile  suffice 
For  a  kirjg's  obsequies? 

Pan.  Ay,  for  a  kingdom's, 

I  understand  you,  now. 
Sar.  And  blame  me  ? 

Pan.  No  — 

Let  me  but  fire  the  pile,  and  share  it  with  you. 
Myr.  That  duly  's  mine. 
Pan.  A  woman's ! 

Myr.  'T  is  the  soldier's 

Pail  to  die  for  his  sovereign,  and  why  not 
The  womau's  with  her  lover? 
Pan.  'T  is  most  strange  ! 

Mi,r.  But  not  so  rare,  my  Pania,  as  thou  think'st  it. 
In  the  mean  time,  live  thou.—  Farewell !  the  pile 
Is  ready. 

Pan.      I  should  shame  to  leave  my  sovereign 
With  but  a  single  female  to  partake 
His  death. 

Sar.  Too  many  far  have  heralded 

Me  10  the  dust,  already.     Get  thee  hence ; 
Enrich  thee. 
Pan.  And  live  wretched ! 

Sar.  Think  upon 

Thy  vow :  — 't  is  sacred  and  irrevocable. 
Pan.  Since  it  is  so,  farewell. 

Sar.  Search  well  my  chamber, 

Feel  no  remorse  at  bearing  nfl"  the  gold  ; 
Remember,  what  you  leave  you  leave  the  slaves 
Who  slew  me:  and  when  >ou  have  borne  away 
All  safe  off  to  your  boa's,  blow  one  long  blast 
Upon  the  Irumjiet  as  you  quit  the  palace. 
The  river's  brink  is  too  remote,  its  stream 
Too  loud  at  present  to  permit  the  echo 
To  reach  dislincily  from  its  banks.     Then  fly, 
And  as  you  sail,  t  .rn  back  ;  but  still  keep  on 
Your  way  along  the  Euphrates:  if  you  reach 
The  land  of  Paphlagonia,  where  the  queen 
Is  safe  with  my  three  sons  in  Cotta's  court, 
Sav,  what  vou  satv  at  parting,  and  request 
That  she  remember  what  I  said  at  one 
Parting  more  mournlul  still. 

Pan.  That  royal  hand  ! 

Let  me  then  once  more  press  it  to  my  lips ; 
And  these  poor  soldiers  who  throng  round  you,  and      . 
Would  fain  die  wi;h  you  ! 

[The  Soldiers  and  Pania  throng  round  him, 
kissing  hii  hand  and  the  hem  if  his  robe. 
Sar.  My  best  I  my  last  friends  ! 

Let 's  not  unman  each  other :  part  al  once : 
All  farewells  should  be  sudden,  when  for  ever, 
Else  thev  make  in  e'ernify  of  moments. 
And  clog  the  last  sad  sands  of  life  with  tears. 
Hence,  and  be  Inppy  :  trust  me,  I  am  not 
Now  to  be  pitied ;  or  far  more  for  what 
Is  past  than  present ;  —  for  the  future,  't  is 
In  the  hands  of  the  deities,  if  such 
There  be  :  I  shall  know  soon.     Farewell  —  Farewell. 
[RrtuJit  Pania  and  Soldiers. 
Myr.  These  men  were  honest :  it  is  comfort  still 
That  our  last  look>  should  be  on  loving  faces. 

Sar.  And  /oue/i/one<,  nn  beautiful  !  — but  hear  me!.' 
If  at  ihis  moment,—  for  we  now  are  on 
The  brink,—  thou  feePst  an  in»  ard  shrinking  froK 
This  leap  throush  tlanie  into  the  future,  say  it: 
I  shall  not  love  thee  less  ;  nay,  perhaps  more. 
For  yielding  to  thy  mture:  and  there's  time 
Vet  for  ihee  to  escape  hence. 

Myr.  Shall  I  light 

One  of  the  torches  which  lie  heap'd  beneath 
The  ever  burning  lamp  that  burns  without. 
Before  Baal's  shrine,  in  the  adjoining  hall  ? 


Scene  I.] 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


327 


Sar.  Do  so.    Is  that  tby  answer  r 

Myr.  Thou  shalt  see. 

[Exit  Myrrhn. 

Sar.  (solus).  She 's  firm.    My  fathers:  whom  I  will 
rejoin, 
It  may  be,  purified  by  death  from  somt 
Of  thf  §ross  stains  of  too  material  being, 
i  would  noi  leave  your  ancient  first  abode 
To  the  defilement  of  usurping  bondmen ; 
If  I  have  not  kept  your  ii.herilancs 
As  ye  bequeath'd  it,  this  bright  part  of  It, 
Your  treasure,  your  abode,  your  sacred  relics 
Of  arms,  and  records,  monuments,  and  spoils, 
In  which  they  would  have  revell'd,  I  bear  with  me 
To  you  in  that  absorbing  element. 
Which  most  personifies  the  soul.as  leaving 
The  least  of  matter  unconsumed  before 
Its  fiery  workings  :  —  and  the  light  of  this 
Most  royal  of  funeral  pyres  shall  be 
Not  a  mere  pillar  form'd  of  cloud  and  flame, 
A  beacon  in  the  horizon  for  a  day. 
And  then  a  mount  of  ashes,  but  a  light 
To  lesson  ages,  rebel  nations,  and 
Voluptuous  princes.     Time  shall  quench  full  many 
A  people's  records,  and  a  hero's  acts  ; 
Sweep  empire  after  empire,  like  this  first 
Of  empires,  into  nothing  ;  but  even  then 
Shall  spare  this  deed  of  mine,  and  hold  it  up 
A  problem  few  dare  imitate,  and  mne 
Despise  — bui,  it  may  be,  avoid  the  life 
Which  led  to  such  a  consummation. 
Myrrha  returns  with  a  lighted  Torch  in  one  Hand, 
and  a  Cup  i7i  the  other. 

Myr.  Lo ! 

I've  lit  the  lamp  which  lights  us  to  the  stars. 

Sar,  And  the  cup  ? 

Myr.  T  is  my  country's  custom  to 

Make  a  libation  to  the  gods. 

Sar.  And  mine 

To  make  libations  amongst  men.     I  've  not 
Forgot  the  custom  ;  and  although  alone, 
Will  drain  one  draught  in  memory  of  many 
A  joyous  banquet  past. 

ISardanapnlus  lakes  the  cup,  and  after  drinking 
and  ti7Miii§  the  reversed  cup,  as  a  drop  Jails, 
exclaims  — 

And  this  libation 
Is  for  the  excellent  Beleses. 

Myr.  Why 

Dwells  thy  mind  rather  upon  that  man's  name 
Than  on  his  mate's  in  villany  ? 

Sar.  The  one 

Is  a  mere  soldier,  a  mere  tool,  a  kind 
Of  liuman  sword  in  a  fiend's  hand ;  the  other 
Is  master-m')ver  of  his  warlike  puppet : 


But  I  dismiss  them  from  my  mind. —  Yet  pause. 
My  Myrrha  !  dost  thou  truly  follow  me, 
Freely  and  fearlessly  ? 

Myr.  And  dost  thou  think 

A  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love,  that  which 
An  Indian  widow  braves  for  custom? 

Sar.  Then 

We  but  await  the  signal. 

Myr.  It  is  long 

In  sounding. 

Sar.  Now,  farewell ;  one  last  embrace. 

Myr.  Embrace,  but  not  the  last ;  theie  is  one  more. 

Sar.  True,  the  commingling  fire  will  mix  ourashes. 

Myr.  And  pure  as  is  my  love  lo  thee,  shall  they, 
Purged  from  the  dross  of  earth,  and  earthly  passion, 
Mix  pale  with  thine.    A  single  thought  yet  irks  me. 

Sar.  Say  it. 

Myr.  If  is  that  no  kind  hand  will  gather 

The  dust  of  both  into  one  urn. 

Sar.  The  better : 

Rather  let  them  be  borne  abroad  upon 
The  winds  of  heaven,  and  scatier'd  into  air, 
Than  be  jiolluted  more  by  human  hnnds 
Of  slaves  and  traitors.     In  this  blaaing  palace. 
And  its  enormous  walls  of  reeking  ruin. 
We  lea\e  a  i.obler  monument  than  Egypt 
Hath  piled  in  her  brick  mountains,  o'er  dead  kings, 
Or  hint,  for  none  know  whether  those  proud  piles 
Be  for  their  monarch,  or  their  ox -god  Apis  : 
So  much  for  monuments  that  have  forgotten 
Their  very  record ! 

Myr.  Then  farewell,  thou  earth ! 

And  loveliest  spot  of  earth  !  farewell,  Ionia ! 
Be  thou  still  free  and  beautiful,  and  far 
Aloof  from  desolation!    My  la-t  prayer 
Was  for  thee,  my  last  thoughts,  save  one,  were  of  thee ! 

Sar.  And  that  ? 

Myr.  Is  yours. 

iThe  trumpet  of  Pania  sounds  voithout. 

Sar.  Ha.k! 

Myr.  Now! 

Sar.  Adieu,  Assyria ! 

I  loved  thee  well,  my  own,  my  fathers'  land. 
And  belter  as  my  country  than  my  kingdom. 
I  sated  lliee  with  peace  and  joys ;  and  this 
Is  my  reward  !  and  now  I  owe  thee  nothing, 
Not  even  a  grave.  [He  mounts  the  pile. 

Now,  Myrrha ! 

Myr.  Art  thou  ready  ? 

Sar.  As  the  torch  in  thy  grasp. 

\_Myrrha  firei  the  pile. 

Myr.  'T  is  fired !  I  come. 

[.is  Myrrha  springs  forward  to  throw  herself 

into  the  flames,  the  Curtain  falls. 


THE  TWO   FOSCARI: 
AN    HISTORICAL   TRAGEDY. 


The  father  softens,  but  the  gover 


refolved.— CRITIC. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONiE. 


MEN. 
Francis  Foscari,  Doge  of  Venice. 
Jacopo  Foscari,  Son  of  the  Doge. 
James  Loredano,  a  Patrician. 
Marco  Memmn,  a  Chief  of  the  Forty. 
Barbarigo,  a  Senator. 


Other  Senators,  The  Council  of  Ten,  GrtardM 
Mtendants,  ^-c.  tfC 


WOMAN. 
Marina,  Wife  of  young  Foscari. 


Scene  — the  Ducal  Palace,  Venice. 


328 


THE  TWO  FOSCARl 


[Act  I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARl  ' 
ACT  I. 

SCENE   I. 

.9  Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 

Enter  Lcredano  and  Earbarigo,  meetins- 

Lor.  Where  is  the  prisoner? 

Reposing  from 


Bar 

The  Question. 

Lor.  The  hour 's  past  —  fix'd  yesterday 

For  the  resumption  of  his  tiial.— Let  us 
R«join  our  colleagues  iu  the  council,  aud 
Urge  his  recall. 

Bar.  Nay,  let  him  profit  by 

A  few  brief  miuules  for  his  tortured  limbs  ; 
He  waso'erwrought  by  the  Question  yesterday, 
And  mav  die  under  it  if  now  repealed. 
Lor.  VVell? 

Bar.  I  yield  not  to  you  in  love  of  justice, 

Or  hate  of  the  ambitious  Foscari. 
Father  and  son,  and  all  their  noxious  race  ; 
But  the  poor  wretch  has  sulfer'd  beyond  nature's 
Most  stoical  endurance. 

Lor.  Without  owning 

His  crime? 

Bar.  Perhaps  without  committing  any. 

But  he  avowd  the  letter  to  the  Duke 
Of  Milan,  and  his  sufiferings  half  atone  for 
Such  weakness. 
Lor.  We  shall  see. 

Bar.  You,  Lcredano, 

Pursue  hereditary  hate  too  far. 
Lor.  How  far  ? 

Bar.  To  extermination. 

Lor.  When  they  are 

Extinct,  vou  may  say  this. —  Let 's  in  to  council. 
Bar.  Yet  pause  — the  number   of  our  colleagues 
is  not 
Complete  yet ;  two  are  wanting  ere  we  can 
Proceed. 

Lor.        And  the  chief  judge,  the  Doge  ? 
Bar.  No  —  he, 

With  more  than  Roman  fortitude,  is  ever 
First  at  the  board  in  this  unhappy  process 
Against  his  last  aud  only  son. 

Lor.  True  — true  — 

His  Uut. 
Bar.     Will  nothing  move  vou  ? 
Lor.  '       Fetls  he,  think  you  ? 

Bar.  He  shows  it  not. 

Lor.  I  have  m:»rk'd  that  —  the  wretch  ! 

Bar.  But  yesterday,  I  he.->r,  on  his  return 
To  the  ducal  chambers,  as  he  pass'd  the  threshold 
The  old  man  fainted. 

Lor.  It  besins  to  work,  then. 

Bar.  The  work  is  half  your  own. 
Lor.  And  should  be  all  mine  — 

My  fa'her  and  mv  uncle  are  no  more. 

Bar.  I  hive  read  their  epitaph,  which  says  they  died 
By  poison.  2 

Lor.  When  the  Doge  declared  thil  he 

Should  never  deem  himself  a  sovereign  till 
The  death  of  Peter  Loredano,  both 
The  brothers  sicken'd  shortly  :  —  be  is  sovereign. 
Bar.  A  wretched  one. 

Lnr.  What  should  they  be  who  make 

Orphans  ? 
Bar.       But  did  the  Doge  make  you  so  ? 
Lor.  Yes. 

Bar.  What  solid  proofs  ? 
Lor.  When  princes  set  themselves 


To  work  in  secret,  proofs  and  process  are 
Alike  made  diflScult ;  but  1  have  such 
Uf  the  first,  as  shall  make  the  second  needless. 
Bar.  But  vou  will  move  by  law  ? 
Lor.  '  By  all  the  taw» 

Which  he  would  leave  us. 

Bar.  They  are  such  in  this 

Our  state  as  render  retribution  easier 
Than  'mongst  remoter  nations.     Is  it  true 
T  hat  you  have  written  in  your  books  of  commerce, 
(The  weilthy  practice  of  our  highest  nobles) 
"  Doge  Foscari,  my  debtor  for  the  deaths 
Of  Marco  and  Pietro  Loredano, 
My  sire  and  uncle  ?" 
'Lor.  It  is  written  thus. 

Bar.  And  will  you  leave  it  unerased  ? 
Lor.  Till  balanced. 

Bar.  And  how  ? 

[Two  Strtators  pass  over  the  stage,  as  in  their 
way  to  "  the  Hall  of  the  Council  of  Te)i." 
I     Lor.  You  see  the  number  is  complete. 

Follow  me.  [Exit  Loredano. 

I     Bar.  (solus).  Follow  thee !  I  have  followed  long 
Thv  path  of  desolation,  as  the  wave 
I  Sweeps  after  thai  before  it,  alike  whelming 
i  The  wreck  that  cre.iks  to  the  wild  w  iiids,  and  wretch 
I  Who  shrieks  within  its  riven  ribs,  as  gush 
.  The  waters  through  them  ;  but  this  son  and  sire 
\  Might  move  the  elements  to  pause,  and  yet 
;  Must  I  on  hardily  like  them  —  Oh  !  would 
i  1  could  as  blindly  and  remorselessly  !  — 
Lo,  where  he  comes !  —  Be  stiil,  my  heart !  they  are 
Thy  foes,  must  be  thy  victims :  wilt  thou  beat 
For  those  who  almost  broke  thee  ? 


Enter  Guards,  with  young  Foscari  as  prisoner,  ^ 
I     Guard,  Let  him  rest. 

Signor,  take  time. 

j     Jac.  Fos.  I  thank  thee,  friend,  I  'm  feeble ; 

But  thou  may'st  stand  reproved. 

1      Guard.  I  '11  stand  the  hazard. 

I     Jac.  Fos.  That 's  kind :  —  I  meet  some  pity,  but  no 

mercy ; 
I  This  is  the  first. 

Guard.  And  might  be  the  last,  did  they 


ICompoeed  at  Ravenna,  between  tile  Utli  of  June  an 
the  lOIli  of  July,  1621.  and  published  with  "  Sardanapalns' 
io  ttie  following  December.— E. 

S'-Veneao  tublutit."    The  tomb  is  in  the  church  of 
•an ta  Elena.— E. 


1  the  Guard).  There  is  one  who 


Who  rule  behold  us. 

Bar.  {advancing 
does : 

Yet  fear  not ;  I  will  neither  be  thy  juJge 
Nor  thy  accuser ;  though  the  hoar  is  past. 
Wait  their  last  summons—  I  am  of  "  the  Ten," 
Aud  wai'iog  for  that  summons,  sanction  you 
Even  bv  my  presence:  when  the  last  call  sounds, 
We  '11  i'n  together  —  Look  well  to  the  prisoner ! 

Jac.  Fos.  What  voice  is  that?— 'T  is  Barbarigo'i  ! 
Ah! 
Our  house's  foe,  and  one  of  my  few  judges. 

Bar.  To  balance  such  a  foe,  if  such  there  be, 
Thv  fa'her  sits  amongst  thy  judges. 

Jac.  Fos.  True, 

He  judges. 

Bar.          Then  deem  not  (he  laws  too  harsh 
Which  yield  so  much  indulgence  to  a  sire. 
As  to  allow  his  voice  in  such  high  matter 
As  the  slate's  safely 

Jac.  Fos.  And  his  son's.     I  'm  faint; 

Let  me  approach,  I  pray  you,  for  a  breath 
Of  air,  you  window  which  o'erlooks  the  waters. 

Enter  an  Officer,  who  whispers  Earbarigo. 

Bar.  {to  the  Guard).  Let  him  approach.    I  must  not 
spe^k  with  him 
Further  than  Unis  :  1  have  transgress'd  mv  duty 
In  ihh  brief  p  riev.  and  must  now  redeem  it 
Within  the  Council  Chamber.  [Exit  Earbarigo. 

[Guard  conducting  Jacopo  Fiiicari  to  the  window. 

Guard.  There,  sir,  -t  is 

Open  —  How  feel  you  ? 

Jac.  FiJ.  Like  a  boy  —  Ob  Venice ! 

Guard.  And  your  limbs  ? 

Jac  Fos.  Limbs '.  how  often  liave  they  borne  me 


Scene  I.] 


AN   HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY. 


329 


Biundin;  o'er  yon  blue  tide,  as  I  have  skimm'd 

The  gondola  alon?  in  childi>h  race, 

And,  niasqned  as  a  young  gondolier,  amidst 

My  giy  ompetitors,  noble^as  I, 

Raced'for  our  pleasure,  in  the  pride  of  strength; 

While  the  fair  populace  of  crowding  beauties, 

Plebeim  as  patriciin,  cheer'd  us  on 

With  dazzling  smiles,  and  wishes  audible, 

And  waving  kerchief<,  and  applauding  hands, 

Even  to  the  goal !  —  Kow  many  a  time  have  I 

Cloven  with  arm  still  lustier,  breast  more  daring. 

The  wave  all  rougben'd ;  vviih  a  swimmer's  stroke 

Flinging  the  billows  back  from  my  drench"d  hair, 

And  l.'.ughing  from  my  lip  the  audacious  brine, 

Which  bissd  it  like  a  wineciip,  rising  o'er 

The  waves  as  they  arose,  and  prouder  still 

The  loftier  they  uplifted  me;  nnd  oft, 

In  wantonness  of  sji  rit,  plunging  down 

Into  their  green  and  gl.issy  gul'.s,  and  making 

My  way  to  shells  and  sei-ueed,  all  unseen 

By  those  above,  till  I  hey  wax'd  fearful ;  then 

Returning  with  my  grasp  full  of  such  tokens 

As  show'd  that  I  had  search'd  the  deep  :  exulting, 

Wi;h  a  far-dashing  stroke,  and  drawing  deep 

The  long-suspended  breath,  again  I  spurn'd 

The  foam  which  broke  around  me,  and  pursued 

My  track  like  a  sea-bird.—  I  was  a  boy  then. 

Guard.  Be  a  man  now  :  there  never  was  more  need 
Of  manhood's  strength. 

Jac.  Fus.  (looking  from  the  lattice).  My  beautiful, 
my  own, 
My  only  Venice  —  this  is  breath  !    Thy  breeze. 
Thine  Adrian  sea-breeze,  how  it  fans  niy  face ! 
Thy  very  winds  feel  mlive  to  my  veins, 
And  cool  them  into  calmness!    How  unlike 
The  hot  gales  of  the  horrid  Cyclades, 
Which  howl'd  about  my  Candiole  dungeon,  and 
Made  my  heart  sick. 

Guard.  I  see  the  colour  comes 

Back  lo  your  cheek :  Heaven  send  you  strength  to  bear 
What  more  may  be  imposed  !  —  I  dread  to  think  on't. 

Jac.  Fos.  They  will  not  banish  me  again  ?— No— no. 
Let  them  wring  on  ;  I  am  strong  yet. 

Guard.  Confess, 

And  the  rack  will  be  spared  you. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  confess'd 

Once —  twice  before  :  both  times  Ihey  exiled  me. 

Guard.  And  the  thiid  time  will  slay  you. 

Jac.  Fns.  Let  them  do  so. 

So  I  be  buried  in  my  birth-pl<ce  :  better 
Be  ashes  here  than  aught  that  lives  elsewhere. 

Guard.  And  can  you  so  much  love  the  soil  which 
hales  you  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  The  soil !  —  Oh  no.  it  is  the  seed  of  the  soil 
Which  persecu'es  me  ;  but  my  native  earth 
Will  take  me  as  a  mother  ti  her  arms. 
I  ask  no  more  than  a  Venetim  grave, 
A  dungeon,  what  they  will,  so  it  be  here. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Offi.  Bring  in  'he  prisoner  ! 

Guard.  Signor,  you  hear  the  order. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ay,  I  am  used  to  "such  a  summons  ;  't  is 
The  third  time  they  have  to:  tured  me :  —  then  lend  me 
Thine  arm.  [To  the  Guard. 

Offi.  Take  mine,  sir  ;  't  is  my  duty  to 

Be  nearest  to  your  person. 

Jac.  Fos.  You  !  —  you  are  he 

Who  yesterday  presided  o'er  my  pangs  — 
Away  !  —  I  '11  walk  alone. 

Offi.  As  you  please,  signor ; 

The  sentence  was  not  of  my  signing,  but 
I  dared  not  disobey  the  Council  when 
They 

Jac.  Fos.  Bade  thee  stretch  me  on  their  horrid  en- 
gine. 
I  pray  thee  touch  me  not  —  that  is,  just  now  ; 
The  time  will  corne  they  will  renew  that  order, 
But  keep  off  from  me  till 't  is  issued.     Ae 
I  look  upon  thy  hands  my  curdling  limbs 
Quiver  wilK  the  anticipated  wrenching, 

28* 


And  the  cold  drops  strain  through  my  brow,  as  if — 
But  onward  —  1  have  borne  it  —  I  can  bear  it.— 
How  looks  my  father? 

Offi.  With  his  wonted  aspect. 

Jac.  Fos.  So  does  the  earth,  and  sky,  the  blue  of 
ocean. 
The  brightness  of  our  city,  and  her  domes. 
The  mirlh  of  her  Piazza,  e\en  now 
Its  merry  hum  of  nations  pierces  here. 
Even  here,  into  these  chambers  of  the  unknown 
Who  govern,  and  the  unknown  and  the  unnumber'd 
Judged  and  destroy'd  in  silence,—  all  things  wear 
The  selfsame  aspect,  to  my  very  sire  ! 
Nothing  can  sympathise  wi'h  Foscari, 
Not  even  a  Foscari. —  Sir,  I  attend  you. 

[Exeunt  Jacopo  Foscari,  Officer,  4«. 

Enter  Memmo  and  another  Senator. 


Will  sit  for  any  lengJh  of  lime  to-day? 

Sen.  They  say  the  prisoner  is  most  obdurate, 
Persisting  in  his  first  avowal ;  but 
More  I  know  not. 

Mem.  And  tha,  is  much  ;  the  secreti 

Of  yon  terrific  chimber  are  as  hidden 
From  us,  the  premier  nobles  of  the  state, 
As  from  the  people. 

Sen.  Save  the  wonted  rumours, 

Which  —  like  the  tales  of  spectres,  that  are  rife 
Near  ruin'd  buildings  —  never  have  been  proved, 
Nor  wholly  disbelieved  :  men  know  as  liltle 
Of  the  state's  real  acts  as  of  the  grave's 
Unfathom'd  mysteries. 

Mem.  But  with  length  of  time 

We  gain  a  step  in  knowledge,  and  I  look 
Forward  to  be  one  day  of  the  decemvirs. 

Sen.  Or  Doge? 

Mem.  Why,  no  ;  not  if  I  can  avoid  if, 

Se7i.  'T  is  the  first  station  of  the  state,  and  may 
Be  lawfully  desired,  and  lawfully 
Attain'd  by  noble  aspirants. 

Mem.  To  such 

I  leave  it ;  though  born  noble,  my  ambitisn 
Is  limited  :  I  'd  nither  be  an  unit 
Of  an  united  and  imperial  "  Ten," 
Than  shine  a  lonely,  though  a  gilded  cipher.— 
Whom  have  we  here?  the  wife  of  Foscari  ? 
Enter  Marina,  with  a  female  .attendant. 

Mar.  What,  no  one?  —  I  am  wrong,  there  still  oie 
two; 
But  Ihey  are  senators. 

Mem'.  Most  noble  lady, 

Command  us. 

Mar.  I  command !  —  Alas  !  my  life 

Has  been  one  long  entreaty,  and  a  vain  one. 

Mem.  I  understand  thee,  but  I  must  not  answer. 

Mar.  (fiercely).  True  —  none  dare  answer  here  save 
on  the  rack, 
Or  question  sive  those 

Mem.  {inttrrupling  her).  Hign-oorn  dame !  >  be- 
think thee 
Where  thou  now  art. 

1     Mar.  Where  I  now  am !  —  It  was 

My  husband's  father's  palace. 

Mem.  The  Duke's  palace. 

Mar.  And  his  son's  prison  !  —  True,  I  have  not  tot' 
got  it ; 
And  if  there  were  no  other  nearer,  bitterer 


1  She  was  a  Cnutarini  — 

"  A  daiighler  nf  tile  honce  that  now  nmong 
Its  ancesliirs  in  mnnumental  brass 
Numbers  eiglil  Doges."— KOGKRS. 
On  the  occasion  of  her  marriage   with   Ihe   younger  Fos- 
cari, Ih"?   Buientaur   came   out    in    its    splendour;  acd  a 
bridge   of  boats  was  thrown  across  the  Canal  Grande  tor 
the  bridegio»m,  and  his  retinue  of  three  hundrei  horac. 
According  to  Sanuto,  the  tournameuts  iu  the  plaie  of  81. 
Mark  lasted  thre;  days.  —  E. 


330 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI: 


[Act  1. 1' 


Remembrances,  would  thank  the  illus'rious  Memnio 
For  pointing  out  the  pleasures  of  the  place. 

Mem.  Be  cilm ! 

Mar,  (lookm?  vp  towards  Maven).  I  am ;  but  oh, 
thou  eternal  God  ! 
Canst  thou  continue  so  \\\:h  such  a  world  ? 

Mem.  Thy  husband  yet  mav  be  absolved. 

Mar.  '  He  is, 

In  heaven.     I  pray  you,  signor  senator, 
Speak  not  of  that ;  you  are  a  man  of  oflSce, 
So  i>  the  Uoge ;  he  hns  a  son  at  st  ike 
Now,  at  this  moment,  and  I  have  a  husband, 
Or  had  ;  they  are  there  within,  or  were  at  least 
An  hour  since,  face  to  f  ice,  as  judge  and  culprit: 
Will  he condema  Aim ? 

Mem.  I  trust  not. 

Mar.  But  if 

He  does  not,  there  are  (hose  will  sentence  both. 

Mtm.  They  can. 

Mar.  And  with  them  power  and  will  are  one 

In  wickedness :  —  my  husband 's  lost ! 

Mem.  Not  so ; 

Justice  is  judge  in  Venice. 

Mar.  If  it  vpere  so, 

There  now  would  be  no  Venice.     But  let  it 
Live  on,  so  the  good  die  not,  till  Ihe  hour 
Of  nature's  summons;  but  '•  the  Ten's"  is  quicker, 
And  we  must  wait  on  't.    Ah  !  a  voice  of  wail ! 

[A  faint  cry  within. 

Sen.  Hark! 

Mem.  'T  was  a  cry  of — 

Mar.  N-o,  no  ;  not  my  husband's  — 

Not  Foscari's. 

Mem.  The  voice  was  — 

Mar.  Not  his  :  no. 

He  shriek  !  No  ;  that  should  be  his  father's  part, 
Not  his  — not  his— he'll  die  m  silence. 

lA  faint  groan  again  within. 

Mem.  What ! 

Again  ? 

Mar.  His  voice  1  it  seem'd  so  :  I  will  not 
Believe  it.     Should  he  shrink,  I  cannot  cease 
To  love  ;  but  —  no  —  no  —  no  —  it  must  have  been 
A  fearful  panj,  which  wrung  a  groan  from  him. 

Sen.  And,  feeling  for  thy  husband's  wrongs,  wouldst 
thou 
Have  him  bear  more  than  mortal  pain,  in  silence  ? 

.Mar.  We  all  mu«t  bear  our  tortures.     I  have  not 
Left  barren  the  great  house  of  Foscari, 
Though  they  sweep  both  the  Doge  and  son  from  life ; 
1  have  endi:red  as  much  in  giving  life 
To  tho«e  who  will  succeed  them,  as  they  can 
In  leaving  it:  but  mine  were  joyful  pangs  : 
And  yet  they  wrung  me  till  I  could  have  shriek'd, 
But  did  not ;  for  my  hope  was  to  bring  forth 
Heroes,  and  would  not  welcome  them  with  tears. 

Mem.  All 's  silent  now. 

M'ir.  Perhaps  all 's  over;  but 

I  will  not  deem  it:  he  hath  nerved  himself, 
And  now  defies  them. 

Enter  an  Officer  hastily. 

Mem.  How  now,  friend,  what  seek  you  i 

Offi.  A  leech.     The  prisoner  has  fainted. 

[Exit  Officer 

Mem.  Lady, 

•T  were  better  to  retire. 

Sen.  (offering  to  afsist  her).    I  pray  thee  do  so. 

Mar.  Olf!  /  will  tend  him. 

Mem.  You  '.  Remember,  lady 

Ingress  is  ziven  to  none  within  those  chambers, 
Except  "  the  Te  j,"  and  ihcir  familiars. 

Mar.  Well, 

I  know  Ih-it  none  who  enter  there  return 
As  they  have  enler'd—  many  never  ;  but 
They  shall  not  balk  my  entrmce. 

Mem.  Alas  !  this 

It  but  to  expose  yourself  to  harsh  repulse, 
And  worse  suspense. 
j      Mar.  Who  shal'.  opp)se  me  ? 


Mem.  The* 

Whose  duty  't  is  to  do  so. 

Mar.  'T  is  their  duty 

To  trample  on  all  human  feelings,  all 
Ties  which  bind  mm  to  man,  to  emulate 
The  fiends  who  will  one  day  requite  them  in 
Variety  of  torturing  )     Yet  1  'II  pass. 
.Mem.  It  is  impossible. 
Mar.  That  shall  be  tried. 

Despair  defies  even  despotism  :  there  is 
That  in  my  heart  would  make  its  way  through  hosti 
With  leveil'd  spears;  and  think  you  a  few  jailors 
Shnll  put  me  from  mv  path .'    Give  me,  then,  way  ; 
This  is  the  Doge's  paiace  ;  I  am  wife 
Of  the  Duke's  son,  Ihe  innocent  Duke's  son. 
And  they  shall  hear  this  '. 

Mem.  It  will  only  serve 

More  to  exasperate  his  judges. 

Mar.  What 

Are  judges  who  give  way  to  anger  ?  they 
Who  do  so  a:3  assassins.    Give  ine  way. 

[Exit  Marina. 
Sen.  Poor  lady ! 

Mem.  'T  is  mere  desperation :  she 

Will  not  be  admitted  o'er  the  threshold. 

Se7i.  And 

Even  if  she  be  so,  cannot  save  her  husband. 
But,  see,  the  officer  reurns. 
[The  Officer  passes  over  the  stage  with  another  person. 

Mem.  I  hardly 

Thought  that  "  the  Ten  "  had  even  ihis  touch  of  pity, 
Or  would  permit  assistance  to  this  sufferer. 

Sen.  Pity!  Is't  pity  to  recall  to  feeling 
The  wretch  loo  happy  to  escape  to  death 
By  the  conipissionate' trance,  poor  nature's  last 
Resource  against  the  tyranny  of  pain  ? 

Mem.  I  marvel  they  condemn  him  not  at  once. 
Sen.  That  "s  not  their  policy  :  they  'd  have  him  live, 
Because  he  fears  not  death  ;  and  banish  him, 
Because  all  earth,  except  his  native  land. 
To  him  is  one  wide  prison,  and  each  breath 
Of  foreign  air  he  draivs  seems  a  slow  poison, 
Consuming  but  not  killing. 

Mem.  Circumstance 

Confirms  his  crimes,  but  he  avows  them  not. 
Sen.  None,  save  the  Letter,  which   he  says  wai 
written. 
Address'd  to  Milan's  duke,  in  the  full  knowledge 
That  it  would  fall  into  the  senate's  hands. 
And  thus  he  should  be  re-convey'd  to  Venice. 
Mem.  But  as  a  culprit. 

Sen.  Yes,  but  to  his  countrj' ; 

And  that  was  all  he  sought. —  so  he  avouches. 
Mem.  The  accusation  of  tlie  bribes  was  proved. 
Sen.  Not  clearly,  and  Ihe  charge  of  homicide 
Has  been  annuU'dby  the  death-bed  confession 
Of  Nicolas  Erizzo,  who  slew  the  late 
Chief  of  '•  the  Ten."  i 
Mem.  Then  why  not  clear  him  ? 

Sen.  That 

They  onsht  to  answer  ;  for  it  is  well  known 
That  Almoro  Domto,  as  I  said. 
Was  slain  by  Erizzo  for  private  vengeance. 


1  The  extraordinary  srntenc 
still  ex;sliiig  among  the  arch 
—  "Giaropo  F-i6cari,  an  iise-l  of  the  murder  of  Itermolao 
Donato,  has  lipen  arrfstei}  anM  examiut-d;  and.  from  Ihe 
trstimony,  evidenip,  anddoriimf-.ts  exhibited,  it  disttvet- 
l;i  appears  that  he  is  guilty  of  the  aforrsaid  crime  :  never- 
theless, on  account  of  his  rbslipacy,  and  of  enehantmenlt 
and  spells,  in  his  posscBsif^n.  uf  which  there  are  manifest 
prnofs,  it  has  not  t>een  possible  to  extract  from  him  the 
truth,  which  is  clear  f r  m  parole  and  written  evidence; 
for,  while  he  was  nn  the  cord,  he  utteied  neither  word 
unr  grnan,  bnt  only  murmured  something  to  himself  in- 
distinctly and  under  his  breath  ;  therefore,  as  the  honour 
of  the  state  requires,  he  is  condemned  to  a  more  distant 
banishment  in  Candia."  Will  it  he  credited,  that  a  ilis- 
linct  proof  of  his  innocence,  obtained  by  the  discovery  of 
the  real  assassin,  wrought  no  change  in  his  unjust  and 
cruel  sentence  7     See  Venetian  Sketekts,yo\.\\.  p.  97. — E. 


\  Scene  I.]  AN   HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY 


331 


Mem.  There  must  be  more  in  this  strange  process 
than 
The  apparent  crimes  of  the  accused  disclose  — 
But  here  come  two  of  "  the  Ten  ;  "  let  us  retire. 

[Ezdtnt  Mtmmo  and  Senator. 

Enter  Loredano  and  Barlarigo. 

Bar.  {addressing  Lor.)    That  were  too  much;  be- 
lieve me,  'f  was  not  meet 
The  trial  should  go  further  at  this  moment. 

Lor.  And  so  the  Council  must  break  up,  and  Justice 
Pause  in  her  fi.'.l  career,  because  a  woman 
Breaks  in  on  our  deliberations  ? 

Bar.  No, 

That 's  not  the  cause ;  you  saw  the  prisoner's  stale. 

Lor.  And  had  he  not  recover'd  ? 

Bar.  To  relapse 

Upon  the  least  renewal. 

Lor.  'T  was  not  tried. 

Bar.  'T  is  vain  to  murmur;  the  majority 
In  council  were  against  you. 

Lor.  Thanks  to  you,  sir, 

And  the  old  ducal  dotard,  who  combined 
The  worthy  voices  which  o'er-ruled  my  own. 

Bar.  I  am  a  judge ;  but  must  confess  that  part 
or  our  stern  duty,  which  prescribes  the  Question, 
And  bids  us  sit  and  see  its  sharp  infliction, 
Makes  me  wish 

Lor.  What  ? 

Bar.  That  you  would  sometimes  feel. 

As  1  do  always. 

Lor,  Go  to,  you  're  a  child, 

Infirm  of  feeling  as  of  purpose,  blown 
About  by  every  breath,  shook  by  a  sigh, 
And  melted  by  a  tear —  a  precious  judge 
For  Venice  !  and  a  worthy  statesman  to 
Be  partner  in  my  policy. 

Bar.  He  shed 

No  fears. 

Lor.      He  cried  out  twice. 

Bar.  A  saint  had  done  so, 

Even  with  the  crown  of  glory  in  his  eye. 
At  such  inhuman  artifice  of  pain 
As  was  forced  on  him  ;  but  he  did  not  cry 
For  pity  ;  not  a  word  nor  gro:in  escaped  him. 
And  those  two  shrieks  were  not  in  -.upplication. 
But  wrung  from  pangs,  and  follow'd  by  no  prayers. 

Lor.  He  muller'd  many  limes  between  his  teeth, 
But  inarticulately. 

Bar.  That  I  heard  not ; 

You  stood  more  near  him. 

Lor.  I  did  so. 

Bar.  Methought, 

To  my  surprise  too,  you  were  touch'd  with  mercy, 
And  were  the  first  to  call  out  for  assistance 
When  he  was  failing. 

Lw.  I  believed  ihat  swoon 

His  last. 

Bar.     And  have  I  not  oft  heard  thee  name 
His  and  his  father's  death  your  nearest  wish? 

Lor.  If  he  dies  innocent,  that  is  to  say. 
With  his  guilt  unavow'd,  he'll  be  lamented. 

Bar.  What,  wouldst  thou  slay  his  memory  ? 

Lor.  Wouldst  ihou  have 

His  state  descend  to  his  children,  as  it  must. 
If  he  die  unattainted? 

Bar.  War  with  them  too  ? 

Lor.  With  all  their  house,  till  theirs  or  mine  are 
nothing. 

Bar.  And  the  deep  agony  of  his  pale  wife, 
And  the  repress'd  convulsion  of  the  high 
And  princely  brow  of  his  old  father,  which 
Broke  forth  in  a  slight  shuddering,  though  rarely. 
Or  in  some  clammy  drops,  soon  wiped  away 
In  stern  serenity  ;  these  moved  you  not  ? 

[Exit  Loredano. 
He's  silent  in  his  hate,  as  Fosciri 
Was  in  his  suffering  ;  and  the  poor  wretch  moved  me 
Mi-re  by  his  silence  than  a  thousand  outcries 
Could  have  effected.     'T  was  a  dreadful  sight 
When  his  distracted  wife  broke  through  into 


The  hall  of  our  tribunal,  and  bi;held 

What  we  could  scarcely  look  u;)oii,  long  used 

To  such  sights.     I  mu^t  think  no  more  of  Ibis, 

Lest  I  foiget  in  this  compassion  for 

(Jur  foes,  their  former  injuries,  and  lose 

The  hold  of  vengeance  Loredano  plans 

For  him  and  me ;  but  mine  would  be  content 

With  lesser  retribution  than  he  thirsts  for. 

And  I  would  mitigate  his  deeper  hatred 

To  milder  thoughts  ;  but  for  the  present,  Foscari 

Has  a  short  hourly  respite,  granted  at 

The  instance  of  tiie  elders  of  the  Council, 

Moved  doubtless  by  his  wife's  appearance  in 

The  hall,  and  his  own  sufferings. —  Lo !  they  come  : 

How  feeble  and  forlorn !  1  cannot  bear 

'I'o  look  on  them  again  in  this  extremity: 

I  '11  hence,  and  try  to  soften  Loredano. 

[£xrt  Barbarigo. 


ACT  II. 


A  Hall  in  the  Dogeh  Palace, 
The  Doge  and  a  Senator. 

Sen.  Is  it  your  pleasure  to  sign  the  report 
Now,  or  postpone  it  till  to  morrow  ? 

Doge.  Now ; 

I  overlook'd  it  yesterday :  if  wants 
Merely  the  signature.     Give  me  the  pen  — 

[The  Doge  sits  down  and  signs  the  paper. 
There,  signor. 

Sen.  (.looking  at  the  paper).  You  have  forgot ;  it  is 
not  sign'd. 

Doge.  Not  sign'd?    Ah,  I  perceive  my  eyes  begin 
To  wax  more  weak  with  age.     I  did  not  see 
That  I  had  dipp'd  the  pen  without  effect. 

Sen.  (.dipping  the  pen  ijito  the  ink,  and  placing  the 
paper  before  the  Doge).  Your  hand,  too,  shakes, 
my  lord  :  allow  me,  thus  — 

Doge.  'T  is  done,  I  thank  you. 

Sen.  Thus  the  act  confirm'd 

By  you  and  by  "  the  Ten"  gives  peace  to  Venice. 

Doge.  "T  is  long  since  she  enjoy'd  it :  may  it  be 
As  long  ere  she  resume  her  arms  '. 

Sen.  'T  is  almost 

Thirty-four  years  of  neaily  ceaseless  warfare 
With  the  Turk,  or  the  powers  of  Italy  ; 
The  stale  had  need  of  some  repose. 

Doge.  No  doubt ; 

I  found  her  Queen  of  Ocean,  and  I  leave  her 
Lady  of  Lonibardy  ;  it  is  a  comfort 
That  I  have  added  to  her  diadem 
The  gems  of  Bresci  i  and  Ravenna  ;  Crema 
And  Bergamo  no  less  are  hers  ;  her  realm 
By  land  has  grown  by  thus  much  in  my  reign. 
While  her  sea-sway  has  not  shrunk. 

Sen.  'T  is  most  true, 

And  merits  all  our  country's  gratitude. 

Doge.  Perhaps  so. 

Sin.  Which  should  be  made  manifest. 

Doge.  I  have  not  complain'd,  sir. 

Sen.  My  good  lord,  forgive  me. 

Doge.  For  what  ? 

Seu.  My  heart  bleeds  for  you. 

Doge.  For  me,  signor  ? 

Sen.  And  for  your 

Doge.  Stop ! 

Se?i.  It  must  have  way,  my  lord : 

I  have  too  miny  duties  towards  you 
And  all  your  house,  for  past  and  present  kindness. 
Not  to  feel  deejily  for  your  son. 

Z)ogc.  Was  this 

In  your  commission  ? 

Sen.  What,  zr.y  lord  ? 

Doge.  This  prattle 

Of  things  you  know  not:  but  the  treaty 's  sign'd; 
Return  with  it  to  them  who  sent  you. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARli 


[Act  II. 


m 


Sen. 
Obey.     I  had  in  charge,  t 
That  you  would  fix  an  he 

Doge.  Say,  when  they 


■),  from  the  Council 
r  for  their  reunion, 
•ill  —  now,  even  at  this  ) 


The  sire's  destruction  would  not  save  the  son  ; 
They  work  by  ditferenl  means  to  the  5an:e  end, 

And'thai  is but  they  have  not  conquer'd  yet. 

Mar.  But  they  have  crush'd. 

Do-'e  Nor  crush'd  as  yet  —  I  live. 

It  it  so-prea^e  them  :  I  am  the  state's  servant.  |      M^^  And  your  son,-  how  Ion?  will  he  live  ? 

ScTJ.  They  would  accord  some  time  for  your  repose.       Z)c.gc.  .,,„,.  ..^,r,  i 'rusi, 

S-e.\\lve  no  repo.e,  that  ,s,  none  which  ^^^^U    For  a.nh^.>e,.s  past,  .manj^,^^^^^^^ 

l^rSC.^^-- -ve  be^v^^^^^  I  A^l^^cnme,  wh.h  I  ....can  de^^ 
iThe  Dcge  •~"i"">-  '>•  nHe'ice.    Had  he  but  borne  a  little,  little  Inn 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Alt.  Prince! 

Lo^e.  Say  d 

All. 
Requests  an  audience. 

JJoge.  Bid  her  enter.     Poor 

Marina ! 


The  illustrious  lady  Foscari 


Had  he  but  borne  a  little,  nine  longer 

His  Candiole  exile,  I  had  hopes he  has  quench  d 

them  — 
He  must  return. 

Mar.  To  exile? 


Doge. 


I  have  Slid  if. 


yiar.  And  can  I  not  go  wiih  him  ? 
JOogc. 


{Exit  Attmdant.    yj^j^  n^yer  of  yours  was  twice  denied  before 
[The  Doge  remains  in  iilence  as  before,   gy  „,g  assembled  "  Ten,"  and  hardly  now 


,  Will  be  accorded  lo  a  third  request, 
I  Since  aggravated  errors  on  the  pirt 
Of  your  lord  renders  them  still  more  austere. 

Mar.  Austere?  Atrocious!  The  old  human  fiends, 
I  With  one  foot  in  the  grave,  with  dim  eyes,  strange 
To  tears  save  drops  of  dotage,  with  long  while 
And  scanty  hairs,  and  shaking  hands,  and  heads 
As  palsied  as  their  henrts  are  hard,  they  council, 
Cabal,  and  put  men"s  lives  nut,  as  if  lite 
Were  no  more  thin  the  feelings  long  exlinguish'd 
In  their  accursed  bosoms. 

Doge.  You  know  not 

Mar.  I  do  — I  do  — and  so  should  you,  methinks  — 

That  these  are  demons  ■  could  it  be  else  that 

Men,  who  have  been  of  women  born  and  suckled  — 

Who  have  loved,  or  talkd  at  leisl  of  love-have  given 

""»"  „       ,     .„,  ,.    .  -      v.,j  .».!,»    Their  hands  ill  sacred  vows  — have  danced  their  babes 

Mar.  "TheTen."-W^en  ^e  had  reach'd"the    Upon  their  knees,  perhaps  have  mourn'd  above  them  — 

Bridge  of  Sighs,"  .  In  pain,  in  peril,  or  in  dea'h- who  are. 


Enter  Marijia. 

Mar.  I  have  ventured,  father,  on 
Your  privacy. 

Do^e.  I  have  none  from  you,  my  child. 

Command  my  time,  when  not  commanded  by 
The  state. 

Mar.        I  wish'd  to  speak  to  you  of  him. 

Doge.  Your  husband  ? 

Mar.  And  your  son. 

Doge.  Proceed,  mv  daughter  ! 

Mar.  I  had  obtain'd  pei mission  from  "the  Ten" 
To  attend  my  husband  for  a  limited  number 
Of  hours. 

Dnge.  You  had  so. 

Mar.  'T  is  revoked. 

Doge.  By  whom? 


pain,  in  peril, 

Or  were  at  least  in  seeming,  human,  could 

Do  as  thev  have  done  by  yours,  and  you  yourself— 

Toil,  who  abet  them  ? 

Doge.  I  forgive  this,  for 

You  know  not  what  you  say. 

j^ar.  lou  know  it  well, 

And  feel  it  nothing. 

jjoge.  I  have  borne  so  much, 

That 'words  have  ceased  to  shake  me.  ,     , . , 

Mar.  Oh,  no  doubt ! 

1  You  ha"ve  seen  your  son's  blood  flow,  and  your  flesh 
I  shook  not ;  ,  j  , 

'  And  after  that,  what  are  a  woman's  words  ? 
!  No  more  than  womau's  tears,  that  they  should  shake 
you. 


•  Oh  God ! 


'  child ! 


Which  1  prepared  to  pass  with  Foscari 
The  gloomy  guardian  of  that  passage  first 
Deraurr'd  :  a  messenger  was  sent  back  to 
"  The  Ten  ;"—  but  as  the  court  no  longer  sate, 
And  no  permission  had  been  given  in  writing, 
I  was  thrust  back,  with  the  assurance  that 
Until  that  high  tribunal  re  assembled 
The  dungeon  walls  nmst  still  divide  us. 

Doge.  True, 

The  fjrm  has  been  omitted  in  the  haste 
With  which  the  court  adjourn'd  ;  and  till  it  mee>s, 

>T  is  dubious.  

Mar.  Till  it  meets!  and  when  it  meets, 

They  'II  torture  hini  again  ;  and  he  and  I 
Must  purchase  by  renewal  of  the  nek 
The  interview  ot  husband  and  of  wife, 
The  holiest  tie  benejth  the  heavens  !- 
Dost  rhou  see  this? 

Doge.  Child  —  child 

Mar.  (.abruptly).  Call  me  not 

You  soon  will  have  no  children  —  you  deserve  none  -  ^^^.  ^^^,    -y^^^^  ^j,y  , 

You,  who  cm  talk  thus  calmly  of  a  son  strino-R  to  thv  heart  —  hon 

In  circumstances  which  would  call  forth  tears 
Of  blood  fron,  Spartans  !  Though  these  did  not  weep 
Their  bovs  who  died  in  battle,  is  it  written 
That  they  beheld  them  perish  piecemeal,  nor 
Stretch'd  forth  a  hand  to  save  them  ?  ,   ,    ,, 

Dggg^  You  behold  me 

I  cann'.t  weep  —  I  would  I  could  ;  but  if 
Each  white  hair  on  this  head  were  a  young  life. 
This  ducal  cap  the  diadem  of  earth. 
This  ducal  ring  with  which  1  wed  the  waves 
A  talisman  lo  still  them  —  I  'u  give  all 
For  him.  ,        .  ,    .  . 

Mar.       With  less  he  surely  might  be  saved.  . 

ZJoge.  Th.at  answer  only  shows  you  know  not  Ve-   j^jg^j- ,hus  ,o  be  pitied  ? 

Alas  .  how' should  you  ?  she  knows  not  herself. 
In  a\l  her  mystery.  Hear  me  —  they  who  aim 
At  FMcari,  aim  no  less  at  his  father  ; 


Doge.  VVoman,  this  clamorous  grief  of  thine,  I  tell 

Is  no  more'in  the  balance  weigh'd  with  that 
Which but  1  piiv  thee,  my  poor  Manna  ! 

Mar.  Pity  mv  husband,  or  I  cast  it  from  me; 

ly  thv  son!     rAcw  pity  !  — 'I  is  a  word 
Strange  to  thy  heart  —  how  came  it  op  thy  lips  ? 

Doge.  I   must  bear  these  reproaches,  though  they 
wrong  me. 
Couldst  thou  but  read ..     .     _ 

jilar  'T 15  not  upon  thy  brow. 

Nor  in  thine  eves,  nor  in  thine  acts,—  where  then 
Should  1  iKjhold  this  sympathy  ?  or  shall  ? 

Dose  (pointing  duwnwards).  There. 

D^'e  To  which  I  am  tending :  whan 

It  lies  upon  this  heart,  far  lightlier,  though 
Loaded  with  marble,  than  the  thoughts  which  press  K 
Now,  you  will  know  me  belter. 

mJ.  Are  you,  then, 


Doge. 


Pitied!  None 
Shal fever  use  that  b*-  —--.l,  •'i'n  ^^h'^h  men 
Cloak  their  souf       .-Jed  triumph,  as  a  fit  one 


Scene  1. 1 


AN    HISTORIC  AL  TRAGEDY 


333 


To  mingle  with  my  Dame ;  that  iiame  shall  be, 
As  far  as  /  hsve  borne  it,  what  it  was 
When  1  received  it. 

Mar.  But  for  the  poor  children 

Of  him  Ihou  cinst  not,  or  thou  wilt  not  save, 
You  were  the  last  to  bear  it. 

Dote.  Would  it  were  so ! 

Belter  for  him  he  never  had  been  born ;  I 

Belter  for  me. —  I  have  seen  our  house  dishonour'd. 

Mar.  That's  false!  A  truer,  nobler,  trustier  heart,    ] 
More  lovins,  or  more  loyal,  never  beat 
Within  a  buinao  breast.     I  would  not  change 
My  exiled,  persecuted,  mangled  husband, 
Oppress'd  but  not  disgraced,  crush'J,  overwhelm'd, 
Alive,  or  dead,  for  prince  or  paladin  I 

In  story  or  in  fable,  wiih  a  world  ! 

To  back  his  suit.    Dishonour'd  !  —  ht  dishonour'd  !       j 
I  tell  thee.  Doge,  't  is  Venice  is  dishonoured  ;  I 

His  aime  shall  be  her  foulest,  worst  reproach,  j 

For  what  he  sufl'ers,  not  for  what  he  did. 
'T  is  ye  who  are  all  traitors,  tyrant  I  — ye  ! 
Did  you  but  love  your  country  like  this  victim  | 

Who  totters  bick  in  chains  to  tortures,  and  1 

Submits  to  all  things  rather  than  to  exile, 
You'd  fling  your-elves  before  him,  and  implore 
His  grace  for  your  enormous  guilt. 

Doge.  He  was 

Inde^  all  you  have  said.     I  better  bore 
The  deiths  of  the  two  sons  Heaven  took  from  me, 
Than  Jacopo's  disgrace.  j 

Mar.  That  word  again  ?  ' 

Z)nge.  Has  he  not  been  condemn'd  f 

Miir.  Is  none  but  guilt  so  ? 

Doge.  Time  may  restore  his  memory  —  I   would 
hope  so. 

He  was  my  pride,  my but  't  is  useless  now  — 

I  am  not  given  to  tears,  but  wept  for  joy  i 

When  he  was  born  :  those  drops  were  ominous.  | 

Mar.  I  say  he's  innocent !     And  were  he  not  so, 
Is  our  own  biood  and  kin  to  shrink  from  us  j 

In  fatal  moments? 

Doge.  I  shrank  not  from  him: 

But  I  have  other  duties  than  a  father's  ; 
The  state  would  not  dispense  me  from  those  duties , 
Twice  I  demanded  it,  but  was  refused  : 
They  must  then  be  fulfill'd. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

,9fl.  A  message  from 

"The  Ten." 

Doge.  Who  beirs  it  ? 

Atr.  Noble  Lored^no. 

Dnge.  He  !  —  but  admit  him.         [Exit  Attendant. 

Mar.  Must  I  then  retire  ? 

Doge.  Perhaps  it  is  not  requisite,  if  this 

Concerns  your  husband,  and  if  not Well,  signor. 

Your  pleasure  !  [To  Loredano  e:nterijig. 

L  r.  I  bear  that  of 

Doge. 
Have  chosen  well  their  envoy. 

Lor. 
Which  leads  me  here. 

Doge.  It  does  their  wisdom  honour. 

And  no  less  to  their  courtesy  —  Proceed. 

Lnr.  We  have  decided. 

Doge.  We  ? 

Lor.  "  The  Ten  "  in  council. 

Doge.  What !  have  they  met  again,  and  met  without 
Apprising  me? 

Lor.  They  wish'd  to  spare  your  feelings, 

No  less  than  sge. 

Doge.         That 's  new  —  when  spared  they  either  ? 
I  thank  theW;   -.otwithstanding. 

Lor.  You  know  well 

That  they  have  power  to  act  at  their  discretion, 
With  or  without  the  presence  of  the  Doge. 

Doge.  '  r  IS  some  years  since  I  learn'd  this,  long  be- 
fore 
I  became  Doge,  or  dream'd  of  such  advancement. 
You  need  not  school  me,  signor  ;  I  sale  in 
That  council  when  you  were  a  young  patrician. 


'  the  Ten.' 

They 

T  is  their  choice 


Lot.  True,  in  my  father's  time ;  I  have  heard  hia 

I  and 

The  admiral,  hisLrolher,  say  as  much. 
I'our  hishness  may  remember  thtm  j  they  both 
Died  suddenly. 

I     Dnge.  And  if  they  did  so,  better 

So  die  than  live  on  lingeringly  in  pain. 
I     Lor.  No  doubt :  yet  most  men  like  to  live  their  days 

out. 
1     Doge.  And  did  not  they? 

L<jr.  The  grave  knows  l)cst :  they  died, 

As  I  said,  suddenly. 

Doge.  Is  that  so  strange, 

That  you  repeal  the  word  emphatically  ? 

Lor.  So  far  from  stranse,  that  never  was  there  death 
In  my  mind  half  so  natural  as  theirs. 
Think  you  not  so  ? 
Doge.  What  bhoulJ  I  think  of  mortals? 

Lor.  That  they  have  mortal  foes. 
Doge.  I  understand  you  ; 

Your  sires  were  mine,  and  you  are  heir  in  all  things. 
Lor.  You  best  know  if  I'should  be  so. 
Doge.  I  do. 

Your  fathers  were  my  foes,  and  I  have  heard 
Foul  r  imours  were  abroad  ;  I  have  also  read 
Their  epitaph,  at  ribuling  their  deaths 
To  poison.     'T  is  perhaps  as  ti  ue  as  most 
In-criplions  upon  tombs,  and  yet  no  less 
A  f .ble. 
Lor.     Who  dares  say  so  ? 
Doge.  I!  — 'T  is  true 

Your  fathers  were  mine  enemies,  as  bilter 
As  their  son  e'er  cnn  be,  and  f  no  less 
Was  theirs ;  but  I  w  as  o-ptnly  iheir  foe  : 
I  never  work'd  by  plot  in  council,  nor 
Cabal  in  commonwealth,  nor  secret  means 
Of  practice  agiinst  life  by  steel  or  drug. 
The  proof  is  your  existence. 

Lor.  I  fear  not. 

I     Doge.  You  have  no  cause,  being  what  I  am ;  but 
I  were  I 

That  you  would  have  me  thousht,  you  long  ere  now 
Were  past  the  sense  of  fe  r.     Hate'on  ;  I  care  not. 
!     Lor.  I  never  yet  knew  that  a  noble's  life 
In  Venice  had  to  dre.id  a  Doge's  frown. 
That  is,  by  open  means. 

Doge.  But  I,  good  signor. 

Am.  or  at  least  was,  more  than  a  mere  duke, 
In  blood,  in  mind,  in  means  ;  and  that  they  knovr 
Who  dreided  to  elec'  me,  and  have  since 
Striven  all  they  dare  to  weigh  me  down  :  be  sure, 
Before  or  since  that  period,  had  I  held  you 
At  so  much  price  as  to  require  your  absence, 
A  word  of  mine  had  set  such  spirits  to  work 
As  would  have  made  you  nothing.     But  in  all  things 
I  have  observed  the  strictest  reverence; 
Not  for  the  laws  alone,  for  those  yen  have  strain'd 
(I  do  not  speak  of  you  but  as  a  single 
I  Voice  of  tlie  many)  somewhat  beyond  what 
I  could  enforce  for  my  auihority, 
I  Were  I  disposed  to  brawl ;  but,  as  I  said, 
I  have  observed  with  veneration,  like 
A  priest's  for  the  high  .altar,  even  unto 
.  The  sacrifice  of  my  own  blocid  and  quiet, 
Safety,  and  all  save  honour,  the  decrees. 
The  health,  the  pride,  nnd  welfare  of  the  state. 
And  now,  sir,  to  vour  business. 

Lor.  '  Tis  decreed, 

That,  without  further  repetition  of 
The  Question,  or  continuance  of  the  trial. 
Which  only  tends  to  show  how  stubborn  guilt  is, 
("  The  Ten,"  dispensing  with  the  stricter  law 
Which  still  prescribes  the  Question  till  a  fu'J 
Confession,  and  the  prisoner  partly  having 
Avow'd  his  crime  in  not  denying  'hat 
The  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan "'s  his), 
James  Foscari  return  to  banishment, 
And  sail  in  the  snme  gallev  which  convey'd  bim. 
I     Mar.  Thank  God :    At  lea^t  they  w  ill  not  drag  Ub 
I  more 

!  Before  that  horrible  tribunal.    Would  he 


334 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI 


[Act  II. 


But  think  so,  to  my  mind  the  happiest  doom, 
Not  he  alone,  but  all  who  dwell  here,  could 
Desire,  were  lo  escape  from  such  a  land. 

Dogt.  That  is  not  a  Venetian  thought,  my  daughter. 

Mar.  No,  't  w  as  too  human.    May  I  share  his  exile  ? 

Lor.  Of  Ibis  "  the  Ten  "  said  nothing. 

Mar.  So  I  thought '. 

That  were  too  human,  also.  But  it  was  not 
Inhibited? 

Lor.        It  was  not  named. 

Mar.  (to  the  Doge).  Then,  f.«ther. 

Surely  you  can  obtain  or  grant  me  thus  much  : 

[To  Loredano. 
And  you,  sir,  not  oppose  my  prater  to  be 
Permitted  lo  accompany  my  husb;...j. 

Doge.  I  will  endeavour. 

Mar.  And  you,  signor  ? 

Lor.  "  Lady ! 

'T  is  not  for  me  to  anticipate  the  pleasure 
Of  (he  tribunal. 

Mar.                   Pleasure  !  what  a  word 
To  Use  for  the  decrees  of 

Doge.  Daughter,  know  you 

In  what  a  presence  you  pronounce  these  things? 

Mar.  A  prince's  and  bis  subject's. 

Lor.  Subject ! 

Mar.  Ob ! 

It  galls  you  :  —  well,  you  are  his  equal,  as 
You  think  ;  but  that  you  are  not,  nor  would  be, 
VVere  he  a  peasant :  —  well,  then,  you  're  a  prince, 
A  princely  noble;  and  what  then  am  1  ? 

Lor.  The  offspring  of  a  noble  house. 

Mar.  And  wedded 

To  one  as  noble.  What,  or  whose,  then,  is 
The  presence  that  should  silence  my  free  thoughts? 

Lor.  The  presence  of  your  husband's  judges. 

Doge.  And 

The  deference  due  even  to  the  lightest  word 
That  falls  from  those  who  rule  in  Venice. 

Mar.  Keep 

Those  maxims  for  your  mass  of  scared  mechanics. 
Your  merchants,  your  Dalmatian  and  Greek  slaves, 
Your  tributaries,  your  dumb  citizens. 
And  niask'd  nobility,  your  sbirri,  and 
Your  spies,  your  galley  and  your  other  slaves. 
To  whom  your  midnight  carryings  off  and  drownings, 
Your  dungeons  next  the  palace  roofs,  or  under 
The  waters  level ;  your  mysterious  meetings. 
And  unknown  dooms,  and  sudden  executions. 
Your  "Bridge  of   Sighs,"  your  strangling  chamber, 

and 
Your  torturing  in  truments,  have  made  ye  seem 
The  beings  of  another  and  worse  world  I 
Keep  such  fir  them  :  1  fear  ye  not.     I  know  ye  ; 
Have  known  and  proved  your  worst,  in  the  infernal 
Process  of  my  poor  husband  !     Treat  me  as 
Ye  tiealed  him  :  —  you  did  so,  in  so  dealing 
With  him.     Then  what  have  I  to  fear  from  you, 
Even  if  1  were  of  fearful  nature,  which 
I  trust  I  aim  not  ? 

Doge.  You  hear,  she  speaks  wildly. 

Mar.  Not  wisely,  yet  not  wildly. 

Lor.  Lady !  words 

Utier'd  within  these  walls  [  bear  no  further 
Than  to  the  threshold,  saving  such  as  pass 
Between  the  Duke  and  me  on  the  state's  service. 
Ecge  I  have  you  aught  in  answer  ? 

Doge.  Something  from 

i  The  Doee  ;  it  miy  be  also  from  a  parent. 
I      Lor.  My  raiision  here  is  to  the  Doge. 
'      Doge.  Then  say 

The  Doge  will  choose  his  own  ambassador, 
Or  state  in  person  what  is  meet;  and  for 
Tiie  father 

Lor.  I  remember  mine. —  Farewell ! 

I  kiss  the  hands  of  the  illustrious  lady. 
And  how  me  to  the  Duke.  [Exit  Loredano. 

Mar.  Are  you  content  ? 

Doge.  I  am  what  you  behold. 

Mar.  And  that 's  a  mystery. 


Doge,  All  things  are  so  to  mortals;  who  Can  r 

them  I 

Save  he  who  made?  or,  if  they  can,  the  few 
And  gifted  spirits,  who  have  studied  long 
1  hat  loathsome  volume  —  man,  and  pored  upon 
Those  black  and  bloody  leaves,  his  heart  and  brain, 
But  learn  a  magic  which  recoils  upon 
The  adept  who  pursues  it :  all  the  sins 
We  find  in  others,  nature  made  our  own  ; 
All  our  ad4an!ages  are  iho?e  of  fortune  ; 
Birth,  wealth,  health,  beauty,  are  her  accidents. 
And  when  we  cry  out  agiinst  Fate,  't  were  well 
We  should  remember  Fortune  can  lake  nought 
Save  what  she  gave  —  the  rest  was  nakedness, 
And  lusts,  and  appetites,  and  vanities. 
The  universil  heril.age,  to  battle 
With  as  we  may,  and  least  in  humblest  sfations, 
Where  hunger  swallows  all  in  one  low  want, 
And  the  original  ordinance,  that  man 
Must  sweat  for  his  poor  pittance,  keeps  all  passions 
Aloof,  save  fear  of  finiiue  !     All  is  low, 
And  false,  and  hollow  —  clay  from  first  lo  last, 
The  prince's  urn  no  less  Ilian  potter's  vessel. 
Our  fame  is  in  men's  breath,  our  lives  up  n 
Less  than  their  bre.th  ;  our  durance  upon  days. 
Our  days  on  seasons ;  our  whole  being  on 
Something  which  is  not  us  .'  —  So,  we  are  slaves, 
The  greatest  as  the  meanest  —  nothing  rests 
Upon  our  will;  the  will  itself  no  less 
Depends  upon  a  straw  than  on  a  storm  ; 
And  when  we  think  we  lead,  we  are  most  led, 
And  still  towards  death,  a  thing  which  comes  as  much 
VVithout  our  act  or  choice  as  birth,  so  thai 
Melhinks  we  mu-t  have  sinn'd  in  some  old  world, 
And  {Ait  is  hell :  the  best  is,  that  it  is  not 
EteiTial. 

Mar.    These  are  things  we  cannot  judge 
On  earth. 

Doge.       And  how  then  shall  we  judge  each  other. 
Who  are  all  earth,  and  I,  who  am  call'd  upon 
To  judge  my  son  ?     I  have  adminisler'd 
My  country  faithfully  —  victoriously  — 
I  dare  them  lo  the  proof,  the  chart  of  what 
She  was  and  is  :  my  reisn  has  doubled  realms; 
And,  in  reward,  the  gratitude  of  Venice 
Has  left,  or  is  about  to  leave,  me  single. 

Mar.  And  Foscari  ?    I  do  not  think  of  such  things, 
So  I  be  left  with  him. 

Doge.  You  shall  be  so; 

Thus  much  they  cannot  well  deny. 

Mar.  And  if 

They  -hould,  I  will  fly  with  him. 

Doge.  That  can  ne'er  be. 

And  whither  would  you  P.y  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  reck  not  — 

To  Syria,  Egypt,  to  the  Ottoman  — 
Any  where,  where  we  might  respire  unfetter'd, 
i  And  live  nor  girt  by  spies,  nor  liable 
To  edicts  of  inquisitors  of  state. 

Dvge.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  a  renegade  for  hus- 
band. 
And  turn  him  into  traitor  ? 

Mar.  He  i«  none ! 

The  country  is  the  traitress,  which  thrusts  forth 
Her  best  and  bravest  from  her.     Tyranny 
Is  far  the  worst  of  Ireisons.     Dost  thou  deem 
None  rebels  except  subjects  ?    The  prince  who 
Neglec:s  or  violates  his  trust  is  more 
A  brigand  than  the  robber-chief. 

Doge.  I  cannot 

Charge  me  with  such  a  breach  of  faith. 

Mar.  No;  thou 

Observ'sf,  obey'st,  such  laws  as  make  old  Draco's 
A  code  of  mercy  bv  comparison. 

Doge.  I  found  the  law  ;  I  did  not  make  it.     Wero  I 
A  subject,  s  ill  I  might  find  parts  and  portions 
Fit  for  amendment ;  but  as  prince,  I  never 
Would  change,  for  the  sake  of  my  house,  the  charter 
Left  by  our  fathers. 

Miiir.  Did  they  make  it  for 

The  ruin  of  their  children  ?  ' 


AN   HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY. 


335 


Doge,  Under  such  laws,  Venice 

Has  risen  to  what  she  is  —  a  slate  (o  li  al 
In  deeds,  and  days,  and  s»  ay,  and,  let  me  add. 
In  glory  (for  we'have  had  Roman  spirits 
Amongst  us),  all  that  history  has  bequeatb'd 
Of  Rome  and  Carthage  in  their  best  times,  when 
The  people  sway'd  by  senates. 

Mar.  Ra'ber  say, 

Groan'd  under  the  stern  oligarchs. 

Doge.  Perhaps  so ; 

Bit  yet  subdued  the  world  :  in  such  a  state 
An  individual,  be  he  richest  of 
Such  rank  as  is  permit  ed,  or  the  merinest, 
Without  a  name,  is  alike  nothing,  when 
The  policy,  irrevocably  tending 
To  one  great  end,  must  be  maintain'd  In  vigour. 

Mar.  This  means  that  vou  are  more  a  Doge   than 
father. 

Doge.  It  means,  I  am  more  citizen  than  either. 
If  we  had  not  for  many  centuries 
Had  thousands  of  such  citizens,  and  shall, 
I  trust,  have  still  such,  Venice  were  no  city. 

Mar.  Accursed  be  the  city  where  the  laws 
Would  stifle  nature's! 

Doge.  Had  I  as  many  sons 

As  I  have  years,  I  would  have  given  them  all, 
Not  without  feeling,  but  I  would  have  given  them 
To  the  slate's  service,  to  fulfil  her  wi-hes 
On  the  flood,  in  the  field,  or,  if  it  must  be, 
As  it,  alas  !  has  been,  to  ostracism. 
Exile,  or  chain?,  or  whatsoever  worse 
She  might  decree. 

Mar.  And  this  is  patriotism  ? 

To  me  It  seems  the  worst  barbarity. 
Let  me  seek  out  my  husband :  the  sage  '•  Ten," 
With  all  its  jealousy,  vAW  hardly  war 
So  far  with  a  weak  woman  as  deny  me 
A  moment's  access  to  his  dungeon. 

Dnge.  I'll 

So  far  take  on  myself,  as  order  that 
Tou  may  be  admitted. 

Mar.  And  what  shall  I  say 

To  Foscari  from  his  father  ? 

Doge.  That  ne  ooey 

The  laws. 

Mar.        And  nothing  more  ?  Will  you  not  see  him 
Ere  he  depart  ?    It  may  be  the  last  tinie. 

Doge.  The  last!  — my  boy  !  — the  last  time  I  shall 


My  last  of  children  1    Tell  him  I  will  come. 


lExeunt, 


ACT  III. 

SCENE    I. 

The  Prison  of  Jacopo  Foscari, 

Jac.  Fot.  (solus).  No  light,  save   yon   faint  gleam 

which  shows  me  walls 
Which  never  echo'd  but  to  sorrow's  sounds, 
The  sigh  of  long  imprisonment,  the  step 
(if  feet  on  which  the  iron  clank'd,  the  groan 
Of  death,  the  ininreoation  of  despair  ! 
And  yet  for  this  i"  have  return'd  to  Venice. 
With  some  fain;   hope,   't  is  true,  that  time,  which 

wears 
The  marble  down,  had  worn  away  the  hale 
Of  men's  hearts ;  but  I  knew  them  not,  and  here 
Must  I  consume  my  own,  which  never  beat 
For  Venice  but  with  such  a  yearning  as 
The  dove  has  for  her  distant  nest,  when  wheeling 
High  in  the  air  on  her  return  lo  greet 
Her  callow  brood.     What  letters  are  these  which 

[Approaching  the  wall. 
Are  scrawl'd  along  the  inexorable  wall  ? 
Will  the  gleam  let  me  trace  them?    Ah  !  the  names 
Of  my  sad  predecessors  in  this  pi  ce, 
The  dates  of  their  despair,  the  brief  words  of 
A  grief  too  great  for  many.     This  stone  page 


Holds  like  an  epitaph  their  history  ; 
And  the  [wor  captive's  tale  is  graven  on 
His  dungeon  barrier,  like  the  lover's  record 
U|X)n  the  bark  of  some  tall  tree,  which  bears 
His  own  and  his  beloved's  name.     Alis! 
1  recngnise  some  names  familiar  to  me. 
And  blighted  like  to  mine,  which  I  will  add, 
Finest  lor  such  a  chroniclu  as  this, 
Which  only  can  be  read,  as  writ,  by  wretches. 

[He  mgravet  hit  name. 
Enter  a  Familiar  of  "  the  TVji." 

Fam.  I  bring  you  food. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  pray  you  set  it  down ; 

I  am  past  hunger :  but  my  lips  are  parch'd  — 
The  water  1 

Farti.  There. 

Jac.  Fof.  {after   drinking).    I  thank  you :  I  am 
better. 

Fam.  I  am  commanded  to  Inform  you  that 
Vour  further  trial  is  postponed. 

Jac.  Fos.  Till  when? 

Fam.  1  know  not. —  It  is  also  in  my  orders 
That  your  illustrious  lady  be  admitted. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ah  !  they  relent,  then  —  1  had  ceased  lo 
hope  it  j 
'T  was  time. 

Enter  Marina. 

Mar.  My  best  beloved  ! 

Jac  Fos.  (^embracing  her).        My  true  wife 
And  only  friend  !    What  happiness ! 

Mar.  We  '11  part 

No  more. 

Jnc.  Fos.  How  !  wouldst  thou  share  a  dungeon  ? 

Mar,  Ay, 

The  rack,  the  grave,  all  —  any  thing  with  thee, 
But  the  tomb  last  of  all,  for  there  we  shall 
Be  ignorant  of  each  other,  yet  I  will 
Share  that  —  all  things  except  new  separation  j 
It  is  too  much  to  have  survived  the  firs'. 
How  dost  ihou?  How  are  those  worn  limbs?  Alas! 
Why  do  I  ask  ?    Thy  paleness 

Jac.  Fos.  'T  is  the  joy 

Of  seeing  thee  again  so  soon,  and  so 
Without  expectancy,  has  sent  the  blood 
Back  to  my  hear',  and  left  my  cheeks  like  thine. 
For  thou  art  pale  too,  my  Marina ! 

Mar.  'T  is 

The  gloom  of  this  eternal  cell,  which  never 
Knew  sunbeam,  and  the  >allow  sullen  glaie 
Of  the  familiar's  torch,  which  seem?  akin 
To  darkness  more  than  light,  by  lending  to 
The  dungeon  vapours  lis  bituminous  smoke. 
Which  cloud  whate'er  we  gaze  on,  even  thine  eyes  — 
No,  not  thine  eyes— they  sparkle— how  they  sparkle  ! 

Jac,  Fos.  And  thine !  —  but  I  am  blinded  by  the 
torch. 

Mar.  As  I  had  been  without  it    Couldst  thou  see 
here? 
j     Jac.  Fos.  Nothing  at  first;  but  use  and  time  bad 
'  taught  me 

Familiarity  with  what  was  darkness  ; 
And  the  grey  twilight  of  such  elimmerings  as 
Glide  through  the  crevices  made  by  the  winds 
Was  kinder  to  mine  eyes  than  the  full  sun. 
When  gorgeously  o'ergilding  any  towers 
Save  those  of  Venice  ;  bu'  a  nnment  ere 
Thou  earnest  hither  I  was  busy  wri.iug. 

Afar.  What? 

Jac.  Fos.  My  name :  look,  't  is  there — recorded  ncart 
The  name  of  him  who  here  preceded  me. 
If  dungeon  dates  say  true. 

Mar.  And  what  of  him  ? 

Jac  Fos.  These  walls  are  silent  of  men's  ends  j  ttef 
only 
Seem  to  hint  shrewdly  of  them.    Such  s'em  walls 
Were  never  piled  on  high  save  o'er  the  dead, 
j  Or  'hose  who  soon  must  be  so.—  fVhat  of  him  f 
Thou  aske^t.—  What  of  me  ?  may  soon  be  ask'd, 
I  VVith  the  like  answer  — doubt  and  dreadful  sumiw 
I  Unless  thou  tell'st  my  tale. 


33G 


THE  TWO  FOSCA  Rl 


LAcTlIL' 


Mar,  I  speak  of  thee  ! 

Jac.  Fni.  And  wherefore  not?    All  tlien  shall  speak 
of  me: 
The  tyranny  of  silence  is  not  lasting, 
And,  though  events  be  hidden,  just  men's  eroms 
Will  hurst  all  cerement,  even  a  livin?  grave's ! 
I  do  Dot  dutibt  my  memory,  but  my  file; 
And  neither  do  I'fear. 

Mar.  Thy  life  is  snfe. 

Jnc.  Fos.  And  liberty  ? 

Mar.  The  mind  should  make  its  own. 

Jac.  Fos.  Thit  has  a  noble  sound  ;  but  't  ii  a  sound, 
A  musiC  most  impressive,  but  too  transient : 
The  mind  is  much,  but  is  not  all.     The  mind 
Hath  nerved  me  to  endure  the  risk  of  death, 
And  torture  positive,  fir  worse  than  dea'h 
(If  death  be  a  deep  sleep),  wihnut  a  groan, 
Or  with  a  cry  which  ra:her  shamed  my  judjes 
Than  me  ;  but 't  is  not  a:l,  for  Iheje  are  things 
More  woful  —  such  as  this  small  dungeon,  where 
I  may  breathe  many  years. 

Mar.  '  Ahs'.  and  this 

Small  dungeon  is  all  that  belongs  to  thee 
Of  this  wide  realm,  of  which  thv  sire  is  prince. 

Jac.  Fos.  1  hat  thought   would   scarcely  aid  me  to 
endure  it. 
My  doom  is  common  ;  miny  are  in  dungeons, 
But  none  like  mine,  so  near'their  father's  palace; 
But  then  my  heart  is  sonjetimes  high,  and  hope 
Will  stream  along  those  moted  rays  of  light 
Peopled  with  dusty  atoms,  which  nfTcud 
Our  only  day  ;  for,  save  the  gaoler's  torch. 
And  a  strange  firefly,  which'was  quickly  caught 
Last  night  in  yon  enormous  spider's  net, 
I  ne'er  saw  aught  here  like  a  ray.     Alas  ! 
I  know  if  mind  m^y  beir  us  up.  or  no. 
For  I  have  such,  and  shown  it  before  men; 
It  sinks  in  solitude:  my  soul  is  social. 

Mar.  I  will  be  with  thee. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ah  !  if  it  were  so  ! 

But  that  they  never  granted  —  nor  will  grant, 
And  I  shall  be  alone :  nn  men  —  no  books  — 
Those  lying  likenesses  of  lying  nien. 
I  ask'd  for  even  those  outlines  of  their  kind, 
Which  they  term  annals,  his'ory,  what  you  will. 
Which  men  bequeath  as  portraits,  and  they  were 
Refused  me, —  so  these  walls  have  been  my  study, 
More  faithful  pictures  of  Venetian  story. 
With  all  their  blank,  or  dismal  stains,'than  is 
The  Hall  not  fir  from  hence,  which  beats  on  high 
Hundreds  of  doges,  and  their  deeds  and  dates. 

Mar.  I  come  to  tell  thee  the  result  of  their 
Last  council  on  thy  doom. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  know  it  — look  ! 

[He  points  to  his  limbs,  as  referring  to  the  Ques- 
tion which  he  had  undergone. 

Mar.  No  —  no  —  no  more  of  that :  even  they  relent 
From  that  atrocity. 

Jac.  Fos.  What  then  } 

Mar.  That  you 

Return  to  Candia. 

Jac.  Fos.  Then  my  last  hope  's  gone. 

I  could  endure  my  dungeon,  for  t'  was  Venice; 
I  could  support  the  torture,  there  was  something 
In  my  native  air  that  buoy'd  mv  spirits  up 
Like  a  ship  on  the  ocean  f'oss'd  by  storms, 
But  proudly  siill  bestriding  the  high  waves, 
And  holding  on  its  course  '  but  there,  afar, 
In  that  accursed  isle  of  slaves  and  captives, 
And  unbelievers,  like  a  stranded  wreck, 
;  My  very  soul  seem'd  mouldering  in  niy  bosom, 

Aiid  piecemeal  I  shall  jierish,  if  remanded. 
I       Mar.  And  here  i" 

I      Jac.  Fos.  At  once  —  by  better  means,  as  briefer. 
What !  would  they  even  deny  me  my  sire's  sepulchre, 
As  well  as  home  and  heritage? 

Mar.  My  husband  ! 

I  hive  sued  to  accompany  thee  hence. 
And  not  so  h'lpelessly.     This  love  of  thine 
For  an  ungrateful  and  tyrannic  .«oil 
Is  passion,  and  not  patriotism ;  for  nie, 


So  I  could  see  thee  wi  h  a  quiet  .aspect. 
And  the  sweet  fteednm  of  the  earth  and  air, 
I  would  1101  cavil  about  climes  or  regions. 
This  crowd  of  palaces  ai.d  prisons  is  not 
A  paiadise;   its  liist  inhabitants 
Were  wretched  exiles. 

Jac.  Ft^.  Well  I  know  how  wretched  ? 

Mar.  And  yet  you  see  liow,  from  their  banishment 
Before  the  Tartar  into  these  salt  isles. 
Their  antique  energy  of  mind,  all  that 
Remain'd  of  Rome  for  their  inheritance, 
Created  by  degrees  an  ocean  Rome ;  i 
And  shall  an  evil,  which  so  often  leads 
'Jo  goi'd,  depress  thee  thus  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Had  I  gone  forth 

From  my  own  land,  like  the  old  patriarchs,  seeking 
Anolher'region,  with  their  flocks  and  herds; 
Had  I  been  cast  out  like  the  Jews  from  Zion, 
Or  like  our  f.ithers,  driven  by  Atlila 
From  fertile  I  aly,  to  barren  islets, 
I  would  have  given  some  tears  to  my  late  country. 
And  many  thoughts;  but  aflerwaids  address'd 
Myself,  with  those  about  me,  to  cre.ale 
A  new  home  and  fresh  state :  perhaps  I  could 
Have  borne  this  — though  I  know  not. 

Mar.  Wherefore  not  ? 

It  was  the  lot  of  millions,  and  must  be 
The  fate  cf  myriads  more. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ay  —  we  but  hear 

Of  the  survivors'  toil  in  their  new  lands, 
Their  numbers  and  success  ;  but  who  can  number 
The  hearts  which  broke  in  silence  at  that  parting, 
Or  af  er  theii  departure;  of  that  malady  9 
Which  calls  up  green  and  native  fields  to  view 
From  the  rough  deep,  wi  h  such  identity 
To  the  poor  exile's  fever'd  ey»,  that  he 
Can  scarcely  be  restrain'd  from  treading  them  ? 
That  melody,3  which  out  of  tones  and  tunes 
Collects  such  pasture  for  the  longing  sorrow 
Of  the  sad  moun'aineer,  when  far  away 
From  his  snow  canopy  of  cliflTs  and  clouds. 
That  he  feeds  on  the  sweet,  but  poisonous  thought, 
And  dies.    You  call  this  weakness  '.     It  is  strength, 
I  say, —  the  pirent  of  all  honest  feeling. 
He  who  loves  not  his  country,  can  love  nothing. 

Mar.  Obey  her,  then  :  't  is  she  that  puts  thee  forth. 

Jac.  Fes.  Ay,  there  it  is ;  'I  is  like  a  mother's  curse 
Upon  my  soul  —  the  mark  is  set  upon  me. 
The  exiles  you  speak  of  went  forth  by  nations. 
Their  hands  upheld  each  other  by  the  way. 
Their  tents  were  pitch'd  togethtf  —  I  'm  alone. 

Mar.  You  shall  be  so  no  more  —  I  will  go  with  tliee. 

Jac.  Fus.  My  best  Marma  !  —  and  our  children  ? 

Mar.  They, 

I  fear,  by  the  prevention  of  the  state's 
Abhorrent  policy,  (which  holds  all  ties 
As  threads,  which  may  be  broken  at  her  pleasure,) 
Will  not  be  sulfer'd  to' proceed  with  us. 

Jac.  Fos.  And  cansl  thou  leave  them  ? 


1  In  Lady  Morg-n's  fearless  and  excellent  work  upon 
Italy,  I  perceive  the  expression  nf  "  Rome  of  the  Occbb  " 
applied  to  Venice.  Tlie  fiame  ptirase  occuds  in  Ihf'  •*Twc 
Foscari."  My  publisher  can  vnuch  for  me,  that  the 
trnBedy  was  written  and  sent  to  England  some  time  '.>r/iire 
I  had  seen  Lady  Moigan's  work,  which  I  nniy  received  on 
the  16lh  of  August.  I  hasten,  however,  to  notice  the 
coincidence,  and  to  yielil  the  originality  of  the  phrase  to 
her  who  first  placed  it  before  the  public." 


"  So  hy  a  calenture  misled 

The  mariner  with  rapture  sees 
On  the  smooth  ocean's  azure  bed 

F.namel'd  (ields  and  verdant  trcea: 
With  eager  haste  he  longs  to  rove. 

In  that  fantastic  scene,  and  thinks 
It  must  be  some  en*  hanled  grove. 
And  in  he  leeps,  and  down  he  sinks."  — 

SWIFT.— B.1 
3  Alluding  to  the  Swiss  air  and  its  effects. 


Scene  I.] 


AN   HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY. 


337  ' 


Mar.  Ves.    With  many  a  pang. 

But  —  I  fan  leave  them,  children  as  they  are, 
To  teach  you  to  be  less  a  child.     From  this 
Learn  you  to  sway  your  feelings,  when  exacted 
By  duties  paramount ;  and  't  is  our  tirst 
On  earth  lo  bear. 

Jac.  Fos.  Have  I  not  borne  ? 

Mar.  Too  much 

From  tyrannous  injustice,  and  enough 
To  teach  you  not  to  shrink  now  from  a  lot, 
Which,  as  co.npared  with  what  you  have  undergone 
Of  late,  is  niern: 

Jac.  Fos.        '     Ah  !  you  never  yet 
Were  far  away  from  Venice,  never  saw 
Her  beautiful  towers  in  the  receding  distance, 
While  every  furrow  of  the  vessel's  track 
Seem'd  ploughing  deep  into  your  heart ;  you  never 
Saw  day  go  down  upon  your  native  spires 
So  calmly  with  its  gold  and  crimson  glory, 
And  after  dreaming  a  disturbed  vision 
Of  them  and  theirs,  awoke  and  found  them  not. 

Afar.  I  will  divide  this  with  you.     Let  us  think 
Of  our  departure  from  this  much  loved  city, 
(Since  you  must  love  it,  as  it  seems,)  and  this 
Chamber  of  stale,  her  gratitude  allots  you. 
Our  children  will  be  cared  for  by  the  Doge, 
And  by  my  uncles :  we  must  sail  ere  night. 

Jac  Fos.  That 's   sudden.    Shall  I  not  behold  my 
father  ? 

Mar.  You  will. 

Jac  Fos.  Where  ? 

Mar.  Here,  or  in  the  ducal  chamber - 

He  said  not  which.     I  would  that  you  could  bear 
Your  exile  as  he  bears  it. 

Jac.  Fos,  Blame  him  not. 

I  sometimes  murmur  for  a  moment  ;  but 
He  could  not  now  act  otherwise.     A  show 
Of  feeling  or  compassion  on  his  part 
Would  have  but  drawn  upon  his  aged  head 
Suspicion  from  "  the  Ten,"  and  upon  mine 
Accumulated  ills. 

Mar.  Accumulated ! 

What  pangs  are  those  they  have  spared  you  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  That  of  leaving 

Venice  without  beholding  him  or  you. 
Which  might  have  been  forbidden  now,  as  't  was 
Upon  my  former  exile. 

Mar.  That  is  true, 

And  thus  far  I  am  also  the  stale's  debtor. 
And  shall  be  more  so  when  I  see  us  both 
Floating  on  the  free  waves—  away  —  away  — 
Be  it  to  the  earth's  end,  from  this  abhorr'd, 
Unjust,  and 

Jac.  Fos.  Curse  it  not.     If  I  am  silent. 

Who  dares  accuse  my  country  ? 

Mar.  Men  and  angels ! 

The  blood  of  myriads  reeking  up  'o  heaven,' 
The  groans  of  slaves  in  chains,  and  men  in  dungeons. 
Mothers,  and  wives,  and  sons,  and  sires,  and  subjects, 
Held  in  the  bondage  of  ten  bald-heads ;  and 
Though  last,  not  least,  thy  silence  !    Cuiildst  thou  say 
Aught  in  its  favour,  who  would  praise  like  thee  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Let  us  address  us  then,  since  so  it  must  be. 
To  our  departure.     Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Loredano,  attended  by  Familiars. 

Lor.  (lo  the  Familiars).  Retire, 

But  leave  the  torch.  [Exeunt  the  tuxi  Familiars. 

Jac.  Fos.  Most  welcome,  noble  sii^nor. 

I  did  not  deem  this  poor  place  could  hive  drawn 
Such  presence  hither. 

Lor.  'T  is  not  the  first  time 

I  have  visited  these  places. 

Mar.  Nor  would  be 

The  last,  were  all  men's  merits  well  rewarded. 
Came  you  here  to  insult  us.  or  remain 
A »  spy  upon  us,  or  as  hostage  for  us  ? 

Lor,  Neither  are  of  my  office,  noble  lady  ! 
I  am  sent  hither  to  your  husband,  to 
Announce  "  the  Ten's  "  decree. 


That  tenierne* 
known. 


Mar. 
Has  been  anticipated 

Lor.  As  how  ? 

Mar.  I  have  infcrm'd  him,  not  so  gently, 

Doublless,  as  your  nice  feelings  would  prescribe. 
The  indulgence  of  your  colleagues  ;  but  he  knew  it. 
If  you  come  for  our  thanks,  take  them,  and  hence ! 
The  dungeon  gloom  is  deep  enough  without  you. 
And  full  of  reptiles,  not  less  loathsome,  though 
Their  sting  is  houester. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  pr.iy  you,  calm  you 

What  can  avail  such  words  ? 

Mar.  To  let  him  know 

That  he  is  known. 

Lor.  Let  the  fair  dame  preserve 

Her  sex's  privilege. 

Mar.  I  have  some  sons,  sir, 

Will  one  day  thank  you  better. 

Lor,  You  do  well 

To  nurse  them  wisely.  Foscari  —  you  know 
Your  sentence,  then  ? 

Jac,  Fos,  Return  to  Candia  ? 

Lor,  True  — 

For  life. 

Jac.  Fos,  Not  long. 

Lor.  I  said  —  for  life. 

Jac.  Fos.  And  I 

Repeat  —  not  long. 

Lor.  A  year's  imprisonment 

In  Canea  — afterwards  the  freedom  of 
The  whole  isle. 

Jac.  Fos.  Both  the  same  to  me :  the  after 

Freedom  as  is  the  first  imprisonment. 
Is 't  true  my  wife  accompanies  me  ? 

Lor.  Yes, 

If  she  so  wills  it. 

Mar.  Who  obtiin'd  that  justice? 

Lor,  One  who  wars  not  with  women. 

Mar.  But  oppresfM 

Men  :  howsoever  let  him  have  my  thanks 
For  the  only  boon  I  would  have  ask'd  or  taken 
From  him  or  such  as  he  is. 

Lor,  He  receives  them 

As  I  hey  are  offer'd. 

Mar.  May  they  thrive  with  him 

So  much  !  —  no  more. 

Jac.  Fos.  Is  this,  sir,  your  whole  mission? 

Because  we  have  brief  time  for  preparation. 
And  you  perceive  your  presence  doth  disquiet 
This  lady,  of  a  house  noble  as  yours. 

Mar.  'Nobler ! 

Lor.  How  nobler  ? 

Mar.  As  more  generous ! 

We  say  the  ''  generous  steed  "  to  express  the  purity 
Of  his  high  blood.     Thus  much  I  've  learnt,  although 
Venetian  "(who  see  few  steeds  save  of  bronze), 
From  tl.ose  Venetians  who  have  skimm'd  the  coas'i 
Of  Egypt  and  her  neighbour  Araby  : 
And  why  not  say  as  soon  the  "  generous  man  ? 
If  race  be  aught,  it  is  in  qualities 
More  thnn  in  years;  and  mine,  which  is  as  old 
As  yours,  is  better  in  its  product,  nay  — 
Look  not  so  stern  —  but  get  you  back,  and  pore 
Upon  your  genealogic  tree's' most  green 
Of  leaves  and  m'^st  mature  of  fruits,  and  there 
Blush  to  find  ancestors,  who  would  have  blush'd 
For  such  a  son  —  thou  cold  inveterate  hater! 

Jac.  Fos.  Again,  Marina! 

Mar.  Again  !  still,  Marina. 

See  you  not,  he  conies  here  to  glut  bis  hate 
With  a  last  look  upon  our  miiery  ? 
Let  him  partake  it ! 

Jac.  Fos.  That  were  difficult. 

Mar.  Nothing  more  easy.     He  partikes  it  now  — 
Ay,  he  may  veil  beneath  a' marble  brow 
And  sneering  lip  the  pang,  but  he  partakes  it. 
A  few  brief  words  of  trulh  shame  the  devil's  servantt 
No  less  than  ma  ter  ;  I  have  probed  his  soul 
A  moment,  as  the  eterml  fire,  ere  long. 
Will  reach  it  always.     See  how  he  shrinks  from  ■i«l 
With  death,  and  chains.^  and  exile  in  his  bjuij. 


29 


22 


338 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI: 


[Act  III. 'I 


To  scatter  o'er  his  kind  as  he  thinks  fit ; 
They  are  his  weapons,  not  his  armour,  (or 
I  have  pierced  him  to  the  core  of  his  cold  heart. 
I  care  not  for  his  frowns !    We  can  but  die, 
And  he  but  live,  for  him  the  very  worst 
Of  destinies  :  each  day  secures  him  more 
His  tempter's, 
/oc  Fos.        This  is  mere  insanity. 
Mar.  It  may  be  so  ;  and  who  hath  made  us  mad  .** 
Lor.  Let  her  go  on ;  it  irks  uot  me. 
Mar  That 's  false ! 

You  came  here  to  enjoy  a  heartless  triumph 
Of  cold  looks  upon  m  I'nifold  griefs !    You  caae 
To  be  sued  to  in  vain  —  to  mark  our  tears. 
And  hoard  our  groans  —  to  gaze  upon  the  wreck 
Which  you  have  made  a  prince's  son  —  my  husband ; 
In  short,  to  trample  on  the  fallen—  an  office 
The  hangman  shrinks  from,  as  all  men  from  him ! 
How  have  you  sped  ?     We  are  wretched,  signor,  as 
Your  plots  could  nnke,  and  vengeance  could  desire  us, 
And  how  feel  you  ? 
Lot.  As  rocks. 

Mar.  By  thunder  blasted: 

They  feel  no',  but  no  less  are  shiver'd.     Come, 
Foscari ;  mw  let  us  go,  and  leave  this  felon, 
The  sole  fit  habitant  of  such  a  cell, 
Which  he  nas  peopled  often,  but  ne'er  filly 
Till  he  himsBif  shall  brood  in  it  aloue. 
Enter  the  Doge. 
Joe.  Fos.  My  father ! 

Doge  {emlnacing  him).  Jacopo !  my  son  —  my  son  ! 
Jac.  Fos.  My  fa'her  still  !  How  long  it  is  since  I 
Have  heard  ihee  name  my  name  —  our  name  ! 
Doge.  My  boy ! 

Couldst  thou  but  know 

Jac.  Fos.  I  rarely,  sir,  have  murmur'd. 

Doge.  I  feel  too  much  thou  hast  not. 
Mar.  D-ige,  look  there  ! 

[SAe  points  to  Lortdano. 
Doge.  I  see  the  man  —  what  mean'st  thou  ? 
Mar.  Caution ! 

Lor.  Being 

The  virtue  which  this  noble  lady  most 
May  practise,  she  dolh  well  to  recommend  it. 

Mar.  Wretch  !  't  is  no  virtue,  but  the  policy 
Of  those  who  fain  must  deal  perforce  with  vice  : 
As  such  I  recommend  it,  as  I  would 
To  one  whose  foot  was  on  an  adder's  path. 

Doge.  Daughter,  it  is  superfluous  ;  I  have  long 
Known  Liredano. 
Lor.  YoQ  may  know  him  better. 

Mar.  Yes  ;  worse  he  could  not. 
Jac.  Fo<!.  Father,  let  not  these 

Our  parting  hours  be  lost  in  listening  to 
Reproaches,  which  boot  nothing.     Is  it  —  is  it, 
Indeed,  our  last  of  meetings  ? 

Doge.  You  behold 

These  white  hairs  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  And  I  feel,  beside*,  that  mine 

Will  never  be  so  white.     Embrace  me,  father ! 
I  loved  you  ever  —  never  more  than  now. 
Look  to  my  children  —  to  your  last  child's  children  : 
Let  them  be  all  to  you  which  he  was  once, 
And  never  be  to  you  what  I  am  now. 
May  I  not  see  them  Aso  ? 
Mar.  No  —  not  here. 

Jac.  Fos.  They  might  behold  their  parent  any  where. 
Mar.  I  would  that  they  beheld  their  f  ither  in 
A  jilace  which  would  not  mingle  fear  with  love. 
To  freeze  their  young  blood  in  its  natural  current. 
They  have  fed  well,  slept  soft,  and  knew  not  that 
Their  sire  was  a  mere  hunted  outlaw.     Well, 
I  know  hif  fate  may  one  day  be  Iheir  heritage, 
But  let  it  only  be  their  heritage, 
And  nit  their  present  fee.     Their  senses,  though 
I    Alive  to  love,  are  yet  awake  to  terror  ; 


And  these  vile  damps,  too,  and  yon  t/iicft  green  wave 
Which  tioals  above  the  place  where  we  now  st.and  — 
A  cell  so  far  below  the  water's  level, 
Seiidirjg  its  pestilence  through  every  crevice, 
Might  striKe  them  :  this  is  not  tittir  atmosphere, 
How  ever  you  —  and  you  —  and  most  of  all, 
As  worlhiest  — i/o«,  sir,  noble  Loredano  ! 
May  breathe  it  without  prejudice. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  have  not 

Reflected  upon  this,  but  acquiesce. 
I  shall  depart,  then,  without  meeting  them  ? 
Doge.  Not  so  :  they  shall  await  you  in  my  chamber. 
Jac.  Fos.  And  must  I  leave  them  —  all? 
Lor.  You  must. 

Jac.  Fos.  Not  one? 

Lor.  They  are  the  state's. 

Mar.  I  thought  they  had  been  mine. 

Lor.  They  are,  in  all  maternal  things. 
Mar.  That  is, 

In  all  things  painful.     If  they  're  sick,  they  will 
Be  left  to  me  to  tend  them  ;  should  they  die, 
To  me  to  bury  nnd  to  mourn  ;  but  if 
They  live,  they'll  make  you  soldiers,  senators, 
Slaves,  exiles —  what  you  will ;  or  if  they  are 
Females  with  portions,  brides  and  hriles  for  nobles! 
Behold  the  state's  care  for  ils  sons  and  mothers  ! 
Lor.  The  hour  approaches,  and  the  w  ind  is  fair. 
Jac.  Fos.  How  know  you  that  here,  where  the  genial 
wind 
Ne'er  blows  in  all  its  blustering  freedom  ? 

Lor.  'T  was  so 

When  I  came  here.     The  galley  floats  within 
A  bow-shot  of  the  '  Riva  di  Schiavoni." 

Jac.  Fos.  Father  !  I  pray  you  to  precede  me,  and 
Prepare  my  children  to  behold  their  father. 
Doge.  Be  firm,  my  son ! 

Jac.  Fos.  I  will  do  my  endeavour. 

Mar.  Farewell !  at  least  tT  this  detested  dungeon, 
And  him  to  whose  good  offices  you  owe 
In  part  your  past  imprbonment. 

Lor.  And  present 

Liberation. 
Doge.        He  speaks  truth. 
Jac.  Fos.  No  doubt !  but  t  is 

Exchanie  of  chains  for  heavier  chains  I  owe  him. 
He  knows  thi  ,  cr  he  had  not  sought  to  change  them. 
But  1  reproach  uot. 
Lor.  The  time  narrows,  signor. 

Jac.  Fo\.  Alas  !  I  lit'le  thought  so  lingeringly         ' 
To  leive  abodes  like  this :  but  when  I  feel 
That  every  step  I  take,  even  from  this  cell, 
Is  one  away  from  Venice,  I  look  back 

Even  on  these  dull  damp  walls,  and 

Doge.  Boy  !  no  tears. 

Mar.  Let  them  f^ow  on :  he  wept  not  on  the  rack 
To  shame  him,  and  they  cannot  shame  him  now. 
They  will  relieve  his  heart  —  that  too  kind  heart  — 
And  I  will  find  an  hour  to  wipe  away 
Those  tears,  or  add  my  own.     1  could  weep  now. 
But  would  not  gratify  yon  wretch  so  far. 
Let  us  proceed.     Doge,  lead  the  way. 
I     Lor.  (to  the  Familiar).  The  torch,  there ! 

I     Mar.  Yes,  light  us  on,  as  to  a  funeral  pyre, 
I  With  Loredano  mourning  like  an  heir. 

Dose.  My  son,  you  are  feeble  ;  take  this  hand 
I     J,c.Fos.  -AIM 

Mu-.t  youth  support  itself  on  age,  and  I 
,  Who  ought  to  be  the  prop  of  yours  ? 

Lor.  Take  mine. 

Mar.  Touch  it  not,  Fosciri ;  't  will  sting  you.  Signer, 
Stand  off!  be  sure,  that  if  a  grasp  of  yours 
Would  raise  us  from  the  gulf  wherein  we  are  plunged, 
'  No  hand  f.f  ours  would  stre  ch  itself  to  meet  it. 
1  Come,  Foscari,  take  the  hand  the  altar  gave  you ; 
It  could  not  save,  but  will  support  you  ever. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene  I.] 


AN  HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY. 


339 


ACT  IV. 


A  Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 
Enter  Lnredano  and  Barbarigo. 
Bar.  And  have  you  confideuce  in  such  a  project  ? 
Lor.  I  have. 

Bar.  'T  is  hard  upon  his  yeirs. 

Lor.  Say  ra.her 

Kind  10  relieve  him  from  the  cares  of  state. 
Bar.  'T  will  break  his  heart. 
Lor.  Age  has  no  heart  to  break. 

He  has  seen  his  son's  half  broken,  and,  except 
A  start  of  feeling  io  bis  dungeon,  never 
Swerved. 

Bar.        In  his  countenance,  I  ^r.int  you,  never; 
But  I  have  seen  him  sometimes  in  a  calm 
So  desoUte,  that  ihe  most  clamorous  grief 
Had  nought  lo  envy  hiir  within.     Where  is  he  ? 

Lor.  In  his  own  portion  of  the  pilace,  with 
His  son,  and  the  «  hole  race  of  Foscaris. 
Bar.  Bidding  farewell. 

Lor.  A  last.    As  soon  he  shall 

Bid  to  bis  dukedom. 
Bar.  When  embarks  the  son  ? 

Lor.  Forthwith— when  this  long  leave  is  taken.  'Tis 
Time  to  adcxonisb  them  again. 

Bar.  Forbear ; 

Retrench  not  from  their  moments. 

Lor.  Not  I,  now 

We  hive  higher  business  for  our  own.     This  day 
Shall  be  the  list  of  l'..e  old  Doge's  reign. 
As  the  first  of  his  sin's  list  banishment. 
And  that  is  vengeance. 
Bar.  In  my  mind,  too  deep. 

Lor.  'T  is  moderate  —  not  even  life  for  life,  the  rule 
Dennuiiced  of  retribution  from  all  lime; 
They  owe  me  still  my  fathei's  and  my  uncle's. 
Bar.  Did  not  the  Doge  deny  this  strongly  ? 
Lor.  Doubtless. 

Bar.  And  did  not  this  shake  your  suspicion  ? 
Lor.  No. 

Bar.  But  if  this  deposition  should  take  place 
By  our  imiled  influence  in  the  Council, 
It  must  be  drine  with  all  Ihe  deference 
Due  to  his  years,  his  s'ati^.n,  and  hi»  deeds. 
Lor.  As  much  of  ceremony  as  ynu  will. 
So  that  Ihe  thing  be  d(ii:e.     You  may,  fur  aught 
I  care,  depute  the  Council  on  their  knees, 
(Like  Barbarossa  to  the  Pope,)  to  beg  him 
To  have  the  courtesy  lo  abdicate. 
Bar.  What  if  be  will  not  ? 
Lor.  AVe  '11  elect  another, 

And  make  him  null. 
Bar.  But  will  the  laws  uphold  us? 

Lor.  What  laws  ?  — »■  The  Ten'^  are  laws  ;  and  if 
they  were  not, 
I  will  be  legiblator  in  this  busineis. 
Bar.  At  your  own  peril  ? 

Lor.  There  is  none,  I  tell  you. 

Our  powers  are  sue*. 

Bar.  But  he  has  twice  already 

Sniiciied  permission  to  retire. 
And  twice  it  was  refused. 

Lor.  The  better  reason 

To  grant  it  the  third  time. 

Bar.  Unask'd  ? 

Lor.  ^  It  shows 

The  impression  of  his  former  instances  : 
If  they  were  from  hi;,  heart,  he  may  be  thankful : 
If  not,  't  will  punish  his  hypocrisy. ' 
Come,  ihey  are  met  by  this  time;  let  us  join  them, 
And  be  thou  fix"d  in  purpose  for  this  once. 
I  have  prepared  such  areunients  as  w  ill  not 
Fail  to  move  them,  and  to  remove  him  :  since 
Their  thoughts,  their  olrjects,  have  been  sounded,  do  not 
You,  with  your  wonted  scruples,  teach  us  pause, 
And  all  will  prosper. 
Bar.  Could  I  but  be  certain 


This  is  no  prelude  to  such  persecution 
Of  tl.e  sire  as  has  fallen  upon  the  son, 
I  would  support  you. 

L(ir.  He  is  safe,  I  tell  you; 

His  fourscore  years  and  five  may  linger  on 
As  long  as  he  can  drag  them :  'I  ia  his  throne 
Alone  is  aim'd  at. 

Bar.  Bu'  discarded  princes 

Are  seldom  long  of  life. 

Lor.  And  men  of  eighty 

More  seldom  still. 

Bar.  And  why  not  wait  these  few  years ? 

Lor.  Because  we  have  waiied  long  enough,  and  le 
Lived  longer  than  enough.     Hence  1  in  to  council ! 

[Extunt  Lorcdauo  and  Barbarigo, 
Enter  Memmo  and  a  Senator. 

Sen.  A  summons  to  "  the  'I  eu  ! "  Why  so  ? 

Menu  "  The  Ten" 

Alone  can  answer ;  they  are  rarely  wont 
To  let  their  thouih's  anlicipale  their  purpose 
By  previous  proclamation.    We  are  summoD'd  — 
That  i;  enough. 

Sen.  For  'Jiem,  but  not  for  us ; 

I  would  know  why. 

Mem.  You  will  know  why  auon, 

If  you  obey:  and,  if  not,  you  no  less 
Will  know  why  you  should  have  obey'd. 

Sen.  I  mean  not 

To  oppose  them,  but 

Mem.  In  Venice  "  M/<"  's  a  traitor. 

But  me  no  "  luts,^'  unless  you  would  pass  o'er 
The  Bridge  which  few  repass. 

Sen.  I  am  silent. 

Mem.  Why 

Thus  hesiUte?  "The  Ten"  have  call'd  in  aid 
Of  their  deliberation  five  and  twenty 
Patrici  ins  of  the  senate  —  you  are  one, 
And  1  another ;  and  it  seems  lo  me 
Bo'h  honour'd  by  Ihe  choice  or  chance  which  leads  08 
To  minjle  with'a  body  soauguf. 

Sen.  Most  true.     1  say  no  more. 

Mem.  As  we  hope,  signor, 

1  And  all  may  honestly,  (that  is,  all  those 
!  Of  noble  blood  may,)  one  day  hope  to  be 
j  Decemvir,  it  is  surely  for  the  senate's 
]  Chosen  delegates,  a  school  of  wisdom,  to 
Be  thus  admitted,  though  as  novices, 
I  To  view  the  mysieries. 

I     Sen.  Let  us  view  them :  thejr, 

No  doubt,  are  worth  it. 

Mem.  Being  worth  our  lives 

If  we  divulge  them,  doubtless  they  are  worth 
Something,  at  least  to  you  or  me. 

Sen.  I  sousht  not 

A  place  ivithin  the  sanctuary  ;  but  being 
Cho-en,  however  reluclanllv  so  chosen, 
I  shrll  fulfil  my  office. 

Mem.  Let  us  not 

Be  latest  in  obeying  "  the  Ten's"  summons. 

Sen.  Ail  are  not  met,  but  I  am  of  your  thought 
So  far  — let 'sin. 

Mem.  The  earliest  are  most  welcome 

In  earnest  councils —  we  w  ill  not  be  least  so. 

[Exeunt, 

I       Enter  the  Doge,  Jacopo  Foscari,  and  .Marina, 

Joe.  Fot.  Ah,  father !  though  I  must  and  will  depart, 
Yet  —  yet  —  I  pray  you  to  obtain  for  ire 
That  I  once  more  return  unto  my  home, 
Hoive'er  remote  the  period.     Let  there  be 
A  point  of  lime,  as  beacon  to  my  heart, 
With  any  perialtv  annex'd  they  please, 
But  let  me  still  return. 

Onge.  SonJicopo, 

Go  and  obey  our  country's  will :  't  is  not 
For  us  to  look  beyond. 

Jac.  Fot.  But  still  I  mutt 

Look  back.    I  pray  you  think  of  me. 

Doge,  Alaai 

You  ever  were  my  dearest  offspring,  when 


340 


THE  TWO  FOSCARl 


[Act  IV. 


They  were  more  numerous,  nor  can  be  less  so 

Now  you  are  last ;  but  did  tlie  stale  demand 

The  exile  of  the  disinterred  a^hes 

Of  your  Ihiee  goodly  brothers,  now  in  earth, 

And  their  desponding  shade>  came  tlitiing  round 

To  impede  tne  act,  I  must  no  less  obey 

A  duty,  paramount  to  every  duty. 

Mar.  My  husband  :  let  us  on  :  this  but  prolongs 
Our  sorrow. 

Jac.  Fos.  But  we  are  not  summon'd  yet ; 
The  galle>  's  sails  are  not  unfurPd  :  —  who  knows  ? 
The  wind  may  change. 

Mar.  And  if  it  do,  it  will  not 

Change  their  hearts,  or  your  lot :  the  galley's  oars 
Will  quickly  clear  the  harbour. 

Jac.  Fos.  O,  ye  elements ! 

Where  are  your  storms  ? 

Mar.  In  human  breasts.    Alas ! 

Will  noihing  calm  you? 

Jac.  Fvs.  _  Never  yet  did  mariner 

Put  up  to  patron  saint  such  prayers  for  prosperous 
And  pie  isaut  breezes,  as  I  call  upon  you, 
Ye  tutelar  saints  of  my  own  cily  !  which 
Ye  love  not  with  more  holy  love  than  I, 
To  lash  up  from  the  deep  the  Adrian  waves, 
And  waken  Ausler,  sovereign  of  the  tempest ! 
Till  the  sea  dash  me  back  on  my  own  shore 
A  broken  cirse  upon  the  birren  Lido, 
Where  I  may  mingle  with  the  sands  which  skirt 
The  land  I  love,  and  never  shall  see  more  ! 

Miir.  And  wish  you  this  with  me  beside  you  ? 

Jac.  Fo!.  No  — 

No  —  not  for  thee,  too  good,  too  kind  !     May'st  thou 
Live  long  to  be  a  mother  lo  those  children 
Thy  fond  fidelity  for  a  lime  deprives 
Of  such  support  !     But  for  myself  alone. 
May  all  the  winds  of  heaven  howl  down  the  Gulf, 
And  tear  the  vessel,  (ill  the  mariners, 
Appaird,  turn  their  despairing  eyes  on  me, 
As  ihe  Phenicians  did  on  Jonah,  then 
Cast  me  out  froin  amongst  them,  as  an  offering 
To  appease  the  waves.     The  billow  which  destroys  me 
Will  be  more  merciful  than  man,  and  bear  me. 
Dead,  but  still  bear  me  to  a  native  grave, 
From  fishers'  hands  upori  Ihe  desolate  strand. 
Which,  of  its  thousand  wiecks  h*lh  ne'er  received 
One  lacerated  like  the  heart  which  then 
Will  be  —  But  w  herefire  breaks  it  not  ?  why  live  I  ? 

Mar.  To  mm  thyself.  I  trust,  with  time,  to  niaster 
Such  useless  passion.     Until  now  thou  wert 
A  sufferer,  but  not  a  loud  one  :  why, 
Wha'  is  this  to  the  things  thou  hast  borne  in  silence- 
Imprisonment  and  actual  torture  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Double, 

Triple,  and  tenfold  torture  !    But  you  are  right, 
It  must  be  borne.     Father,  your  blessing. 

Doge.  Would 

It  could  avail  thee  '.  but  no  less  thou  hast  it. 

Jnc.  Fus.  Forgive 

Doge.  What  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  My  poor  mother,  for  my  birth, 

And  me  for  having  lived,' and  you  yourself 
(As  1  torsive  you),  for  Ihe  gift  of  life. 
Which  you  bestow'd  upon  me  as  my  sire. 

Mar.   What  hast  thou  done  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Noihing.    I  cannot  charge 

My  memory  with  much  save  sorrow :  but 
I  have  been  so  bevond  Ihe  common  lot 
Chasten'd  and  visited,  I  needs  must  think 
That  I  was  wicked.     If  it  be  so,  may 
What  I  have  undergone  here  keep  me  from 
A  like  hereafter ! 

Mar.  Fear  not :  that  's  reserved 

For  your  oppressors. 

Jnc.  Fos.  Let  me  hope  not. 

Mar.  Hope  not  ? 

Jac  Fo<!.  Icnmot  wish  them  all  they  have  inflicted. 

Mar.  All  !  Ihe  consummate  fiends !  A  thousand  fold 
May  the  worm  which  ne'er  dietb  feed  upon  them! 
I      Jac.  Fos.  They  may  repent. 


Mar.  And  if  they  do,  Heaven  will  not 

Accept  the  tardy  penitence  of  demons. 

Filter  ail  Officer  and  Guards. 

Offl.  Signor  I  Ihe  boat  is  at  the  shore  —  the  wind 
Is  rising  —  we  are  ready  to  attend  you. 

Jac  Fos.  And  I  to  be  attended.     Once  more,  father. 
Your  hand ! 

Doge.        Take  if.  Alas !  how  thine  own  trembles ! 

Jac.  Fos.  No  —  you  mistake ;  't  is  yours  that  shakes, 
mv  father. 
Farewell  ! 

Doge.      Farewell !  Is  there  aught  else  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  No  —  no'hing. 

[To  the  Officer. 
Lend  me  your  arm,  good  signor. 

Offi.  You  turn  pale  — 

Let  me  support  you  —  paler —  ho  I  some  aid  there  ! 
Some  water '. 

Mar.  Ah,  he  is  dying ! 

Jac.  Fos.  Now,  I  'm  ready  — 

My  eyes  swim  strangely  —  where  's  the  door  ? 

Mar.  Away  t 

Let  me  support  him  —  my  best  love  !  Oh,  God  ! 
How  faintly  beais  this  heart—  this  pulse  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  The  light: 

Is  it  the  light  ?  —  I  am  faint. 

[Officer  prese^Us  him  with  water, 

Offi.  He  will  be  better, 

Perhaps,  in  Ihe  air. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  doubt  not.     Father — wife  — 

Your  hands ! 

Mar.      There 's  death  in  that  damp  clammy  grasp. 
Oh  God  '.  —  My  Foscari,  how  fare  you  ? 

Jac  Fo'.  Well !  [He  dies. 

Offi.  He 's  gone  ! 

Dose.  He 's  free. 

Mar.  No  —  no,  he  is  not  dead ; 

There  must  be  life  yet  in  that  heart —  he  could  not 
Thus  leave  me. 

Dnge.  Daughter ! 

Mar,  Hold  thy  peace,  old  man ! 

I  am  no  daughter  now  —  thou  hast  no  son. 
Oh.  Foscari ! 

Offi.  We  must  remove  the  body. 

Mar.  Touch  it  not,  dungeon  miscreants!  your  bast 
office 
Ends  with  his  life,  and  goes  not  beyond  murder. 
Even  by  your  murderous  laws.     Leave  his  remains 
To  those  who  know  to  honour  them. 

Offi.  I  must 

Inform  the  signory,  and  learn  their  pleasure.  ' 

Doge.  Inform  the  signory,  from  me,  the  Doge, 
They  have  no  further  pow  er  u|)on  tho-e  asbes  : 
While  he  lived,  he  was  theirs,  as  fits  a  subject  — 
Now  he  is  mine  —  my  broken-he  vrted  boy  ! 

[i-iit  Officer. 

Mar.  And  I  must  live ! 

jDoge.  Your  children  live,  Marina. 

Mar.  My  children  !  true  —  they  live,  and  I  must  live 
To  brine  them  up  lo  serve  the  state,  and  die 
As  died  their  father.     Oh  I  what  bet  of  blessings 
Were  barrenness  in  Venice !     Would  my  mother 
Had  been  so ! 

Doge.  My  unhappy  children ! 

Mar.  What ! 

You  feel  it  then  at  last  — you! —  Where  is  now 
The  stoic  of  the  state  ? 

Doge,  (throwing  himself  down  by  the  body).  Bert ! 

Mar.  Ay,  weep  on  ! 

I  thought  you  had  no  fears  —  you  hoarded  them 
Until  they  are  useless;  but  weep  on  !  he  never 
Shall  weep  more  —  never,  never  more. 

Enter  Lorcdano  and  Barbarigo, 
Lor.  What 's  here  ? 

Mar.  Ah  !  the  devil  come  to  insult  the  dead  !  Avaanll 
Incarnate  Lucifer  I  't  is  holy  ground. 
A  martyr's  ashes  now  lie  there,  which  make  if 
A  shrine.    Get  thee  back  to  thy  place  of  fonniot! 


Scene  L] 


AN    HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY 


341 


Jtar.  Lady,  we  kueiv  not  of  this  sad  event, 
But  pa?s'd  here  merely  on  our  path  from  council. 

Mar.  Fasb  on. 

Lor.  We  sought  Ihe  Doge. 

Mar.  {pointing  to  the  Dvge,  who  >»  still  on  the 
ground  by  his  ioti's  bcdy).  He  's  busy,  look, 
About  ihe  business  you  provided  for  bim. 
Are  ye  content  ? 

Bar.  We  will  Dot  inteirupt 

A  parent's  sorrows. 

Mar.  No,  ye  only  make  them, 

Then  leive  them. 

Doge,  (rising).  Sirs,  I  am  ready. 

Bar.  No —  not  now. 

i.T.  Yet 't  was  important. 

Doge.  If 't  was  so,  I  can 

Oiilv  repeat—  I  am  ready. 

Bar.  n  shall  not  be 

Just  now,  though  Venice  (oller'd  o'er  Ihe  deep 
Like  .1  frail  vessel.     I  respect  your  griefs. 

Diige.  I  Ibank  you.     If  the  "tidings  which  you  bring 
Are  evil,  you  m..y  say  them;  nolliiiig  further 
Can  touch  me  more  than  him  thou  look'st  on  there ; 
If  'hey  be  good,  say  on  ;  you  need  not  fear 
Th^t  I'hey  can  comfort  me. 

Bar.  1  would  they  could  ! 

Doge.  I  spoke  not  to  you,  but  to  Loredano. 
He  understands  me. 

Mnr.  Ah  !  I  thought  it  would  be  so. 

D  ige.  VVbat  mean  you  ? 

Mar.  Lo  !  there  is  the  blood  beginning 

To  flow  through  the  dead  lips  of  Foscari  — 
The  body  bleeds  in  presence  of  the  assa5«io. 

[To  Lotedano. 
Thou  cowardly  murderer  by  law,  behold 
How  death  itself  bears  witness  to  thy  deeds  ! 

Doge.  -My  child  :  this  i<  a  phanl.asy  of  grief. 
Bear  hence  ihe  body.     {To  his  atte7idants.l    Signors, 

if  it  please  you. 
Within  an  hour  1  Ml  hear  you. 

[Exeu7it  Doge,  Marina,  and  attendants  with 
the  liody.  Manent  Loredano  and  Barharigo. 

Bar.  He  must  not 

Be  troubled  now. 

Lor.  He  said  himself  that  nought 

Could  give  him  trouble  farther. 

Bar,  These  are  words ; 

But  grief  is  lonely,  and  the  breaking  iu 
Upon  it  birbarous. 

Lrrr.  Sorrow  preys  upon 

Its  solilude,  and  nothing  more  diverts  it 
From  its  sad  visions  of  Ihe  other  world, 
Than  calling  it  at  moments  back  to  this. 
The  busy  have  no  time  for  tears. 

Bar.  And  therefore 

You  would  deprive  lliis  old  man  of  all  business  ? 

Lor.  The  thing 's  decreed.    The  Giunta  and  "  the 
Ten" 
Have  made  it  law  —  who  shall  oppose  that  law  ? 

Bar.  Humanity  ! 

Lor.  Because  his  son  is  dead  ? 

Bar.  Aul  yet  unburied. 

Lor.  Had  we  known  this  when 

The  act  was  passing,  it  might  have  suspended 
Its  passage,  but  impedes  it  not  —  once  past. 

Ear.  I  'II  not  consent 

Lor.  You  have  consented  to 

All  that 's  essential  —  leave  Ihe  rest  lo  me. 

Bar.  Why  press  his  abdication  now  ? 

Lor.         '  The  feelings 

Of  private  passion  may  not  interrupt 
The  public  benefit ;  and  what  Ihe  state 
Decides  to-day  must  not  give  way  before 
To-morrow  for  a  natural  accident. 

Bar.  You  have  a  son. 

Lor.  I  have  —  and  hudz  father. 

Bar.  Still  so  inexorable  ? 

Lor.  Still. 

Bear.  But  let  him 

nter  his  son  before  we  press  upon  him 
ThUrdiot. 


I     Lor.  Let  him  call  up  into  life 

:  My  sire  and  uncle  —  I  consent.     Men  may, 
'  JCven  aged  men,  be,  or  appear  to  be. 
Sites  of  a  hundred  sons,  but  cannot  kindle 
An  atom  of  their  anceslors  from  earth. 
I  '1  he  victims  are  not  equal  ;  he  has  seen 
His  sous  expire  by  natural  deaths,  and  I 
My  sires  by  violent  and  mysterious  maladies. 
I  used  no  poison,  bribed  no  subtle  master 
Of  the  destructive  art  of  healing,  tp 
Shorten  the  palh  to  the  eternal  cure. 
j  His  sons  —  and  he  had  four  —  are  dead,  without 
My  dabbling  iu  vile  drugs. 

Bar.  And  art  thou  sure 

He  dealt  in  such  ? 

Lor.  '^ioA  sure. 

Bar.  And  yel  he  seems 

All  openness. 

Lrnr.  And  so  he  seem'd  not  long 

Ago  to  Carmagnuola. 

Bar.  The  attainted 

And  foreign  traitor  ? 

L(rr.  Even  so  :  when  he, 

Af  er  the  very  night  in  which  "  the  Ten" 
(Join'd  with  the  Doge)  decided  his  destruction, 
Met  the  great  Duke  at  daybreak  with  a  jest. 
Demanding  whether  he  should  augur  him 
"The  good  day  or  good  night?"  his  Doge-ship  an- 

swer'd, 
"That  he  in  truth  had  pass'd  a  night  of  vigil, 
"  In  which  (he  added  with  a  gracious  smile), 
"  There  often  has  been  question  about  you."  ' 
'T  was  true  ;  the  question  was  the  death  resolved 
Of  Carmagnuola,  eight  months  ere  he  died  ; 
And  the  old  Doge,  who  knew  him  doom'd,  smiled  on 

hini 
With  deadly  cozenage,   eight  long   months   before- 
hand — 
Eight  months  of  such  hypocrisy  as  is 
Learnt  but  in  eighty  years.     Brave  Carmagnuola 
Is  dead  ;  so  is  young  Foscari  and  his  brethren  — 
I  never  smiUd  on  Vum. 

Bar.  Was  Carmagnuola 

Your  friend  ? 

Lor.  He  was  the  safeguard  of  the  city. 

In  early  life  its  foe,  but  in  his  manhood. 
Is  saviour  first,  then  victim. 

Bar.  Ah  !  that  seems 

The  penalty  of  saving  ciies.     He 
Whom  we  now  act  against  not  only  saved 
Our  own,  but  added  others  to  her  sway. 

Lnr.  The  Romans  (and  we  ape  them)  gave  a  crowD 
To  him  who  laik  a  city;  and  they  gave 
A  crown  to  him  who  saved  a  citizen 
In  battle:  the  rewards  are  equal.     Now, 
If  we  should  measure  forth  the  cities  taken 
By  Ihe  Doze  Foscaii  with  citizens 
Destroy'd  by  him,  or  through  him,  the  account 
Were  fearfully  against  him.  although  narrow'd 
To  private  havoc,  such  as  between  him 
And  my  dead  father. 

Bar.  Are  you  then  thus  fix'd  ? 

Lor.  Why,  what  should  change  me  ? 

Bar.  That  which  changes  me* 

But  you,  I  know,  are  marble  to  retain 
A  feud.     Bu'  when  all  is  accomplished,  when 
The  old  min  is  deposed,  his  name  degraded, 
His  sins  all  dead,  his  family  depressed. 
And  you  and  yours  Iriumphan',  shall  you  sleep? 

Lor.  More'souiidlv. 

Bar.  That 's  an  error,  and  yon'U  find  it 

Ere  you  sleep  with  your  fathers. 

Lrrr.  They  sleep  not 

In  their  accelerated  graves,  nor  will 
Till  Foscari  fills  his.     Each  night  I  see  them 
S  alk  frowning  round  my  couch,  and,  pointing  towards 
The  ducal  palace,  marshal  me  lo  vengeance. 

Bar.  Fancy's  distemperature  !     There  is  do  passion 
More  spectral  or  fantastical  than  Hate; 


I  Ad  bislorlcal  &cl.     See  Daru,  torn.  H 


23  » 


342 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI: 


[ActV. 


Not  even  its  opposite,  I;Ove,  so  peoples  air 
With  I  \  lotoms,  as  shi?  madueas  of  ihe  heart. 
Eiitei  an  Officer. 

Lor.  Where  go  you,  sirrah  ? 

Offi.  By  the  ducal  order 

To  forward  the  pieparalory  rites 
For  the  late  Foscjh's  interment. 

Bar.  Their 

Vault  has  been  ofleii  open'd  of  hie  yevrs. 

Lor.  'T  will  be  tull  soon,  and  may  be  closed  forever. 

Offi.  May  1  pass  on  ? 

Lor.  You  may. 

£ar.  How  bears  the  D  ge 

Thl>  last  calamity? 

Offi  With  desperate  firmness. 

In  presence  of  anolher  he  says  little. 
But  I  I  erceive  his  lips  move  now  and  then  ; 
And  once  or  twice  1  heard  him,  from  Ihe  adjoining 
Apartment,  muter  forih  the  words — "My  son  1 " 
Scarce  audibly.    I  must  proceed.  [Exit  Officer. 

Bar.  This  stroke 

Will  move  all  Venice,  in  his  favour. 

Lor.  Right ! 

We  must  be  speedy  :  let  us  call  together 
The  delegates  appointed  to  convey 
The  Council's  resolution. 

Bar.  I  protest 

Against  it  at  this  moment. 

Lor.  As  you  please  — 

I  'II  lake  their  voices  on  it  ne'erlheless, 
And  see  whose  most  may  sway  them,  yours  or  mine. 
lExeuiU  B^rbarigo  and  Loredano. 


ACT  V. 


The  Doge's  Apartment. 
The  Doge  and  Attendants. 

Alt.  My  lord,  the  deputation  is  in  waiting; 
But  add,  that  if  anolher  hour  would  better 
Accord  with  your  will,  they  w  ill  make  it  theirs. 

Doge.  To  me  all  hours  are  like.  I.e' them  approach. 
[Exit  Attendant. 

An  Officer.  Prince  !  I  have  done  your  bidding. 

Doge.  What  command  ? 

Offi.  A  melancholy  one  —  to  call  Ihe  attendance 
Of 

Doge.  True  — true  — true:  I  crave  your  pardon.    I 
Begin  to  fail  in  apprehension,  ar.d 
Wax  very  old  —  old  almost  as  my  years. 
Till  now'l  fought  them  off,  but  Ihey  begin 
To  overtake  me. 

Enter  the  Depxitatinn,  consisting  of  six  of  the  Sig- 
nory,  and  the  Chief  of  the  Teru 
Noble  men,  your  pleasure! 
Chie'' of  ihe  Ten.  In   the  first  place,   the  Council 
dolh  condole 
With  the  Doge  on  his  lale  and  private  grief. 
Doge.  No  more  —  no  more  of  that. 
Chief  of  the  Ten.  Will  not  the  Duke 

Accept  the  homage  of  respect  ? 

Doge.  I  do 

Accept  it  as  't  is  given  —  proceed. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  "  The  Ten," 

With  a  selected  elunta  from  the  senate 
Of  twenty-five  of  the  best  born  patricians, 
Having  deliberated  on  the  stale 
Of  the  republic,  and  Ihe  o'erwhelming  cares 
I  Which,  at  this  moment,  doubly  must  oppress 
!  Your  years,  so  Ions  devoted  lo  your  country, 
'  Have  judged  it  fitting,  with  all  reverence, 
Now  to  solicit  from  your  wisdom  (which 
Upon  reflection  must  accord  in  this), 
The  resignation  of  the  ducal  rii  g, 
I  Which  you  have  worn  so  long  and  venerably  : 


And  to  prove  that  Ihey  are  not  ungrateful,  DC 
Cold  to  your  years  and  services,  Ihey  add 
An  appar.age  of  tw  enty  hundred  golden 
Due  its,  to  make  retirement  not  less  splendid 
Than  should  become  a  sovereign's  retreat. 
Doge.  Did  I  hear  rightly  ? 
Chief  of  the  Ten.  Need  1  say  again  ? 

Doge.  No. —  Have  you  done  ? 
Chief  of  the  Ten.  I  have  spoken.     Twenty-fout 
Hours  are  accorded  you  to  give  an  answer.  i 

Doge.  I  shall  not  need  so  many  seconds. 
Chief  of  the  Ten.  We 

Will  now  retire. 

Doge.  St.iy  !  four  and  twenty  hours 

Will  alier  nothing  which  I  have  to  :ay. 
Chief  of  iheTtn.  Spe.k:  1 

Duge.  When  I  twice  before  reiterated 

My  wish  to  abdicate,  it  was  refused  me  :  | 

And  not  alone  refused,  but  \  o  enacted  | 

An  oath  from  me  that  I  would  never  more 
Kenew  this  instance.     I  have  sworn  to  die 
III  full  exertion  of  the  functions,  which 
]SIy  country  call'd  me  here  to  exercise, 
Accoidiiig  to  my  honour  and  iny  conscience  — 
1  cannot  b  eak  iny  oath. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Reduce  us  not 

To  the  alternative  of  a  decree, 
Instead  of  your  compliance. 

Doge.  Providence 

Prolongs  my  days  to  prove  and  chasten  me  ; 
But  ye  have  no  right  to  reproach  my  length 
(If  days,  since  every  hour  has  been  the  country's. 
I  am  ready  lo  lay  down  my  life  for  her. 
As  I  ha\e  laid  down  dearer  things  than  life: 
But  for  my  digni'v—  I  hid  it  of 
The  luhoh  republic  :  when  the  general  will 
Is  manifest,  then  you  shall  all  be  ..nswer'd. 
Chief  of  the  Ttn.  We  grieve  for  such  an  answer; 
but  it  cannot 
Avail  yuu  augh'. 

Duge.  I  can  submit  to  all  things, 

But  nothing  will  .advance;  n),  not  a  moment. 
What  you  decree  —  decree. 

Chi-J  of  the  Ten.  VVith  this,  then,  must  we 

Return  lo  those  who  sent  us  ? 
Doge.  You  have  heard  me. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  With  all  due  re\  erence  %ve  retire. 
[Exeunt  the  Deputcuion,  4rc 
Enter  an  Attendant. 
Att.  My  lord, 

The  noble  dime  Marina  craves  an  audience. 
Doge.  My  time  is  hers. 

Enter  Marina. 
Mar.  My  lord,  if  I  intrude  — 

Perhaps  you  fain  would  be  alou^? 

Dog't.  Alone  1 

Alone,  come  all  the  world  around  me,  I 
Ani  now  and  evermore.    Bui  we  will  bear  it. 
Mar.  We  w  ill,  and  for  the  sake  of  ihose  who  are, 

Endeavour Oh  my  husband  I 

Doge.  Give  it  way ; 

I  canuo:  comfort  thee. 

Mar.  He  might  have  lived, 

So  form'd  for  gentle  privacy  of  life. 
So  loving,  so  beloved  ;  the  native  of 
Another  land,  and  who  so  blest  and  b 
As  my  poor  Foscari  ?    Nothing  was  wanting 
Unto  his  happiness  and  mine,  save  not 
To  be  Venetian. 

Doge.  Or  a  prince's  son. 

Mar.  Yes  ;  all  things  which  conduce  to  other  m 
Imperfect  happiness  or  high  ambition, 
By  some  strange  destiny,  to  him  proved  deadly. 
The  countrv  and  the  people  whom  he  loved, 
The  prince' of  whom  he  was  the  elder  bom, 

And 

Dose.  Soon  may  be  a  prince  no  longer. 

Mdr.  How? 

Zloge.  They  have  taken  my  son  from  me,  aDd  I 


Scene  I.] 


AN   HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY. 


343 


At  my  loo  long  worn  diadem  :ind  ring. 
Let  them  resume  the  gewgaws ! 

Mar.  Oh  the  tyrants  ! 

In  such  an  hour  too ! 

Doge.  'T  is  the  fittest  time  j 

An  hour  ago  I  should  have  fell  it. 

Mar.  And 

Will  you  not  now  resent  it?  —  Oh  for  vengeance! 
But  he,  who,  had  he  been  enough  protecled. 
Might  have  repaid  proleclion  in  this  moment, 
Cannot  assist  his  father. 

Doge.  Nor  should  do  so 

Against  his  country,  had  he  a  thousand  lives 
Instead  of  that 

Mar.  They  tortured  from  him.    This 

May  be  pure  patriotism.     1  am  a  woman  : 
To  me  my  husband  and  my  children  were 
Counlry  and  home.     1  Inved  him  —  how  I  loved  him  I 
I  have  seen  liim  pass  through  such  an  ordeal  as 
The  old  martyrs  would  have  shrunk  from  :  he  is  gone, 
And  I,  who  would  have  given  my  blood  f^r  him, 
Have  naught  to  give  but  tears  !     But  could  I  compass 
The  retribution  of  his  wrongs! — Well,  well! 
I  have  sons,  who  shall  be  men. 

Doge.  Your  grief  distracts  you. 

Mar.  I  thought  I  could  have  borne  it,  when  I  saw 
him 
Bow'd  down  by  such  oppression  ;  yes,  I  thought 
That  I  would  rather  look  upon  his  corse 
Than  his  prolongd  captivity  :  —  I  am  punish'd 
For  that  thought  now.     Would  I  were  in  his  grave  ! 

Doge.  I  must  look  on  him  once  more. 

Mar.  Come  with  me  I 

Doge.  Is  he  —^ 

Mar.  Our  bridal  bed  is  now  bis  bier. 

Doge.  And  be  is  in  his  shroud  ! 

Mar.  Come,  come,  old  man  ! 

[Exeunt  Uie  Doge  and  Marina. 

Enter  Sarbarigo  and  Lortdano. 

Bar.  (to  on  Attendant).  Where  is  the  Doge  .'  | 

Alt.  This  instant  retir^  hence, 

With  the  illustrious  lady  his  son's  widow.  i 

Lor.  Where? 

Att.  To  the  chamber  where  the  body  lies.  ' 

Bar,  Let  us  return,  then. 

jLor.  Yon  fnrjet,  you  cannot.    ' 

We  have  the  Implicit  order  of  the  Giun'a  I 

To  await  their  coming  here,  and  join  (hem  in 
Their  office  :  they  'II  be  here  soon  after  us.  ' 

Bar.  And  will  they  press  their  answer  on  the  Doge? 

Lor.  T  was  his  ow  n  wish  that  all  should  be  done 
promptly. 
He  ansvver'd  quickly,  and  must  so  be  answer'd  ; 
His  dignity  is  look'd  to.  his  estate 
Cared  for  —  what  would  he  more  ? 

Bar.  Die  in  his  robes: 

He  could  not  have  lived  long  ;  but  I  have  done 
My  be>.t  to  save  his  honours,  and  opposed 
This  proposition  to  the  last,  though  vainly. 
Why  would  the  general  vote  compel  me  hither  ? 

Lor.  'T  was  fit  that    some  one  of  such  different 
thoughts 
From  ours  should  be  a  witness,  lest  false  tongues 
Should  whisper  that  a  harsh  majority 
Dreaded  to  have  its  acts  beheld  by  others. 

Bar.  And  not  less,  I  must  needs  think,  for  the  sake 
Of  humbling  me  for  my  vain  opposition. 
You  are  ingenious,  Loredano,  in 
Your  modes  of  vengeance,  nay,  poetical, 
A  very  Ovid  in  the  art  of  hating  ; 
'T  is  thus  (although  a  secondary  object, 
Tet  hatJ  has  microscopic  eyes),  to  you 
I  owe,  by  way  of  foil  to  the  more  zealous, 
This  undesired  associ.ition  in 
Tour  Giunta's  duties. 

Lnr.  How !  —  my  Giunta ! 

Bar.  Tour' .' 

They  speak  yonr  language,  watch  your  nod,  approve 
Tour  plans,  ind  do  your  work.     Are  they  not  yours  ? 


Lor.  You  talk  unwarily.    "T  were  best  they  hear  not 
This  from  you. 

Bar.  Oh  !  they  '11  hear  as  much  one  day 

From  louder  tongues  than  mice ;  they  have  gone  be- 
yond 
Even  their  exorbitance  of  power:  and  when 
This  happens  in  the  most  contemn'd  and  abject 
Stales,  stung  humauilv  will  rise  to  check  it. 

Lot.  You  talk  but  idly. 

Bar.  That  remains  for  proof. 

Here  come  our  colleagues. 

Enter  the  Deputation  at  before. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Is  the  Duke  aware 

We  seek  his  presence? 

Att.  He  shall  be  inform'd. 

[Exit  Attendant. 

Bar.  The  Duke  is  with  his  son. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  If  it  be  so. 

We  will  remit  him  till  the  riles  are  over. 
Let  us  return.     'T  is  time  enou:h  tn-morrow. 

Lor.  (aiide  to  Bar.)    Now  the  rich  man's  bell-fire 
upon  your  tongue, 
Unquench'd,  unquenchable  !     I  'II  have  it  torn 
From  its  vile  babbling  roots,  till  you  shall  utter 
Nothing  but  sobs  through  blood,  for  Ibis  !  Sage  signers, 
I  pray  ye  be  not  hasty.  [Aloud  to  the  othert. 

Bar.  But  be  human  1 

Lor.  See,  the  Duke  con)es  ! 

Enter  the  Doge. 

Doge.  I  have  obty'd  your  summons. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We  come  once  more  to  urge  our 
past  request. 

Dnge.  And  I  lo  answer. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  What? 

Doge.  My  only  answer. 

You  have  heard  it. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Hear  yon  then  the  last  decree, 
Definitive  and  absolute ! 

D'ge.  To  the  point  — 

To  the  point !     I  know  of  old  the  forms  of  office, 
And  gentle  preludes  to  strong  acts  —  Go  on  ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  You  are  uo  longer  Doge ;  you  are 
released 
Frt.m  your  imperial  oath  as  sovereijn  ; 
Your  ducal  rolyes  must  be  put  off;  but  for 
Your  services,  the  state  allots  the  appmage 
Already  mention'd  in  our  former  congress. 
Three  days  are  left  you  to  remove  from  hence. 
Under  the  penalty  to  see  confiscated 
All  jour  own  private  forune. 

Doge.  That  last  clause, 

I  am  proud  to  sav,  would  not  enrich  the  treasury. 

Chief  oj  the  ten.     Your  answer,  Duke  ! 

Lor.  Your  answer,  Francis  Foscari ! 

Doge.  If  I  could  have  foreseen  that  my  old  age 
Was  prejudicial  lo  the  state,  the  chief 
Of  the  republic  never  would  have  shown 
Himself  so  far  ungrateful,  as  to  place 
His  own  high  dignity  before  his  country  ; 
But  this  life  having  been  so  many  years 
Not  useless  to  that  country,  I  would  fain 
Have  consecrated  my  last  moments  to  her. 
But  the  decree  being  rendered,  I  obey. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.    If  you  would  have  the  three 
days  named  extended. 
We  willi'nely  will  lengthen  them  to  eight, 
As  sign  of  our  esteem. 

Doge.  Not  eight  hours,  signor. 

Nor  even  eight  minutes—  There 's  the  ducal  rinp, 

[Taking  off  his  ring  and  cap. 
And  there  the  ducal  diadem.     And  so 
The  Adriatic  's  free  to  wed  another. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.    Yet  go  not  forth  so  quickly. 

Doge.  I  am  old,  tir. 

And  even  to  move  but  slowly  must  begin 
To  move  betimes.     Methinks  1  see  amongst  you 
A  face  I  know  not  —  Senator  !  your  name, 
You,  by  your  garb,  Chief  of  the  Forty  ! 


344 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


lAct  V. 


Mem,  SigDor, 

I  am  the  s)n  of  Maico  Msmmo. 

Doge.  Ah ! 

Your  lather  was  my  friend.—  But  sons  and  fathers  .'— 
What,  ho  !  my  servants  there! 

Atttn.  My  prince ! 

Doge.  Nopnnce  — 

There  are  the  princes  of  the  prince  !  [Pointing  to  the 

Tm's  Diputation.]  —  Prepare 
To  part  from  hence  upon  the  instant. 

Chief  of  Iht  Ten.  Why 

So  rashly  ?  't«  ill  give  scandaL 

Duge.  Answer  that ;  [To  the  Ten. 

It  is  your  province.— Sirs,  beatir  yourselves: 

[To  the  Servants. 
There  is  one  burthen  which  I  beg  you  bear 
With  care,  although  't  is  past  all  larlher  harm 
But  I  will  look  to  that  myself. 

Bar.  '  He  means 

The  body  of  his  son. 

Doge.  And  call  Marina, 

My  daughter ! 

Enter  Marina. 

Doge,  Get  thee  ready,  we  must  mourn 

Elsewhere. 

Mar.       And  every  where. 

Doge.  Tnie ;  but  in  freedom, 

Without  these  jealous  spies  upon  the  great. 
Signers,  you  may  depart :  what  would  you  more? 
We  are  going  :  do  you  fear  thnt  we  shall  bear 
The  palace  with  us  ?    Its  old  walls,  ten  times 
As  old  as  I  am,  and  I  'm  very  old, 
Have  served  you,  so  have  I,  and  I  and  they 
Could  tell  a  tale;  but  I  invoke  Ihem  not 
To  fall  upon  you  !  else  they  would,  as  erst 
The  pillars  of  stone  Dagon's  lemple'on 
The  Israelite  and  his  Philistine  foes. 
Such  power  I  do  believe  there  might  exist 
In  such  a  curse  as  mine,  provoked  by  such 
As  you  ;  but  I  curse  not.    Adieu.  g0(  d  signors  1 
May  the  next  duke  be  better  than  the  present ! 

Lor.  The  present  duke  is  Paschal  Malipiero. 

Doge.  Not  till  I  pass  the  threshold  of  these  doors. 

Lor.  Saint  Mark's  great  bell  is  soon  about  to  toll 
For  his  inauguration. 

Dnge.  Earth  and  heaven  ' 

Ye  will  reverberate  this  peal  ;  and  1 
Live  to  hear  this  !  —  the  tirst  doge  who  e'er  heard 
Such  sound  for  his  successor  :  h  ppier  he, 
My  attainted  predecessor,  stern  Faliero  — 
This  insult  at  the  least  was  spared  him. 

Lor.  What! 

Do  you  regret  a  traitor  ? 

Doge.  No  —  I  merely 

Envy  the  dead. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  My  lord,  if  you  indeed 
Are  bent  upon  this  rash  abandonment 
Of  the  state's  palace,  at  the  least  retire 
By  the  private  staircase,  which  conducts  you  towards 
The  landing-place  of  the  canal. 

Doge.  No.     I 

Will  now  descend  the  stairs  by  which  I  mounted 
To  sovereignty  —  the  Giants'  Stairs,  on  whose 
Broad  eminence  I  was  invested  duke. 
My  services  have  called  me  up  those  steps, 
The  malice  of  my  foes  will  drive  me  down  tbem. 
There  five  and  thirty  years  ago  was  I 
InstalTd,  and  traversed  these  same  halls,  from  which 
I  never  thought  to  be  divorced  except 
A  corse  —  a  corse,  it  mish!  be,  fighting  for  Ihem  — 
But  not  push'd  hence  by  fellow  citizens. 
But  come  ;  my  son  and  I  will  go  together  — 
He  to  his  grave  and  I  to  pray  for  mine. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  What!  thus  in  public? 

Doge.  I  was  publicly 

Elected,  and  so  will  I  be  deposed. 
Marina  !  art  thoi  willing  ? 

Mar.  Here 's  my  arm . 

Doge.  And  here  my  staff:  thus  pibpp'd  will  I  go 


Chief  of  tlie  Ten.  It  must  not  be  —  the  people  will 

Doge.  The  people !  —  There  "s  no  people,  yon  well 
know  it, 
Else  you  dare  not  deal  thus  by  them  or  me. 
There  is  a  populace,  perhaps,  whose  looks  [you, 

May  shame  you;  but  they  dare  not  groan  nor  curse 
Save  Hith  their  hearts  and  eyes. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  You  speak  in  passion. 

Else 

Doge.    You  have  reason.    I  have  spoken  much 
More  than  my  wont :  it  is  a  foible  which 
Was  not  of  mine,  but  more  excuse's  you, 
Inismucb  as  it  shows  that  I  approach 
A  dotage  which  may  justify  this  deed 
Of  yours,  although  the  law  does  not,  nor  will. 
Farewell,  sirs! 

£ar.  You  shall  not  depart  without 

An  escort  fitting  past  and  present  rank. 
We  will  accompany,  vvith  due  re-pect. 
The  Doge  unto  his  private  palace.    Say  ! 
My  bret'hren,  will  we  not  ? 

Different  voices.  Ay  !  —  Ay  ! 

Doge.  You  MhaU  not 

Stir—  in  my  train,  at  least.     I  enter'd  here 
As  sovereign  —  I  go  out  as  citizen 
By  the  snme  portals,  but  as  citizen. 
All  these  vain  ceremonies  are  bise  insults. 
Which  only  ulcerate  the  heart  the  more, 
Applying  poisons  there  as  antidotes. 
Pomp  is  for  princes —  1  am  none  .'—  That 's  fa) 
I  am,  but  only  to  these  gates.—  Ah  ! 

Lor,  Hark ! 

[The  great  bell  of  St.  Mark's  toL'r 

Bar.  The  bell! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  St. Marks,  which  tolls  for  0 
election 
Of  Malipiero. 

Dnge.  Well  I  recognise 

The  sound  !     I  heard  it  once,  but  once  before, 
And  that  is  five  and  thirty  years  ago; 
Even  then  I  loaj  not  young. 

Bar.  Sit  down,  my  lord  ! 

You  tremble. 

Doge.  'T  is  the  knell  of  my  poor  boy  ! 

My  heart  aches  bitterly. 

Bar.  1  pray  you  sit. 

Doge.  No ;  ray  seat  here  has  been  a  throne  till  no» 
Marina  !  let  us  go. 

Mar.  Most  re-idily. 

Doge,  {walks  a  few  steps,  then  stops).  I  feel  athirr* 

—  will  no  oue  bring  me  here 
A  cup  of  water  ? 

Bar.  I 

Mar.  And  I 

Lor.  And  I  — 

[The  Doge  tales  a  goUet  from  the  hand 
of  Loredano, 

Doge.  I  take  yours,  Loredano,  from  the  hand 
Most  fit  for  such  an  hour  as  this. 

Lor.  Why  so  ? 

Doee.  'T  is  said  that  our  Venetian  crystal  has 
Such  pure  antipathy  to  poisons  as 
To  burst,  if  aught  of  ven'm  touches  if.     . 
You  bore  this  goblet,  aud  it  is  not  broken. 

Lor.  Well,  sir! 

Doge.  Then  it  is  false,  or  you  are  tnM. 

Foi  my  own  part,  I  credit  neither ;  't  is 
An  idle  legend. 

Afar.  You  talk  wildly,  and 

Had  better  now  be  seated,  nor  as  yet 
Depart.     Ah  1  now  you  look  as  look'd  my  husband  ' 

Bar.  He  sinks  I  —support  him!  —  quick  — a  chair 

—  support  him  ! 

Doge.  The  bell  tolls  on !  —  let 's  hence  —  my  brain  H 

on  fire ! 
Bar.  I  do  beseech  you,  lean  upon  us ! 
Doge.  No  I 

A  sovereign  should  die  standins.    My  poor  ooy  !  — 
Off  with  your  arms  !  —  That  bell ! 

The  Doge  drops  down  and  din. 


Scene  I.] 


CAIN:   A   MYSTERY. 


345 


Mar.  My  God  ■  My  God ! 

Bar.  (to  Lor.)  Behold  your  work 's  completed  ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Is  there  then 

No  aid  ?    Call  in  assisbnce  ! 

jtl.  'Tis  all  over. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  If  it  be  so,  M  leist  his  obsequies 
Shall  be  such  as  befits  his  naine  and  nation, 
His  rank  and  his  devotion  to  tt.e  duties 
Of  the  realm,  while  his  a^e  |.eimi:ted  him 
To  do  himself  and  Iheiii  full  jusuce.    Brethren, 
Sav,  shall  it  not  be  so  ? 

'£ar.  He  hns  not  had 

The  misery  to  die  a  subject  wheie 
He  reign'd  :  then  let  his  funeral  rites  be  pnncely.l 

Chief  of  the  Ttn.  We  are  agreed,  then  ? 

All,  exapt  Lor.,  answer.  Yes. 

Ch<ef  of  the  Ten.  Heaven's  peace  be  with  him  ! 

Mar.  Signers,  your  pardon  :  this  is  mockery. 
Juijjie  no  mote  with  that  poor  remnant,  which, 
A  moment  since,  whi'e  yet  it  had  a  soul, 
(A  !Oul  by  whom  you  have  increased  your  empire, 
And  iTiade  your  power  as  proud  as  was  his  glory,) 
Vou  banish'd  from  his  palace,  and  tore  doH  n 
From  his  high  place,  with  such  relentless  coldness; 
And  now,  when  he  can  neither  know  these  honours, 
Nor  woula. accept  them  if  he  could,  you,  sigoors, 
Purpose,  with  idle  and  superfluous  pomp. 
To  make  a  |)ageant  over  what  you  trampled. 
A  princely  funeral  will  be  your  reproach, 
And  not  his  honour. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Lady,  we  revoke  not 
Our  purposes  so  readily. 

Mar.  1  know  if. 

As  fir  as  touches  torturing  the  living. 
I  thought  the  dead  had  been  beyond  even  ymt, 
Though  (some,  no  doubtj  consign'd  to  powers  which 

may 
Resemble  that  you  exercise  on  eirth. 
Leave  him  to  me  ;  you  would  have  done  so  for 
His  dregs  of  life,  which  you  have  kii-dly  shorteu'd  : 


1  By  a  decree  of  the  Council,  the  trappings  of  supreme 
power  of  which  the  Doge  had  divested  himself  while  liv- 
ing, were  restored  to  him  when  dead ;  and  he  was  inter- 
red, with  ducal  raagnificeDre,  in  the  church  of  (he  Mioor* 
ites,  the  new  Doge  attending  as  a  mouxuer.— See  DARU. 
—  E. 


It  is  my  last  of  duties,  and  miy  prove 
A  dreary  comfort  in  my  desolation. 
Grief  is  fantastical,  and  loves  the  dead, 
And  the  apparel  of  the  grave. 

Chief  of  the  T.n.  Do  you 

Pretend  still  o  this  office  ? 

Mar.  I  do,  signor. 

Though  his  possessions  have  been  all  consumed 
In  the  state's  service,  I  have  still  my  dowry, 
Which  shall  be  consecrated  ;o  his  rites. 
And  lho;e  of [She  stops  XAiith  agitatUm. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Bes'  retain  it  for  your  children. 

Mar.  Ay,  Ihev  are  fatherless,  I  thank  you. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We 

Cannot  C(  mply  with  your  request.     His  relics 
Shall  be  exposed  wi  h  wonted  pomp,  aid  follow'd 
Un  o  their  home  by  the  new  Doge,  not  clad 
As  Doge,  but  simply  as  a  senator. 

Mar.  1  have  heard  of  murderers,  who  have  inleir'd 
Their  vic'ims  ;  but  neer  heard,  uiiti!  this  hour, 
Of  so  much  splendour  in  hypocri>y 
O'er  those  they  slew.     I  've  heard  of  widows'  tears^ 
Alas  !  I  have  shed  some  —  always  thanks  to  you  ! 
I  've  heard  of  heirs  in  sablei  —  you  have  left  none 
To  the  deceased,  so  you  would  act  the  part 
Of  such.     Well,  sirs,  jour  will  be  done  '.  as  one  day, 
I  trust.  Heaven's  will  be  done  too  ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Know  you,  lady, 

To  whom  ye  speak,  and  perils  of  such  speech  ? 

Mai:  I  know  the  former  better  than  yourselves; 
The  latter —  like  yourselves  ;  and  can  face  both. 
Wish  you  more  funerals  ? 

Bar.  Heed  not  her  rash  words ; 

Her  circums'ances  must  excuse  her  bearing. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We  will  not  note  them  down. 

£ar.('urning  to  Lor.,  who   is  writing  upon  his 
tablets).  What  are  you  writing. 
With  such  an  earnest  brow,  upon  thy  t  iblels  ? 

Lor.  {pointing  to  the  Doge's  body).  That  A«  has  paid 
me!  a 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  What  debt  did  he  owe  you  > 

Lor.  A  long  and  just  one  j  Nature's  debt  and  mine. 
[CurfaiJi  falU. 


CAIN:' 
A    MYSTERY. 

'  Now  the  Serpent  was  more  snbtil  than  any  beast  of  the  field  which  the  Lord  God  bad  made."—  Oen,  ch.  ilLtr.  1. 


TO 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BART. 

THIS    MYSTERY   OF   CAIN 
IS    INSCRIBED, 
BY   HIS   OBLIGED   FRIEND, 
AND    FAITHFUL    SERVANT, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


3"  Cain"  wasbegon  at  Rarenna,  nn  the  inth  nf  July, 
1821 — completed  on  the  9fh  of  September— and  published, 
to  the  same  volume  with  "Sardanapalus"  and  •♦The  Twc 
Fo»;ari,"  in  December.—  E. 


j  PREFACE. 

The  following  scenes  are  entitled  "A  Mystery,"  in 

'  conformity  with  the  ancient  title  annexed  to  dramas 

'  upon  similar  subjects,  which  were  styled  "Mysteries, 

i  or  Moralities."    The  author  h-'S  by  no  means  taken 

the  same  liberties  with  his  subject  which  were  com- 

I  mon  formerly,  as  miy  be  seen  by  any  reader  curious 

1  enough  to  refer  !o  those  very  profane  productions,  whe- 

j  ther   in   Enelish,  French,  Italian,  or  Spanish.     The 

auhor  has  endeavoured    to    preserve    the    language 

I  adapted  lo  his  characters;  and  where  it  is  (and  this  is 

bu'  rarely)  taken  from  actual  Scr  pture,  he  has  made 

as  little  alteration,  even  of  words,  as  the  ihythm  would 

permit.     The  reader  will   recllecl  that  the  ixwk  of 

Genesis  does   not   slate   that  Eve  wis  tempted  by  a 

demon,  but  by  "  the  Serpent ;"'  and  that  only  because 

he  was  "  the  most   ubtil  of  all  the  beasts  of  the  field." 

Whatever  interpretation  the  Rabbins  and  the  Falbers 


346 


CAIN 


[Act  I. 


may  have  put  upon  Ihi-,  I  take  the  words  as  I  find 
tbeiii,  and  leply,  with  Bishop  Watson  upon  similar 
occasions,  when  the  Fathers  were  qiioled  to  hini,  as 
Moderator  in  the  schools  of  Cambridge,  •'  Behold  the 
Book  !"— holding  up  the  Scripture.  It  is  to  be  recol- 
lected, that  my  present  subject  has  nothing  to  do  with 
\be  New  Testament,  U)  which  no  reference  can  be 
here  made  without  anachronism.  Wi'h  the  poems 
upon  similar  topics  I  have  not  been  recently  familiir. 
Since  I  was  twenty  I  have  never  read  Milion;  but  I 
had  read  him  so  frequently  before,  that  this  may  make 
litlle  ditference.  Gesner's  "  Death  of  Abel  'I  have 
never  read  since  I  was  eight  years  of  age,  at  Aberdeen. 
'I'he  general  impiession  of  my  recollection  is  delight  ; 
but  of  the  contents  I  remember  only  that  Cain's  wife 
was  called  Mihala,  and  Abel's  Thiiza  :  io  the  follow- 
ing pages  I  have  cilied  them  "Adah"' and  "Zillah," 
the  earliest  female  names  which  occur  in  Genesis; 
they  were  those  of  Limech's  wives:  those  of  Cain 
and  Abel  are  not  called  by  their  names.  Whether, 
then,  a  coincidence  of  subject  may  have  caused  the 
same  in  expression,  I  knovv  nothing,  and  care  as  little. 

The  reader  will  please  to  bear  in  mind  (what  (ew 
choose  to  recollect),  that  there  is  no  alliision  to  a  future 
slate  in  any  of  the  books  of  Moses,  nor  indeed  in  the 
Old  Testament.  For  a  reason  for  this  extraordinary 
omission  he  may  consult  Warburton's  -'Diiine  Lega- 
tion ;"  whether  satisfactory  or  not,  no  better  has  yet 
been  assigned,  I  have  therefore  supposed  it  new  to 
Cain,  without,  I  hope,  any  perversion  of  Holy  Writ. 

With  regard  to  the  language  of  Lucifer,  it  was  diffi- 
cult for  me  to  make  hirii  talk  like  a  clergyman  upon 
the  same  subjects;  but  1  have  done  what  1  could  to 
re-train  him  within  the  bounds  of  spiritual  politeness. 
If  he  disclaims  having  tempted  Eve  in  the  shape  of 
the  Serpent,  it  is  only  because  the  book  of  Genesis  has 
not  the  must  distant  allusion  to  any  thing  of  the  kind, 
but  merely  to  the  Serpent  in  his  serpentine  capacity. 

Note.—  The  reader  will  perceive  that  theauthor  has 
partly  adopted  in  this  poem  the  notion  of  Cuvier,  that 
the  world  hid  been  destroyed  several  times  before  the 
creation  of  man.  This  speculation,  derived  from  the 
different  strata  and  the  bones  of  enormous  and  un- 
known animals  found  in  them,  is  not  contrary  to  the 
Mosaic  account,  but  rather  confirms  it  ;  as  no' human 
bones  have  yet  been  discovered  in  those  strita,  although 
those  of  many  known  animals  are  found  neir  the 
remains  of  the  unknown.  The  assertion  of  Lucifer, 
that  the  preAdamite  world  was  also  peopled  by  ri- 
tional  beings  much  more  intelligent  than  man,  and  pro- 
porlionably  powerful  lo  the  mammoth,  &c.  &c.,  is,  of 
course,  a  poetical  fiction  to  help  him  to  make  out  his 
case. 

I  ought  to  add,  that  there  is  a  "  tramelogedia''  of 
Alfieri,  called  '■  Abele."—  I  have  never  read  that,  nor 
any  other  of  the  posthumous  works  of  the  writer, 
except  his  Life. 

Ravenna,  Sept.  20,  1821. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Men.  —  Adam. 
Cain, 
Abel. 

Spirits.  —  Angel  of  the  Lord. 
Luci  'er. 

ITorreJi.— Eve 
Adah. 
Zillah. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE    I. 

The  Land  witiioul  Paradise—  Time,  Sunrise. 

Mam,  Eve,  Caiii,  Abel,  Jidah,   Zillah,   offering   a 
Sacrifice. 

JIdam.  God,  the  Eternal :  Infinite!  All-wise!  — 
Who  out  of  darkness  on  the  deep  didst  make 
Light  on  the  w.iters  w  ith  a  word  —  all  hail ! 
Jehovah,  with  returning  light,  all  hail  ! 

Eve.  God  !  w  ho  didsi  name  the  day,  and  separate 
Morning  fiom  night,  till  then  divided  never  — 
Who  didst  divide  the  wave  from  wave,  and  call 
Part  of  thy  work  the  firmament  — all  hail ! 

Jbel.  God  !  who  didst  call  the  elements  into 
Earth  —  ocean  — air  — and  fire,  and  with  the  day 
And  night,  and  worlds  which  these  illuminate, 
Or  shadow,  madest  beings  lo  enjoy  them, 
And  love  both  them  and  Ihte  —  all  hail !  all  hail ! 

Jdah.  God,  the  Eternal !  Parent  of  all  things  ! 
Who  didst  create  these  best  and  beauteous  beings, 
To  be  beloved,  more  than  all,  save  thee  — 
Let  me  love  ;hee  and  them  :  —  All  hail !  all  hail ! 

Zilliih.  Oh,  God  ;  who  loving,  making,  blessing  all 
Yet  didst  permit  the  serpent  to  creep  in, 
And  drive  my  father  forth  from  Paradise, 
Keep  us  froni  further  evil :  —  Hail !  all  hail ! 

Adam.  Son  Cain,  my  first-born,  wherefore  art  thou 
silent  ? 

Cain.  Why  should  I  speak  ? 

Adam.  To  pray. 

Cam.  Have  ye  not  pray'd  ? 

Adam.  We  have,  most  fervently. 

Cain.  And  loudly  :  I 

Have  heard  you. 

Adam.  So  will  God,  I  trust. 

Abel.  Amen ! 

Adam.  But  thou,  my  eldest  bom,  art  silent  still. 

Cain.  'T  is  better  I  should  be  so. 

Adam.  Wherefore  so? 

Cam.  I  have  nought  to  ask. 

Adam.  Nor  aught  to  thank  for  ? 

Cain.  No. 

Adam.  Dost  thou  not  live  ? 

Cain.  Must  I  not  die? 

Eve.  .  Alas! 

The  fruit  of  our  forbidden  tree  begins 
To  fall. 

Adam.  And  we  must  gather  it  again. 
Oh.  God  !  why  didst  thou  plant  the  tree  of  knowledge  ? 

Cain.  And  wherefore  pluck'd  ye  not  the  tree  of  life  ? 
Ye  might  have  then  defied  him. 

Adam.  Oh  !  my  son, 

Bhspheme  not :  these  are  serpents'  words. 

Caiiu  Why  not? 

The  snake  spoke  (ru/ A :  it  toosthe  treeof  knowledge; 
It  was  the  tree  of  life:  knowledge  is  good. 
And  life  is  good  ;  and  how  can  both  be  evil  ? 

Eve.  My  boy  !  thou  speakest  as  I  spoke,  in  sin, 
Before  thy  birth  :  let  me  not  see  renew'd 
My  misery  in  Ihine.     I  have  repented. 
Let  me  not  see  my  offspring  fall  into 
The  snares  beyond  the  walls  of  Paradise, 
Which  e'en  in  Paradise  destroy "d  his  parents. 
Content  thee  with  what  is.    Had  we  been  so, 
Thou  now  hadst  been  contended. —  Oh,  my  son! 

Adam.  Our  orisons  completed,  let  us  hence, 
Each-to  his  task  of  toil  —  not  heavy,  though 
Needful :  the  ea'th  i?  young,  and  yields  us  kindly 
Her  fruits  with  little  labour. 

Eve.  Cain,  my  sec 

Behold  thv  father  cheerful  and  resign'd. 
And  do  as' he  dolh.  [Exeunt  Adair  and  Em. 

Zillah.  Wilt  thou  not,  my  brother  ? 

Abel.  Why  will  thou  wear  this  gloom  upon  thy  brow, 
Which  can  avail  thee  nothing,  save  lo  rouse 
The  Eternal  anger? 

Adah.  My  beloved  Cain, 

Wilt  thou  frown  even  on  me? 


I  Scene  I.] 


A   MYSTERY. 


347 


Cain.  No,  Adah  !  no ; 

I  fain  would  be  alone  a  little  while. 
Abel,  I  'ill  sick  at  heart ;  but  it  w  ill  pass  ; 
Precede  me,  brother—  I  will  follow  shortly. 
And  you,  too,  sisters,  tarry  not  behind  ; 
Your  gentleness  must  not  be  harshly  met : 
I  '11  follow  you  anon. 

Adah.  If  not,  I  will 

Return  to  seek  you  hore. 

AUl.  The  peace  of  God 

Be  on  your  spirit,  brother '. 

IBxeujit  Abel,  Zillah,  and  Adah. 
Cain,  (solvs).  And  this  is 

Life!  — Toil  !  and  wherefore  should  I  toVl  ?  —  because 
My  father  could  not  keep  hio  place  in  Eden. 
What  had  /  dc  ne  in  this?—  1  was  unborn  : 
I  sought  not  to  be  born  ;  nor  love  ihe  state 
To  which  thai  birih  his  brought  me.     Why  did  be 
Yield  'o  the  serpent  and  the  woman?  or, 
Yielding,  why  suffer  ?    What  was  there  in  this  ? 
The  tree  was  plan'cd,  and  why  not  for  him  ? 
If  not,  why  place  him  near  it,  where  ii  grew, 
The  fairest  in  Ihe  centre  ?    'I  hey  have  but 
One  answer  to  all  questions,  "  'T  was  hts  will. 
And  Ae  is  good."     How  know  I  that  ?    Because 
He  is  all-powerful,  must  all  good,  loo,  follow  ? 
I  judge  but  by  Ihe  fruits  —  arid  they  are  bitter  — 
Which  1  must  feed  on  for  a  fault  not  mine. 
Whom  have  we  here  ?  —  A  ^hape  like  to  the  angels. 
Yet  of  a  sterner  and  a  s  dder  aspect 
Of  spiritual  essence  :  «hy  do  I  quake? 
Why  should  1  fear  him  more  than  olher  spirits, 
Whom  1  see  daily  wave  their  fiery  swords 
Before  the  gates  round  which  I  linger  oft, 
In  twilight's  hour,  to  caich  a  glimpse  of  those 
Gardens  which  are  my  just  inheritance, 
Ere  the  night  closes  o'er  Ihe  inhibited  walls 
And  Ihe  immortal  trees  which  overtop 
The  cherubim-defended  battlements? 
If  I  shrink  not  from  these,  the  fireaim'd  angels. 
Why  should  I  qu^il  from  him  who  now  approaches? 
Yet  "he  seems  mightier  far  than  them,  nor  less 
Beauteous,  and  yet  not  all  as  beautiful 
As  he  hath  beeii,  and  might  be :  sorrow  seeuis 
Half  of  his  immortality-     And  is  it 
So  ?  and  can  aught  grieve  save  humanity  ? 
He  comeh. 

Enter  Lucifer. 
Lucifer.    Mortal ! 

Caiji.  Spirit,  who  art  thou? 

Lucifer.  Master  of  spirits. 

Cain.  And  being  so,  canst  thou 

Leave  them,  and  walk  with  dust  ? 

Lucifer.  I  know  the  thoughts 

Of  dust,  and  feel  for  if,  and  with  you. 

Catii.  How ! 

Yon  know  my  thouehfs? 

Lucifer.  '  They  are  the  thoughts  of  all 

Worthy  of  thought ; — 'tis  your  immortal  part 
Which  speaks  within  you. 

Cain.  Wliat  immortal  part  ? 

This  has  not  been  reveal'd :  Ihe  tree  of  life 
Was  wi  hheld  from  us  by  my  father's  folly, 
While  that  of  knowledge,  by  my  mother's  haste, 
Was  pluck'd  too  soon  ;  and  all  the  fruit  is  denth '. 
Lucifer.  They  have  deceived  thee ;  thou  shalt  live. 
Cain.  I  live. 

But  live  to  die  :  and,  living,  see  nothing 
To  make  death  hateful,  sive  an  innate  clinging, 
A  loathsome,  and  \el  all  invincible 
Instinct  of  life,  which  I  abhor,  as  I 
Despise  mvself,  vet  cannot  overcome  — 
And  so  I  live.     Would  1  had  never  lived  ! 
Lucifer.  Thou  livest,  and  must  live  for  ever :  think 
not 
The  earth,  which  is  thine  outward  cov'ring,  is 
Existence  —  it  will  cease,  and  thou  wilt  be 
No  le>5  than  thou  art  now. 

Cain.  No  less !  and  why 

No  more  ? 


Lucifer.  It  may  be  thou  shalt  be  as  we. 

Cam.  And  je? 

Liu:iftr.  Are  everlas'ing. 

Cain.  Are  ye  happy  1 

Lucifer.  We  are  mighty. 

Cain.  Are  ye  happy  ? 

Lvcijer.  No:  art  2oB? 

Cain.  How  should  I  be  so  ?    Look  on  me ! 

Lucifer.  •  Poor  day ! 

And  thou  pretendest  to  be  wre'ched  !    Thou ! 

Cai7i.  1  .am  :  —  and  thou,  with  all  thy  might,  what 
art  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  One  who  aspired  to'oe  what  made  thee,  and 
Would  not  have  made  thee  what  thou  art. 

Cain.  Ah ! 

Thou  look'st  almost  a  god  ;  and 

Liccifer.  I  am  none ; 

And  having  fail'd  to  be  one,  would  be  nought 
Save  what  1  am.    Hecouquer'd  ;  let  him  reign  ! 

Cain.   Who? 

Lucifer.  Thy  sire's  M;iker,  and  Ihe  earth's. 

Cain.  And  heaven's, 

And  all  that  in  them  is.     So  I  have  heard 
His  seraphs  sing  ;  and  so  my  father  saith. 

Lucifer.  They  say  —  what  they  must  sing  and  say, 
on  pain 
Of  being  that  which  I  am  —and  thou  art  — 
Of  spirits  aud  of  men. 

Cam.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Lucifer.  Souls  who  dare  use  their  immortality  — 
Souls  who  dare  look  Ihe  Omnipotent  tyrant  in 
His  everlasting  face,  and  tell  him  that 
His  evil  is  not  good  !     If  he  has  made. 
As  he  saith  —  which  I  know  not,  nor  believe  — 
But,  if  he  made  us  —  he  cannot  unmake  : 
We  are  immortal !  —  nay,  he  'd  have  us  so, 
Ihat  he  may  torture:  —  let  hirn  1     He  is  great  — 
But,  in  his  greitiiess,  is  no  happier  than 
We  in  our  conflict  !     Goodness  would  not  make 
Evil ;  and  what  ele  hath  he  made?    But  let  him 
Sit  on  his  vast  and   olitary  throne. 
Creating  worlds,  to  make  eternity 
Less  burthensome  to  his  immense  existence 
And  unparlicipated  solitude; 
Let  him  crowd  orb  on  orb  :  he  is  alone. 
Indefinite,  indissoluble  tyrant ; 
Could  he  but  crush  himself,  't  were  Ihe  best  boon 
He  ever  granted  :  but  lei  him  reign  on, 
And  multiply  himself  in  misery  ! 
Spin's  and  Men,  at  leist  we  sympathise  — 
And,  suffering  in  concert,  make  our  pangs 
Innumerable,  more  endurable, 
Bv  the  unbounded  svmpa'hv  of  all 
With  nil  :     Bu'  He:  ^o  wretched  in  his  height. 
So  restless  in  his  wretchedness,  must  still 

Create,  and  re-create 

Cat7i.  Thou  spcak'st  to  me  of  things  which  long 
have  swung 
In  visions  through  my  thought:  I  never  could 
Reconcile  what  1  saw  with  what  I  heard. 
My  fa'her  and  my  mother  talk  to  me 
Of  serpents,  and  of  fruits  and  trees.     I  see 
The  gates  of  what  they  call  their  Paradise 
Guarded  by  fiery-sworded  cherubim. 
Which  shut  them  out,  and  me :  I  feel  the  weiglit 
Of  d.iily  toil,  and  constant  thought:  I  look 
Around  a  world  where  I  seem  nothing,  with 
Thoughts  which  arise  within  me,  as  if  they 
Could  master  all  things—  but  I  thought  alone 
This  misery  was  Tnine.—  My  f'ther  is 
Tamed  down  ;  my  mother  has  forgot  the  mind 
Which  made  her  thirst  for  knowledge  at  the  risk 
Of  an  eternal  curse  ;  my  brother  is 
A  watching  shepherd  boy,  who  oft'ers  up 
The  firstlings  of  Ihe  flock  to  him  who  bids 
The  eaith  yield  nothing  to  us  without  sweat ; 
My  sister  Zillah  sings  an  earlier  hymn 
Than  the  birds'  matins  ;  and  my  Adah,  my 
Own  and  beloved,  she,  too,  understands  not 
The  mind  which  orer whelms  me:  never  till 


34b 


CAIN: 


[Act  I. 


Now  met  I  aught  lo  sytnpilhise  with  me. 
'Tis  well  — I  rnther  would  consort  with  spirits. 

Lucifer.  And  iiadst  Ihuu  not  been  tit  by  thine  own 
soul 
For  such  companionship,  I  would  not  now 
Have  stood  before  thee  as  1  am  :  a  serpeiit 
Had  been  enough  to  charm  ye,  as  before. 

Cain.  Ah  !  didst  t/tCM  tempt  my  mother? 

Lucifer.  I  lempt  none, 

Save  wiih  Ihe  'ruth  :  was  not  the  tree,  the  tree 
Of  knowledge  ?  was  not  Ihe  tree  of  life 
Still  fruitful  ?  1     Did  /  bid  her  pluck  them  not  ? 
Did  /  plant  thing>  prohibi:ed  within 
The  reach  of  beings  innocent,  and  curious 
By  their  own  innocence  ?    i  would  hsve  made  ye 
Gnds ;  and  even  He  who  thrust  ye  forth,  so  thiust  ye 
Because  '-ye  should  uol  eat  Ihe  fiuits  of  life, 
"  And  become  gods  as  we."     Were  those  his  words  ? 

Cain.  They  were,  as  I  have  heard  from  those  who 
heard  them, 
In  thunder. 

Lucifer.  Then  who  was  the  demon  ?    He 
Who  would  not  let  ye  live,  or  he  who  would 
Have  made  ye  live  for  ever  in  the  joy 
And  power  of  knowledge? 

Cain.  Would  they  had  snatch'd  both 

The  fruits,  or  neither ! 

Lucifer.  One  is  yours  already, 

The  other  may  be  still. 

Cat»i.  How  so  ? 

LucifiT.  By  being 

Yourselves,  in  your  resistance.     Nothing  can 
Quench  Ihe  mind,  if  the  mind  will  be  itself 
And  centre  of  surrounding  things  —  'c  is  mide 
To  sway. 

Cain.    But  didst  thou  tempt  my  pirenls  ? 

Lxu:ifer.  '^      "^  I? 

Poor  clay  !  what  should  I  tempt  them  for,  or  how  ? 

Cain.  They  say  the  serpent  was  a  spirit. 

Lucifer.  Who 

Sailh  that  ?    It  is  not  wrilten  so  on  high : 
The  proud  One  will  not  so  far  falsify, 
Though  man's  vast  fears  and  little  vanity 
Would  make  him  cast  upon  the  spiritual  na'ure 
His  own  low  fiiling.     The  snake  was  Ihe  snake  — 
No  more  ;  nnd  yet  not  less  than  those  he  tempted, 
In  nature  being  earth  aUo  —  nuyre  in  wisdom, 
Since  he  could  overcome  them,  and  foreknew 
The  knowledge  fatal  to  their  narrow  joys. 
Think'st  thou  I  'd  take  the  shape  of  things  that  die? 

CaiJi.  But  the  thing  had  a  demon  ? 

Lucifer.  He  but  woke  one 

In  those  he  spake  to  with  liis  forky  tongue. 
I  tell  thee  that  the  serpent  was  no  more 
Than  a  mere  serpent :  ask  the  cherubim 
Who  guard  Ihe  tempting  tree.     When  thousand  ages 
Have  roll'd  o'er  your  dead  ashes,  and  your  seed's, 
The  seed  of  the  then  world  may  thus  arjay 
Their  earliest  fault  in  fable,  and  altribule 
To  me  a  shipe  I  scorn,  as  I  scorn  all 
That  bows  to  him,  who  made  things  but  to  bend 
Before  his  sullen,  sole  eternity  ; 
But  we,  who  see  the  truth,  must  speik  it.    Thy 
Fond  parents  lislen'd  to  a  creeping  thing, 
■  And  fell.     For  whit  should  spirits  tempt  them?  What 
I  Wis  there  to  envy  in  the  narrow  iKiunds 
Of  Paradise,  that  spirits  who  pervade 

Space but  I  speak  to  thee  of  what  thou  know'st 

not. 
With  all  thy  tree  of  knowledge. 

Cain.  But  thou  cansf  not 

Speak  aught  of  knowledge  which  I  would  not  know, 
And  do  not  thirst  lo  know,  and  bear  a  mind 
To  know. 

Lucifer.  And  heart  to  look  on  ? 

1  Tlie  tree  nf  life  was  doutitless  a  material  tree,  pro- 
dacing  material  fruit,  proper  ae  sueli  for  Ihe  nourishment 
of  the  t>ody;  but  was  it  not  also  set  apart  to  be  partaken 
of  as  a  §ymbol  or  sacrament  of  lliat  celestial  principle 
which  Dourishea  the  soul  to  immortality  7  — BISHOP 
HORNE.  — £. 


Cairu  Be  it  proved. 

Lucifer.  Darest  thou  look  on  Death  ? 

Cam.  He  has  not  yet 

Been  seen. 

Lucifer.  But  must  be  undergone. 

Cain.  My  father 

Says  he  is  something  dreadful,  and  my  mother 
Weeps  when  he  's  named  ;  and  Abel'lifts  his  eyes 
To  he.iven,  and  ZiUah  casts  hers  to  the  earth, 
And  sighs  a  prayer;  and  Adah  looks  on  me. 
And  speaks  not. 

Lucifer.  And  thou  ? 

Cam.  Thoughts  unspeakable 

Crowd  in  my  breast  to  burning,  when  I  hear 
Of  this  almighty  Death,  who  is,  it  seems, 
lne\ liable.     Could  I  wrestle  with  him? 
I  wrestled  with  Ihe  lion,  when  a  boy. 
In  play,  till  he  ran  roaring  from  my  gripe. 

Lucifer.  It  has  no  shape ;  but  will  absorb  all  thiogi 
That  bear  the  form  of  earth  born  being. 

Cam.  Ah ! 

I  thought  it  was  a  being :  who  could  do 
Such  evil  things  to  beings  save  a  being  ? 

Lucifer.  Ask  the  Destroyer. 

Cuin.  Who? 

Lucifer.  The  Maker  —  call  him 

Which  name  thou  wilt :  he  makes  but  to  destroy. 

Cain.  I  knew  not  that,  yet  thought  it,  since  I  beard 
Of  de.rh :  although  I  know  not  what  it  is, 
Yet  it  seems  honible.     I  have  look'd  out 
In  Ihe  vast  desolate  night  in  search  of  him  ; 
And  when  I  saw  gigantic  shadows  in 
The  umbrage  of  the  walls  of  Eden,  chequer'd 
By  Ihe  f  ir-tiashing  of  the  cherubs'  swords, 
I  watch'd  for  wha't  I  ihought  his  coming  ;  for 
With  feir  rose  longing  in  my  heart  lo  know 
What 't  was  which  shook  us  all  —  but  nothing  came. 
And  then  I  turn'd  my  weary  eyes  from  off 
Our  na'ive  and  forbidden  Paradise, 
Up  to  Ihe  lights  above  us,  in  the  azure. 
Which  are  so  beautiful ;  shall  they,  too,  die? 

Lucifer.  Perhaps—  but  long  outlive  both  thine  and 
thee. 

Cain.  I  'm  glad  of  that :  I  would  not  have  them 
die  — 
Thev  are  so  lovely.     What  is  death?    I  fear, 
I  fee'l,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing;  but  what, 
I  c.innot  compass  :  'I  is  denounced  against  us, 
Both  them  who  sinn'd  and  siun'd  not,  as  an  ill  — 
What  ill  ? 

Lnciftr.  To  be  resolved  into  the  earth. 

Cam.  But  shall  I  know  it  i 

Lucifer.  As  I  know  not  death, 

I  cannot  answer. 

Cain.  Were  I  quiet  earth. 

That  were  no  evil  :  would  I  ne'er  bad  been 
Aught  else  but  dust! 

Lucifer.  That  is  a  groveling  wish, 

Less  than  thy  father's,  for  he  wish'd  to  know. 

Cain.  But  i^ot  to  live,  or  wherefore  pluck'd  he  not 
The  life-tree? 

Lxicifer.        He  vi-as  hinder'd. 

Cain.  Deadly  error ! 

Not  to  snatch  first  that  fruit :  —  but  ere  he  pluck'd 
The  knowledge,  he  was  ignorant  of  death. 
Alas!  I  scarcely  now  know  what  it  is. 
And  yet  1  feir  ft  —  fear  1  know  not  what ! 

Luciftr.  And  I,  who  know  all  things,  fear  nothing; 
see 
What  is  true  knowledge. 

Cai7t.  Wilt  thou  teach  me  all  ? 

Lucifer.  Ay,  upon  one  condition. 

Cai7U  Name  it. 

Lucifer.  That 

Thou  dost  fall  down  and  worship  me  —  thy  Lord. 

Cain.  Thou  art  not  the  Lord  my  father  woisbips. 

Lucife)-.  Nb. 

Cain.  His  equal? 

Lucifer.  No;  — I  have  nought    c   tommon  with 
him  ! 
Nor  would :  I  would  be  aught  above — beneath  — 


Scene  I.] 


A   MYSTERY. 


I  Aueht  save  a  shirer  or  a  servant  nf 

His" power.     I  dnell  apart :  but  1  am  great :  — 
I    Main-  ttiere  are  who  worship  me,  aud  more 
Who  shall  —  t>e  tbou  aniougst  the  first. 

Cain.  I  never 

As  yet  hive  bow'd  unto  my  falher's  God, 
Although  my  bro'her  Abel  oft  implores 
That  I  would  join  with  him  in  sacrifice:  — 
Why  should  1  bow  to  thee? 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  ne'er  bow'd 

To  him? 

Cain.  Have  I  not  said  it ?  —  need  I  say  it ? 
Could  not  thy  mighty  kuowledse  leach  thee  that? 

Lucifer.  He  who  bows  not  to  him  has  bow'd  tome! 

Cain.  But  I  will  bend  to  neiiher. 

Lucifer.  Ne'er  the  less, 

Thou  art  my  worshifper:  not  worshipping 
Him  makes  thee  mine  the  same. 

Cain.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Lucifer.  Thou  'It  know  here  —  and  hereafter. 

Cain.  Let  me  but 

Be  taught  the  mystery  of  my  being. 

Luciler.  Follow 

Where  I  will  lead  thee. 

Cain.                              But  I  must  retire 
To  till  the  earth  —  for  I  had  promised 

Lutifer.  What? 

Cot?i.  To  cull  some  first-fruits. 

Lucifer.  Why  ? 

Cain.  To  offer  up 

With  Abel  on  an  altar. 

Lucifer,  S-iidst  thou  not 

Thou  ne'er  hadst  bent  to  him  who  made  thee? 

Cain.                                                               Tes  — 
But  Abel's  earnest  prayer  has  wrought  upon  me  ; 
The  offering  is  more  his  than  mine  —  and  Adah 

Lucifer.  Why  dost  thou  hesitate  ? 

Caiii.  She  is  my  sister. 

Born  on  the  snme  day,  of  the  same  womb  ;  and 
She  wrung  from  me,  with  tears,  this  promise ;  and 
Rather  than  see  her  weep,  I  would,  methiuks, 
Bear  all  —  and  worship  aught. 

Lucifer.  Then  follow  me ! 

Cain.  I  will. 

Enter  Adah. 

Adah.  My  brother,  I  have  come  for  thee ; 

It  is  our  hour  of  re-t  and  joy  —  and  we 
Have  less  without  thee.     Thou  hast  latwur'd  not 
This  morn  ;  but  I  have  done  thy  task  :  the  fruits 
Are  ripe,  and  glowing  as  the  light  which  ripens: 
Come  away. 

Caiit.  See'st  thou  not  ? 

Adah.  I  see  an  angel ; 

We  have  seen  mmy  :  will  he  share  our  hour 
Of  rest? —  he  is  welcome. 

Coin.  But  he  is  not  like 

The  angels  we  have  seen. 

Adah.  Are  there,  then,  others  ? 

But  he  is  welcome,  as  they  were :  they  deign'd 
To  be  our  guesis  —  will  he  ? 

Cain  (to  Lucifer).  Wilt  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  I  ask 

Thee  to  be  mine. 

Cain.  I  must  away  with  him. 

Adah.  And  leave  us? 

Cam.  Ay. 

Adah.  And  me  ? 

Cam.  Beloved  Adah! 

Adah.  Let  me  go  with  thee. 

Lucifer.  No,  she  must  not. 

Adah.  Who 

Art  thou  thit  steppest  between  heart  and  heart  ? 

Cain.  He  is  a  jnd. 

Adah.  How  know'st  thou  ? 

Cain.  He  speaks  like 

A  god. 

AdoUt.  So  did  the  lerpenl,  and  it  lied. 

Lucifer.  TJ-on  errest,  Adah !—  was  not  the  tree  that 
Of  knowledj^e  ? 

.idah.  Av  —  lo  our  eternal  sorrow. 


30 


Lucifer.  Atd  yet  that  grief  is  knowledge  — so  he 
I  ied  not : 
And  if  he  did  betray  you,  "t  was  with  truth; 
Ahd  truth  in  its  own  essence  cannot  be 
But  good. 
I     Adah.      But  all  we  know  of  it  has  gafher'd 
'  Evil  on  ill :  expulsion  from  our  home, 
I  And  dread,  and  toil,  and  sweat,  and  heaviness  ; 
Remorse  of  that  which  was  — and  hope  of  that 
Which  Cometh  not.     Cain  !  walk  not  with  this  sj  irit. 

Bear  with  what  we  have  borne,  and  love  me I 

Love  thee. 

Lucifer.  More  than  thy  mo'her,  and  tny  sire  ?  I 

Adah.  1  do.    Is  that  a  sin,  too  ? 

Luciftr.  No,  not  yet ; 

It  ore  day  will  be  in  your  children. 

Adah.  ■  What! 

Must  not  my  daugh'er  love  her  brother  Enoch  ? 

Lucifer.  Not  as  thou  lovesl  Cain. 

Adah.  Oh,  my  God  ! 

Shall  they  not  love  and  bring  forth  things  that  Inve 
Out  of  their  love  ?  have  they  not  drawn  their  milk 
Out  of  this  bosom  ?  was  not  he,  their  father. 
Born  of  Ihe  sime  sole  womb,  in  the  same  hour 
With  me  ?  did  we  not  love  each  i  ther?  and 
In  multiplying  our  being  multiply 
Things  which"  will  love  each  other  as  we  love 
Them  ?  —  And  as  I  love  thee,  mv  Cain  !  go  not 
Forth  with  this  spirit ;  he  is  not  of  ours. 

Luciftr.  The  sin  I  speak  of  is  not  of  my  making, 
And  cannot  be  a  sin  in  you  —  whate'er 
It  seem  in  those  who  will  replace  ye  in 
Mortality. 

Adah.  What  is  the  sin  which  is  not 
Sin  in  itself?  Can  circumstance  make  sin 
Or  virtue?  — if  it  doth,  we  are  the  slaves 
Of 

Lucifer.  Higher  things  than  ye  are  slaves:    and 
higher 
Than  them  or  ye  would  be  so,  did  they  Dot 
Prefer  an  independency  of  torture 
To  the  smooth  agonies  of  adulation. 
In  hymns  and  harpiugs,  and  self-seeking  prayers, 
To  that  which  is  omnipotent,  because 
It  is  omnipoteLl,  and  uot  from  love, 
But  terror  and  self-hope. 

Adah.  Omnipotence 

Must  be  all  goodness. 

Lucifer.  Was  it  so  in  Eden  ? 

Adah.  Fiend  !  tempt  me  not  with  beauty  ;  thou  art 
fairer 
Than  was  the  serpent,  and  as  false. 

Lucifer.  Ast>ue. 

Ask  Eve,  vour  mother:  bears  she  not  the  knowledge 
Of  good  .iiid  evil  ? 

Adah.  Oh  !  my  mother .  thou 

H.ist  pluck'd  a  fruit  more  fatal  to  thine  offspring 
Than  t  >  thvself ;  thou  at  the  least  hast  pass'd 
Thy  youth  in  Paradise,  in  innocent 
And  happy  intercourse  with  happy  spirits  : 
Bu;  we,  thy  childen.  ignorant  of  Eden, 
Are  girt  about  by  demons,  who  assume 
The  words  of  God,  and  tempt  us  with  our  own 
Dissaiisfied  and  curious  thoughts  —  as  thou 
Wert  work'd  on  by  Ihe  snake,  in  thy  most  flush'd 
And  heedless,  harmless  wantonness  of  bliss. 
I  caimot  answer  this  immortal  thing 
Which  stands  before  me ;  I  cannot  abhor  him ; 
I  look  upon  him  with  a  pleasing  fenr, 
And  yet  I  fly  not  from  him  :  in'his  eve 
There  is  a  fastening  attraction  which 
Fixes  my  fluttering  eyes  on  his  ;  my  heirt 
Beats  quick  ;  he  awes  me,  and  yet  draws  me  near, 
Nearer  and  nearer  :— Cain— Cain— sive  me  from  him  ! 

Cain.  What  dreads  my  Adah  ?  This  is  no  ill  spirit. 

^dah.  He  is  not  God—  nor  God's  :  I  have  beheld 
The  cherubs  and  the  seraphs ;  he  looks  not 
Like  them. 

Cain.        But  there  are  spirits  loftier  still  — 
The  archangels. 

Lucifer.  And  still  loftier  than  the  mrcliangeb. 


350 


CAIN; 


[ActL 


Mah.  Ay  —  but  not  blessed. 

Lucifer.  If  the  blessedoess 

Consi^t5  in  slavery  —no. 

^dah.  '  I  have  heird  it  said, 

The  seraphs  love  mi,i<  —  cherubim  know  most  — 
And  lliis  should  be  a  cherub  —  since  he  loves  not. 

Lucifer.  Aud  if  the  higher  know  ledge  quenches 
love, 
Wh  It  must  he  be  you  cmnot  love  when  known  ? 
Since  the  all-kno-.ving  chei  ubiiii  love  least, 
The  seraphs'  love  can  be  but  ignorance : 
Thai  they  aie  not  compatible,  the  doom 
Of  thy  fond  parents,  for  their  daring,  proves. 
Choose  betwixt  love  and  knowledge  —  since  there  is 
No  other  choice :  your  sire  liaih  chosen  already  : 
His  worship  is  but  fear. 

Adah.  '        Oh,  Cain  !  choose  love. 

Cam.  For  thee,  my  Adah,  I  choose  not  —  it  was 
Born  with  me —  but  I  love  nought  else. 

Adah.  Our  parents? 

Cain.  Did  thev  love   us  when  they  snatch'd  from 
the  tree 
That  which  hath  driven  us  ail  from  Paradise  ? 

Adah.  We  were  not  born  then — and  if  we  had  been, 
Should  we  not  love  them  and  our  children,  Cain  ? 

Cain.  My  little  Emito  '  <ind  his  lisping  sister! 
Could  I  but  deem  !hem  nappy,  I  would  half 

Forget but  it  can  never  be  forgotten 

Through  thrice  a  thousand  generations!  never 

Shall  men  love  the  remembrance  of  the  man 

Who  sow'd  the  seed  of  evil  and  mankind 

Id  the  same  hour !    They  pluck'd  the  tree  of  science 

And  sin  —and,  not  content  with  their  own  sorrow, 

Begot  me—  fAee  — and  .ill  the  few  that  are, 

And  all  the  unnumber'd  and  innumerable 

Multitudes,  millions,  myriads,  which  may  be, 

To  inherit  agonies  accumulated 

By  ages  !  —  and  /  must  be  sire  of  such  things  ! 

Thy  beauty  and  thy  love  —  my  love  and  joy. 

The  rapturous  moment  and  the  placid  hour, 

Ail  we  love  in  our  children  and  each  other. 

But  lead  them  and  ourselves  throujh  many  years 

Of  sin  and  pain  — or  few,  but  still  of  sorrow, 

Interche^k  d  wiih  an  instant  of  brief  pleasure, 

To  Death- the  unkn.wn  1    Meihiuks   the    tree  of 

knowledge 
Hath  not  fulfilPd  its  promi>;e  :  —  if  they  sinn'd, 
At  least  they  ought  to  have  known  all  things  that  are 
Of  knowledge  — and  the  mystery  of  death. 
What  do  thev  know  ?  — that  ihey  are  miserable. 
What  need  of  snakes  and  fruits  to  teach  us  that  ? 

Adah.  I  am  not  wretched,  Cain,  and  if  thou 
Wert  happy 

Cain.  Be  thou  happy,  then,  alone  — 

I  will  have  nought  to  do  wi  h  ha[)piness. 
Which  humbles  me  and  mine. 

Adah.  Alone  I  could  not, 

Nor  would  be  happy;  but  with  those  around  us 
I  think  I  could  be  so,  despi'e  of  death. 
Which,  as  I  know  it  not,  I  dread  nut,  though 
It  seems  an  awful  shadow  — if  I  may 
Judge  from  what  I  have  heard. 

Lucifer.  And  thou  couldst  not 

Alone,  thou  say'st,  be  happy  ? 

Adah,  Alone !  Oh,  my  God  ! 

Who  could  be  happy  and  alone,  or  good? 
To  me  my  solitude  seems  sin  ;  unless 
When  I  think  how  soon  I  shall  see  my  brother, 
His  brother,  and  our  children,  and  our  parents. 

Lucifer.  Yel  thy  God  is  alone;  and  is  he  happy, 
Lonely,  and  good  ? 

Adah.  He  is  not  so  ;  he  hath 

The  angels  and  the  mortals  to  make  happy. 
And  thus  becomes  so  in  diffusing  joy. 
What  else  can  joy  be,  bi<l  the  spreading  joy  ? 

Lucifer.  Ask  of  your  sire,  the  exile  fresh  from 
Eden; 
Or  of  his  first-born  son :  ask  your  own  heart ; 
It  is  not  tranquil. 

Adah  Alas !  no !  and  you  — 

Are  yoa  of  heaven  ? 


Lucifer.  If  I  am  not,  enquire 

The  cause  of  this  all-spreading  happiness 
(Which  you  proclaim)  of  the  all-gieal  and  good 
MaKer  of  life  and  living  things  ;  it  is 
His  secret,  and  he  keeps  it.     ff-c  must  bear, 
And  some  of  us  resist,  and  both  in  vain. 
His  seraphs  say  :  but  it  is  worth  the  trial. 
Since  belter  may  not  be  without :  there  is 
A  wisdom  in  the  spirit,  which  directs 
To  right,  as  in  the  dim  blue  air  the  eye 
Of  you,  young  mortals,  lights  at  once  upon 
The  star  which  watches,  welcoming  the  morn. 

Adah.  It  is  a  beautiful  star;  I  love  it  for 
Its  beauty. 

Lucifer.  And  why  not  adore? 

Adah.  Our  father 

Adores  the  Invisible  only. 

Lucifer.  But  the  symbols 

Of  the  invisible  are  the  loveliest 
Of  what  is  vi-ible ;  and  yon  bright  star 
Is  leader  of  the  host  of  heaven. 

Adah.  Our  father 

Saith  tliat  he  has  beheld  the  God  himself 
Who  made  him  aud  our  mother. 

Luc'fer.  Hast  thou  seen  him  ? 

Adah.  Yes  —  in  his  works. 

Lucifer.  But  in  bis  being  ? 

Adah.  No  — 

Save  iu  my  father,  who  is  God's  own  image; 
Or  in  his  angels,  who  are  like  to  thee  — 
And  brighter,  yet  less  beautiful  and  powerful 
In  seeming :  as  the  silent  sunny  noon. 
All  light,  they  look  upon  us ;  but  (hou  seem'st 
Like  an  ethereal  night,  where  long  white  clouds 
Sreak  the  deep  purple,  and  unnumber'd  stars 
Spangle  the  wonderful  mysterious  vault 
With  things  that  look  as  if  they  would  be  suns; 
So  beautiful,  unnumber'd.  and  endearing. 
Not  dazzling,  and  yet  diawmg  us  to  them. 
They  fill  my  eyes  wiih  teirs,  and  so  dost  thou. 
Thou  seem'st  unhappy  :  do  not  make  us  so. 
And  1  will  weep  for  thee. 

Lucifer.  Ala<i !  those  tears. 

Couldst  thou  but  know  what  oceans  will  be  shed  — 

Adah.  By  me  ? 

Lucifer.  By  all. 

Adah.  What  all  ? 

Lucifer.  The  million  millions  — 

The  myriad  myriads—  the  all-peopled  earth  — 
The  unpeopled  earth  —  and  the  o'er-peopled  hell, 
Of  which  thy  bosom  is  the  geim. 

Adah.  0  Cain ! 

This  spirit  curseth  us. 

Cain.  Let  him  say  on : 

Him  will  I  follow. 

Adah.  Whither? 

Lucifer.  To  a  place 

Wlunce  he  shall  come  back  to  thee  in  an  hour; 
But  in  that  hour  see  things  of  many  days. 

Adah.  How  can  that  be? 

Liiciftr.  Did  not  your  Makermakf 

Out  of  old  worlds  this  new  one  in  few  days? 
And  cannot  I,  who  aided  in  this  work. 
Show  in  an  hour  what  he  hath  made  in  many, 
Or  hath  destroy'd  in  few  ? 

Cain.  Lead  on. 

Adah.  Will  he. 

In  sooth,  return  within  an  hour? 

Lucifer.  He  shall. 

Wi  h  us  acts  are  exempt  from  lime,  and  we 
Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour. 
Or  stretch  an  hour  into  eternity  : 
We  breathe  not  by  a  mortal  measurement  — 
But  that 's  a  mvsteiy.     Cain,  come  on  with  me. 

Adah.  Will  he  return  ? 

Lucifer.  A  v,  woman  !  he  alone 

Of  nionah  from  that  place  ('he  first  and  last 
Who  shall  return,  save  One),  shall  come  back  to  UlM^ 
To  makj  that  silent  and  expectant  world 
As  populous  as  this  :  at  present  there 
Are  few  inhabitants. 


Scene  1.1 


A   MYSTERY. 


351 


Jdali.  Where  dwellest  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  Throughout  all  space.     Where  sboul  I  I 
dwell?    Where  are 
Thy  God  or  Gods  —  there  am  I :  al\  things  are 
Divided  with  me:  life  and  dea'h  —  ai.d  lime  — 
Eleruity  —  and  heaven  and  earth  —  and  that 
Which  is  not  heaven  nor  eirth,  but  peopled  with 
Tliose  who  once  peopled  or  shall  people  both  — 
These  are  my  reilms !     So  that  I  do  divide 
Hvi,  and  possess  a  kingdom  which  is  not 
Hit.     If  1  were  not  that  which  I  have  said, 
Could  1  stand  here  ?    His  angels  are  wilhia 
Your  vision. 

Adah.        So  they  were  when  the  fair  serpent 
Spoke  with  Kur  mother  first. 

Luciftr.  Cain  !  thou  hast  beard. 

If  thou  dost  Ion;  for  knowledge,  I  cm  satiate 
That  thirst ;  nor  ask  thee  to  partake  of  fruits 
Which  shall  deprive  thee  of  a  single  good 
Th°  conqueror  has  left  thee     Follow'me. 

Cain.  Spirit,  1  have  said  it. 

[Exeunt  Lucifer  and  Cain. 

Adah  {follows  exclainixng).    Caiu  !   my  brother! 
Cain! 


ACT  II. 

SCENE    I. 

The  Abyss  of  Space. 

Cain.  I  tread  on  air,  and  sink  not ;  yet  I  fear 
To  sink. 

Luciftr.  Have  faith  in  me,  and  thou  shalt  be 
Borne  on  the  air,  of  which  I  am  the  prince. 

Cain.  Can  1  do  so  without  impiety  .' 

Lucifer.  Believe  —  and  sink  not!  doubt  —  and  pe- 
rish !  thus 
Would  run  the  edict  of  the  other  God, 
Who  names  me  demon  to  his  angels  j  they 
Echo  the  sound  to  miserable  things. 
Which,  knowing  nought  beyond  their  shallow  senses. 
Worship  the  word  which  strikes  their  ear,  and  deem 
Evil  or  good  what  is  proclaim'd  to  them 
In  their  abasement,     I  will  have  none  such  : 
Worship  or  worship  not,  thou  shalt  behold 
The  worlds  beyond  thy  little  world,  nor  be 
Amerced  for  doubts  beyond  thy  little  life, 
With  torture  of  my  dooming.     There  will  come 
An  hour,  when,  toss'd  upon  some  wa'er-drops, 
A  man  shall  say  to  a  man,  "  Believe  in  me. 
And  walK  the  waters ;"  and  the  man  shall  walk 
The  billows  and  be  safe.     /  will  not  say, 
Believe  in  me,  as  a  condition  il  creed 
To  save  thee  ;  but  fly  with  me  o'er  the  gulf 
Of  space  an  equal  tiight,  and  I  will  >how 
What  thou  dar'st  not  deny,—  the  history 
Of  past,  and  present,  and  of  future  worlds. 

Cain.  Oh,  god,  or  demon,  or  whatever  thou  art, 
Is  yon  our  earih  ? 

Lucijer.  Dost  thou  not  recognise 

The  dust  which  formd  your  father  ? 

Cain.  Can  it  be  ? 

Yon  small  blue  circlet,  swinging  in  far  ether. 
With  an  inferior  circlet  near  it  still, 
Which  looks  like  that  which  lit  our  earthly  night? 
Is  this  our  Paradise  .'    Where  are  its  walls, 
And  they  who  guard  them  ? 

Lucifer,  Point  me  out  the  si'e 

Of  Paradise. 

Coin.  How  should  I  ?    As  we  move 

Like  sunbeams  onward,  it  grows  small  aud  smaller, 
And  as  it  waxes  little,  and  then  less, 
Gathers  a  halo  round  it,  like  the  light 
Which  shone  the  roundest  of  the  stars,  when  I 
Beheld  them  from  the  skirts  of  Piradi  e: 
Methinks  they  both,  as  we  recede  from  them, 
Appear  to  join  the  innumerable  stars 
Which  are  around  us ;  and,  as  we  move  on. 
Increase  their  myriads. 

Lucifer.  And  if  there  should  be 


Worlds  greater  than  thine  own,  inh  biled 

By  greater  things,  and  they  themselves  far  more 

In  number  than  the  dust  of  thy  dull  earth. 

Though  multiplied  to  animated  itonis, 

All  living,  and  all  doom'd  to  death,  and  wretched, 

What  wouldst  thou  think  ? 

Cain.  1  should  be  proud  of  thought 

Which  knew  such  things. 

Luciftr.                        But  if  that  high  thought  were 
Link'd  to  a  servile  mass  of  matter,  and, 
Knowing  such  things,  aspiring  to  such  things, 
And  science  still  beyond  them,  were  chain'd  down 
To  the  most  gross  and  petty  paltry  wants, 
All  foul  and  fulsome,  and  the  very  best 
Of  thine  enjoyments  a  sweet  degradation, 
A  most  enervating  and  filthy  cheat 
To  lure  ihee  on  to  the  renewal  of 
Fresh  souls  and  bfKiies,  all  foredoom'd  to  be 
As  frail,  and  few  so  happy 

Cain.  Spirit  !  I 

Know  nought  nf  death,  save  as  a  dreadful  thing 
Of  which  I  have  heard  my  parents  speak,  as  of 
A  hideous  heritage  I  owe  to  them 
No  lets  than  life  ;  a  heritage  not  happy. 
If  I  may  judge,  till  now.     But  spirit !  if 
It  be  as  thou  hast  said  (and  I  wiihin 
Feel  the  propheiic  torture  of  its  truth). 
Here  let  me  die :  for  to  give  birth  to  those 
Who  cin  but  suffer  many  years,  and  die, 
Methinks  is  merely  propagating  death. 
And  multiplying  murder. 

Lucifer.  Thou  canst  not 

All  die  — there  is  what  must  survive. 

Cain.  The  Otber 

Spake  not  of  this  unto  my  father,  when 
He  shut  him  forth  from  Paradise,  with  death 
Written  upon  his  forehead.     But  at  least 
Let  what  is  mortal  of  me  perish,  that 
I  may  be  in  lbs  rest  as  angels  are. 

Lucifer,  /am  angelic  fwouldst  thou  be  as  I  am  ? 

Cain.  1  know  not  what  thou  art :  I  see  thy  power, 
And  see  thou  show'st  me  things  beyond  my  power, 
Beyond  all  power  of  my  born  faculties. 
Although  inferior  still  to  my  desires 
And  my  conceptions.  | 

Lucifer.  What  are  they  which  dwell         I  i 

So  humbly  in  their  pride,  as  to  sojourn 
With  worms  in  clay  ? 

Cain.  And  what  art  thou  who  dwellctt 

So  haughtily  in  spirit,  and  canst  range 
Nature  and  immortality  —  and  yet 
Seem'st  sorroxvful  ? 

Lucifer.  I  seem  that  wliich  I  am  ; 

And  therefore  do  I  ask  of  thee,  if  thou 
Wouldst  be  immortal  ? 

Cain.  Thou  hast  said,  I  must  be 

Immortal  in  despite  of  me.     I  knew  not 
This  until  lately  —  but  since  it  must  be, 
Let  me,  or  happy  or  unhappy,  learn 
To  anticipate  my  immortality. 

Lucifer.  Thou  didst  before  I  came  upon  thee. 

Cain.  How? 

Lxvcifer.  By  sufiFering. 

Cain.  And  must  torture  be  immortal? 

Lucifer.  We  and  Iby  sons  will  try.    But  now,  be- 
hold ! 
Is  it  not  glorious? 

Cain.  Oh,  thou  beautiful 

And  unimaginable  el  her!  and 
Ye  multiplying  masses  of  increased 
And  still  increasing  lights  !  whai  are  ye?  what 
I^  this  blue  wilderness  of  interminable 
Air,  where  ye  roll  along,  as  I  have  seen 
The  leaves  along  the  limpid  streams  of  Eden  ? 
Is  your  course  measured  for  ye  ?    Or  do  ye 
Sweep  on  in  your  unbounded  revelry 
Through  an  aerial  nniverse  of  endless 
Expansion  —  at  which  my  soul  aches  to  think — 
Intoxicated  with  eternity  ? 
Oh  God  !  Oh  Gods  !  or  whatsoe'er  ye  are  ' 
How  beautiful  ve  are  !  how  beautihil 


J 


352 


CAIN: 


[Act  II 


Tour  works,  or  accidents  or  whatsoe'er 

They  may  be  !     Lei  me  die,  as  atoms  die, 

(If  that  thev  die)  or  kucw  ye  in  your  might 

Aod  knovvl'eiige  !    My  thoughts  are  not  in  this  hour 

Unworthy  "tiai  i  see,  Ihougli  my  dust  is; 

Spirit  1  let  me  expire,  or  see  tliein  nearer. 

Lucifer.  Art  tliou  not  nearer  ?  look  back  to  thine 
earth! 

Cain.  Wheieisit?    I  see  nothing  save  a  mass 
Of  most  innumerable  lights. 

Lucifer.  Look  there ! 

Cain.  I  cannot  see  it. 

Lucifer.  Tet  it  sparkles  still. 

Cain.  That !  —  yonder ! 

Lucifer.  Yea. 

Cain.  And  wilt  thou  tell  me  so  ? 

Why,  I  have  seen  the  fire-flies  and  fire- worms 
Sprinkle  the  dusky  groves  and  the  green  banks 
In  ;he  dim  twilight,  brighter  than  you  world 
Which  bears  them. 

Lvciftr.  Thou  hast  seen  both  worms  and  worlds. 
Each  bright  and  sparkling  —  what  dost  think  of  them? 

Cain.  That  they  are  beautiful  in  their  own  sphere, 
And  that  the  ni^h',  which  makes  both  beautiful, 
The  little  shining  fire-fly  in  iis  Hight, 
And  the  immortal  star  in  its  great  course, 
Must  bnih  be  guided. 

Lucifer.  But  by  whom  or  what  ? 

Cain.  Show  me. 

Luctftr.  Dar'st  thou  behold  ? 

Cain.  How  know  I  what 

I  dare  behold  ?    As  yet,  thou  hast  shown  nought 
I  dare  not  gaze  on  further. 

Lucifer.  On,  then,  with  me. 

Wouldst  thou  behold  things  mortal  or  immortal  ? 

Cain.  Why,  what  aie  things? 

Lucifer.  Both  partly  :  but  what  doth 

Sit  next  ihy  heart? 

Cain.  The  things  I  see. 

Lucifer.  But  what 

Sate  nearest  it  ? 

Caiiu  The  things  I  have  not  seen, 

Nor  ever  shall  —  the  mysteries  of  death. 

Lucifer.  What,  if  I  show  to  thee  things  which  have 
died, 
As  I  have  shown  thee  much  which  cannot  die  ? 

Cain.  Do  so. 

Lucifer.  Away,  then  !  on  our  mighty  wings. 

Cain.  Oh!  how  we  cleave  the  blue!    The  stars 
fade  from  us ! 
The  earth  !  where  is  my  earth  r    Let  me  look  on  it, 
For  I  was  made  of  it. 

Lucifer.  'T  is  now  beyond  thee, 

Less,  in  the  universe,  than  thou  in  it ; 
Yet  deem  not  that  Ihou  canst  escape  it ;  thou 
Shalt  soon  return  to  earth,  and  all  its  dust : 
'T  is  part  of  thy  eternity,  and  mine. 

Cain.  Where  dost  thou  lead  me? 

Lucifer.  To  what  was  before  thee ! 

The  phantasm  of  the  world ;  of  which  thy  world 
Is  but  the  wreck. 

Coin.  What !  is  it  not  then  new  ? 

Lticifer.  No  more  than  life  isj  and  that  was  ere 
thou 
Or  /  were,  or  the  things  which  seem  to  us 
Greater  than  either:  many  thinss  will  have 
No  end  ;  and  some,  which  would  pretend  to  have 
Had  no  bejinning.  have  had  one  as  mean 
As  thou  ;  and  mightier  things  have  been  extinct 
To  make  way  for  such  meaner  than  we  can 
Surmise  ;  for"mom£7iU  only  and  the  space 
Have  been  and  must  be  all  uncharieieable. 
But  changes  make  not  death,  except  to  clay ; 
But  thou  art  clay  —  and  canst  but  comprehend 
That  which  was  clay,  and  such  thou  shall  behold. 

Cain.  Clay,  spirit  '  what  thou  wil:,  I  can  survey. 

Lucifer.  Away  then  ! 

Cain.  Bu'  the  lights  fade  from  me  fast, 

And  some  till  now  grew  larger  as  we  approach'd, 
Atiil  wore  the  look  of  worlds. 

tudfer.  And  such  they  are. 


Cain.  And  Edens  in  them  ? 

Lucifer.  It  may  be. 

Cam.  And  men? 

Lucifer.  Yea,  or  things  higher. 

Cain,  Ay  ?  and  serpents  too  ? 

Lucifer.  Wouldst  thou  have  men  without  them? 
must  no  reptile; 
Breathe,  save  the  erect  ones  ? 

Cain.  How  the  lights  recede ! 

Where  fly  we  ? 

Lucfer.  To  the  world  of  phantoms,  wh.  di 

Are  bein^  past,  and  shadows  still  lo  come. 

Cain.  But  it  grows  datk,  and  dark—  the  stars  ar» 
gone! 

Lucifer.  And  yet  thou  seest. 

Cain.  'T  is  a  fearful  light ! 

No  sun,  no  moon,  no  lights  innumerable. 
The  very  blue  of  the  empurpled  night 
Fades  to  a  dreary  twilight,  yet  I  see 
Huge  dusky  masses;  but  unlike  the  worlds 
We  were  approaching,  which,  begirt  with  light, 
Seem'd  full  of  life  even  when  their  atmosphere 
Of  light  gave  way,  and  >howd  them  taking  shapes 
Uiiequal,'of  deep  valleys  and  vast  mountains; 
And  some  emitting  spaiks,  and  some  displaying 
Enormous  liquid  plains,  ajid  some  begin 
With  luminous  bel's.  and  floaing  moons,  which  took. 
Like  them,  the  features  of  fair  earth  :  —  instead. 
All  here  seems  daik  and  dreadful. 

Lucifer.  But  distinct. 

Thou  seekest  to  behold  death,  and  dend  things  ? 

Cam.  I  b'Cek  it  not;  but  as  I  know  there  are 
Such,  and  that  my  sire's  sin  makes  him  and  me. 
And  all  thai  we  inherit,  liable 
To  such,  I  would  behold  at  once,  what  I 
Must  one  day  see  perforce. 

Lucifer.  Behold ! 

Cain.  'T  is  darkness. 

Lucifer.  And  so  it  shall  be  ever ;  but  we  will 
Unfold  its  gates! 

Catn.  Enormous  vapours  roll 

Apart  —  what 's  this? 

Lucifer.  Enter! 

Cain.  Can  I  return  ? 

Lucifer.  Return!  be  sure:  how  else  should  death 
be  peopled  > 
Its  present  re  dm  is  thin  to  what  it  will  be. 
Through  thee  and  thine. 

Caiu.  The  clouds  still  open  wide 

And  wider,  and  make  widening  circles  round  us. 

Lucifer.  Advance ! 

Cain.  And  thou ! 

Lucifer.  Fear  not  —  without  me  thou 

Couldst  not  have  gone  beyond  thy  world.     On  !  on  ! 

[They  disappear  through  the  cloudi. 

SCENE  II. 


Enter  Lucifer  and  Cain. 

Cain.  How  silent   and   how  vast  are  these  dim 
worlds  I 
For  they  seem  more  than  one,  and  yet  more  peopled 
Tha:i  the  hi»ge  brilliant  luminous  orbs  which  swung 
So  thickly  in  the  upper  air,  that  I 
Had  deeiii'd  them  rather  the  bright  populace 
Of  some  all  unimaginable  Heaven, 
Than  things  to  be  inhabiied  themselves. 
But  that  on  drawing  near  them  I  beheld 
Their  swelling  into  palpable  immensily 
Of  matter,  which  seem'd  made  for  lifeto  dwell  on. 
Rather  than  life  i'self.    But  here,  all  is 
So  shadowy  and  so  full  of  twilight,  that 
It  speaks  of  a  day  past. 

Lucifer.  II  is  the  realm 

Of  death  —Wouldst  have  it  present? 

Cam.  Till  I  know 

That  which  it  really  is,  I  cannot  answer. 
But  if  it  be  as  I  have  heird  my  father 
Deal  out  in  his  long  homilies,  't  is  a  thing    • 


-  Scene  II.] 


A   MYSTERY 


353:1 


Oh  God  !  I  dare  not  think  od  't !    Cursed  be 
He  uho  invented  life  that  leads  to  death  ! 
Or  the  dull  mass  of  life,  thai,  being  life, 
Could  not  retain,  but  needs  uiusl  forfeit  it  — 
Even  for  the  innocent ! 

Lucifer.  Dost  thou  curse  thy  fa'hcr  ? 

Cain.  Cursed  he  not  me  in  giving  me  my  birth  ? 
Cur^ed  he  no  me  before  my  birth,  in  daiin^ 
To  pluck  the  fruit  forbidden  ? 

Lucifer.  Thou  say'st  well 

The  curse  is  mutual  'twixt  thy  sire  and  thee  — 
But  for  thy  sons  and  broher  ? 

Cain.  Let  them  share  it 

With  me,  their  sire  and  brother  I     What  else  is 
Beque.ilh'd  to  me?  I  leave  them  my  inheritance. 
Oh,  ye  interminable  gloomy  realms 
Of  swinmiing  shidows  and  enoimous  shapes, 
Some  fully  shown,  some  indistinct,  and  all 
Mighty  and  melanchaly  —  what  are  ye? 
Live  ye,  or  have  ye  lived  ? 

Lucifer.  Somewhat  of  both. 

Cain.  Then  what  is  death  ? 

Lucifer.  What  ?  Hath  not  he  who  made  ye 

Said  't  is  another  life  ? 

Cain.  Till  now  he  hath 

Said  nothing,  save  that  all  shall  die. 

Lucijtr.  Perhaps 

He  one  diy  will  unfold  that  further  secret. 

Cain.  Happy  the  diy  ! 

Lucifer.  Yes  ;  happy  !  n  hen  unfolded. 

Through  agonies  unspeakable,  and  clogg'd 
Willi  ag  nies  eternal,  to  innumerable 
Vet  unborn  myriads  of  unconscious  atoms, 
All  to  be  anima'ed  for  this  only  ! 

Cain.  What  are  these  mighty  phantoms  which  I  see 
Floating  around  me  ?—  They  wear  not  the  form 
Of  the  intelligences  I  have  seen 
Round  our  regretted  and  unenter'd  Eden, 
Nor  wear  the  form  of  man  as  I  have  view'd  it 
In  Adanj's  and  in  Abel's,  and  in  mine. 
Nor  in  my  sister-bride's,  nor  in  my  children's : 
And  yet  they  have  an  aspect,  which,  though  not 
Of  men  nor  angels,  looks  like  something,  w  hich, 
If  not  the  last,  rose  higher  than  the  first, 
Haughty,  and  high,  and  beaniiful,  and  full 
Of  seeming  strength,  but  of  inexplicable 
Shape ;  for  I  never  siw  such.     They  bear  not 
The  wing  of  ser.iph,  nnr  the  face  of  man. 
Nor  fiirm  of  mightiest  brute,  nor  aught  that  is 
Now  breathing;  mighty  yet  and  bean  iful 
As  the  most  beautiful  and  mighty  which 
Live,  and  yet  so  unlike  them,  that  I  scarce 
Can  call  them  living. 

Lucifer.  Yet  they  lived. 

Cam.  Where  ? 

Lucifer.  Where 

Thou  livest. 

Caui.  When? 

Luctfer.  On  what  thou  callest  earth 

They  did  inhabit. 

Cain.  Adam  is  the  first. 

Lucifer.  Of  thine,  I  grant  thee  —  but  too  mean  to  be 
The  last  of  these. 

Cain.  And  what  are  they  ? 

Lucifer.  That  which 

Thou  Shalt  be. 

CatJi.  But  what  were  they  ? 

Lucifer.  Living,  high. 

Intelligent,  good,  great,  and  glorious  things, 
As  much  supeiior  unto  all  thy  sire, 
Adam,  could  e'er  have  been  in  Eden,  as 
The  sixty-thousandth  generation  shall  be, 
In  its  dull  damp  degeneracy,  to 
Thee  and  thy  son  ;  —  and  how  weak  they  are,  judge 
By  thy  own  fie^h. 

Cain.  Ah  me',  and  did  they  perish  ? 

Lucifer.  Yes,  from  their  earth,  as  thou  wilt  fade  from 
thine. 

Catn.  But  was  mine  theirs  ? 

Lucifer.  It  was. 

Cain.  But  not  as  dow. 


II  is  too  little  and  too  lowly  to 
Sustain  such  creatures. 

Lucijcr.  True,  it  was  more  glorious. 

Clin.  And  wherefore  did  it  fall  ? 

Lucifer.  Ask  him  who  fells. 

Caiu.  But  how  ? 

Lucifer.  By  a  most  crushing  and  inexorable 

Destruction  and  disorder  of  the  elements. 
Which  struck  a  world  to  chaos,  as  a  chaos 
Subsiding  hss  struck  out  a  world:  such  things, 
Though  rare  in  tinie,  are  frequent  in  eternity.— 
Pass  on,  and  gaze  upon  the  past. 

Cain.  'T  is  awful  ! 

Lucifir.  And  true.    Behold  these  phantoms!  they 
were  once 
Material  as  thou  art. 

Coi7i.  And  must  I  be 

Like  them  ? 

Lucifer.     Let  He  who  made  thee  answer  that. 
I  show  thee  what  ihy  predecessors  are, 
And  what  they  were  thou  feelest,  in  degree 
Inferior  as  thy  petty  feelings  and 
Thy  pettier  portion  of  the  immortal  part 
Of  high  intelligence  and  eattlily  strength. 
What  ye  in  common  hue  with  what  they  had 
Is  life,  and  what  ye  shall  have  —  death  :  the  rest 
Of  your  poor  attributes  is  such  as  suits 
Reptiles  engender'd  out  of  the  subsiding 
Slime  of  a  mighty  universe,  crush  d  into 
A  scarcely-yet  shnped  planet,  peopled  with 
Things  whose  enjoyment  was  to  be  in  bUndness 
A  Paradise  of  Ignorance,  from  which 
Knowledge  was  barr'd  as  poison.     But  behold 
What  these  superior  beings  :ire  or  were: 
Or,  if  it  irk  thee,  turn  thee  b.ick  and  till 
The  earth,  thy  task  —  1  'II  waft  thee  there  in  safety. 

Cai»i.  No  :  1  '11  stay  here. 

Lucifer.  How  long? 

Cain.  Forever!    Since 

I  must  one  day  return  here  from  the  e.irlh, 
I  rather  would  remain  ;  I  am  sick  of  all 
That  dust  has  shown  me —  let  me  dwell  in  shadowf. 

LiiciJtT.  It  cannot  be  :  thou  now  lieholdest  as 
A  vision  that  which  is  reality. 
To  make  thyself  tit  for  this  dwelling,  thou 
Must  pass  tfiiough  wbit  the  things  thou  see'st  have 

1  ass'd  — 
The  gates  of  death. 

Catn. 
Even  now? 

Lucifer.  By  mine !    But,  plighted  to  return, 
My  spiiit  buoys  thee  up  to  breathe  in  regions 
Where  all  is  breathless  save  thyself.     Gaze  on ; 
But  do  not  think  to  dwell  here  till  thine  hour 
Is  come. 

Cai»i.  And  these,  too ;  can  they  ne'er  repass 
To  earth  again  ? 

Lucifer.  Their  earth  is  gone  for  ever  — 

So  changed  by  its  convulsion,  they  would  not 
Be  conscious  to  a  single  present  spot 
Of  its  new  scarcely  harden'd  surface — 't  was  — 
Oh.  what  a  beautiful  world  it  ivas  ! 

Cai7i.  And  is. 

It  is  not  with  the  earth,  though  I  must  tell  it, 
I  feel  at  war,  but  tha'  I  mav  nr!  profit 
By  what  it  bears  of  beau  ifui,  untoiling, 
Nor  gratify  my  thousand  swellitig  thoughts 
With  knowledge,  nor  allay  my  thousand  fears 
Of  death  and  life. 

Lxuifer.  What  thy  world  is,  thou  see'st, 

But  canst  not  comprehend  the  shadow  of 
Th:il  which  it  was. 

Catn.  And  those  enormous  creaturw^ 

Phantoms  inferior  in  inlelligence 
(At  least  so  seeming)  to  the  things  we  have  pass'il. 
Resembling  somewhat  the  wild  habitants 
Of  the  deep  woods  of  earth,  the  hugest  which 
Roar  nightly  in  the  forest,  but  ten-fold 
In  magnitude  and  terror  ;  taller  than 
The  cherub-guarded  walls  of  Eden,  with 
Eyes  flashing  like  the  fiery  awords  which  fence  tbia 


vhat  gate  have  we  enterVl 


30* 


23 


i^^ 


CAIN: 


[Act  II. 


And  tusks  project  ins  like  the  trees  stripp'd  of 
Their  bark  aod  braucbes —  whit  were  Ihey  ? 

Lucifer.  That 

The  Manimolh  is  in  thy  world  ;  —  but  Ihece  lie 
By  myriads  underneath  its  surf  ice. 

Cam.  .      But 

None  on  It? 

Lucifer.  No  :  for  thy  frail  race  lo  war 
With  them  would  render  the  curse  on  it  useless  — 
'T  would  be  des  roy'd  so  early. 

Cain.  But  why  war  ? 

Lu£ifer.  You  have  forgotten  the  denunciition 
Which  drove  your  race  from  Eden — war  with  all 

things, 
And  death  lo  all  things,  and  disease  to  most  things, 
And  pangs,  and  bitterness;  these  were  the  fruits 
Of  the  forbidden  tree. 

Cain.  But  animals  — 

Did  they,  loo,  eat  of  it,  that  Ihey  must  die? 

LtiCijer.  Your  Maker  told  ye,  they  were  made  for 
you, 
As  you  for  him.— You  would  not  have  their  doom 
Superior  lo  your  own  ?    Had  Adam  not 
Fallen,  all  bad  stood. 

Coin.      ■  Alas!  the  hopeless  wretches! 

They  loo  must  share  my  sire's  fate,  like  his  sons; 
Like  Ihem,  too,  without  having  shared  the  apple: 
Like  them,  loo,  without  the  so  dear-bought  ijioio/edje.' 
It  VI3S  a  lying  tree  —  for  we  know  nothing. 
At  least  ii  promised  knowledge  at  the  price 


I  But  never  that  precisely  which  persuaded 
The  fatal  fruit,  nor  even  of  Ihe  same  aspect 
hich  I     Lucifer.  Your  father  saw  him  not  ? 

Caiti.  >o :  't  w.is  my  molher 

Who  tempted  him  — she  tempted  by  Ihe  serpent. 

Lucifer.  Good  man  '.  whene'er  ihy  » ife,  or  thy  sons' 
wives, 
Temp'  Ihee  or  them  to  aught  thit's  new  or  strange. 
Be  sure  Ih  m  jee'st  tirst  who  hath  tenipled  them. 

Cain.  Thy  precept  comes  too  late  :  ihere  is  no  more 
For  serpcnta  to  tempt  woman  to. 

Lucifer.  But  there 

Are  some  things  still  which  woman  may  tempt  man  to, 
And  man  tempt  woman  :  —  lei  Ihy  sons  look  to  il ! 
My  counsel  is  a  kind  one  ;  for  'I  is  even 
Given  chiefly  at  my  own  expense  ;  'I  is  true, 
'T  will  not  be  follow'd,  so  Ihere  's  little  losl. 

Cain.  I  understand  not  this. 

Lucifer.  The  happier  thou  !^ 

Thy  world  and  thou  are  still  tooyoungl  '1  hou tbinkeat 
Th\self  most  wicked  and  unhappy  :  i»  it 
Noi  so  ? 

Cam.  For  crime,  I  know  not ;  but  for  pain, 
I  hive  felt  much. 

Lucifer.  First-bom  of  the  first  man  ! 

Thy  present  stale  of  sin  — and  thou  an  evil. 
Of  sorrow  —  and  Ihou  sufleresi,  are  tiolh  Eden 
In  all  its  innocence  compared  lo  what 
Thvu  shortly  m.iv'st  be  ;  and  thai  stale  again, 
In  its  redoubled  wretchedness,  a  Paradise 


Of  death  —  but  knowledge  still :  but  what  knows  man?    To  what  thy  sons'  sons'  sons,  accumulaling 


Liuijer.  It  may  be  dea:h  leads  lo  Ihe  highest  know 
ledge ; 
And  being  of  all  things  the  sole  thing  certain. 
At  least  leads  to  the  surest  science  :  therefore 
The  tree  was  true,  though  deadly. 

Cain.  '   These  dim  realms! 

I  see  Ihem,  but  I  know  them  not. 

Lucifer.  Because 

Thy  hour  is  yet  afar,  and  milter  cannot 
Comprehend  spirit  wholly  —  but  'tis  something 
To  know  Ihere  aie  such  realms. 

Cain.  We  knew  already 

That  Ihere  was  dealh. 

Lucifer.  But  not  what  was  beyond  il. 

Cain.  Nor  knosv  I  now. 

Lucifer.  Thou  knowest  that  Ihere  b 

A  stale,  and  many  s!a'es  beyond  thine  own  — 
And  this  Ihou  kuewest  not  this  morn. 

Cain.  But  all 

Seems  dim  and  >hadowy. 

Lucifir.  Be  content ;  it  will 

Seem  clearer  lo  thine  immortality. 

CaiJi.  And  yon  immeasurable  liquid  space 
Of  glorious  azure  which  tloals  on  beyond  us, 
Which  looks  like  water,  and  which  I  should  deem 
The  river  which  flows  out  of  Paradise 
Past  my  own  dwellins,  but  that  it  is  bankless 
And  boundless,  and  of  an  ethereal  hue  — 
Whati*:  it? 

Lucifer.     There  is  still  some  such  on  earth, 
Although  inferior,  ai.d  Ihy  children  shall 
Dwell  near  it  —  'I  is  Ihe  phantasm  of  an  ocean. 

Cain.  'Til  like  another  world  ;  a  liquid  sun  — 
And  those  inordinate  creatures  sporting  o'er 
Its  shining  surface? 

Lucifer.  Are  its  habitants. 

The  past  leviathans. 

Cain.  And  yon  immense 

Serpent,  which  rears  his  dripping  mane  and  vasty 
Head  ten  limes  higher  than  the  haughtiest  cedar 
Forth  from  the  abyss,  looking  as  he  could  coil 
Himself  around  the  orbs  we  lately  look'd  on  — 
Is  he  not  of  the  kind  which  bask'd  beneath 
The  tree  in  Eden  ? 

Lucifer.  Eve,  thy  mother,  best 

Can  Icll  what  shape  of  serpent  tempted  her, 

Cain.  This  seems  too  terrible, 
Had  more  of  beauty 


In  generations  like  lo  dust  (which  Ihey 
In  fact  but  add  to),  shall  endure  and  do. — 
Now  let  us  back  to  earth  ! 

Cain,  And  wherefore  didst  thou 

Lead  me  here  only  to  inform  me  this  ? 

Lucifer.  Was  not  Ihy  quest  for  knowledge? 

Cai7i.  Yes;  as  being 

The  road  lo  happiness. 

Lucifer.  If  truth  be  so. 

Thou  hast  it. 

Cain.  Then  my  father's  God  did  well 

When  he  prohibited  the  fatal  tree. 

Luciftr.  Bui  had  done  better  in  not  planting  it. 
But  ignorance  of  evil  dolh  not  save 
From  evil  ;  il  musi  still  roll  on  the  same, 
A  part  of  all  things. 

Cain.  Not  of  all  things.    No: 

I  'II  not  believe  it  —  for  I  thirst  for  good. 

Lucifir.  And  who  and  what  doth  not?  Who  coveti 


Lucifer,  H.ist  Ihou  neer  bthgld  him  ? 

Cmin,  Many  of  the  time  kind  (at  least  so  call'd), 


For  its  own  bitter  sake ?  —  None  —  nothing  !  't  is 
The  leaven  of  all  life,  and  lifelessness. 

Cain.  Wi'.hin  those  glorious  orbs  which  we  beboM, 
Distant,  and  dazzling,  and  innumerable. 
Ere  we  came  down'into  this  phantom  realm, 
111  cannot  come  :  Ihey  are  loo  beautiful. 
Lucifer,  Thou  hast  seen  them  from  afar. 
Cam.  And  what  of  that? 

Distance  can  but  diminish  glory  —  tliey. 
When  nearer,  must  be  more  ineffable.' 

Lucifer.  Approach  the  things  of  earth  most  beautiftjl, 
And  judge  their  beauty  near. 
!      Cain.  I  have  done  this  — 

I  The  loveliest  thing  I  know  is  loveliest  nearest. 

Lucifer.  Then  Ihere  must  be  delusion.— Wb»t  is 
I  that. 

Which  being  nearest  to  thine  eye?  is  still 
More  beautiful  than  beautems  things  remote? 
I      Cain.  My  sister  Adah.— All  the  stars  of  heaven. 
The  deep  blue  noon  of  night,  lit  by  an  orb 
Which  looks  a  spirit,  or  a  spirit's  world  — 
I  The  hues  of  twilight  —  Ihe  sun's  gorgeous  coming  — 
His  setting  indescribable,  which  fills 
Mv  eves  with  pleasant  tear^as  I  behold 
I  Him  sink,  and  feel  my  heart  float  softly  with  hi« 
!  Along  that  western  paradise  of  clouds  — 
No  doubt  the  other   The  forest  shade— the  green  bough— the  bird'i  voie»— 
The  vesper  bird's,  which  seems  lo  sing  of  " 


And  (pingl^  >vilh  the  song  of  cherubim, 
I  As  the  day  closes  oFpr  Edpn's  walls ;  - 


Scene  II.] 


A    MYSTERY. 


355 


All  these  are  nothing,  to  my  eyes  and  heart, 
Like  Adah's  f?ce  :  1  turn  from  earth  and  heavea 
To  gize  on  i!. 

Litcijer.  Tis  fiir  as  frail  mortality, 

In  the  tirst  dawn  and  blofmi  of  young  creation, 
And  earliest  embraces  of  earth's  parents, 
"^an  make  its  ottsprii.g  ;  s:ill  it  is  delusion. 

Cam.  You  think  so,  being  not  her  brother. 

Luciftr  Mortal ! 

My  brotherhood's  with  those  who  have  no  children. 

Cain.  Then  thnu  cmst  have  no  fello»ship  with  us. 

Lucifer.  It  may  be  that  thine  own  shall  be  for  me. 
But  if  thou  dost  possess  a  beautiful 
Being  beyond  all  beauty  in  thine  eyes, 
VVhv  art  thou  wretched  ? 

C'ai7i.  Why  do  I  exist  ? 

Why  art  Ihou  wretched  ?  why  are  all  things  so  ? 
Ev'n  he  who  made  us  must  be,  as  the  maker 
Of  thingi  unhappy  !     To  produce  destruction 
Can  surely  never  be  the  Uisk  of  joy, 
And  yet  my  sire  says  he  's  omnipotent : 
Then  w  hy'is  evil  —  he  being  good  ?    I  ask"d 
This  question  of  my  father  ;  and  he  sjid, 
Because  this  evil  only  was  the  pith 
To  good.    Strange  good,  thU  must  arise  from  out 
Its  deadly  opposite.     I  lately  saw 
A  lamb  sung  by  a  reptile  :  the  poor  suckling 
Lay  foaming  on  the  earth,  beneath  the  vain 
And  piteous  bleating  of  its  restless  dam  ; 
My  father  pluck'd  some  herbs,  and  laid  them  to 
The  wound  ;  and  by  degiees  the  helpless  wretch 
Resumed  it^  careless  life,  and  rose  to  drain 
The  mother's  milk,  who  o'er  it  tremulous 
Stood  licking  its  leviving  limbs  wi  h  joy. 
Behnld,  my  s  in  '.  said  Adam,  how  froni  evil 
Springs  good  ! 

Lucifer.        What  didst  thou  answer  ? 

Cain,  Nothing;  for 

He  is  my  father :  but  I  thought,  that 't  were 
A  better  portion  for  the  animal 
Never  to  have  beeji  slung  at  all,  than  to 
Purchase  renew,.!  of  its  little  life 
With  agonies  unutterable,  though 
Dispell'd  by  antidotes. 

Luciftr.  But  as  thou  saidst, 

Of  all  beloved  things  thou  lovest  her 
Who  shared  thy  mother  s  milk,  and  givelh  hers 
Unto  thy  children 

Cain.  Most  assuredly  : 

What  should  I  be  without  her? 

Lucifer.  What  am  I? 

Cain.  Dost  thou  love  no'hingr 

Lucifer.  What  does  thy  God  love? 

Cain.  All  things,  my  father  siys  ;  but  I  confess 
I  see  it  not  in  their  allotment  here. 

Lucifer.  And,  therefore,  thou  canst  not  see  if  /  lo?e 
Or  no,  except  some  vast  and  general  purpose, 
To  which  particular  thmgs  must  melt  like  snows. 

Cain.  Snows  !  what  are  they  ? 

Luciftr.  Be  h-ppier  in  not  knowing 

What  thv  remoter  offspring  must  encounter; 
But  bask' beneath  the  clime  which  k  -ows  no  winter. 

Cain.  But  dost  'hou  not  love  something  like  thyself? 

Lucifer.  And  dost  thou  love  Ihyielf? 

Cain.  Yes,  but  love  more 

What  makes  my  feelings  more  endurable, 
And  is  more  than  myself,  because  I  love  it. 

Lucifer.  Thou  Invest  it,  because  't  is  beautiful 
As  was  the  apple  in  thy  mother's  eye; 
And  when  it  ceases  to  be  so,  thy  love 
Will  cease,  like  any  other  appetite. 

Cain.  Cease  to  be  beautiful !  how  can  that  be? 

Lucifer.  With  time. 

Cain.  But  time  has  past,  and  hitherto 

Even  Adam  and  my  mother  both  are  fair : 
Not  fair  like  Adah  and  'he  seraphim  — 
But  very  fair. 

Luciftr.        All  thai  must  pass  away 
In  them  and  her. 

Cain.  I  'm  sorry  for  it ;  but 

CaiiDOt  conceive  my  love  for  her  the  less : 


And  when  her  beauty  disappears,  methinks 
He  who  creates  all  beiuiy  will  lose  more 
Than  n>e  in  seeing  perish  si  ch  a  work. 

Lucijer.  I  pity  thee  who  lovest  what  must  perish. 

Cui;i.  And  1  thee  who  lov'st  nothing. 

Lucijer.  And  ihy  brother  — 

Si  s  he  not  near  Ihy  heart? 

Cain.  Why  should  he  not  ? 

Lucijer.  Thy  father  loves  him  well  — so  does  thy 
God. 

Cain.  And  so  do  I. 

Lucifer.  'T is  v\ell  and  meekly  done. 

Cain.  Meekly! 

Lucifer.  He  is  rtie  second  born  of  flesh, 

And  is  his  mo  her's  favourite. 

Cain.  Let  him  keep 

Her  favour,  since  the  serpent  was  the  first 
To  win  it. 

Lucifer.  And  his  father's  ? 

Cam.  What  is  that 

To  me  ?  should  I  not  love  that  which  all  love  ? 

Lucifer.  And  the  Jehovah  —  the  indulgent  Lord, 
And  bounteous  planter  of  barr'd  Paradise  — 
He,  too,  looks  smilingly  on  Abel. 

Cain.  1 

Ne'er  saw  him,  and  I  know  no',  if  he  smiles. 

Lucifer.  But  vou  have  seen  bis  angels. 

Cain.  '  Rarely. 

Lucifer.  But 

Sufficiently  to  see  they  love  your  bro'her : 
His  sacrifices  are  acceptable. 

Cain.  So  be  they !  wherefore  speak  to  me  of  this? 

Lucifer.  Because  thou  hast  thought  of  this  ere  now. 

Cam.  And  if 

I  Aai!£  thought,  why  recall  a  thought  that (Ae  jiauiet, 

as  agitated)  —  Spirit ! 
Here  we  are  iu  thy  world  ;  speak  n'  t  of  mine. 
Thou  hist  shown  me  wonders:  thou  hast  shown  me 

those 
Mighty  pre-Adamites  w  hi  walk'd  the  earth 
Of  which  ours  is  the  wreck  :  thou  hast  pointed  out 
Myriads  of  starry  worlds,  of  which  our  own 
Is  the  dim  and  remote  companion,  in 
Infinity  of  life :  thou  hast  shown  me  shadows 
Of  that  existence  with  ihe  dreaded  name 
Which  my  sire  brought  us  —  Uea  h ;  thou  hast  shown 

me  much  — 
But  not  all :  show  me  where  Jehovah  dwells, 
In  his  especial  Paradise  —  or  thine: 
Where  is  it  ? 

Lucifer.        Here,  and  oer  all  space. 

Cain.  But  ye 

Have  some  allotted  dwelling  — as  all  things; 
Clay  has  its  earth,  and  other  worlds  their  tenants; 
All  temporary  breathing  creatures  their 
Peculiar  element ;  and  things  which  have 
Long  ceased  to  breathe  our  breath,  have  theirs,  thou 

say'st ; 
And  the  Jehovah  and  thyself  have  thine  — 
Ye  do  not  dwell  together  ? 

Lucifer.  No,  we  reign 

Together  ;  but  our  dwellings  are  asunder. 

Carji.  Would  there  were  only  one  of  ye  '.  perchance 
An  unity  of  purpose  might  make  union 
In  elements  which  seem  now  jarr'd  in  storms. 
How  came  ye,  being  spirits,  wise  and  infinite, 
To  separate?    Are  ye  not  as  brethren  in 
Your  essence,  and  your  nature,  and  your  glory  ? 

Lucifer.  Art  thou  not  Abel's  brother? 

Cain.  We  are  brethre*, 

And  so  we  shall  remain  ;  but  were  it  not  "O, 
Is  spirit  like  to  flesh  ?  can  it  fall  out  ? 
Infinity  with  Immortality  ? 
Jarring  and  turning  space  to  misery  — 
For  what  ? 

Lucifer.  To  reign. 

Cain.  Did  ye  not  tell  me  that 

Ye  are  both  eternal  ? 

Lucifer.  Yea ! 

Cain.  And  what  I  have  seen, 

I  Yon  blue  immensity,  is  boundless  ? 


356 


C  A I  N  : 


LAcTin. 


Lucifer.  Ay.  Evil  springs  from  Aim,  do  not  name  it  irjine, 

Cain.  And  cannot  ye  both  retgn  then  ?  — is  there  not    Till  ye  know  better  its  true  fount;  and  judge 


Enough  ?  —  why  should  ye  differ? 

Luc  fer.  '  We  both  reign, 

Cam.  But  one  of  yoj  ni:tkes  evil. 

Ludfir.  Which  ? 

Cain.  Thou 

If  thou  cnn^t  do  man  good,  why  dost  Ihou  nol  ? 


Not  by  words,  though  of  spirits,  but  the  fruits 
Of  your  exis  ence,  s'uch  as  it  must  be. 
One  gnod  gift  has  the  fatal  apple  given  — 
Tour  reasmi :  —  let  it  n  t  be  over-sway'd 
for    By  tyrannous  threats  to  force  you  into  "faith 
'Gaiii>t  all  external  sense  and  inward  feeling: 


Luoftr.  And  why  not  he  who  made?  /made  ye  not;    Think  and  endure,—  and  form  an  inner  world 


Ye  are  his  creatures,  and  not  mine, 

Cam.  Then  leave  us 

His  cre.itures,  as  thou  say'st  we  are,  or  show  me 
Thy  dwelling,  or  his  dwelling. 

Luciftr.  I  could  show  thee 

Bo:h  ;  but  the  time  will  come  thou  shall  see  one 
Of  them  for  evermore. 

Cain.  And  why  not  now  ? 

Luc'.fer.  Thy  human  mind  hath  scarcely  grasp  to 
gather 
The  little  1  have  shown  thee  into  c:\lm 
And  clear  thought ;  and  thou  wouldst  go  on  aspiring 
To  the  great  double  Mysteries  !  the  two  Principles  ! 
And  gize  upon  them  on  their  secret  thrones  I 
Dust !  limit  thy  ambition  ;  for  to  see 
Either  of  these  would  be  for  thee  to  perish ! 

Cam.  And  let  me  perish,  so  1  see  them  ! 

Luofcr.  There 

The  son  of  her  who  snatch'd  the  apple  ^pike  ! 
But  thou  wouldst  only  peri>h,  and  not  see  them; 
That  sight  is  for  the  other  s.ate. 

Cain.  Of  death  ? 

Lucifer.  That  is  the  prelude. 

Cain.  Then  I  dread  it  less, 

Now  that  I  know  it  leads  to  some  hing  defiiiile. 

Lucifer.  And  now  I  will  convey  thee  to  Ihy  world. 
Where  thou  shall  multiply  the  race  of  Adnm, 
Eat,  drink,  toil,  tremble,  laugh,  weep,  sleep,  and  die. 

Cain.  And  lo  what  end  have  I  beheld  these  things 
Which  thou  hast  shown  me? 

Luciftr.  Didst  thou  not  require 

Knowledge?    And  hive  I  not,  in  what  1  showd, 
Taught  thee  to  know  thyself? 

Cain,  Alas  !  I  seem 

Nothing. 

Lttcifer.  And  this  should  be  the  human  sum 
Of  knowledge,  to  know  mortal  nature's  nothingness; 
Bequeath  that  science  to  thy  children,  and 
'Twill  spaie  them  many  toitures. 

Cain.  Haughty  spirit ! 

Thou  speak'st  it  proudly;  but  thyself,  ihough  proud, 
Hast  a  superior. 

Lucifer.  No  !    By  heaven,  which  He 

Holds,  and  the  abyss,  and  the  immensity 
Of  worlds  and  life,  which  1  h  Id  wiih  him  —  No  ! 
1  have  a  victor  — true  ;  but  no  superior. 
Honiaje  he  has  fiom  all  —  but  none  from  me  : 
1  battle  it  against  him,  :is  I  battled 
In  highest  heiven.     Through  all  eternity, 
And  the  unfathomable  gulfs  of  Hades, 
And  the  interminable  realms  of  space, 
And  the  infinil\  of  endless  ages. 
All,  all,  will  1  dispute !     And  world  by  world, 
And  star  by  star,  and  universe  by  universe. 
Shall  tremble  in  the  balance,  till  the  great 
Conflic'.  shall  cease,  if  ever  it  sh  ill  cease. 
Which  it  ne'er  ^h.ll,  till  he  or  I  be  <:)uencird  ! 
And  what  can  quench  our  immort:ility, 
(Ir  mutual  and  ii revocable  hale? 
He  as  a  conqueror  will  call  the  conquer'd 
Eoil;  but  what  "ill  be  the  good  he  gives? 
Were  I  the  vidor,  his  works  would  be  deem'd 
The  only  evil  ones.     And  you,  ye  new 
And  scarce  born  mortals,  what  have  been  his  gifts 
To  you  alieady,  in  your  little  world  ? 

Cain.  But  few  ;  and  some  of  ih  ise  but  bitter. 

Lucifer.  Back 

Wi'h  me,  then,  to  thine  earth,  and  !ry  the  rest 
Of  his  celestial  boons  to  you  and  yours. 
Evil  and  good  are  things'in  their  own  essence, 
And  nol  made  good  or  evil  by  the  giver  ; 
But  it  t  •  gives  you  good  —  so  call  him  ;  if 


n  your  own  bosom  —  where  the  outward  fails; 
So  shall  you  nearer  be  the  spiritual 
Nature,  and  war  triumphant  with  your  own. 
iThey 


ACT  III. 

SCENE    I. 
The  Earth,  near  Eden,  as  in  .id  /. 
Enter  Cain  and  Adah. 
Adah,  Hush  '.  tread  sofily,  Cain. 
Cain.  '     Iwlll;  but  wherefore? 

Adah.  Our  little  Enoch  sleeps  upon  yon  bed 
Of  leaves,  beneath  the  cypress. 
I      Cain.  Cypress !  't  is 

I  A  gloomy  tree,  which  looks  as  if  it  mourn "d 
O'er  wh^l  it  shadows;  wheiefore  didst  thou  choose  it 
For  our  child's  canopy  ? 

!      Adah.  Because  its  branches 

Shut  out  the  sun  like  night,  and  therefore  seem'd 
Filling  to  shadow  slumber. 

Cam.  Ay,  the  last  — 

And  longest ;  but  no  mitter —  lead  me  to  him. 

[Thiy  go  up  to  the  child. 
How  lovely  he  appears!  his  little  cheeks. 
In  their  pure  incarnation,  vying  with 
j  The  rose-leaves  strewn  beneath  them. 

Adah.  And  his  lips,  too, 

I  How  beautifully  parted  !  No;  you  shall  not 
I  Kiss  him,  at  least  not  now  :  he  will  awake  soon  — 
I  His  hour  of  midday  rest  is  nearly  over; 
j  But  it  were  pity  to  disturb  him  till 
I  'T  is  closed. 

Cain.  You  have  said  well ;  I  will  contain 

I  My  heart  till  then.     He  smiles,  and  sleeps  !— Sleep  on, 
I  And  smile,  thou  little,  young  inheritor 
Of  a  world  scarce  less  young  :  sleep  on,  and  smile  ! 
j  Thine  are  the  hours  and  days  when  both  are  cheering 
And  innocent !  thou  hast  not  pluck"d  the  fiuit  — 
Thou  kiiow'si  not  thou  art  naked  !    Mu^t  the  time 
Come  thou  shall  be  amerced  for  sins  unknown. 
Which  were  nol  mine  nor  thine  ?     But  now  sleep  on ! 
His  cheeks  are  reddening  into  deeper  smiles. 
And  shining  lids  are  trembling  o'er  his  long 
Lashes,  dark  as  the  cypress  which  waves  o'er  them  ; 
Half  open,  from  beneath   hem  the  clear  blue 
Laughs  out,  al  hough  in  slumber.     He  must  dream  — 
Of  what  ?    or  Paradise  !  —  Ay  !  dre<m  of  it. 
My  disinherited  boy  !     'T  is  but  a  dream  ; 
For  never  more  thyself,  Ihy  sons,  nor  fathers, 
Shall  walk  in  thai  forbidden  place  of  joy  ! 

Adah.  Dear  Cain  !  Nay,  do  no!  whisper  o'er  our  son 
Such  melancholy  yearnings  o'er  the  pa^t : 
Why  wilt  Ihou  always  mourn  for  Paradise? 
C^n  we  not  make  another? 

Cain.  Where? 

Adah.  Here,  or 

Where'er  thou  wilt:  where'er  thou  art,  1  feel  not 
The  want  of  this  so  much  legrelied  Eden. 
Have  I  not  ihee,  our  boy,  our  sire,  and  brother, 
And  Zillah  —  our  sweet  sister,  and  our  Eye. 
To  whom  we  owe  so  much  besides  our  birth  ? 

Cain.  Yes  — deal h,  too,  is  amongst   the  debts  we 

owe  her. 
Adah.  Cain  !  that  proud  spirit,  who  withdrew  tbM 
hence. 
Hath  sadden  d  thine  still  deeper.    I  had  hoped 
The  promised  wonders  which  thou  hast  beheld, 


Scene  I.] 


A   MYSTERY. 


_357i| 


Visiono,  thou  sny'st,  of  past  and  present  worlds, 

Would  have  composed  tliv  mind  into  the  calm 

Of  a  conlented  knouledse  ;  but  1  see 

Thv  guide  liatli  done  thee  evil  ;  still  I  thauk  him.. 

And  can  forgive  liira  ail,  that  he  so  soou 

Hath  giveu  thee  back  to  us. 

Cain.  So  soon  ? 

Mah.  'T  is  scarcely 

Two  hours  since  ye  departed  -.  two  long  hours 
To  me,  but  only  houra  upon  the  sun. 


I  Till  I  return  to  dust  ?     If  I  am  nolhing  — 

For  nothing  shall  I  be  a:i  hyi  ocrile, 

And  seem  well-pleased  with  pain  ?   For  what  shoald  I 
I  Be  contrite?  for  my  father's  sin,  already 

Expiate  with  what  we  all  have  undergone, 
!  And  to  be  more  than  expiated  by 

The  ages  prophesied,  upon  our  seed. 

Liitle  deems  our  young  blooming  sleeper,  there, 

The  germs  of  an  eternal  misery 

To  myriads  is  within  him  1  better  't  were 


Cain,  And  yet  I  have  approach'd  that  sun,  and  seen    I  snaich"d  him  in  his  sleep,  and  da  h'd  him  'gainst 


Worlds  which  he  once  shone  on,  ai:d  never  more 
Shall  light ;  and  worlds  he  never  lit:  melhought 
Years  bad  roU'd  o'er  my  absence.  1 

Adah.  Hardly  hours.  I 

CaiH.  The  mind  then  hath  capacity  of  time, 
And  measure^  it  by   b  d  which  it  beholds, 
Pleasing  or  painful ;  liille  or  almighty. 
1  hid  beheld  the  immemorial  works 
Of  endless  beings;  skirr'd  extinguish'd  worlds; 
And,  gazing  on  elerni  y,  melhought 
I  had  borrow'd  more  by  a  few  drops  of  ages 
From  its  immensity  :  but  now  I  feel 
My  littleness  again.     Well  said  the  spirit, 
That  I  was  nothing  ! 

Adah.  Wherefore  said  he  so  ? 

Jehovah  said  not  that. 

Caiji.  No :  Ae  contents  him 

VVith  making  us  the  jtothiiig  which  we  are  ; 
And  after  flattering  du-t  with  glimpses  of 
Eden  and  Immoriali.y,  resr.lves 
It  back  to  dust  again  —  for  what  ? 

Adah.  Thouknow'st  — 

Even  for  our  parents'  error. 

Cain.  What  is  that 

To  us  ?  ihey  sinn'd,  then  let  them  die  ! 

Adah.  Thou  hast  not  spoken  well,  nor  is  that  thought 
Thy  own.  but  of  the  spirit  who  was  with  thee. 
Would  /  could  die  for  them,  so  they  might  live  ! 

Cam.  Why,  so  >ay  1  —  provided  that  one  victim 
Might  satiale'the  insatiable  of  life. 
And  that  our  little  rosy  sleeper  there 
Might  never  tasle  of  death  nor  human  sorrow, 
Nor  hand  i'  down  to  those  who  spring  from  him. 
Adah.  How  know  w  e  that  some  such  atonement  one 
day 
May  not  redeem  our  race  ? 

Caiji.  By  sacrificing 

The  harmless  for  the  guilty  ?  what  atonement 
Were  there  ?  why,  we  are  innocent ;  what  have  we 
Done,  that  we  must  be  viciims  for  a  deed 
Before  our  birth,  or  need  have  victims  to 
Atone  for  this  mysterious,  nameless  sin  — 
If  it  be  such  a  sin  lo  !-eek  for  kiiowledie  ? 

Adah.  Alas!  th'-u  sinnest  now,  my  Cain:  thy  words 
Sound  impious  in  mine  ears. 

Cain.  Then  leave  me ! 

Ad.ih.  Never, 

Though  thy  God  left  thee. 

Cain.  Say,  what  have  we  here  ? 

Adah.  Two  altars  which  our  brother  Abel  made 
During  thine  absence,  whereupon  lo  oiler 
A  sacrifice  to  God  on  thy  return. 

Cain.  And  how  knew  he,  tha'  /would  Ije  so  ready 
With  the  burnt  ojferinzs,  which  he  daily  brings 
With  a  meek  brow,  «  h'se  base  humility 
Shows  more  ot  fear  than  worship,  as  a  bribe 
To  the  Creator? 

Adah.  Surelv.  'I  i*  well  done. 

Cai»i.  One  altar  may  siifCce  ;  /  have  no  offering. 
Adah.  The  fruiis  of  the  earth,  the  early,  beautiful 
Blossom  arid  bud.  and  bloom  of  fiowers,  and  fiuits  j 
These  are  a  g  ndly  offering  lo  the  Lord, 
Given  vviih  a  gentle  and  a  contrite  spirit. 

Cain.  1  have  toil'd,  and  till'd,  and  swealen  in  the 
tun, 
According  to  the  curse  :  —  must  1  do  mere  ? 
For  what  should  1  be  gentle?  for  a  war 
With  ill  the  elements  <.re  ihey  will  yield 
The  bread  we  eat  ?    For  what  must  1  be  grateful  ? 
For  beiog  dust,  and  groveling  in  the  dust, 


Oh,  my  God  ! 
Touch  not  the  child  —  my  child  !  thy  child  !  Oh  Cain ! 
Cain.  Fear  not '.  for  all  the  stars,  and  all  the  power 
Which  sways  them,  I  would  not  accost  yon  infant 
With  ruder" gree  ing  than  a  father's  kiss. 
Adah.  Then,  why  so  awful  in  thy  speech  ? 
Cain.  I  said, 

'T  were  better  that  he  ceased  to  live,  than  give 
Life  to  so  much  of  sorrow  as  he  must 
Endure,  and,  harder  siill,  bequeath  ;  but  since 
That  saying  jars  you,  let  us  only  s  ly  — 
'T  were'  better  that  he  never  had  been  born. 
Adah.  Oh,  do  not  say  so !    Where  w  ere  then  the 
joys. 
The  mothers  joys  of  watching,  nourishing, 
And  loving  him  ?   Soft !  he  awakes.    S»  eel  Enoch  ! 
[She  focs  10  the  child. 
Oh  Cain  !  look  on  him  ;  see  how  full  of  life, 
Of  strength,  of  bloom,  of  beauty,  ar.d  of  joy. 
How  like  to  me  —  how  l.ke  to  thee,  when  gentle, 
For  then  we  are  all  alike :  is 't  not  so,  Cain  ? 
Mother,  and  sire,  and  son,  nur  features  are 
Reflected  in  each  other  ;  as  Ihey  are 
In  the  clear  waters,  w  hen  they  are  gentle,  and 
When  thou  art  gentle.     Love  us,  'hen,  my  Cain ! 
And  love  thyself  for  our  sakes,  for  we  lovt  thee. 
Look  1  how  he  laughs  and  stretches  out  his  urms. 
And  opens  wide  his  blue  eyes  upon  ihine. 
To  hail  his  father;  while  his  little  form 
Flutters  as  w ing'd  with  joy.     'lalk  not  of  pain  ! 
The  childless  cherubs  well  might  envy  Iheo 
The  pleasures  of  a  parent '    Bless  him,  Caiu  ! 
As  yet  be  haih  no  words  to  Ihai.k  thee,  but 
His  heart  will,  and  thine  own  too.  i 

Cai7i.  Bless  thee,  boy  ' 

If  that  a  mortal  blessing  may  avail  thee, 
To  save  thee  from  the  serpent's  curse ! 

Adah.  It  shalU 

Surely  a  father's  blessing  may  avert 
A  reptile's  subtlety. 

Cam.  Of  that  I  doubt ; 

But  bless  him  ne'er  the  less. 
Adah.  Our  brother  comes. 

CaiJi.  Thy  brother  Abel. 

Enter  Abel 
Abel.  Welcome,  Cain  !   My  bro'.ber, 

The  peace  of  God  be  on  thee  ! 

Catn.  Abel,  hail ! 

Abel.  Our  sister  tells  me  that  thou  hast  been  wan- 
dering, 
In  high  communion  with  a  spirit,  far 
Beyond  our  won'ed  range.     Was  he  of  those 
We  have  seen  and  spoken  with,  like  to  our  father? 
Cain.  No. 

AUl       Whv  then  commune  with  him  ?  he  may  be 
A  foe  lo  the  aiost  High. 

I      Cain.  And  friend  to  man. 

Has  the  .Most  Hijh  been  so  —  if  so  you  term  him  ? 
Abet.  Term  him!  your  words  are  strange  to-day, 
my  brotl  er. 
My  sister  Adah,  leave  us  for  awhile  — 
We  mean  to  sacrifice. 

Adah.  Farewell,  my  Cain  ; 

But  firs'  embrace  thy  son.     May  his  soft  spirit, 
And  Abel's  [lious  ministry,  recall  thee 
To  peace  and  holiness ! 

{Exit  Adah,  withhtr     "' 
AbtU  - •        " 


Wlierehast  thou  been? 


358 


CAIJN: 


[Act  111. 


Cain.  I  know  not. 

^hd.  Nor  whit  thou  hast  seen  ? 

Cain.  '1  he  dead, 

The  immortal,  the  unbounded,  the  omnipotent, 
The  overpowering  niys  eries  of  spice  — 
Tlie  innumerable  worlds  that  «ere  and  are- 
A  whirlwind  of  buch  nverwhehiiing  things, 
Suns,  moons,  and  earl  lis,  upon  their  loud-voiced  spheres 
Singing  in  thunder  round  me,  as  have  made  me 
Unfit  for  mortal  converse :  leave  rae,  Abel. 

ALel.  Thine  eyes  are  flashing  with  unnatural  light — 
Thy  cheek  is  llush'd  wi'h  an  unnnlunl  hue  — 
Thy  words  are  fr  lUiht  with  an  unnatural  sound  — 
What  may  this  mean  ? 

Cain.  It  means I  pray  thee,  leave  me. 

Mel.  Not  till  we  have  pray'J  and  s  icrificed  together. 

Cain.  Abel,  I  pray  thee,  sacrifice  aloue  — 
Jehovah  loves  Ihee  well. 

jlbd.  Both  well,  I  hope. 

Cain.  But  thee  the  betier:  I  care  not  far  that ; 
Thou  art  fitler  fir  his  worship  than  I  am  ; 
Revere  him,  then  —  but  let  it  be  alone  — 
At  least,  without  me. 

Abel.  Brother,  I  should  ill 

Deserve  the  name  of  our  great  father's  son, 
If,  as  my  elder,  I  revered  "thee  not. 
And  in  the  worship  of  our  God  cnll'd  not 
On  thee  to  join  me,  and  precede  me  ia 
Our  priesthood  — 't  is  thy  place, 

Cain.  But  I  have  ne'er 

Asserted  it. 

Abel.  The  more  my  grief;  I  pray  thee 
To  do  so  now  :  thy  soul  seems  labouring  in 
Some  strong  delusion  ;  it  will  calm  thee. 

Cain.  No ; 

Noihing  can  calm  me  more.     Calm  !  say  I  ?  Never 
Knew  I  what  calm  was  in  the  soul,  although 
I  have  seen  the  elements  slill'd.     My  Abel,'  leave  me  ! 
Or  let  me  leave  thee  to  thy  pious  purpose. 

AM.  Neither;  we  must  perfjrm  our  task  together. 
Spurn  me  not. 

Cain.  If  it  must  be  so well,  then. 

What  shall  I  do? 

Abel.  Choose  one  of  those  two  altars. 

Cain.  Choose  for  me ;  they  to  me  are  so  much  turf 
And  stone. 

Abel.        Choose  thou ! 

Cain.  I  have  cho  en. 

Abel.  'T  is  the  highest, 

And  suits  thee,  as  the  elder.     Now  prepare 
Thine  offerings. 

Cain.  Where  are  thine  ? 

Abil.  Behold  them  here  — 

The  firstlings  of  the  flock,  and  fat  thereof  — 
A  shepherd's  humble  olfering. 

Cam.  I  have  no  flocks ; 

I  am  a  tiller  of  the  ground,  and  must 
Yield  what  it  yieldeth  to  my  toil  —  its  fruit : 

[He  gathers  fruits. 
Behold  them  in  their  various  bloim  and  ripeness. 

\Thty  dress  their  altars,  and  kindle  a  flame 
upon  them. 

Abel.  My  brother,  as  the  elder,  ofTer  first 
Thy  prsyer  and  thanksgiving  with  sicrifice. 

Cain.  No  —  I  am  new  to  this;  lead  thou  the  way, 
And  I  will  follow  —  as  I  may. 

Abel  (kneeling).  Oh  God  ! 

Who  mideus,  and  who  breathed  the  breath  of  life 
Within  our  nostrils,  who  hath  blessed  us. 
And  spared,  despite  out  father's  sin   to  make 
His  children  all  lost,  as  they  might  have  been, 
Had  not  thy  justice  been  so  temper'd  wi:h 
The  mercy  which  is  thy  delight,  as  to 
Accord  a  pardon  like  a  Paradise, 
Compared  with  our  great  crime- : —  Sole  Lord  of  light. 
Of  good,  and  glory,  "and  eternity  '. 
Wi'hout  whom  all  were  evil,  and  with  whom 
Noihing  can  err,  except  tn  some  good  end 
Of  thine  omnipotent  benevolence- 
1 1  Inscrutable,  but  still  to  be  fulfil  I'd  — 
j '  Aecrpt  from  out  thy  bumble  first  of  shepherd's 


First  of  the  first-born  flocks  — an  offering. 
In  itself  nothing  — as  what  offering  cau  be 
Aught  unto  thee  ?  —  but  yet  accept  it  for 
The  th  .nksgiving  of  bim  who  spreads  it  in 
The  face  of  thy  high  heaven,  bowing  his  own 
Even  to  the  dust,  of  which  he  is,  in  honour 
Of  thee,  and  nf  thy  n\nie,  for  evermore  ! 

Cain  (standing  erect  during  this  speech).     Spirit 
whale'er  or  whosoe'er  thou  art. 
Omnipotent,  it  may  be  — and,  if  good, 
Shown  in  the  exen'iption  of  thy  deeds  from  enl 
Jehovah  upon  earth  I  and  God  in  heaven  ! 
And  it  may  be  with  other  names,  because 
Thine  afributes  seem  many,  as  thy  works  :  — 
If  thou  must  be  propitiated  with  prayers. 
Take  them  !     If  thou  must  be  induced  with  altars, 
And  snften'd  with  a  sacrifice,  receive  them  ! 
Two  beings  here  erect  them  unto  Ihee. 
If  thou  lov'st   blood,   the  shepherd's    shrine,  which 

smokes 
On  my  rijht  hand,  halh  shed  it  for  thy  service 
In  the  first  of  his  flock,  whose  limbs  now  reek 
In  sanguinary  inccn  e  to  thy  skies; 
Or  if  the  sweet  and  binoming  fruits  of  earth. 
And  milder  se.asons,  which  the  uns  ain'd  turf 
I  spread  them  nii  now  offe  s  in  the  face 
Of  the  broad  sun  which  ripen'd  Ihem,  may  seem 
Good  to  Ihee,  inasmuch  as  they  have  not 
Suffer'd  in  limb  or  life,  and  ra'ther  form 
A  sample  of  Ihv  works,  than  supplication 
To  look  on  ours!    If  a  shrine  without  victim. 
And  altar  without  gore,  may  win  thy  favour, 
Look  on  it  !  and  for  bim  «ho  dresselh  it, 
He  is  —  such  as  thou  mad"st  him  ;  and  seeks  nothing 
Which  must  he  won  by  kneeling  :  if  he  's  evil, 
S'rike  him  !  thou  ait  o'mnipoieui,  and  may'st  — 
Fur  what  can  he  oppose?    If  he  be  20  id, 
Strike  him,  or  spare  him,  as  thou  will !  since  all 
Rests  Ujioii  thee  ;  and  good  and  evil  seem    . 
To  have  no  power  themselves,  save  in  thy  will ; 
And  whether  that  be  good  or  ill  1  know  not, 
Not  being  omnipotent,  nor  fit  to  judge 
Omnipotence,  but  merely  to  endure 
Its  mandate  ;  which  thus  far  1  have  endured. 

iThe  fire  upon  the  altar  of  Abel  ki7idles  into  a 
column  of  the  brightest  flame,  and  ascends 
to  heaven  ;  while  a  whitlwind  thiows down 
the  altar  of  Cam,  and  scatters  the  fruits 
<j  broad  upvn  the  earth. 

Abel  {kneeling).    Oh,  brother,    pray!    Jehovah *• 
wroth  with  Ihee. 

Cain.  Why  so  ? 

Abel.  Thy  fruits  are  scatter'd  on  the  earth. 

Cain.  From  earth  they  came,  to  earth   let  them 
return ; 
Their  seed  \\  ill  bear  fresh  fiuit  there  ere  the 
Thv  burnt  fle-h-off'ring  prospers  betier;  see 
How  heav'n   licks  up   the   flames,  when  thick  with 
blood  ! 

Abel.  Think  not  upon  my  offering's  acceptance, 
But  make  another  of  thine  own  before 
It  is  too  late. 

Cain.  1  will  build  no  more  altars. 

Nor  suifer  any. — 

Abel  (rising)     Cain  1  what  meanest  thou  ? 

Cain.  To  cast  down  yon  vi'e  rtatfrer  of  the  clouds. 
The  smoky  harbinger  of  thy  dull  pray'rs- 
Thine  altar,  with  its  bloi-d  of  lambs  and  kids. 
Which  fed  on  milk,  to  be  deslroy'd  in  blood. 

Abel  (.ifposinif  him).    Thou  shall  not:  — add  not 
impi'ius  works  to  impious 
VVords  1  let  that  altar  stand  —  t  is  hallo w'd  now 
By  the  immoilal  pleasuie  of  Jehovah, 
III  his  acceptance  of  the  victims. 

Cain.  11' s ! 

H^s  pleasu-e!  whnt  was  his  hizh  pleasure  in 
The  fumes  of  scorching  flesh  and  smoking  blood, 
To  the  pain  of  the  bleating  mothers,  which 
Still  yearn  for  their  dead  offspring  ?'  or  the  pangi 
Of  the  sad  ignorant  victims  underneath 


Scene  I.] 


A   MYSTERY 


359 


Thy  pious  knife  ?    Give  way  '.  this  bloody  record 
Shall  not  stand  in  the  sun,  to  shame  creation  ! 

Jihel.  Brother,  give  back  !  thou  shalt  not  touch  my 
altar 
With  violence:  if  that  thou  wilt  adopt  it, 
To  try  another  sacrifice,  't  is  thine. 

Cain.  Another  sacrilice  '.    Give  way,  or  else 
That  sacrifice  may  be 

Jlbel.  What  mean'st  thou  ? 

Cain.  Give  — 

Give  way!  — thy  God  loves  blood!  — then  look  to 

it:  — 
Give  way,  ere  he  hath  more  ! 

Alel.  In  his  great  name, 

I  siand  between  thee  and  the  shrine  which  hath 
Had  his  acceptance. 

Canu                       If  thou  lov'sl  thyself, 
Stand  back  till  I  have  strew'd  this  turf  along 
Its  native  soil :  —  else 

Alel  (opposing  him).  I  love  God  far  more 
Than  lite. 

Cain  (Striking  him  with  a  brand,  on  the  temples, 
which  he  snatches  from  the  altar).     Tbeu  lake 
thy  life  unto  thy  God, 
Since  he  loves  lives. 

jibel  (falls).  What  hast  thou  done,  my  brother? 

Cain.  Brother! 

AM.  Oh,  God  !  receive  thy  servant,  and 

Forgive  his  slayer,  for  he  knew  not  what 
He  did  —  Cain,  give  me  —  give  nie  thy  hand;  and  tell 
Poor  Zillah  — 

Cain  (after  a  momenfs  stupefaction).    My  hand  ! 

't  is  all  red,  and  with 

What? 

[A  long  pause. — Looking  slou-ly  round. 
Where  'm  I  ?  alone  !     Where  's  Abel  ?  where 
Cain?    Can  it  be  that  I  am  he?    My  brother. 
Awake  !  —  why  liesl  thou  so  on  the  green  earth  ? 
'T  is  not  the  hour  of  slumber  :  —  why  so  pale  ? 

What,  hast  thou  ! thou  wert  full  of  life  this  morn  ! 

Abel  1  1  prav  thee,  mock  me  not !  1  smote 

Too  fiercely,  but  not  fatally.     Ah,  why 

Wouldst  thou  oppose  me  ?"  This  is  mockery  ; 

And  only  done  to  daunt  me  :  —  't  was  a  blow  — 

And  but  a  blow.     Stir —  stir  —  nay,  only  stir  ! 

Why,   so  —  that's    well!  — thou    breath'st !    breathe 

upon  nie  ! 
Oh,  God  !    Oh,  God  ! 

Abel  (very  faintly).  What 's  he  who  speaks  cf  God  ? 

Cain.  Thy  murderer. 

Abel.  Then  may  God  forgive  him  !     Cain, 

Comfort  poor  Zillah  :  —she  has  but  one  brother 
Now.  [Abel  dies. 

Cain.  And  I  none  !  — Who  makes  me  brolherless  ? 
His  eyes  are  open  !  then  he  is  not  dead  ! 
Death  is  like  sleep  ;  and  sleep  shuts  down  our  lids. 
His  lips,  too,  are  apart ;  why  then  he  breathes ; 
And  yet  I  feei  it  not. —  His  heart!  — his  heart  !  — 

Let  rne  see,  doth  it  beat  ?  methinks No  !  —  no  ! 

This  is  a  vision,  else  1  am  become 
The  native  of  another  and  worse  world. 
The  earth  swims  round  me:  —  what  is  this?  —  'tis 
wet ; 
[Puts  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  then  looks  al  it. 
And  yet  there  are  no  dews  !  'T  is  blood  —  my  blood  — 
My  brother's  and  my  own  !  and  shed  by  me  ! 
Then  what  have  I  further  to  do  with  life. 
Since  I  "nave  taken  life  from  my  own  fle-h  ? 
But  he  can  not  be  dead  !  —  Is  silence  death  ? 
No  ;  he  will  wake;  then  let  me  watch  by  him. 
Life  cannot  be  so  slight,  as  to  be  quench'd 
Thus  quickly  !  —  he  hath  spoken  to  me  since  — 
What  shall  i  say  to  him  ?— My  brother!— No: 
He  will  not  answer  to  that  name  ;  for  brethren 
Smite  not  each  other.     Yet  —  yet  —  speak  to  me. 
Oh  !  for  a  word  more  of  that  gentle  voice. 
That  I  aiay  bear  to  hear  my  own  again  ! 

Enter  Zillah. 
Zillf~u  I  heard  a  heavy  sound  ;  what  can  i'  be  ? 
T  is  CaiD ;  and  watching  by  my  husband.    What 


Dost  thou  there,  brother  ?  Doth  he  sleep  ?  Oh,  heav'n ! 
What  means  this  paleness,  and  yon  stream  ? — No,  no  ! 
It  is  not  blood  ;  for  who  would'shed  his  blood  ? 
Abel !  what 's  this  ?  —  who  hath  done  this  ?  He  moves 

not; 
He  breathes  not :  and  bis  hands  drop  down  from  mine 
With  stony  lifelessness  !     Ah  !  cruel  Cain  ! 
Why  cam'st  thou  not  in  time  to  save  him  from 
This  violence?     Whatever  hath  assail'd  him. 
Thou  wert  the  stronger,  and  shouldst  have  stepp'd  in 
Between  him  and  aggression  !     Father!  —  Eve!  — 
Adah  !  —  come  hither  !     Death  is  in  the  world  ! 

[Exit  Zillah  culling  on  her  Parents,  *c. 
Cai7i  (solus).  And  who  hath  brought  him  there  ?— 

I  —  who  abhor 
The  name  of  Death  so  deeply,  that  the  thought 
Enipoison'd  all  my  life,  before  I  knew 
•His  aspect  —I  have  led  him  here,  and  giv'n 
My  brother  to  his  cold  and  still  embrace. 
As  if  he  would  not  have  asseiled  his 
Inexorable  claim  without  my  aid. 
I  am  awake  at  last  —  a  dreary  dream 
Had  madden  d  me ;  —  but  he  shall  ne'er  awake ! 

Enter  Adam,  Eve,  Adah,  and  Zillah. 

Adam.  A  voice  of    woe  from  Zillah  brings  me 
here. — 
What  do  1  see  ?— T  is  true  !  —  My  son  !  —  my  son  ! 
Woman,  behold  the  serpent's  woik,  ajid  thine  ! 

[To  Eve. 

Eve.  01) !  speak  not  of  it  now  :  the  serpent's  fangs 
Are  in  my  heart.     My  best  beloved,  Abel ! 
Jehovah  '.  this  is  punislmient  beyond 
A  mother's  sin,  to  take  him  from  me ! 

Adam.  Who, 

Or  what  hath  done  this  deed  ?— sjieak,  Cain,  since  thoa 
Wert  pre  en t ;  w.as  it  some  more  hostile  angel, 
Who  walks  not  with  Jehovah  ?  or  some  wild 
Biu'e  of  the  forest? 

Eve.                         Ah!  a  livid  light 
Breaks  through,  as  from  a  thunder-cloud  !  yon  brand, 
Massy  and  bloody  !  snatch'd  from  otif  the  altar, 
And  black  with  smoke,  and  red  with- 

Adam.  Speak,  my  son  ! 

Speak,  and  assure  us,  wretched  as  we  are. 
That  we  are  not  more  miserable  still. 

Adah.  Speak,  Cain  !  and  say  it  was  not  thou  f 

Eve.  It  was. 

I  see  it  now  —  he  hangs  his  guilty  head. 
And  covers  his  ferocious  eye  with  hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah.  Mother,  thou  dost  him  wrong  — 

Cain  !  clear  thee  from  this  horrible  accusal, 
Which  grief  wrings  from  our  parent. 

Eve.                                                   Hear,  Jehovah ! 
May  the  eternal  serpent's  curse  be  on  him  ! 
For  he  was  fitter  for  his  seed  than  ours. 
May  all  his  days  be  desolate  !     May 

Adah.  Hold ! 

Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  thy  son  — 
Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  my  brother. 
And  my  betrolh'd. 

Eve.  He  hath  left  thee  no  brother  — 

Zillah  no  husband —  me  no  son  ! —  for  thus 
I  curse  him  from  my  sight  for  evermore  ! 
All  bonds  I  break  between  us,  as  he  broke 

That  of  his  nature,  in  yon Oh  death !  death  ! 

Why  didst.ihou  not  take  me,  who  first  incurr'd  thee? 
Why  dost  thou  not  so  now  ? 

Adam.  Eve !  let  not  this, 

Thy  natural  grief,  lead  to  impiety  ! 
A  heavy  doom  was  long  forespoken  to  us  ; 
And  now  that  it  begins,  let  it  be  borne 
In  such  sort  as  may  show  our  God,  that  we 
Are  faithful  servants  to  his  holy  will. 

Eve  (pointing  to  Cain).  Uis  will  !  !  the  will  of  yra 
incarnate  spirit 
Of  death,  whom  1  have  brousht  upon  the  earth 
To  strew  it  with  the  dead.     May  all  the  curses 
Of  life  be  on  him !  and  his  agonies 
Drive  him  forth  u'er  the  wilderness,  like  os 


360 


CATN, 


[Act  III 


From  Eden,  lill  his  children  do  by  hira 
As  he  did  by  his  brother  !     May  the  swords 
And  wings  of  fiery  cherubim  pursue  him 
By  day  acd  night  —  snaltes  spiing  up  in  his  path  — 
Earth's  fruits  be  a«hes  iu  his  mouih  —  the  leaves 
On  which  he  lays  bis  head  td  sleep  be  strew'd 
With  scorpions  !     May  his  dreams  be  of  his  victim  ! 
His  waking  a  continual  dread  of  dealh  ! 
May  the  cle^r  rivers  turn  to  blood  as  he 
Stoops  down  to  stiin  them  with  his  raging  lip! 
May  every  element  >hun  or  change  to  him  ! 
May  he  live  in  the  pangs  which  oihers  die  with  ! 
And  dealh  itself  wax  something  worse  than  death 
To  him  who  first  acquainted  liim  with  man  ; 
Hence,  fratricide!  henceforth  that  word  is  Cain, 
Through  all  the  coming  myriads  of  mankind, 
Who  shall  abhor  thee,  ihough  thou  werl  their  sire ! 
May  the  grass  wither  from  thy  feet !  the  woods 
Deny  thee  shel  er  '.  earh  ah  me  !  the  dust 
A  grave  !  the  sun  his  light !  and  heaven  her  God  ! 

[Exit  Eve, 
Adam.  Cain !  get  thee  forth :   we  dwell  no  more 
together.  | 

Depart !  and  leave  the  dead  to  me  —  I  am  j 

Henceforth  alone  —  we  never  must  meet  more. 
Adah.  Oh,  part  not  with  him  thus,  my  father:  do' 
not 
Add  thy  deep  curse  to  Eve's  upon  his  head  ! 

Adam.  I  curse  him  not :  his  spirit  be  his  curse. 
Come,  Zillah ! 
Zillah.  I  must  watch  my  husband's  corse. 

Adam.  We  will  return  again,  when  he  is  gone 
Who  hath  provided  for  us  this  dread  oflSce. 
Come,  Zillah ! 

Zxllalu  Yet  one  ki-^s  on  yon  pale  clay, 

And  those  lips  once  so  warm  —  my  heart !  my  heart ! 
lExeunt  Adam  and  Zillah,  wufing. 
Adah.  Cain  !  thou  hast  heard,  we  must  go  forth.    I 
am  ready. 
So  shnll  our  children  be.     I  will  bear  Enoch, 
And  you  his  sister.     Ere  the  sun  declines 
Let  us  depart,  nor  walk  the  wilderness 
Under  the  cloud  of  night.—  Nay,  speak  to  me, 
To  me  —  thine  own. 

Cain.  Leave  me. 

Adah.  Why,  all  have  left  thee, 

Cain.  And  wherefore  lingerest   thou  ?    Dost  thou 
not  fear 
To  dwell  with  one  who  hath  done  this  ? 

Adah.  I  fear 

Nothing  except  to  leave  thee;  much  as  I 
Shrink  from  the  deed  which  leaves  thee  brolherless. 
I  must  no!  speak  of  this  —  it  is  between  thee 
And  the  great  God. 
A  Voice  from  within  exclaitns,  C^m  !  Cain  ! 
Adah.  Hear'st  thou  that  voice  ? 

The  Voice  within.  Cain  !  Cain  ! 
Adah.  It  soundeib  like  an  angel's  tone. 

Enter  the  Angel  of  the  Lord. 

Angel.  Where  is  thy  bro  her  Abel  ? 

Cain.  Am  I  then 

My  brother's  keeper  ? 

Angel.  Cain  I  what  hast  thou  done  ? 

The  voice  of  thy  slain  bro  her's  blood  cries  out. 
Even  fmm  the  ground,  unio  the  Lord  1— Now  art  thou 
Cursed  from  the  earth,  which  opened  late  her  mouih 
To  drink  thy  brother's  blond  from  thy  ra-h  hand. 
Henceforth, "when  thou  shall  till  the  ground,  it  shall  not 
Yield  thee  her  strength  ;  a  fugitive  shall  thou 
Be  from  thi^  day,  and  vagabond  on  earth  ! 

Adah.  This  punishment  is  more  than  he  can  bear. 
Behold,  thou  drives!  him  from  the  f^ce  of  earth, 
And  from  the  face  of  Gnd  -hall  he  be  hid. 
A  fugitive  and  vagabond  on  earth, 
'T  will  come  to  pass,  that  whoso  findeth  him 
Shall  slay  him. 

Cain.  Would  they  could  I  but  who  are  fhey 

Shall  slay  me  ?     Where  are  these  on  the  lone  earth 
Ai;:t  unpeopled  ? 


Angel.  Thou  hast  slain  thy  brother, 

And  who  shall  warrant  thee  agiinst  thy  son  ? 

Adah.  Angel  of  Light',  be  merciful,  nor  say 
That  this  poor  aching  breast  now  nourishes 
A  murderer  in  my  boy,  and  of  his  father. 

Angel.  Then  he  would  but  be  what  his  father  is. 
Did  not  the  milk  of  Eve  give  nutriment 
To  him  thou  now  see  st  so  besmear'd  with  blood? 
The  fraricide  might  well  engender  parricides. — 
But  it  shall  not  be  so  —  the  Lord  thy  God 
And  mine  commandeih  me  to  set  his  seal 
On  Cain,  so  that  he  may  go  for  h  in  safety. 
Who  sinyelh  Cain,  a  sevenfold  vengeance  shall 
Be  taken  on  his  bead.     Come  hither ! 

Cam.  What 

Wouldst  thou  with  me. 

Angel.  To  mark  upon  thy  brow 

Exemption  from  such  deeds  as  thou  hast  done. 
Cain.  No,  let  me  die ! 
Angel.  It  must  not  be. 

[The  Angel  sets  the  mark  on  Caiji'j  brova. 
Cain.  It  burns 

My  brow,  but  nought  to  that  which  is  within  it. 
Is  there  more  ?  let  me  meet  it  as  I  miy. 

Angel.  Stern  hast  thou  been  and  stubborn  from  the 
womb, 
As  the  ground  thou  niu=t  henceforth  till ;  but  he 
Thou  slew'st  was  gentle  as  the  tiocks  he  tended. 
Caiti.  After  the  fall  too  soon  was  I  begotten ; 
Ere  yet  my  mother's  mind  subsided  from 
The  serpent,  and  my  sire  siill  mourn'd  for  Eden. 
That  which  I  am,  I  am  ;  I  did  not  seek 
For  life,  nor  did  I  make  myself;  but  could  I 
With  my  own  death  redeeiii  him  from  the  dust 
And  why  not  so?  let  him  return  to  day, 
And  I  lie  ghastly !  so  shall  be  restored 
By  God  the  life  to  him  he  loved  ;  and  taken 
From  me  a  being  I  ne'er  loved  to  bear. 
Angel.  Who  shall   heal   murder?  what  is  done,  » 
done; 
Go  forth  !  fulfil  thy  days  !  and  be  thy  deeds 
Unlike  the  last !  [The  Angel  disappear!. 

Adah.  He 's  gone,  let  us  go  forth  ; 

I  heir  our  little  Enoch  cry  within 
Our  bower. 

Cat/1.         Ah  !  little  knows  he  what  he  weeps  for ! 
And  I  who  have  shed  blood  cinnot  shed  tears  ! 
But  the  four  rivers  '  would  not  cleanse  my  soul. 
Think'ht  thou  my  boy  will  bear  to  look  on  me  r 
Adah.  If  I  thought  that  he  would  not,  I  would  — 
Cain  {interrupting  her).  No, 

No  more  nf  threits  :  we  have  had  too  many  of  them  ; 
Go  to  our  children  ;  I  will  follow  thee. 

Adah.  I  will  not  leave  thee  lonely  with  the  dead; 
Let  us  depart  together. 

Citn.  Oh  !  thou  dead 

And  everlasting  witness  1  whose  unsinking 
Blood  darkens  earth  and  heaven  !  what  thou  now  art 
I  know  not !  but  if  thou  see'st  what  /  a»>i, 
I  think  th'  u  wilt  forgive  him,  whom  his  God 
Can  ne'er  forgive,  nor  his  own  soul.—  Farewell  ! 
I  must  not,  dare  not  touch  what  I  have  made  thee. 
I,  who  sprung  from  the  same  womb  with  thee,  drain'  I 
The  sime  breist,  chsp'd  thee  often  to  my  own 
In  fondness  brotherly  and  boyish,  I 
Can  never  meet  thee  more,  nor  eien  dare 
To  do  that  for  thee,  w  liich  thou  shouldst  have  done 
Fur  me  —  ompose  thy  limbs  into  iheir  grave  — 
The  first  grave  vet  dug  for  mortality. 
But  who  hath  diig  that  grave  ?  Oh,  earth  !  Oh,  earth  ! 
For  all  the  frnit-  thou  hast  render'd  to  mc,  I 
Give  thee  back  this.— Now  for  the  wilderness. 
I  [Adah  stoops  down  and  hisses  the  body  of  .iful. 

I     ./Idah.  A  dreary,  and  an  early  doom,  mv  brother. 
Has  been  thy  lot  1    Of  all  who  mourn  for'lhee, 
I  alone  must  not  weep.     My  office  is 
Hencefoith  to  dry  up  tears,  and  not  to  shed  them ; 

1  The  "  fmir  rivers"  whii  h  flowed  round  Kdeo,  and  coa- 
eequently  the  oDiy  waters  with  which  Cain  was  acqaalBlad 
Dpon  earth. 


Scene  I.] 


WERNER. 


361 


But  yet  of  all  who  mourn,  none  mourn  like  me,  I      Cain.  And  he  who  lielh  there  was  childless.    I 

Not  only  for  thy>elf,  but  him  who  slew  thee.  Have  dried  Ihe  fountain  of  a  genlle  race, 

Now,  Cain  !  1  will  divide  Ihy  burden  with  thee.  j  Which  niis;hl  have  graced  his  recent  marriage  couch, 

Cain.  Eastward    from    Eden  will  we   take  our    And  might  have  temper'd  this  siern  blond  of  mine, 

way  ;  1  Uniting  with  our  children  Abel's  offspring  ! 

'T  is  Ihe  most  desolate,  and  suits  my  s'eps.  i  0  Abel ! 

Mak.  Lead  !  thou  shalt  be  my  guide,  and  may  our  j      Mah.  Feace  be  wilh  him  ! 

God  Cain.                                   But  with  we .' 

Be  thine  !    Now  let  us  cirry  forth  our  children.  \                                                                       [Exeuni. 


WERNER;   OR,  THE   INHERITANCE: 
A   TRAGEDY.* 

PREFACE  I  TO 

The  following  drama   is  taken   entirely  from  (he    THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  GOETHE, 


BY  ONE  OF  HIS  HDMBLEST  ADMIRERS, 

THIS  TRAGEDY 

19   DEDICATED. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONiE. 


"German's  Tale,  Kniitzner,"  published  many  years 
»go  in  ieeV  Canterlmiy  Tales;  writ'.en  {I  believe)  by 
two  sisters,  of  whom  one  furnished  only  this  story  and 
another,  both  of  wliich  are  considered  superior  to  the 
remainder  of  the  collection.^  I  have  adopted  the 
ch  incters,  plm,  and  even  the  language,  of  many  parts 
of  this  story.  Some  nf  the  charac'ers  are  modified  or 
altered,  a  few  of  Ihe  names  changed,  and  one  charac- 
ter (Ida  of  SIralenheim)  added  by  myself:  but  in  the 
rest  the  origiual  is  chiefiy  followed.  When  I  was 
young  (about  fourteen,  I  think,)  I  first  read  this  tale, 
which  made  a  deep  impression  upon  me ;  and  may, 
indeed,  be  said  lo  contain  the  germ  of  much  that  I 
have  since  written.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  ever  was 
very  popular ;  or,  at  any  rale,  its  popularity  has  since 
been  eclipsed  by  that  of  other  great  writers  in  the 
same  depanment.  But  I  have  generally  found  that 
those  who  had  read  it,  agreed  wilh  me  in  their  esti- 
mate of  the  singular  power  of  mi.  d  and  conception 
which  i(  developes.  1  should  also  add  conception, 
:N!her  than  execution  ;  for  Ihe  story  might,  perhaps, 
ha7e  been  developed  with  greater  advantage.  Amongst 
those  whose  opinions  agreed  with  mine  upon  this 
story,  I  could  mention  some  very  high  names :  but  it 
is  not  necessary,  nor  indeed  of  any  use ;  for  every  one 
must  judge  according  to  his  own  feelings.  I  merely 
refer  the  reader  to  Ihe  original  story,  that  he  may  see 
to  what  extent  I  have  borrowed  from  it ;  and  am  not 
unwilling  that  he  should  find  n)uch  greater  jWeasure  in 

perusing  it  than  the  drama  which  is  founded  upon  its    Scene — Partly  on  the  Frontier  of  Silesia,  and  partly 
contents.  '    "'         .     •  -    ••  « 

I  had  begun  a  drama  upon  this  tale  so  far  back  as 


Werner. 

Ulric. 

SIralenheim. 

Idenslein. 

Gabor. 

Fritz. 

Hennck. 

Eric. 

Arnheim. 

Meisler. 

Rodolph. 

Ludwig. 


1815,  (the  first  I  ever  attempted,  except  one  at  thirteen ' 
years  old,  called  "  Ulric  and  Ilvinn,'  which  I  had  , 
sense  enough  to  burn.)  and  had  neaily  completed  an 
act,  when  I  was  interrupted  by  circumstances.  This 
is  somewhere  amongst  my  |)aper.;  in  England ;  but  as 
it  has  not  been  found,  I  have  re-written  the  first,  and 
added  the  subsequent  acts. 
The 


in  Siegendorf  Castle,  near  Prague. 
Time  —  the  Close  of  the  Thirty  Years'  IVar. 


ACTL 

SCENE   I. 


The  whole  is  neither  intended,  nor  in  any  shape    The  Hall  of  a  decayed  Palace  near  a  i 
adapted,  for  the  stage.^  „,,  j^',^tiem  Frontier  of  Siksia-l 


Pisa,  February,  1822, 

1  The  tragedy  of  "  W<>rnei  "  was  h<-?iin  at  T 
cembt-r  18th,  lfc21,  i-ompleled  January  SOiti,  J6'.i^  i 
..shed  ID  London  in  the  November  fnllowing. 


small  Town  on 
the  JVight  tern- 

pesttiovLS. 

IVerner  and  Josephine  his  wife. 

Jos.  My  love,  be  calmer  ! 

fVer.  I  am  calm. 

2  This  is  not  correct.     "  The  Young  Lady's  Tate,  or  the        Jos.  To  roe- 
Two  Emilys,"  and  "the  Clergyman's  Tale,  or  Pembrolse,"  ,  Yes.  but  not  lo  thyself:  thy  pace  is  hurried, 

were   contributed    l>y  Sophia   l.ee,  tlic   author   of  "The    And  no  one  walks  a  chamber  like  to  ours 
BecesK,"    the   comedy  of    "The   Chapter  of  ArcideiiK"    with  steps  like  ihine  when  his  heart  is  at  rest, 
.nd   "Almoyda,  a   Tragedy  •■    who  d,ed   ...   V;24.      T he ky        ;,  ^    ^^^        ,  ^,      , ^  ^^^^^  ,j,gg  ^ 

cSL^rn? w.";:';H"tn'i;'AanlTt;:e  y:un^^:r' a"hr  ^"d  s.eppn.g  with  the  bee  from  flower  to^'fl'ower 
.ie'.ers.  -  E.  B"»  ''""« •' 

3  Werner   is.  however,  the   only  one  of  Lord    Byron-,'       W'"--.   /.^  isf'-i'M'^-e  tap  >stry  lets  through 
dramas  that   proved  saccesRfu'  in  repreKeniaiion.    It   i»,  The  wind  to  which  it  waves  :  my  blood  is  (roien. 
Mill  (1836)  in  ponesBion  of  Ihe  otage.— E.  I      Jos.  Ah,  no  ! 


-_] 


31 


rr^ 


362 


WERNER: 


[Act 


tVer.  {tmiling).  Why  !  wouldsl  thou  h  ive  it  so  ? 

Jos,  I  would 

Have  it  a  healthful  current. 

fVer.  Let  it  flow 

Until  'tis  spilt  or  check'd  —  how  soon,  I  care  not. 

Jos.  And  am  1  nothing  in  thy  heart  ? 

IVer.  All  — all. 

Jrts.  Then  canst  thou  wish  for  that  which  must  break 
mine.' 

Wer.  iappronching  her  slowly).    But  for  thee  I  had 
been  —  no  niader  what, 
But  much  of  good  and  evil  ;  what  I  am, 
Thou  knowest;  what  I  mi»ht  or  should  hive  been, 
Th"u  knowes!  not :  but  still  I  love  thee,  nor 
Shall  au^ht  divide  us. 

[PTcnier  walks  an  abruptly,   and  then  ap- 
proaches Josephine. 

The  sinrm  of  the  night, 
Perhaps  atFecrs  me  ;  I'm  a  thing  of  feelings. 
And  liave  of  lale  been  sickly,  as,  alas  ! 
Thou  know'si  by  sulferings  more  than  mine,  my  love  ! 
In  watching  me. 

Jos.                    To  see  thee  .well  is  much  — 
To  see  thee  happy 

fVer.  Where  hast  thou  seen  such  ? 

Let  me  be  wretched  with  the  rest ! 

Jos.  But  think 

How  many  in  this  hour  of  tempest  shiver 
Beneath  the  biting  wind  and  heavy  rain. 
Whose  every  drop  bo«s  them  down  nearer  earth, 
Which  hath  no  chamber  for  them  save  beneath 
Her  surface. 

IVer.  And  that 's  not  the  worst :  who  cares 

For  chambers  }  rest  is  all.     The  w  retches  whom 
Thou  namest  —  ay,  the  wind  howls  round  them,  and 
The  dull  and  dropping  rain  s^ips  in  their  bones 
Ttie  creeping  marrow.     I  have  been  a  soldier, 
A  hunger,  and  a  traveller,  and  am 
A  beggar,  and  should  know  the  thing  thou  talk'st  of. 

Jos.  And  a't  thou  not  now  sheltered  from  them  all  ? 

Wcj-.  Yes.     And  from  these  alone. 

Jos.  And  that  is  something. 

IVer.  True  —  to  a  peasant. 

Jos.  Should  the  nobly  born 

Be  thankless  for  that  refuge  which  their  habits 
Of  early  delicacy  render  more 
Needful  than  to 'the  peasant,  \vhen  the  ebb 
Of  fortune  leaves  them  on  the  shoals  of  life? 

IVer.  It  is  not  that,  thou  kno«'st  it  is  not:  we 
Have  borne  all  this,  I  'II  not  say  patiently. 
Except  in  thee  —  but  we  have  borne  it. 

Jos.  Well  ? 

IVer.  Something    beyond    our   outward    sufferings 
(though 
These  were  enough  to  gnaw  into  our  souls) 
Hath  slung  me  oft,  and,  more  than  ever,  now. 
When,  but  for  this  untoward  sickness,  which 
Seized  me  upon  this  desolate  frontier,  and 
Hath  wisted,  not  alone  my  strength,  but  means, 
And  leaves  us  —  no  1  this  is  beyond  me!  —  but 
For  this  I  had  been  happy  —  thou  been  happy  — 
The  splendour  of  my  rank  sustain'd  —  my  name  — 
My  father's  name  —  been  still  upheld  ;  and,  more 
Than  those 

Jos.  (abruptly).  My  son  —  our  son  —  our  Ulric, 
Been  clasp'd  agiin  in  these  long-empty  arms. 
And  all  a  mother's  hunger  satisfied. 
Twelve  years  !  he  was  but  eight  then  :  —  beautiful 
He  was,  and  beautiful  he  must  be  now. 
My  Ulric  !  my  adored  '. 

IVtr.  I  have  been  full  oft 

The  chase  of  Fortune  ;  now  she  haih  o'ertaken 
My  spirit  where  it  cannot  turn  at  bay, — 
Sick,  poor,  and  lonely. 

Jos.  Lonely  -  my  dear  husband  ? 

IVer.  Or  worse  —  involving  all  I  love,  in  this 
Fir  worse  Ihia  solitude.     Alifiie,  I  had  died, 
And  all  been  over  in  a  nameless  grave. 

Jot.  And  I  had  not  outlived  thee  ;  but  pray  lake 
Comfort !     We  have  struggled  long  ;  and  they  who 
strive 


With  Fortune  win  or  we\ry  her  at  last, 
So  that  they  hnd  the  goal  or  cease  to  feel 
Further.     Take  comfVirt,—  we  shall  hud  our  boy. 

IVer.  We  were  in  sight  of  him,  of  every  thing 
Which  could  bring  compensation  for  past  sorrow  — 
And  to  be  baffled  thus  ! 

Jos.  We  are  not  baffled. 

fVer.  Are  we  not  penniless  ? 

Jus.  We  ne'er  were  wealthy. 

tVer.  But  I  was  born  to  wealth,  and   rank,  and 
power ; 
Enjoy'd  them,  loved  them,  and,  nlas  !  abused  them, 
And  forfeited  them  by  my  father's  wrath. 
In  my  o'ei-fervent  youth':  but  for  the  abuse 
Long  suti'erings  have  atoned.    My  father's  death 
Left  the  path  open,  yet  not  without  snares. 
This  cold  and  creeping  kinsman,  who  so  long 
Kept  his  tye  on  nie,  as  the  snake  upon 
The  flultefing  bird,  hath  ere  this  time  outstept  me, 
Become  the  master  of  my  rights,  and  lord 
Of  that  which  lifts  him  up  to  princes  in 
Dominion  and  domain. 

Jos.  Who  knows  ?  our  son 

May  have  teturn'd  back  to  his  grandsire,  and 
Even  now  uphold  thy  rights  for  thee? 

fftr.  'T  is  hopeless. 

Since  his  strange  disappearance  from  my  father's, 
Entailing,  as  it  were,  my  sins  upon 
Himself,  no  tidings  liave  reveai'd  his  course. 
I  parted  with  him  to  his  grandsire,  on 
The  promise  that  his  anger  would  stop  short 
Of  the  third  generation  ;  but  Heaven  seems 
To  claim  her  stern  prerogative,  and  visit 
Upon  my  boy  his  father's  faults  and  follies. 

Jos.  1  must  ho|  e  better  still,—  at  least  we  have  yet 
BatHed  the  long  pursuit  of  Straleiiheim. 

fVer.  We  should  hue  done,  but  for  this  fatal  slck- 
ne-s  ; 
More  f  ital  than  a  mortal  malady. 
Because  it  takes  not  life,  but  life's  sole  solace  : 
Even  now  I  feel  my  spirit  girt  about 
By  the  snares  of  this  avaricious  fiend  :  — 
how  do  I  know  he  hath  not  track'd  us  here? 

Jos.  He  does  not  know  thy  person  ;  and  his  spies. 
Who  so   long  watch'd   thee,  have  been  left  at  Ham- 
burgh. 
Our  unexpected  journey,  and  this  change 
Of  name,  leave  all  discovery  far  behind  : 
None  hold  us  here  for  aught  save  what  we  seem. 

IVer.  Save  what  we  seem  !  save  what  we  are—  sick 
beggars. 
Even  to  our  very  hopes. —  Ha !  ha  ! 

Jos.  Alas ! 

That  bitter  laugh  1 

IVcr.  Who  would  read  in  this  form 

The  high  soul  of  the  son  of  a  long  line  ? 
IVho,  in  this  garb,  the  heir  of  princely  lands? 
Who,  in  this  sunken,  sickly  eye,  the  pride 
Of  rank  and  ancestry  ?     In  this  worn  cheek 
And  famine-hollow'd  brow,  the  lord  of  halls 
Which  daily  feast  a  thousand  vassals  ? 

Jos.  You 

Ponder'd  not  thus  upon  these  worldly  things. 
My  Werner  !  when  you  deign'd  to  choose  for  bride 
The  foreign  daugh  er  of  a  wanderii  g  exile. 

Wtr.  An  exile's  daugher  with  an  outcast  son 
Were  a  fit  marriage:  but  I  still  had  fopes 
To  lift  thee  to  ihe  state  we  both  were  born  for. 
Your  father's  house  was  nohle,  thoueh  decay'd  ; 
And  worthy  by  i's  birth  to  match  with  ours. 

Jos.  Ynu'r  father  did  not   think  so,  though  twt» 
nolile ; 
But  had  my  birlh  been  all  my  claim  to  match 
Wi'h  thee,     should  have  deem'd  it  what  it  is. 

Wir.  An,   •^llat  is  that  in  thine  eyes? 

Jos.  "All  whie^lit 

Has  done  in  ou  ^jehalf,— nothing. 

Wer.  How,—  nothing  ? 

Jos.  Or  worse  :  for  it  has  been  a  canker  in 
Thy  heart  fiom  the  beginning:  but  for  this, 
We  had  not  felt  our  pt  verty  but  as 


Scene  I.J 


A   TRAGEDY. 


363 


Millions  of  myriads  feel  it,  cheerfully  ; 

But  for  these  phariloras  of  thy  feudal  fathers, 

Thou   might'st  have  earn'd   thy  bread,  as  thousands 

earn  it ; 
Or,  if  that  seein  too  humble,  tried  by  commerce, 
Or  other  civic  means,  to  amend  ihy  fortunes. 

IVtr.  {ironically)  And  beeu  an  Ha nsealic  burgher  ? 
Excellent  : 

Jof.  Whatever  thou  might'st  have  been,  to  me  thou  art 
What  no  sate  high  or  low  can  ever  change, 
My  heart's  first  choice ;  —  which  chose  thee,  knowing 

neither 
Thy  birth,  thy  hopes,  thy   pride ;  nought,  save  thy 

sorrows : 
While  ihey  last,  let  me  comfort  nr  divide  them : 
When  they  end,  let  mine  end  with  them,  or  thee  ! 

fVer.  My  betier  angel !    Such   I   have  ever  found 
thee ; 
This  rashness,  or  this  weakness  of  my  temper. 
Ne'er  raised  a  thought  to  injure  thee  or  thine. 
Thou  didst  not  mar  my  fortunes  :  my  own  nature 
In  youth  was  such  as  to  unmake  an  empire, 
Had  such  been  my  inheritance ;  but  now, 
Chasien'd,  subdued,  out-worn,  and  taught  to  know 
Myself, —  to  lose  this  for  our  son  and  thee  ! 
Trust  me,  when,  in  my  two-and-lwentieth  spring, 
My  father  barr'd  me  from  my  father's  bouse. 
The  last  sole  scion  of  a  thousand  sires 
(For  I  was  then  the  last),  it  bun  me  less 
Than  to  behold  my  boy  and  my  boy's  mother 
Excluded  in  their  innocence  from  what 
My  faults  deserved  —  exclusion  ;  although  then 
My  pa-sions  were  all  living  serpents,  and 
Twined  like  the  gorgon's  round  me. 

IM  toud  knocking  is  heard. 

Jos.  Hark; 

fVer.  A  knocking ! 

/oi.  Who  can  it  oe  at  this  lone  hour?     We  have 
Few  visiters.  I 

IVer.  And  poverty  ha'h  none,  I 

Save  those  who  come  to  make  it  poorer  still. 

Well,  I  am  prepared.  I 

[IVeriicr  puts  his  hand  into  his  bosom,  as  if  to 

search  for  some  u-eapcm.  i 

Jos.  Oh  :  do  not  look  so.     I  ' 

Will  to  the  door.     It  cannot  be  of  import  | 

In  this  lone  spot  of  wintry  desolation  :  —  I 

The  very  desert  saves  man  from  mankind. 

[She  goes  to  the  door. 
Enter  Idenslein. 


Men.  A  fair  good  evenins  to  my  fairer  hostess 
And  worthy What 's  your  naine,  my  friend  ? 

fVer.  Are  you 

Not  afraid  to  demand  it? 

fden.  Not  afraid  ? 

Egad  !  I  am  afraid.     Ton  look  as  if 
I  ask'd  for  -omethin?  better  than  your  name. 
By  the  face  you  put  on  it. 

IVer.  Better,  sir  ! 

Wen.  Belter  or  wore,  like  matrimony  :  what 
Shall  I  say  more?    You  have  been  a  guest  this  month 
Here  in  the  prince's  palace  —  (to  be  sure, 
His  highness  had  resijn'd  it  to  the  ghosts 
And  rats  these  twelve  years  —  but 't  is  still  a  palace) — 
I  say  you  have  been  our  lodger,  and  as  yet 
We  do  not  know  your  name. 

IVtr.  My  name  is  Werner. 

Iden.  A  goodly  name,  a  very  worthy  name, 
As  e'er  was  gilt  upon  a  trader's  board : 
I  have  a  cousin  in  the  lazaretto 
Of  Hamburgh,  who  has  got  a  wife  who  bore 
The  same.   'He  is  an  officer  of  trust. 
Surgeon's  assistant  (hoping  to  be  surgeon). 
And  has  done  miracles  i'  the  way  of  business. 
Perhaps  you  are  related  to  my  relative  i" 

IVer.  To  yours? 

Jos.  Oh,  yes  ;  we  are,  'out  distantly. 

{Aside  to  fVenier.)  Cannot  you  humour  the  dull  gos- 
sip till 
We  learn  bis  purpose? 


gla 
I  thought  so  all  along,  such  natural  yearnings 
Play'd  round  my  heart :  —  blood  is  not  water,  cousin  j 
And  so  let 's  have  some  wine,  and  drink  unto 
Our  better  acquaintance  :  relatives  should  be 
fi  lends. 

IVer.  You  appear  to  have  drunk  enough  already  J 
And  if  you  have  not,  1  've  no  wine  to  offer. 
Else   it   were  yours ;  but  this  you   know,  or  should 

know  : 
You  see  I  am  poor,  and  'ick,  and  will  not  see 
That  I  would  be  aloi.e ;  but  ;o  your  business  ! 
What  brings  you  here? 

Ide^i.  Why,  what  should  bring  me  here? 

Wer.  I  know  not,  though  I  think  that  1  could  guess 
That  which  will  send  you  hence. 

Jos.  (a>ide).  Patience,  dear  Werner ! 

Iden.  You  don't  know  what  has  happen'd,  ihen? 

Jos.  How  should  we  ? 

Iden.  The  river  has  o'erflow'd. 

Jos.  Alas !  we  have  known 

That  to  our  sorrow  for  these  five  days ;  since 
It  keeps  us  here, 

Idtn.  But  what  you  don't  know  is, 

Ttia!  a  great  personage,  who 'fain  would  cross 
Against  the  stream  and  three  postilions'  wishes. 
Is  drown'd  below  the  ford,  with  five  post-horses, 
A  nionkey,  and  a  mat'tiff,  and  a  valet. 

Jos.  Poor  creatures;  are  you  sure? 

Iden.  Yes,  of  the  monkey, 

And  the  valet,  and  the  cattle ;  but  as  yet 
We  know  not  if  his  excellency  's  dead 
Or  no  :  you  noblemen  are  hard  to  drown, 
As  it  is  fit  that  men  in  o£Bce  should  be; 
But  what  is  certain  is,  that  he  has  swallow'd 
Enough  of  the  Oder  to  have  burst  two  peasants; 
And  now  a  Saxon  and  Hungarim  traveller. 
Who,  at  their  proper  peril,  snatch'd  him  from 
The  w  hirling  river,  have  sent  on  lo  crave 
A  lodging,  or  a  grave,  according  as 
It  may  turn  out  with  the  live  or  dead  body. 

Joi.  And  where  will  you  receive  him  ?  here,I  hope, 
If  we  can  be  of  service  —  say  the  word. 

Iden.  Here  ?  no  ;  but  in  the  prince's  own  apartment, 
As  fits  a  noble  guest :  —  't  is  damp,  no  doubt, 
Not  having  been  inhabited  these  twelve  years  ; 
But  then  he  comes  from  a  much  damper  place. 
So  scarcely  will  catch  cold  in  't,  if  he  be 
Still  liable  lo  cold  —  and  if  not,  why 
He  'II  be  worse  lodged  tomorrow  :  ne'ertheless, 
I  have  order'd  fire  and  all  appliances 
To  be  got  ready  for  the  worst  —  that  is. 
In  case  he  should  survive. 

Jot.  Poor  gentleman, 

I  hope  he  will,  with  all  my  heart. 

Wer.  Intendant, 

Have  you  not  leam'd  bis  name  ?  {Aside  to  his  wife)  My 

Josephine, 
Retire :  1  '11  sift  this  fool.  [EUt  Josephine. 

Iden.  His  name  ?  oh  Lord  1 

Who  knows  if  he  h.ath  now  a  name  or  no  ? 
'T  is  time  enough  to  ask  it  when  he  's  able 
To  give  an  answer  ;  or  if  not,  to  put 
His  heir's  upon  his  epitaph.     Methought 
Just  now  you  chid  me  for  demanding  names? 

Wer.  True,  true,  I  did  so  :  you  say  well  and  wisely. 
Enter  Gabor. 

Gab.  If  I  intrude,  I  crave 

Iden.  Oh,  ni  intrusion  ; 

Thi-  is  the  palace  ;  this  a  stranger  like 
Yourself;  I  pray  you  make  youise!f  at  home: 
But  Where's  his  excellency  ?  and  how  fires  he? 

Gab.  Wetly  and  wearily,  but  out  of  peril : 
He  paused  lo  change  his  garments  in  a  cottage, 
(Where  I  dotf'd  mine  for  these,  and  came  on  hither) 
And  has  ainiast  recover'd  front  his  drenching. 
He  will  be  here  anon. 

Ide-n.  What  ho.  there  '.  bustle  '. 

Without  there,  Herman,  Weilbnrg,  Peter,  Conrad! 
[Gives  directions  lo  different  servants  who  enUr, 


[[364 


WERNER: 


[Act 


A  nobleman  sleeps  here  to-night  —  see  that 

All  is  in  Older  in  the  damask  chamber  — 

Keep  up  the  stove  —  I  will  myself  lo  the  cellar  — 

And  Madame  Idenstein  (my  consort,  stranger,) 

ShiU  furnish  forth  llie  bed  apparel ;  for, 

To  say  the  truth,  they  are  marvellous  scant  of  this 

Within  the  palace  precincts,  since  his  highness 

Left  it  some  dozen  yea^s  ago.     And  then 

His  excellency  will  sup,  doubtless  ? 

Gab.  Faith ! 

I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  should  think  the  pillow 
Would  please  him  belter  than  the  table,  after 
His  soaking  in  ynur  river :  but  for  ferr 
Your  viands  should  lie  thrown  away,  I  mean 
To  sup  myself,  and  have  a  friend  without 
Who  will  do  honour  to  your  good  cheer  with 
A  traveller's  appetite. 
Iden.  But  are  you  sure 

His  excellency But  his  name :  what  is  it  ? 

Gab.  1  do  liot  know. 

Iden.  And  yet  you  saved  his  life. 

Gab.  I  help'd  my  friend  to  do  so. 
Iden.  '  Well,  that 's  strange, 

To  save  a  man's  life  whom  you  do  not  know. 

Gab.  Not  so  ;  for  there  are  some  I  know  so  well, 
I  scarce  should  give  myself  the  trouble. 

Ideii.  Pray, 

Good  friend,  and  w  ho  may  you  be  ? 

Gab.  By  my  family, 

Hungarian. 
Iden.         Which  is  call'd  ? 
Gab.  It  matters  lit  le. 

Iden.  {aside).  I  think  that  all  the  world  are  growc 
anonymous. 
Since  no  one  cares  to  tell  me  what  he 's  cali'd  ! 
Prav,  has  his  excellency  a  large  suite  ? 

Gab.  Sufficient. 

Iden.  How  many  ? 

Gab.  I  did  not  count  them. 

We  came  up  by  mere  accident,  and  just 
In  time  lo  drag  him  through  hi-s  carriage  window. 

Iden.  Well,  what  would  I  give  to  save  a  great  man  ! 
No  doubt  you  '11  have  a  swingeing  sum  as  rccompen>e. 
Gab.  Perhaps. 

Iden.  Now,  how  much  do  you  reckon  on? 

Gab.  I  have  not  yet  put  up  myself  lo  sale: 
In  the  mean  time,  my  best  reward  would  be 
A  glass  of  your  Hockcheimer  —  a  green  gl  iss, 
Wieith'd  with  rich  grapes  and  Bacchanal  devices. 
Oerflowing  with  the  oldest  of  your  vintage: 
For  which  I  promise  you,  in  case  you  e'er 
Run  hazard  of  being  drown'd,  (although  I  own 
It  seems,  of  all  deaths,  the  least  likely  for  you,) 
I'll  pull  you  out  for  nothing.     Quick",  mv  friend, 
And  think,  for  every  bumper  I  shall  quaff, 
A  wave  the  less  may  roll  above  your  head. 
Iden.  (atide).  I  don't  much  like  this  fellow  — close 
and  dry 
He  seem-i, —  two  things  which  suit  me  not ;  however, 
Wine  he  shall  have  :~if  that  unlocks  him  not, 
I  shall  not  sleep  to-night  for  curiosity. 

[Exit  Idenstein. 
Gab.  {to  IVenur).  This  master  of  the  ceremonies  is 
The  intendant  of  the  pilace,  I  presume: 
'T  is  a  fine  building,  but  decay'd. 

fVer.  Theapirtment 

Design'd  for  him  you  rescued  will  be  found 
In  filler  order  for  a  sickly  guest. 

Gab.  I  wonder  then  you  occupied  it  not, 
For  yon  seem  delicate  in  heal  h. 
IViT.  (quickly).  Sir! 

Gab.  Pray 

Excuse  me :  have  I  said  aught  to  offend  you  ? 

H^er.  Nothing:  but  we  are  strangers  lo  each  other. 
Gab.  And  th  it 's  the  reason  I  would  have  us  less  so  : 
I  thought  our  bustling  host  without  had  said 
You  were  a  chance  and  pa-sing  guest,  the  counterpart 
Of  me  and  my  companions. 

IVeT.  Very  true. 

Oab.  Then,  as  we  never  met  before,  and  never, 
'I  It  may  be,  may  again  encounter,  why, 


I  thought  to  cheer  up  this  old  dungeon  here 
(At  leasi  to  me)  by  asking  you  lo  share 
The  fire  of  my  companions  and  myself. 
IVtT.  Pray,  pardon  me;  my  healih— — 
Gab.         '  '        Even  asyou  l)le»se. 

I  have  been  a  soldier,  and  perhaps  am  blunt 
In  bearing. 

ffd-r.  I  have  also  served,  and  can 

Requite  a  soldier's  greeting. 

Gab.  In  what  service  ? 

The  Imperial  ? 

IVer.  (quickly,  and  then  interrupting  himself),    I 
commanded  —  no  —  I  mean 
I  served  ;  but  il  is  many  years  ago. 
When  first  Bohemia  raised  her  banner  'gainst 
The  Austrian. 

Gab.  Well,  that 's  over  now,  and  peace 

Has  turn'd  some  thousand  gallint  hearts  adrift 
To  live  as  they  best  may  :  and,  to  say  truth, 
Some  take  the  shortest. 

IVir.  What  is  that  ? 

Gab.  Whate'er 

They  lay  their  hands  on.     All  Silesia  and 
Lusatia's  woods  are  tenanted  by  bands 
(If  the  late  troops,  who  levy  on  the  country 
Their  maintenance:  the  Chalelains  must  keep 
Their  castle  walls  —  beyond  them  'I  is  but  doubtful 
Travel  for  your  rich  count  or  full-blown  baron. 
My  comfort  is  that,  wander  where  I  may, 
I  've  little  left  to  lose  now. 
JVer.  And  I  —  nothing. 

Gab.  That's  harder  still.    You  say  you  were  a 

soldier. 
fV[r.  I  was. 

Gab.  You  look  one  still.     All  soldiers  are 

Or  should  be  comrades,  even  though  enemies. 
Our  swords  when  draw  n  must  cross,  our  engines  aim 
(While  levell'd)  at  each  other's  hearts;  but  when 
A  truce,  a  peace,  or  w  hat  you  will,  remits 
The  steel  into  its  scabbard,  and  lets  sleep 
The  spark  which  lights  the  malchlock.we  are  brethren. 
You  are  poor  and  sickly  —  I  am  not  rich  but  healthy  ; 
I  want  for  noihing  which  I  cannot  want; 
You  seem  devoid  of  this—  w  ilt  share  it  ? 

[Gabor  pulls  out  his  pune. 
IVer.  Who 

Told  you  I  was  a  beggar  ? 

Gab.  You  yourself. 

In  saying  you  were  a  soldier  during  peace  time. 

Wtr.  (looking  at  him  with  suspicion).    You  know 

me  not  ? 
Gab.  I  know  no  man,  not  even 

Myself:  how  should  I  then  l.^ow  one  I  ne'er 
Beheld  till  half  an  hour  since  ? 

IVer.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Your  (iSer  's  noble  were  it  to  a  fi  ieiid. 
And  not  unkind  as  to  an  unknown  stranger. 
Though  scarcely  prudent ;  but  no  less  I  thank  you. 
I  am  a  beggar  in  all  save  his  trade ; 
And  when  I  beg  of  any  one,  it  shall  be 
Of  him  who  was  the  first  to  offer  what 
Few  can  obtain  by  a-king.     Pirdon  me.      [Exit  TVer. 
Gab.  {snlus).  A  goodly  fellow  by  his  looks,  though 
worn, 
As  most  good  fellows  are,  by  pain  or  pleasure, 
Which  tear  life  out  of  us  before  our  lime  ; 
I  scarce  know  which  most  quickly  :  but  he  seems 
To  have  seen  belter  d  'ys,  as  w  ho  has  not 
Who  has  seen  yeslerd  ly  ?  —  But  here  approaches 
Our  sage  intendant.  with  the  wine:  however, 
For  the  cup's  sake  I  'II  bear  the  cupbearer. 
I  Enter  Idenstein. 

'     Iden.  'T  is  here !  the  supernaculum  !  twenty  years 
Of  age,  if 't  is  a  day. 

Gab.  Which  epoch  makes 

Young  women  and  old  wine ;  and  'I  is  great  pity. 
Of  two  such  excellent  things,  increase  of  years, 
Which  still  improves  the  one,  should  spoil  the  other. 
Fill  full  —  Here 's  to  our  hostess !  —  your  fair  wife  ! 
I  [Takes  the  gUui. 


Scene  I.] 


A  TRAGEDY. 


3651 


Men.  Fair! — Well,  I  trust  your  taste   in  wine  is 
equal 
To  that  you  8how  for  beauty  ;  but  I  pledge  you 
Never:heless. 

Gab.  Is  not  the  lovely  woman 

1  met  in  the  adjacent  hall,  who,  with 
An  air,  md  port,  and  eye,  which  would  have  better 
Beseem'd  ihis  palace  in  its  bri^hiest  days 
(Though  in  a  garb  adapted  lo  is  present 
Abandonment),  re  urn 'd  my  silulatiou  — 
Is  not  the  same  your  spouse  ? 

Iden.  I  would  she  were  ! 

But  you're  mistaken:  —  that 's  the  stranger's  wife. 

Gab.  And  by  her  aspect  she  might  be  a  prince's; 
Though  lime  balli  louch'd  her  too,  she  still  re  ains 
Much  beauty,  and  more  majesty. 

Iden.  And  that 

Is  more  than  I  can  say  for  Madame  Idenstein, 
At  least  in  beauty  :  as  for  majesty, 
She  has  some  of  its  properties  which  might 
Be  spared  —  but  never  mind  I 

Gab.  I  don't.     But  veho 

M  ly  be  this  stranger  ?    He  too  hath  a  bearing 
Above  his  outward  fortunes. 

Iden.  There  I  differ. 

He  's  poor  as  Job,  and  not  so  patient ;  but 
VVho  he  may  be,  or  what,  or  aught  of  liim, 
Except  his  name  (and  that  I  only  learn  d 
To-iijght),  1  know  not. 

G^ib.  But  how  came  he  here  ? 

Ideii.  In  a  most  miserable  old  cnlcche. 
About  a  month  since,  and  immediately 
Fell  sick,  almost  to  death.     He  should  have  died. 

Gab.  Tender  and  true  ! —  but  why  ? 

Iihn.  Why,  what  is  life 

Without  a  living  ?    He  has  not  a  stiver. 

Gab.  In  that  case,  I  much  wonder  that  a  person 
Of  your  apparent  prudence  should  admit 
Guests  so  forlorn  into  this  noble  mansion. 

Iden.  Vhat  's  true  :  but  pity,  as  you  know,  does  make 
One's  heart  commit  these  foflies ;  and  besides, 
They  h:id  some  valuables  left  at  that  lime. 
Which  paid  Iheir  way  up  to  the  present  hour; 
And  so  1  thought  they  might  as  well  be  lodged 
Here  as  at  the  ^mall  tavern,  and  I  gave  them 
The  run  of  some  of  the  oldest  palace  rooms. 
They  served  to  air  them,  at  the  least  as  long 
As  they  could  pay  for  firewood. 

Gab.  Poor  souls ! 

Iden. 
Exceeding  poor. 

Gab.  And  yet  unused  to  poverty, 

If  I  mistake  not.     Whither  were  they  going  ? 

7dc?i.  Oh !  Heaven  knows  where,  unless  to  heaven 
itself. 
Some  days  ago  that  look'd  the  likeliest  journey 
For  Wernci. 

Gab.  Werner !  I  have  heard  the  name : 

But  it  may  be  a  feign'd  one. 

Iden.  Like  enough  ! 

But  hark  !  a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices,  and 
A  bljze  of  torches  from  without.     As  sure 
As  destiny,  his  excellency  's  come. 
I  must  be  at  my  post ;  will  you  not  join  me, 
To  help  him  from  his  carriage,  and  present 
Your  humble  duty  at  the  door  ? 

Gab.  I  dragg'd  him 

From  out  that  carriage  when  he  would  have  given 
His  barony  or  county  to  repel 
The  rushing  river  from  his  gurgling  throat. 
He  has  valets  now  enough  :  they  stood  aloof  then, 
Shaking  their  dripping  ears  upon  the  shore. 
All  maring  "  Help  !  "  but  offering  none  ;  and  as 
For  duly  (as  you  call  it)  —  I  did  mine  t/ini, 
Now  do  yours.    Hence,  and  bow  and  cringe  him 
here! 

Iden   /cringe !  —  but  I  shall  lose  the  opportunity — 
Plague  lake  it !  he  '11  be  here,  and  1 7101  there ! 

[Exit  Idemlein  hastily. 

3r« 


Ay, 


Re-enter  Werner. 

Wer.  (to  himself).    I  heard  a  noise  of  wheels  and 
voices.     How 
All  sounds  now  jar  me  ! 

Still  here  !     Is  he  not  [Perceiving  Oabor, 

A  spy  of  my  pursuer's  ?    His  frank  offer 
So  suddenly,  and  to  a  stianger,  wore 
The  aspect  of  a  secret  enemy ; 
For  friends  are  slow  at  ^uch. 

Gab.  Sir,  you  seem  rapt ; 

And  yet  the  time  is  not  akin  to  thought. 
These  old  «all-  «ill  be  noisy  soon,     'i'he  baron, 
Or  couui  (or  whatsoe'er  this  half-drown'd  noble 
May  be),  for  whom  this  desolate  village  and 
Its  lone  inhabitants  show  more  re  pec t 
Than  did  the  elements,  is  come. 

Ide:n.  (.without).  This  way  — 

This  way,  your  excellency  :  — have  a  care, 
The  staircase  is  a  little  gloomy,  and 
Somewhat  decay'd  ;  but  if  we  had  expected 
So  high  a  guest  —  Pray  take  my  arm,  my  lord  ! 

Enter  Stralenheim,  Idenstein,    and   Attendants 

partly  his  own,  and  partly  Retainers  of  the  Do- 
main of  which  Idenstein  is  Intendant. 

Stral.  I  '11  rest  me  here  a  moment. 

/de»i.  Uo  the  servants).  Ho!  a  chair! 

Instantiv,  knaves  !  [Stralenheim  sits  dovon. 

JVer.  {aside).    'T  is  he  ! 

Stral.  1  'm  better  now. 

Wh  1  are  these  strangers? 

Ide7u  Please  you,  my  good  lord, 

One  says  he  is  no  stranger. 

Wer.  {aloud  and  hastily).     WAo  says  that? 

[They  look  at  him  with  surprise. 

Iden.  Why,  no  one  spoke  of  you,  or  to  you  ! —  but 
Here  's  one  his  excellency  may  be  pleased 
To  recognise.  [Pointing  to  Gabor. 

Gab.  I  seek  not  to  disturb 

His  noble  memory. 

Stral.  I  apprehend 

This  is  one  of  the  strangers  to  whose  aid 
I  owe  my  rescue.     Is  not  that  the  other  ? 

[Pointing  to  Werner. 
My  state  when  I  was  succour'd  must  excuse 
My  unceitainty  to  whom  I  owe  so  much. 

Iden.  He  !— no,  my  lord  !  he  rather  wants  for  rescue 
Than  can  afford  it.    "'T  is  a  poor  sick  man, 
Trivel-tired,  imd  lately  risen  from  a  bed 
From  whence  he  never  dieam'd  to  rise. 

Stral.  Methought 

That  there  were  two. 

Gab.  There  were,  in  company; 

But,  in  the  service  render'd  to  your  lordship, 
I  needs  must  say  but  one,  and  he  is  absent. 
The  chief  part  of  whatever  aid  was  render'd 
VVas  his:  it  was  his  fortune  to  be  first. 
My  will  was  not  inferior,  but  his  strength 
And  youth  outstripp'd  me  ;  iheiefore  do  not  waste 
Your  thanks  on  me.     I  was  but  a  glad  second 
Unto  a  nobler  principal. 

Stral.  Where  is  he  ? 

.^n  Alien.  My  lord,  he  tarried  in  the  cottage  where 
Your  excellency  rested  for  an  hour. 
And  said  he  would  be  here  lo-morrow. 

Siral.  Till 

That  hour  arrives,  I  can  but  offer  thanks. 
And  then 

Gib.  I  seek  no  more,  and  scarce  deserve 
So  much.    My  comrade  may  speak  for  himself. 

Stral.  (fixing  his  eyes  upon  Werner :  then  aside). 
It  cannot  be !  and  yet  )ie  must  be  look'd  to. 
'T  is  twenty  years  since  I  beheld  him  with 
These  eyes' ;  and,  though  my  agents  still  have  kept 
Theirs  on  him,  policy  has  held  aloof 
My  own  from  his,  not  to  alarm  hirr.  into 
Suspicion  of  my  plan.     Why  did  I  leave 
At  Hamburgh  those  who  would  have  made 
If  Ihis  be  he  or  no  ?     I  thought,  ere  now. 
To  have  been  lord  of  Siegeiidorf,  and  parted 


366 


WERNER: 


[ActJ.  !' 


Id  baste,  though  even  the  elements  appear 
To  fight  againsi  me,  and  this  sudden  Hood 

May  kee|)  me  prisoner  here  till 

[//e  pauses  and  looks  at  kVtriier  ;  thai  resumes. 
This  man  must 
Be  watch'd.     If  it  is  he,  he  is  so  chauged, 
His  father,  rising  from  his  grave  again. 
Would  pas^  him  by  unknown.     I  must  he  wary  : 
An  error  would  spoil  all. 

Idcru  Tour  lord-hip  seems 

Pensive.     Will  it  not  please  you  to  pass  on  ? 

Slral.  'T  is  past   fatigue  which  gives  my  weigh'd- 
down  spirit 
An  outward  show  of  thought.     I  will  to  rest. 

/do).  The  prince's  chamber  is  prepared,  with  all 
The  very  furniture  the  prince  used  when 
Last  here,  in  its  full  splendour. 

(Aside).  Somewhat  talter'd 
And  devilish  damp,  but  fine  enough  by  lorch-Iight ; 
And  that 's  euougti  for  your  right  noble  blood 
Of  twenty  quarterings  upon  a  hatchment ; 
So  let  their  bearer  sleep  'neath  something  like  one 
Now,  as  he  one  day  will  for  ever  lie. 

Slral.  {rising  ui'id  turning  to  Gabor.)  Good  night, 
good  people  !    Sir,  I  trust  to-morrow 
Will  find  me  apier  lo  requite  your  service. 
In  the  meantime  I  crave  your  company 
A  moment  in  my  chamber. 

Gab.  I  attend  you. 

Slral.  (after  a  few  steps,  pauses,  and  calls  Werner). 
Friend  ! 

IVer.  Sir ! 

Idtn.  Sir  !  Lord  —oh  Lord  !     Why  don't  you  say 
His  lordship,  or  his  excellency  ?    Pray, 
My  lord,  excuse  this  poor  man's  vvanl'of  breeding : 
He  hath  not  been  accustom 'd  to  admission 
To  such  a  presence. 

Slral.  (lo  Idensltin).  Peace,  intendant ! 

Ideit.  Oh ! 

I  am  dumb. 

Slral.  (lo  iVenter).  Hav 

fVtr.  Long  ? 

Slral.  I  sought 

An  answer,  not  an  echo. 

fVer. 
Both  from  the  walls.     la 
Those  whom  I  know  not. 

SiraU 
You  might  reply  with  courtesy  lo  what 
Is  ask'd  in  kindness. 

H^>.r.  When  I  know  it  such, 

I  will  requite  —  tha'  is,  reply  — in  unison. 

Slral.  The  in  endani  sud,  you  had  been  detain'd  by 
sickness  — 
If  I  could  aid  you — journeying  the  same  way  ? 

IVtr.  (quickly).  I  am  not  journeyiog  Ihe  same  way  ! 

Slral.  How  know  ye 

That,  ere  you  knnw  my  route  ? 

fVer.  Because  there  is 

But  one  way  that  Ihe  rich  and  pnor  must  tread 
Together.     You  diverged  from  that  dread  path 
Some  hours  aso,  and  1  some  days:  henceforth 
Our  roads  must  lie  asunder,  tho'ugn  !hey  tend 
All  to  one  home, 

Slral.  Your  language  is  above 

Your  station, 

IVtr.  (bitterly.)  U  it} 

Slral.  Or,  at  least,  beyond 

Tour  garb. 

IVer.        'T  is  well  that  it  is  not  beneath  it, 
As  sometimes  hippens  to  the  better  clad. 
But.  in  a  word,  what  would  you  with  me? 

Slral.  (startled).  I  ? 

JVir   Yes— you  !  You  know  me  not,  and  question  me, 
And  wonder  that  I  answer  not  —  not  knowing 
My  inquisitor.     Explain  whit  you  would  have, 
And  then  I'll  sili-fv  vourself,  or  me. 

Slral.  I  knew  not  that  you  had  reasocs  for  reserve, 

H-'er.  Many  have  such  •  —  Have  you  none  ? 

Stral.  None  which  can 

Interest  a  were  stranger. 


fVtr.  Then  forjive 

The  same  unknown  and  bumble  stranger,  if 
He  wishes  lo  remain  so  to  the  man 
Who  can  have  nought  in  conmion  with  him. 

Slral.  Sir, 

I  will  not  balk  your  humour,  though  untoward: 
J  only  meant  you  service  —  but  good  night ! 
Intendant,  show  the  way  1  (to  Gabor).    Sir,  you  will 


you  been  long  here  ? 


You  may  seek 
ni  not  used  to  answer 


Indeed  !  Ne'er  the  less, 


[Exiuni,  Stralenheim  and  attendants  ;  Idenslein 
and  Gabor. 
IVer.  (solus).  ' T  is  he  I  I  am  tnken  in  Ihe  toils.  Before 
I  quitted  Hamburgh,  Giulio,  his  late  steward, 
Inf!)rm'd  me,  that  he  had  obtain'd  an  order 
From  Braudenbuig's  eiec;or,  for  the  arrest 
Of  Kruitzner  (such  the  name  1  then  boro;  when 
I  came  upon  the  frontier ;  Ihe  free  city 
Alone  preserved  my  freedom  —  till  1  lefl 
Its  walls  —  fool  that  I  was  lo  quit  Ihem  !    But 
I  deem'd  this  hi.mble  garb,  and  route  obscure. 
Had  baffled  the  slow  hounds  iu  their  pursuit. 
What 's  10  he  done  ?    He  knows  me  not  by  person  : 
Nor  could  aught,  save  the  eye  of  apprehension, 
H  ive  recognised  him,  afiei  t»  enly  years. 
We  met  so  rarely  and  so  coldly  in 
Our  youth.     But  those  about  him  !     Now  I  tan 
Divine  the  frankness  of  Ihe  Hungarian,  who 
No  doubt  is  a  mere  tool  and  spy  of  Slraleuheim"*, 
To  sound  and  lo  secure  me.     Without  means  ! 
Sick,  poor—  begirt  too  with  the  Hooding  rivers. 
Impassable  even  to  Ihe  wealthy,  with 
All  the  appliances  which  purchase  modes 
Of  overpowering  perils  with  men's  lives, — 
How  can  I  hope  '.    An  hour  ago  meihought 
My  stale  beyond  despair;  and  now,  'i  is  such, 
1  he  past  seems  paradise.     Another  day. 
And  I  'm  delected, —  on  the  very  eve 
Of  honours,  rights,  and  my  inheritance, 
When  a  few  drops  of  gold  might  save  me  still 
In  favouring  an  escape. 

Enter  Idenstein  and  Fri:z  in  cont>ersation. 

Fritz.  Immediately. 

Jden.  I  tell  you,  t  is  impossible. 

Fritz.  It  must 

Be  tried,  however ;  and  if  one  express 
Fail,  you  must  send  on  others,  till  the  answer 
Arrives  from  Frankfort,  from  the  commandant. 

Iden.  I  will  do  what  I  can, 

Fritz.  And  recollect 

To  spare  no  trouble  ;  you  will  be  repaid 
Tenfold. 

Ideti.  The  baron  is  retired  lo  rest  ? 

Fritz.  He  hath  thrown  himself  into  an  easy  chair 
Beside  Ihe  fire,  and  slumbers  ;  and  has  order'd 
He  may  not  be  dislurb'd  until  eleven. 
When  he  will  take  himself  to  bed. 

Iden.  Before 

An  hour  is  past,  I  'II  do  my  best  to  serve  him. 

Fritz.  Remeuit>er  !  [£itt  Fritz. 

Iden.  The  devil  take  these  great  men  I  they 

Think  all  things  made  for  Ihem.     Now  here  must  I 
Rouse  up  some  half  a  dozen  shivering  vassals 
From  their  scant  pallets,  and,  at  peril  of 
Their  lives,  despa  ch  them  o'er  the  river  towards 
Frankfort,     Meihii.ks  the  baron's  own  experience 
Some  hours  ago  might  leach  him  fellow-feeling: 
But  no,  "  it  must,"  and  there 's  an  end.    How  now  ? 
Are  you  there,  Mynheer  Werner? 

If'er.  You  have  left 

Your  noble  guest  right  quickly. 

Iden.  Yes  —  he 's  dozing. 

And  seems  to  like  that  none  should  sleep  besides. 
Here  is  a  packet  for  Ihe  commandant 
Of  Fninkfort,  at  all  risks  and  all  expenses  ; 
But  I  must  not  lose  time  :  Good  night !       [Exit  Hen 

Wer.  "  To  Frankfa  *. ! " 

So,  so,  it  thickens!    Ay,  "  the  commandant," 
This  tallies  well  with  all  Ihe  prior  steps 
Of  this  cool,  calculating  fiend,  who  walks 
Between  me  and  my  father's  house.    No  doubt 


Scene  I.J 


A   TRAGEDY. 


367 


He  writes  for  a  detachment  to  convey  me 
Into  some  secret  fortress. —  Sooner  than 

This 

[H'er7ier  looks  around,  and  snatches  up  a  knife 
lyin^  oil  a  table  in  a  recess. 

Now  1  am  master  of  myself  at  least. 
Hark, —  footsteps !    How  do  1  know  rhat  Siralenheim 
Will  w:\it  for  even  the  show  of  that  authority 
Which  is  to  overshadow  usurpation  ? 
That  he  suspects  me 's  certain.     I  'm  alone  ; 
He  with  a  numerous  train.     I  weak  ;  he  strong 
In  gold,  in  numbers,  rank,  authority. 
I  nameless,  or  involving  in  my  name 
Destruction,  till  I  reach  my  own  domain; 
He  full-blown  with  his  titles,  which  impose 
Still  further  on  these  obscure  petty  burghers 
Than  they  could  do  elsewhere.     Hark  ;  nearer  still ! 
I'll  to  the  secret  passage,  which  communicates 

With  the No  1  all  is  silent  — 't  was  my  fancy  !  — 

Still  as  the  breathless  interval  between 

The  flash  and  thunder  :  —  I  must  hush  my  soul 

Amidst  its  perils.     Yet  I  will  reiire. 

To  see  if  still  be  unexplored  the  passage 

I  wot  of:  it  will  serve  me  as  a  den 

Of  se  .'resy  for  some  hours,  at  the  worst. 

{Werner  draws  a  panel,  and  exit,  closing  it 
after  him. 

Enter  Gator  and  Josephine. 

Cab.  Where  is  your  husband  ? 

Joi.  Here,  I  thought :  I  left  him 

Not  long  »ince  in  his  chamber.    But  these  rooms 
Have  many  outlets,  and  he  may  be  gone 
Tp  accompany  the  intendaut. 

Gob.  Baron  Siralenheim 

Pit  many  questions  to  the  intendant  on 
The  subject  of  ynur  lord,  and,  to  be  plain, 
I  have  my  doubts  if  he  means  well. 

Jos.  Alas! 

What  can  there  be  in  common  with  the  proud 
And  wealthy  baron,  and  the  unknown  Werner? 

Gab.  That  you  know  best. 

Jos.  Or,  if  it  were  so,  how 

Come  you  to  stir  yourself  in  his  behalf, 
Rather  than  that  of  him  whose  life  you  saved  ? 

Gab.  I  help'd  to  save  him,  as  in  peril ;  but 
I  did  not  pledge  myself  to  serve  him  in 
Oppression.     I  know  well  these  nobles,  and 
Their  thousand  modes  of  trampling  on  the  poor. 
I  have  proved  them  ;  and  my  spirit  boils  up  when 
I  find  them  practising  against  the  weak  :  — 
This  is  my  only  motive. 

Jos.  It  would  be 

Not  easy  to  persuade  my  consort  of 
Tour  good  intentions. 

Gab.  Is  he  so  suspicious  ? 

Jris.  He  was  not  once ;  but  time  and  troubles  have 
Made  him  what  you  beheld. 

Gab.  I  'm  sorry  for  it. 

Suspicion  is  a  heavy  armour,  ana 
With  its  own  weis'ht  impedes  more  than  protec's. 
Good  night '.    I  trust  to  meet  with  him  ai  daybreak. 
iExit  Gabor. 

Re-enter  Idenstein  and  some  Peasants.    Josephine 
retires  up  the  Hall. 
First  Peasant.  But  if  I'm  drown'd  ? 
Iden.  Why,  you  will  be  well  paid  for 't. 
And  have  risk'd  more  than  drowning  for  as  much, 
I  doubt  not. 
Second  Peasant.  But  our  wives  and  families? 
Iden.  Cai.not  be  worse  off  than  Ihey  are,  and  may 
Be  befer. 

Third  Peasant.  1  have  neither,  and  will  venture. 
Iden.  That  s  right.     A  gallant  carle,  and  fit  to  be 
A  soldier,     I  'II  promote  y.iu  to  the  ranks 
I  In  the  prince's  body  guard  —  if  you  succeed  : 
i  And  you  shall  have  besides,  in  spirkling  coin, 
I  Two  thalers. 

I      Third  Peasant,  No  more ! 
I     Utn.  Out  upon  your  avarice ! 


Can  that  low  vice  alloy  so  much  ambition? 

I  tell  thee,  fellow,  that  two  thalers  in 

Small  change  will  subdivide  into  a  treasure. 

Do  not  five  hundred  thousand  heroes  daily 

Risk  lives  and  souls  for  the  tithe  of  one  thaler? 

When  had  you  half  the  sum  ?  . 

Tiiird  Peasant.  Never — but  ne'er  I 

The  less  I  must  have  three. 

Iden.  Have  you  forgot 

Whose  vassal  vou  were  born,  knave? 

Third  Peasant.  No  —  the  princcl^ 

And  not  the  stranger's. 

Iden.  Sirrah  !  in  the  prince's 

Absence,  I  'm  sovereign  ;  and  the  baron  is 
My  intimate  connexion  ;  — "Cousin  Idenstein  ! 
(Quoth  he)  you  '11  order  out  a  dozen  villains." 
And  so,  you  villains  1  troop  —  march  —  march,  I  say  ; 
And  if  a  single  dog's.ear  of  this  packet 
Be  sprinkled  by  the  Oder  —  look  to  it ! 
For  every  page  of  paper,  shall  a  hide 
Of  yours  be  stretch  d  as  parchment  on  a  drum, 
Like  Ziska's  skin,  to  beat  alarm  to  all 
Refractory  vassals,  who  can  not  effect 
Impossibilities  —  Away,  ye  earth-worms ! 

[£x.Y,  driving  them  out. 

Jos.  (coming  forward).   I   fain   would  shun  these 
scenes,  too  off  repealed, 
Of  feud.il  tyranny  o'er  petty  victims; 
I  cannot  aid,  and  will  not  witness  such. 
Even  here,  in  this  remote,  unnamed,  dull  spot, 
The  dimmest  in  the  district's  map,  exist 
The  insolence  of  wealth  in  poverty 
O'er  something  poorer  still  —  the  pride  of  rank 
In  servitude,  o'er  something  still  more  servile  ; 
Aiid  vice  in  misery  affecting  still 
A  taltei'd  splendour.     What  a  safe  of  being! 
In  Tusciny,  my  own  dear  sunny  land, 
Our  nobles  were  but  citizens  and  merchants, 
Like  Cosmo.     We  had  evils,  but  not  such 
As  these  ;  and  our  all-ripe  and  gushing  valleys 
Made  poverty  more  cheerful,  where  each  herb 
Was  in  itself  a  meil,  and  every  vine 
Raiu'd,  as  it  were,  the  beverage  which  makes  glad 
The  heart  of  man ;  and  the  ne'er  unfelt  sun 
(But  rarely  clouded,  and  when  clouded,  leaving 
His  warmth  behind  in  memory  of  his  beams) 
Mikes  the  worn  mantle,  and  IhJ  thin  robe,  lest 
Oppressive  than  an  emperor's  jewelTd  purple. 
But,  hd'e  :  the  despots  of  the  north  appear 
To  imitate  the  ice-wind  of  their  clime. 
Searching  the  shivering  vassal  through  his  rags, 
To  wi  ing  his  soul  —  as  the  bleak  elements 
His  form.     And  't  is  to  be  .-imorigst  these  sovereigns 
My  husband  pants  !  and  such  his  pride  of  birth  — 
That  twenty  years  of  usage,  such  as  no 
Father  born  in  a  humble  stale  could  nerve 
His  soul  to  persecute  a  son  withal, 
Hath  changed  no  atom  of  his  early  nature; 
But  I,  born  nobly  also,  from  my  father's 
Kindness  was  taught  a  different  lesson.     Father! 
May  thy  long-tried  and  now  rewarded  spirit 
Look  down  on  us  and  our  so  long  desired 
Ulric!     I  love  my  son,  as  thou  didst  me! 
What's  that  ?    Thou,  Werner  !  can  it  be?  and  thus? 

Enter  Werner  hastily,  with  the  knife  in  his  hand,  iy 
the  secret  panel,  which  he  closes  hurriedly  after  him. 
War.  {not  at  first  recognising  lier).  Di2Cover'd !  then 

I  '11  stab (recognising  her.) 

Ah  !  Josephine, 
Why  art  thou  not  at  rest  t 

Jus.  What  rest?    My  God  ! 

What  doth  this  mean  ? 

Wer.  (showing  a  rouleau).    Here's  gold  — gold, 
Josephine. 
Will  re-cue  us  from  this  detested  dungeon. 
Jos.  And  how  obtain'd  ? —  that  knife  ! 
Wer.  'T  is  bloodless— 1«. 

Away  — we  must  to  our  chamber. 
Jns.  But  whence  comest  tbcu  ? 

Wer.  Ask  not !  but  let  us  think  where  we  shall  go— 


368 


WERNER: 


[Act  II   I 


This  — this  will  make  us  way  —  {showing  the  gold) 
—  1  Ml  fit  them  doiv. 

Jns.  I  d  <re  noi  think  thee  guilty  of  dishonour. 

Ifer.  Dishonour! 

Jot.  I  have  said  it. 

fVer.  Let  us  hence  : 

'T  is  the  last  niehf,  I  trust,  that  we  need  pass  here. 

Jos.  And  not  the  worst,  I  hope. 

fVtr.  Hope  1  I  make  sure. 

But  let  us  to  our  chamber. 

Jos.  Yet  one  question  — 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

IVer.  (fiercely).  Left  one  thing  undone,  which 

Had  made  all  well :  let  me  not  think  of  it  1 
Away  ! 

Jos.    Alas,  that  I  should  doubt  of  thee !     lExetmt. 


ACT  11. 


A  Hall  iJi  the  same  Palace. 
Enter  Idenstein  and  Others. 

Iden.  Fine  doings!  goodly  doings!  honest  doings! 
A  baron  pillased  in  a  prince's  palace  ! 
Where,  till  this  hour,  such  a  sin  ne'er  was  heard  of. 

Fritz.  It  hardly  could,  unless  the  rats  despoil'd 
The  mice  of  a  few  shreds  of  la|jesiry. 

Iden.  Oh  !  that  I  e  er  should  live  'to  see  this  day  ! 
The  honour  nf  our  city  "s  gone  forever. 

Frttz.  Well,  but  now  to  discover  the  delinq^.ent. 
The  baron  is  determined  not  to  lose 
This  sum  without  a  seaich. 

Iden.  And  so  am  L 

Fritz.  But  whom  do  you  suspect  ? 

Iden.  '  Suspect !  all  people 

Without— within— above — below— Heaven  help  me! 

Fritz.  Is  there  no  other  entrance  to  the  chamber? 

Iden.  None  whatsoever. 

Fritz.  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

Iden.  Certain.     I  have  lived  and  served  here  since 
my  birth, 
And  if  there  wore  such,  must  have  heard  of  such, 
Or  seen  it. 

Fritz.      Then  it  must  be  some  one  who 
Had  access  to  the  antechamber. 

Ideii.  Diubtless. 

Fritz.  The  man  call'd  Werner  's  poor ! 

Iden.  Poor  as  a  miser. 

But  lodged  so  far  ofij  in  the  other  wing, 
By  which  there's  no  communication  with 
The  baron's  chamber,  that  it  can't  be  he. 
Besides,  I  bade  him  "gofid  night"  in  the  hall, 
Almost  a  mile  off',  and  which  only  leads 
To  his  own  apartment,  about  the 'same  time 
When  this  burglarious,  larcenous  felony 
Appears  to  have  been  committed. 

Fritz.  There 's  another, 

The  stranger 

Iden.  The  Hungarian  ? 

Fritz.  He  who  belp'd 

To  fish  the  baron  from  the  Oder. 

Well.  Not 

Unlikely.    But,  hold  —  might  it  not  have  been 
'  One  of  ila  suite? 

Fritz  How?     rre,  sir! 

.      liiti.  No  —  not  yow, 

'  Fjt  som^  of  the  inferior  knaves.    You  say 
The  03-:3  was  asleep  in  the  great  chair  — 
The  velvet  chair—  in  his  embrnider'd  night-gown  ; 
His  toilet  spread  before  him.  and  upon  it 
A  cabinet  wih  letters,  papers,  and 
Several  rouleaux  of  gold  ;  of  which  o»ie  only 
Has  disappear'd  :  —  the  door  unbolted,  -A-iih 
No  difficult  access  to  any. 

/Vifr.  Good  sir. 

Be  not  so  quick  ;  the  honour  of  the  corps 
Which  forms  the  baron's  household  's  unimpeach'd 


From  steward  to  scuP.ion,  save  in  the  fair  way 

Of  I  ecul  tion  :  such  as  in  accompts, 
I  Welsh's,  measures,  larder,  cellar,  but'ery, 
I  Where  all  men  take  their  prey  ;  as  also  in 

Postage  of  tellers,  gathering  of  rents, 

Purveying  feasts,  and  understanding  with 
,  The  honest  trades  who  furnish  noble  masters  : 

But  for  your  petty,  pxking,  doH  nright  thievery, 

We  scorn  it  as  we  do  board-wages.     Then 

Had  one  of  our  folks  done  it,  he  would  not 

Have  been  so  poor  a  spirit  as  to  hazard 

His  neck  for  one  rouleau,  but  have  swoop'd  all  ; 

Also  the  cabinet,  if  portable. 

I     Iden.  There  is  some  sense  in  that 

I     Fritz.  No,  sir,  be  nse 

'T  was  none  of  our  corps  ;  but  some  petty,  trivial 

Picker  and  s'ealer,  without  art  or  genius. 

The  only  question  is  — Who  else  could  have 

Access,  save  the  Hungarian  and  yourself? 
Idtv.  You  don't  mean  me  ? 
Fntz.  No,  sir  j  I  honour  more 

Your  talents 

Idat.  And  my  principles,  I  hope. 

Fritz.  Of  coune.    Bui  to  the  point :  What 's  to  be 

done? 
Iden.  Nothing  —  but  there 's  a  good  deal  to  be  said. 
We  Ml  offer  a  reward  ;  move  heaven  and  earth. 
And  the  police  (thoujh  there 's  none  nearer  thin 
Fratkfoit) ;  post  no'ices  in  manuscript 
(For  we  \e  no  printer) ;  and  set  by  my  clerk 

,  To  read  them  (for  few  can.  save  he  and  I). 

I  We  'II  send  out  villains  to  strip  beggars,  and 
Search  empty  pockets;  also,  to  arrest 
All  gipsies,  and  ill  clothed  and  sallow  people. 
Prisoners  wc  'II  have  at  least,  if  not  the  culprit; 

!  And  for  the  baron's  gold  —  if  't  is  not  found, 
At  least  he  shall  have  the  full  satisfaction 
Of  melting  twice  its  substance  in  'he  raising 
The  ghost  of  this  rouleau.    Here 's  alchemy 
For  your  lord's  losses ! 

I     Fritz.  He  hath  found  a  better. 

I     Lien.  Where? 

'     Fritz.  In  a  mo'f  immense  inheritance. 

The  late  Count  Siegendorf,  his  distant  kinsman, 
Is  dead  near  Prague,  in  his  castle,  and  my  lord 

I  Is  on  his  way  to  take  possession. 

I     Iden.  Was  there 

I  No  heir? 

I      Fritz.  Ob,  yes  ;  but  he  has  disappear  d 
Long  from  the  world's  eye,  and  perhaps  the  world. 
A  prodigal  son,  beneath  his  fathers  ban 
For  the  last  twenty  years ;  for  whom  his  sire 
Refused  lo  kill  the  fatted  calf;  and,  therefore, 
If  living,  he  must  chew  the  husks  still.    But 

,  The  baron  would  find  means  to  silence  him. 
Were  he  to  re-appear:  he  's  politic. 
And  has  much  influence  with  a  certain  court. 
Iden.  He  's  fortunate. 

Fiitz.  'T  is  true,  there  is  a  grandson, 

Whom  the  late  count  reclaim'd  from  his  son's  bands. 
And  educated  as  his  heir;  but  then 
His  birth  is  doubtful. 

I     Iden.  How  so  ? 

Fritz.  His  sire  made 

1  A  left-hand,  love,  imprudent  sort  of  marriage, 

i  With  an  Italian  exile's  dark-eyed  daughter  : 

!  Noble,  they  say,  loo  ;  but  no  match  for  such 

!  A  house  as  Siejendorfs.     The  grandsire  ill 
CoulJ  brook  the  alliance  ;  and  could  ne'er  be  brrugbt 
To  see  the  parents,  Ihoueh  he  took  the  son. 

I      Weil.  If  he  's  a  lad  of  mettle,  he  may  yet 
Dispute  your  cl<im,  and  weave  a  web  that  may 
Puzzle  your  baron  to  unravel. 

I     Fritz.  Why. 

'  For  mettle,  he  has  quite  enough  :  I'hey  say, 

_  He  forms  a  happy  mixture  of  his  sire 

'  And  grandsire's  qualities, —  impeluors  as 

I  The  former,  and  deep  as  ihe  latter  ;  out 

j  The  strangest  is,  that  he  loo  disappejr'd 

I  Some  months  ago. 

I     WtTj.  The  devil  he  did  ! 


Scene  I.] 


A  TRAGEDY. 


369 


Fritz.  Why,  yes : 

II  must  have  been  at  his  suggestion,  at 
An  hdur  so  critical  as  was  the  eve 
Of  the  old  niin's death,  h hose  heart  was  broken  by  it. 

Iden.  Was  there  no  cause  assigu'd  ? 

Fritz.  Plenty,  no  doubt, 

And  none  perhaps  the  true  one.     Some  averr'd 
It  was  to  seek  his  parents  ;  some  because 
The  old  man  held  his  spirit  in  so  siricily 
(But  that  could  scarce  be,  for  he  doled  on  him); 
A  taird  believed  he  wjsh'd  to  serve  in  war, 
But  peacfc  ijeing  m^de  soon  afier  his  departure, 
He  might  have  since  rcturn'd,  were  ihat  the  motive; 
A  fourth  set  chariiably  have  surmised. 
As  there  was  s»mething  strange  and  mystic  in  him, 
Thil  in  the  wild  exuberance  of  his  iiaiu  e 
He  had  join"d  Ihe  black  bands,  who  lay  waste  Lusatia, 
The  moui  t.iins  of  Bohemia  ;ind  Silesia, 
Since  Ihe  last  years  if  war  had  dwindled  into 
A  kind  of  general  condolliero  system 
Of  bandit  warfare;  each  troop  with  its  chief, 
And  all  against  mankind. 

Iden.  That  csnnot  be. 

A  young  heir,  bred  to  wealth  and  luxury, 
To  risk  his  life  and  honours  with  disbanded 
Soldiers  and  desperadoes. 

Fritz.  Heaven  best  knows  ! 

But  there  are  human  natures  so  allied 
Unto  Ihe  savage  love  of  enterprise. 
That  they  will  seek  for  peril  as  a  pleasure. 
I  've  heard  that  nothing  can  reclaim  your  Indian, 
Or  tame  the  tiger,  though  their  infancy 
Were  fed  on  milk  and  honey.    After  all. 
Your  Wallenslein,  your  Tilly  and  Gust^vus, 
Your  Bannier,  and  your  Torstenson  and  Weimar, 
Were  but  the  same  thing  upon  a  grand  scale ; 
And  now  that  they  are  gone,  and  peace  proclaim'd. 
They  who  would  follow  the  same  pastime  must 
Pursue  il  on  their  own  account.     Here  comes 
The  baron,  and  the  Saxon  stranger,  who 
Was  his  chief  aid  in  yesterday  s  escape, 
But  did  not  leave  Ihe  cottage  by  the  Oder 
Uutil  this  morning. 

Enter  StraUnheim  and  Ulric. 

Stral.                     Since  you  have  refused 
All  compensation,  genlle  stranger,  save 
Inadequate  thanks,  you  almost  check  even  them, 
Making  me  feel  'he  worlhlessness  of  words. 
And  blush  at  my  own  barren  gratitude. 
They  seem  so  n  ggardly,  compared  with  what 
Your  courteous  courage  did  in  my  behalf 

Ulr.  I  pray  you  press  the  theme  no  further. 

Stral.  But 

Can  I  not  serve  you  ?    You  are  young,  and  of 
That  mould  which  throws  out  heroes;  fair  in  favour: 
Brave,  I  know,  by  my  living  now  to  say  so  ; 
And  doubtlessly,  with  such  a  form  and  heart, 
Would  look  into  Ihe  fiery  eyes  of  war. 
As  ardently  for  glory  as  you  dared 
An  obscure  death  to  save  an  unknown  stranger. 
In  an  as  perilous,  but  opposite,  element. 
You  are  made  for  the  service  :  I  have  served  ; 
Have  rank  by  bir  h  and  soldiership,  and  friends. 
Who  shall  be  yours.     'T  ii  true  this  pause  of  peace 
Favours  such  views  at  present  scvntily  ; 
But 't  will  not  last,  men's  spirils  are  too  stirring; 
And,  after  thirty  years  of  conflict,  peace 
Is  but  a  petty  war,  as  Ihe  times  show  us 
In  every  forest,  or  a  mere  arm'd  truce. 
War  Will  reclaim  his  own  ;  and,  in  the  meantime, 
You  might  obtain  a  post,  which  would  ensure 
A  higher  soon,  and,  by  my  influence,  fiil  not 
To  rise.     I  speak  of  Brandenburgh,  wherein 
I  stand  well  with  the  elector  ;  in  Bohemia, 
Like  you,  I  am  a  stranger,  and  we  are  now 
Upon'its  frontier. 

Ulr.  You  perceive  my  garb 

I(  Saxon,  and  of  course  my  service  due 
To  my  own  sovere.^.     If  I  must  decline 


Your  ofler,  't  is  with  the  same  feeling  which 

Induced  it. 

Stral.        Why,  this  is  mere  usury  ! 
I  owe  my  life  to  you,  and  you  refuse 
The  acquittance  of  the  interest  of  the  debt, 
To  heap  more  obligations  on  Die,  till 
I  bow  beneath  them. 

Ulr.  You  shall  say  so  whei 

I  claim  the  payment. 

Stral.  Well,  sir,  since  you  will  not  — 

You  are  nobly  born .' 
Ulr.  I  have  heard  my  kinsmen  say  so. 

Stral.  Your  actions  show  iu    Might  I  ask  your 

name  ? 
Ulr.  Ulric. 

Stral.  Your  house's  ? 

Ulr.  When  I  'm  worthy  of  it, 

I  'II  answer  you. 

Stral.  (aside).  Most  probably  an  Austrian, 
Whom  these  unsealed  limes  forbid  to  boast 
His  lineige  on  the-e  wild  and  dangerous  f  ontiers, 
Where  the  name  of  his  country  is  abhorr'd. 

[.Sluvd  to  Fritz  and  Identtein. 
So,  sirs  1  how  have  ye  sped  in  your  researches  ? 
Id^n.  ludiffeient  well,  your  excellency. 
Stral.  Then 

I  am  lo  deem  the  plunderer  is  caught  ? 
Jden.  Humph  !  —  not  exactly. 
Stral.  Or  at  least  suspected  ? 

Iden.  Oh  !  for  that  matter,  veiy  much  suspected. 
Stral.   Who  may  he  be  ? 

Iden.  Why.  don't  you  know,  my  lord  ? 

StraL  How  should  I  ?    1  was  fast  asleep. 
Iden.  And  so 

Was  I,  and  that 's  the  cause  1  know  no  more 
Than  does  your  excellency. 
Stral.  Dolt ! 

Iden.  Why,  if 

Your  lordship,  being  robb'd,  don't  recognise 
The  rogue  ;  how  should  I,  not  being  robb'd,  identify 
The  thief  among  so  many  ?    In  the  crowd. 
May  it  please  your  excellency,  your  thief  looks 
Exactly  like  the  rest,  or  rather  better: 
'T  is  only  at  Ihe  bar  and  in  Ihe  dungeon. 
That  wise  men  know  your  felon  by  his  features; 
But  I  'II  engage,  that  if  seen  there  but  once, 
Whether  he  be  found  criminal  or  no. 
His  face  shall  be  so. 

Stral.  (to  Fritz).  Prylhee,  Fritz,  inform  me 
What  hath  been  done  to  trace  the  fellow? 

Fiitz.  Faith, 

My  lord,  not  n.uch  as  yet,  except  conjecture. 
Stral.  Besides  the  loss  (which,  1  must  own,  affects 
me 
Just  now  materially),  I  needs  would  find 
The  vilhin  out  of  public  motives;  for 
So  dexterous  a  spoiler,  who  could  creep 
Through  my  attendants,  and  so  many  peopled 
And  lighted  chambers,  on  my  rest,  and  snatch 
The  gold  before  my  scarce-closed  eyes,  would  sooo 
Leave  bare  your  borough.  Sir  Inteu'dant ! 

Ide^i.  True ; 

If  there  were  aught  to  carry  off,  my  lord. 
Ulr.  What  is  all  this? 

Stral.  You  join'd  us  but  this  morning, 

And  have  not  heard  that  I  wns  robb'd  last  night. 
Ulr.  Some  rumour  of  it  reach'd  me  as  I  pass'd 
The  outer  chambers  of  Ihe  palace,  but 
I  know  no  further. 

Stral.  It  is  a  strange  business  ; 

The  intendant  on  inform  vou  of  the  f.icts. 

Iden.  Most  willingly.    You  see 

Stral.  (impatiently).  Defer  your  tale, 

Till  certain  of  the  hearer's  patience. 
Iden.  That 

Can  only  be  approved  by  proofs.    You  see 

Stral.  (again  interrupting  him,  and  addrtuing 
Ulric). 
In  short,  I  was  asleep  upon  a  chair. 
My  cabinet  before  me,  willi  some  gold 
Upon  it  (more  than  1  much  like  to  lose, 


24 


370 


WERNER: 


[Act  H. 


Though  in  part  only) :  some  ingenious  person 

Conlrived  to  glide  Through  all  my  own  allendants, 

Besides  those  of  the  place,  and  bore  away 

A  hundred  golden  ducats,  which  lo  find 

I  would  be  fain,  and  there's  an  end.     Perhaps 

You  f  IS  I  still  am  rather  faint)  would  add 

To  yesterday's  great  obligation,  this. 

Though  slighter,  yet  not  slight,  to  aid  these  men 

(Who  seem  but  lukewarm)  m  recovering  it  ? 

Ulr.  Most  willingly,  and  without  loss  of  time  — 
{To  lotiistein.)  Come  hither,  mynheer! 

Wen.  But  so  much  haste  bodes 

Right  little  speed,  and 

Vtr.  Standing  motionless 

None ;  so  let 's  march  :  we  'U  talk  as  we  go  on. 

Wen.  But 

Ulr.  Show  the  spot,  and  then  I  "II  answer  you. 

Fntz.  I  will,  sir,  with  his  excellency's  leave. 

Stral.  Do  so,  and  take  yon  old  ass  with  you. 

Fritz.  Hence ! 

Ulr.  Come  on,  old  oracle,  expound  thy  riddle  ! 

[Exit  With  Idenstem  and  Fritz. 

Stral.  {solux).  A  stalwart,  active,  soldier-looking 
stripling. 
Handsome  as  Hercules  ere  his  first  labour. 
And  with  a  brow  cf  thought  beyond  his  years 
When  in  repose,  till  his  eye  kindles  up 
In  answering  yours.     I  wish  I  could  engage  him  : 
I  have  need  of  some  such  spirits  near  me  now, 
For  this  inheritance  is  worth  a  strugzle. 
And  ihough  I  am  not  the  mm  to  yield  without  one, 
Neither  are  they  who  now  rise  up  between  me 
And  my  desire.     The  boy,  they  say,  's  a  bold  one ; 
But  he  hath  play'd  the  truant  ih  some  hour 
Of  freakish  folly,  leaving  fortune  to 
Champion  his  claims.  Thit 'swell.  The  father,  whom 
For  years  I  've  track'd,  as  does  the  blood-hound,  never 
In  sight,  but  constantly  in  scent,  had  put  me 
To  fault ;  but  here  I  have  him,  and  that's  belter. 
It  must  be  Ae.'    All  circumstance  procbims  it  j 
And  careless  voices,  knowing  not  the  cause 
Of  my  enquiries,  still  confirm  it. —  Yes  ! 
The  man,  his  bearing,  and  the  mystery 
Of  his  arrival,  and  the  time  ;  the' account,  too. 
The  intendant  gave  (for  I  have  not  beheld  her) 
Of  his  wife's  dignified  but  foreign  aspect ; 
Besides  the  antipathy  with  which  ne  met. 
As  snakes  and  lions  shiink  bick  from  each  other 
By  secret  instinct  that  both  must  be  foes 
Deadly,  without  being  natural  prey  to  either; 
All  —  all  —  confirm  it  lo  my  mind.     However, 
We'll  grapple,  ne'ertheless.     In  a  few  hours 
The  order  comcN  from  Frankfort,  if  the  e  waters 
Rise  not  the  higher  (and  the  weather  favours 
Their  quick  abaleiueni),  and  I  '11  have  him  safe 
Within  a  dungeon,  where  he  may  avouch 
His  real  e-tale  and  name;  and  there  's  no  harm  done, 
Should  he  prove  other  than  I  deem.     This  robbery 
(Save  for  the  actual  loss)  is  lucky  also  : 
He  's  poor,  and  that 's  suspicious  —  he's  unknown. 
And  that's  defenceless.—  True,  we  have  no  proofs 
Of  guilt,— but  what  hith  he  of  innocence? 
Were  he  a  nnn  indilfeent  to  my  prospects. 
In  other  bearings,  I  should  rather  lay 
The  inculpation  on  the  Hungarian,  who 
Hath  something  which  I  like  not;  and  alone 
Of  all  around,  except  the  intendant,  and 
The  prince's  household  and  my  own,  had  ingress 
Familiar  id  the  chamber. 

Enter  Galor. 

Friend,  how  fare  you  ? 

Gah.  As  those  who  fare  w  ell  everywhere,  when  they 
Have  supp'd  and  slumber'd,  no  great  matter  how  — 
I  And  you,  my  lord  ? 

j      StraL  Belter  in  rest  than  purse: 

I  Mine  inn  is  like  to  cost  me  dear. 
I      Oab.  I  heard 

:  Of  your  late  loss ;  but 't  is  a  trifle  to 
I  Oue  of  your  order. 


Stral.  You  would  hardly  think  to, 

Were  the  loss  yours. 

Gab.  I  never  had  so  much 

(At  once)  in  mv  whole  life,  and  thfefore  am  not 
Fit  to  decide.     But  I  came  here  to  seek  you. 
Your  couriers  are  turn'd  back— I  have  ou  stripp'd  theii, 
In  my  return. 

Stral.  Tou  !  —  Why  ? 

Gab.  I  went  at  daybreak, 

To  watch  for  the  abatement  of  the  river, 
As  being  anxious  to  resume  my  journey. 
Your  messengers  were  all  check  d  like  myself; 
And,  seeing  the  case  hopeless,  I  await 
The  current's  pleasure. 

Stral.  Would  the  dogs  were  in  it  I 

Why  did  they  not,  at  least,  attempt  the  passage? 
I  order'd  this  at  all  risks. 

Gab.  Could  you  order 

The  Oder  to  divide,  as  Moses  did 
The  Red  Sea  (scarcely  redder  than  the  flood 
Of  the  swolii  stieam),  and  be  obey'd,  perhaps 
They  might  have  ventured. 

Stral.  I  must  sec  to  it : 

The  knaves  !  the  slaves  !— but  they  shall  smart  for  this. 
'  [Exit  Stralenheim. 

Gab.  (solta.)  There  goes  my  noble,  feudal,  self-will'd 
baron ! 
Epitome  of  w  hat  brave  chivalry 
The  preux  chevaliers  of  the  good  old  limes 
Have  left  us.     Yesterday  he  would  have  given 
His  lands  (if  he  haih  any),  and,  still  deirer. 
His  sixteen  quarlerings,'for  as  much  fresh  air 
As  would  have  fill'd  a  bladder,  while  he  lay 
Gurgling  and  foaming  half  way  through  the  window 
Of  his  o'erset  and  water-logg'd  conveyance  ; 
And  now  he  storms  at  half  a  doyen  wretches 
Because  they  love  their  lives  too  !     Yet,  he's  right : 
'T  is  strange  they  should,  when  such  as  he  may  put 

them 
To  hazard  at  his  pleasure.     Oh  !  thou  world  ! 
Thou  art  indeed  a  melancholy  jest !  [Exit  Gabar 

SCENE   II. 

The  .Apartment  of  Werner,  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Josephine  and  Ulric. 

Jos.  Stand  back,  and  let  me  look  on  thee  again ! 
My  Ulric  '.  —  my  beloved  1  —  can  it  be  — 
After  twelve  years  ? 

Ulr.  Mv  dearest  mother ! 

Jos.  ■  Fes !  , 

My  dream  is  realised  —  how  beautiful  I  — 
How  more  than  all  I  sigh'd  for !     Heaven  receivs 
A  mother's  thanks  —  a  mother's  tears  of  joy  ! 
This  is  indeed  thy  work  I  —  At  such  an  hour,  too, 
He  comes  not  only  as  a  son,  but  saviour. 

Ulr.  If  such  a  joy  await  me,  it  must  double 
What  I  now  feel,  and  lighten  from  my  heart 
A  part  of  the  long  debt  of  duty,  not 
Of  love  (for  that  was  neer  withheld)  — forgive  me 
This  long  delay  was  not  my  fault. 

Jos.  I  know  it, 

But  cannot  think  of  sorrow  now,  and  doubt 
If  I  e'er  felt  it,  'I  is  so  dazzled  from 
My  memory  by  this  oblivious  transport ! 
My  son ! 

Enter  Werner. 

Wtr.  What  have  we  here,— more  strangers? 

Jos.  No ! 

Look  upon  him '.    What  do  you  see  ? 

Wir.  A  stripling, 

For  the  first  time  — 

Ulr.  (ii.ce'ing).  For  twelve  long  yeart,  my  father 

Wer.  Oh,  God  I 

Jos.  He  faints ! 

IVtr.  No  —  I  am  better  now  — 

Ulric !  {Embraces  him.) 

Ulric.  My  father,  Siegendorf! 

IVcr.  {starting).  Huh  !  boy  — 

The  walls  may  hear  that  name ! 


Scene  II.] 


A   TRAGEDY. 


371 


What! 


Ulr. 

VCei.  Why,  ihen  — 

Bui  we  will  talk  of  that  anon.     Remiiuber, 
I  must  be  kno»c  here  but  as  VVeiner.     Come  ! 
Come  to  my  arms  a^in  !     Why,  thou  lijok'st  all 
I  should  have  been,  and  was  not.     Josephine  ! 
Sure  'I  is  no  father's  fondness  d.izzles  me; 
But,  had  I  seen  that  form  amid  ten  thousand 
Youth  of  the  choicest,  my  heart  would  have  chosen 
This  for  my  son  ! 
Ulr.  And  yet  you  knew  me  not ! 

IVer.  Alas  !  I  hive  had  that  upon  my  soul 
Which  makes  me  look  on  all  men  with  an  eye 
That  only  knows  the  evil  at  first  glance. 

UlT.  My  memory  served  me  far  more  fondly  :  I 
Have  not  forgotten  aught ;  and  oft-times  in 
The  proud  and  princely  halU  of— (I  Ml  not  name  Ihem, 
As  you  s.iy  that  't  is  perilous)  —  but  i'  the  pomp 
Of  your  sire's  feudal  mansion,  I  look'd  back 
To 'the  Bohemian  mountains  many  a  sunset, 
And  wept  to  see  another  day  go  down 
O'er  thee  and  me,  «  ilh  those  huge  hills  between  tts. 
They  shall  not  part  us  more. 

IVer.  I  know  not  lliat. 

Are  you  aware  my  father  is  no  more  ? 

Ulr.  Oh,  heavens!  1  left  him  in  a  green  old  age, 
And  looking  like  the  oak,  worn,  but  slill  steady 
Amidst  the  elements,  whilst  younger  trees 
Fell  fast  around  him.  'T  was  scarce  three  months  since. 
IVer.  Why  did  you  leave  him  ? 
Jos.  {embracing  Ulric).  Can  you  ask  that  question  ? 
Is  he  not  here  ? 

JVer.  True  ;  he  hath  sought  his  parents. 

And  found  Ihem  ;  but,  oh  1  hxruo,  and  in  what  state  ! 

Ulr.  All  shAll  be  betler'd.    What  we  have  to  do 
Is  lo  proceed,  and  to  assert  our  right?, 
Or  ralher  yours  ;  for  I  waive  all,  unless 
Your  father  has  disposed  in  such  a  sort 
Of  his  broad  lands  as  to  make  mine  the  foremost, 
So  that  I  must  prefer  my  claim  for  form  : 
But  I  trust  better,  and  that  all  is  yours. 

Wtr.  Have  you  not  heard  of  Straleuheim  ? 
Ulr.  I  saved 

His  life  but  yesterday  :  he's  here. 

Wer.  You  saved 

The  serpent  who  will  sting  us  all ! 

Ulr.  You  speik 

Riddles:  what  is  this  Stralenheirti  to  us? 

fVer.  Every   thing.     One   who  claims  our  father's 
lands: 
Our  distant  kinsman,  and  our  nearest  foft. 

Ulr.  I  never  heard  his  name  till  now.     The  count, 
Indeed,  spoke  sometimes  of  a  kinsman,  who. 
If  his  own  line  should  fail,  might  be  remotely 
Involved  in  the  succession  ;  but  his  titles 
Were  never  named  before  me  —  and  what  Ihen? 
His  right  must  yield  lo  ours. 

H'er.  Ay,  if  at  Prague; 

But  here  he  is  all-powerful ;  and  has  spread 
Snares  for  thy  father,  which,  if  hitherto 
He  hath  escaped  Ihem,  is  by  fortune,  not 
By  favour. 

Ulr.  Doth  he  personally  know  you  ? 

Wer.  No  ;  but  he  guesses  shrewdly  at  my  person, 
As  he  betray'd  last  night ;  and  I,  perhaps, 
But  owe  my  teinporary  liberty 
To  his  uncertainty. 

Ulr.  I  think  you  wrong  him 

(Excuse  me  for  the  phrase^;  but  Straleuheim 
i  is  not  what  you  prejud»e  him,  or,  if  so. 
He  owes  me'  somethinz  both  for  past  and  present. 
I  saved  his  life,  he  therefore  trusts  in  me. 
He  hath  been  plunder'd  loo,  since  he  came  hither  j 
Is  sick  ;  a  stranger  ;  and  as  such  mt  now 
Able  to  'nee  the  villain  who  ha  h  robb'd  him  : 
1  have  pledged  myself  to  do  so  ;  and  the  business 
Which  brought  me  he^e  was  chiefly  that :  but  1 
Have  found,  in  seirching  for  another's  dross. 
My  own  whole  treasure  —  you,  my  parents  ! 

Wer.  (agitatedly).  Who 

Taught  you  to  mouth  that  name  of  "  villain  ?" 


Ulr.  What 

More  noble  name  belongs  lo  common  thieves  ? 

Wer.  Who  taught  you  thus  to  brand  an  unknown 
being 
With  an  infernal  stigma  ? 

Utr.  My  own  feelings 

Taught  me  to  name  a  ruffian  fiom  his  deeds. 

Wer.  Who  taught  you,   long-sought  and   ill-found 
boy!  that 
It  would  be  safe  for  my  own  son  lo  insult  me? 

Utr.  I  named  a  villain.     What  is  Iheie  ;n  common 
With  such  a  being  and  my  father? 

Wtr.  Every  thing ! 

That  ruffian  is  thy  father ! 

Jof.                                   Oh,  my  son  I 
Believe  him  not  — and  yet  ! {tier  voice  falters.) 

Ulr.  (,itarts,  looks  earnef'^J  at  Werner,  and  then 
says  slowly,)  And  you  avow  it  r 

Wtr.  Ulric,  befoie  you  dare  despise  your  father, 
Learu  to  divine  and  judge  his  actions.     Young, 
Rash,  new  lo  lifej  and  reard  in  luxury's  lap. 
Is  it  for  you  to  measure  passion's  force, 
Or  misery's  temptation  ?     Wait  —  (not  long, 
II  Cometh  like  the  nigh',  and  quickly)  —  Wait !  — 
Wail  till,  like  me,  jour  hopes  are  blighted  —  till 
Sorrow  and  shame  are  handmaids  of  your  cabin; 
Famine  and  poverty  your  guests  at  table  ; 
De-pair  your  bed-fellow  — then  rise,  but  not 
From  sleep,  and  judge!  Should  that  day  e'er  arrive  — 
Should  you  see  then  Ihe  serpent,  who  ha'h  coil'd 
Himself  around  all  that  is  dear  and  noble 
Of  you  and  yours,  lie  slumbering  in  your  palh, 
Wi'h  but  his  folds  between  your  steps  and  happiness. 
When  he.  who  lives  but  to  tear  from  you  name, 
Lands,  life  itself,  lies  at  your  mercy,  with 
Chance  ynur  conductor;  midnight  for  your  mantle; 
The  bare  knife  in  your  hand,  and  earth  asleep, 
Even  to  your  deadliest  foe  ;  and  he  as  't  were 
Inviing  death,  by  looking  like  it,  while 
His  death  alone  cm  save  yu  :  —  Thank  your  God ! 
If  then,  like  me,  conlent  jvith  petty  plunder, 
You  turn  aside 1  did  so. 

Ulr.  But 

Wer.  (ahnipth)).  Hear  me  ! 

I  will  not  brook  a  human  voice  —  scarce  dare 
Listen  lo  my  own  (if  thai  be  human  slill)  — 
Hear  me  1  you  do  not  know  thi>  man —  1  do. 
He  's  mean,  deceitful,  avaricious.     You 
Deem  yourself  safe,  as  young  and  brave;  but  learn 
None  are  secure  from  desperation,  few 
From  subiilty.     My  worst  foe,  S'ralenheim, 
Housed  in  a  prince's  palace,  cnuch'd  within 
A  priixe's  chamber,  lay  below  my  knife  I 
An  instant  —  a  mere  mo'ion  —  the  least  imi  nlse.— 
Had  swept  him  and  all  fears  of  mine  from  earth. 
He  was  withiu  my  power  —  my  knife  was  raised  — 
Withdrawn  — and  I  'm  in  his:  —  are  you  not  so? 
Who  tells  you  that  he  knows  you  not  ?    Who  says 
He  hath  not  lured  you  here  to  end  you  ?  or 
To  plunge  you,  with  your  parents,  in  a  dun?eon  ? 

{He  yavMi. 
Uir.  Proceed  —  proceed ! 

Wer.  Me  he  hath  ever  known, 

And  huned  through  each  change  of  time  — name  — 

fortune  — 
And  why  not  you  ?    Are  you  more  versed  in  men  ? 
He  wound  snares  round  me ;  flung  along  my  path 
Reptiles,  whom,  in  my  youth.  I  would  have  spurn'd 


More  patient  ?    Ulric  !  —  Ulric!  —  there  are  crimes 
Made  venial  by  the  occasion,  and  temptations 
Which  nature  cannot  master  or  forbear. 

Ulr.  {.looks  first  at  him,  and  then  at  Josephine).  My 
moher  1 

0^T.  Ah  !  I  thought  so  :  you  have  now 
Only  one  parent.     I  have  lost  alike 
Father  and  son,  and  stand  alone. 

Ulr.  But  say ! 

[  Werner  rushes  out  of  the  dhambtr. 


372 


WERNER: 


[Act  II 


Jos,  (to  Ulric).  Follow  him  not,  until  this  storm  of 
pission 
Abates.     Ttiink'3l  thou,  that  were  it  well  for  him, 
I  had  not  fuUow'd  ? 

fir.  I  obey  you.  mother. 

Although  reluctanlly.     My  hrst  act  shall  not 
Be  one  of  disobedience. 

Jot.  Oh  !  he  is  ^od  ! 

Condemn  him  not  from  his  o«n  mouth,  but  trust 
To  uie,  who  have  borue  so  much  with  him,  and  for 

him, 
That  this  is  but  the  surf.ce  of  his  soul. 
And  that  the  depth  is  rich  in  better  things. 

Ulr.  These  then  are  but  my  father's  principles? 
My  mother  thinks  not  with  him  ? 

jToj.  Nor  doth  he 

TTiink  as  he  speaks.     Alas  1  long  years  of  grief 
Have  made  him  sometimes  thus.  » 

Ulr.  Explain  to  me 

More  clearly,  then,  these  claims  of  Siralenheim, 
Tha',  when  I  see  (he  >ubject  in  its  bearings, 
I  may  prepare  to  face  him,  or  at  least 
To  extricate  you  fnm  your  present  perils. 
I  pledge  myself  to  accomplish  this—  but  would 
I  had  arrived  a  few  hours  sooner! 

.Fos.  Ay ! 

Hadst  thou  but  done  so ! 

Enter  Gabor  and  Idenstei  n,  with  Attendants. 

Gab.  (to  Ulric).  1  have  sought  you,  comrade. 

So  this  is  my  reward  ! 

Ulr.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gab.  'Sdeath  !  have  I  lived  to  these  years,  and  for 
this! 
(To  fdenstein).  But  for  your  age  and  folly,  I  would 

Mat.  Help ! 

HsnJi  off!    Touch  an  intendant ! 

Gab.  Do  not  think 

I  'II  honour  you  so  much  as  save  your  throat 
From  the  Ravenstone  i  by  choking  you  myself. 

Idcn.  I  thank  you  fir  the  res|jile:'  but  there  are 
Thise  who  have  greater  need  of  it  than  me. 

Ulr.  Unriddle  this  vile  wrangling,  or 

Gab.  At  once,  then, 

The  baron  has  been  robb'd,  and  upon  me 
This  worhy  personage  has  deign'd  to  fix 
His  kind  suspicions  —  me  !  whom  he  ne'er  saw 
Till  yester'  evening, 

Id'tn.  Wouldst  have  me  suspect 

My  own  acquaintances  ?    You  have  to  learn 
That  I  keep  better  company. 

Gab.  You  shall 

Keep  the  best  shortly,  and  the  last  for  all  men, 
The  worms  !  you  hound  of  malice  ! 

[Gabor  seizes  on  him. 

Ulr.  (in-erfcring).  Nay,  no  violence  : 

He  's  old.  unarm'd  —  be  temperate,  Gabor  1 

Gab.  (letting  go  Idtnftem).  True: 

I  am  a  fool  to  lose  myself  because 
Fools  deem  me  knave:  it  is  iheir  homage. 

Ulr.  (to  Idensttin).  How 

Fare  you  ? 

Iden.        Help  ! 

Ulr.  I  have  help'd  you. 

Iden.  Kill  him  !  then 

I  'II  say  so. 

Gab.        I  am  calm —  live  on! 

1dm.  That 's  more 

Than  you  shall  do,  if  there  be  judge  or  judgment 
In  Germnny.     The  baron  shall  de-ide  ! 

Gab.  D  es  he  abet  you  in  your  accusation? 

Idcn    Does  he  not  ? 

Gab.  Then  next  lime  let  him  go  sink 

I    F.re  I  go  hang  for  snatching  him  from  drowning. 
But  here  he  comes  ! 

KntfT  SIralenheim. 
Gab.  (goes  up  to  him).  My  noble  lord,  I  'm  here! 

1  Tke    Raven«tone,  "KabensteiD,"  ie  the  ffoBe    fi64e« 
«l  Bercawj,  and  ao  called  from  the  ravens  perching  on  il. 


Stral.  Well,  sir  !  i 

Gab.  Have  you  aught  with  me  ? 

Siral.  What  should  I 

Have  wifth  you? 

Gab.  You  know  best,  if  yesterday's 

Flood  lias  not  wash'd  away  your  me'mory  ; 
But  that 's  a  trifle.     I  stand  here  accused. 
In  phraes  not  equivocal,  by  yon 
Intendant,  of  the  pillage  of  your  person 
Or  chamber  :  —  is  the  charge  your  own  or  his  ? 

S  ral.  I  accuse  no  man. 

Gab.  Then  you  acquit  me,  baron  ? 

Stral.  I  know  not  whom  to  accuse,  or  to  acquit. 
Or  scarcely  to  suspect. 

Gall.  But  you  at  least 

Should  know  whom  not  to  suspect.    I  am  insulted  — 
Oppressed  here  by  thee  menials,  and  I  look 
To  you  for  remedy  —  teach  them  their  du'y  ! 
To  look  for  thieves  at  home  were  pirt  of  it, 
If  duly  taught  ;  but,  in  one  word,  if  I 
Have  an  accuser,  let  it  be  a  man 
Worthy  to  be  so  of  a  man  like  me. 
I  am  your  equal. 

Stral.  You ! 

Gab.  Ay,  sir  ;  and,  for 

Aught  that  you  know,  superior;  but  proceed  — 
I  do  not  ask  for  hints,  and  surmises. 
And  circumstance,  and  proofs;  I  know  enough 
Of  what  I  have  done  for  you,  and  what  you  owe  me. 
To  have  at  leist  wailed  your  payment  rather 
Than  paid  myself,  had  I'been  eager  of 
Your  gold.     I  also  know,  that  were  I  even 
The  villain  I  am  deem'd,  the  service  rendcr'd 
So  recently  would  not  permit  you  to 
Pur>ue  me  to  the  death,  except  through  shame. 
Such  as  would  leave  your  scutcheon  but  a  blank. 
Bui  this  is  nothing  :  I  demand  of  you 
Justice  upon  your  unjust  servants,  and 
From  your  own  lips  a  disavowal  of 
All  sanction  of  their  insolence :  thus  much 
You  owe  to  the  unknown,  who  asks  no  more. 
And  never  thought  to  have  ask'd  so  much. 

Strnl.  This  tone 

Mav  be  of  innocence. 

Gab.  'Sdeath !  who  dare  doubt  it. 

Except  such  villains  as  ne'er  bad  it  ? 

Stral.  You 

Are  hot,  sir. 

Gab.  Must  I  turn  an  icicle 

Before  the  breifh  of  menials,  and  their  master  .» 

Stral.  Ulric  !  you  know  this  man  ;  I  found  him  la 
Tour  company. 

Gab.  We  found  you  in  the  Oder ; 

Would  we  had  left  you  there  ! 

Stral.  I  give  you  thanks,  sir. 

Gab.  I  've  earn'd  them ;    but  might  have  earn'd 
more  from  others. 
Perchance,  if  1  had  left  you  to  your  fate. 

Siral.  Ulric  1  you  know  this  man  ? 

Gab.  No  more  than  you  do. 

If  he  avouches  not  my  honour. 

Ulr.  I 

Can  vouch  your  courage,  and,  as  far  as  my 
Own  brief  connection  led  me,  honour. 

Stral.  Then 

I  'm  satisfied. 

Gab.  (ir:  nicaVy).  Right  easily,  methinks. 
What  is  the  spell  in  his  asseveration 
More  than  in  mine  ? 

Stral.  I  merely  said  tlia'  7 

Was  satisfied  —  not  that  you  are  absolved. 

Gab.  Again  !    Am  1  accused  or  no  ? 

Stral.  Go  to ! 

You  wax  too  insolent.    If  circumstance 
And  general  suspicion  he  against  you. 
Is  the  fault  mine  ?    Is 't  not  enough  that  I 
Decline  all  question  of  your  guilt  or  innocerce? 

Gnb.  My  lord,  my  lord,  this  is  mere  cozenage, 
A  vile  equivocation  ;  you  well  know 
Your  doubts  are  certainties  to  all  around  you  — 
Your  looks  a  voice  —  your  frowns  a  senttoce  j  you 


Scene  II.] 


A  TRAGEDY. 


373 


Are  pnii;fising  your  power  on  me  —  because 
Yju  have  it ;  but  beware !  you  know  not  whom 
You  strive  to  tread  on. 

Stral.  Threat'st  thou  ? 

Gab.  Not  so  much 

As  you  accuse.    You  hint  the  basest  injury, 
And  I  retort  it  with  an  open  warning. 

Slral.  As  you  have  said,  't  is  true  I  owe  yoif  some- 
thing. 
For  which  you  seem  disposed  to  pay  yourself. 

Gab.  Not  with  your  gold. 

Stral.  With  bootless  insolence. 

[To  his  Attendants  and  Idcustein. 
You  need  not  further  to  molest  ihis  man, 
But  let  him  go  his  way.     Uliic,  good  morrow  ! 

[Exit  Siratenheim,  Idenstetn,  and  Mtendants, 

Gab.  (follownig).  I  '11  after  liim  and 

Ulr.  (ilopping  him).  Not  a  step. 

Gab.  Who  shall 

Oppose  me  ? 

Ulr.  Your  own  reason,  with  a  momeni's 

Thoujht. 

Gab.      Must  I  bear  this? 

Ulr.  Pshaw  !  we  all  must  bear 

The  arrogance  of  something  higher  than 
Ourselves  —  the  highest  cannot  temper  Satan, 
Nor  the  lowest  his  vicegerents  upon  enrlh. 
I  've  seen  you  brave  the  elements,  and  bear 
Things  which  had  made  this  silkworm  cast  his  skin  — 
And  shrink  you  from  a  few  sharp  sneers  and  words? 

Gab.  Must  I  hear  to  be  deeni'd  a  thief?  If 't  were 
A  bindit  of  the  woods,  I  could  have  borne  it  — 
There  's  some'hing  daring  in  it :  —  but  to  steal 
The  moneys  of  a  slumbering  man  !  — 

Ulr.  It  seems,  then, 

You  are  not  guilty  ? 

Gab.  Do  I  hear  aright  ? 

You  too ! 

Ulr.        I  merely  ask'd  a  simple  question. 

Gab.  If   the  judge   ask'd   me,    1   would    answer 
"No"- 
Tn  vou  I  answer  thus.    {He  draws). 

Ulr.  (drnicing).  With  all  my  heart ! 

Jos.  Without  there  !  Ho  !  help  '.  help  !  —  Oh,  God  ! 
here's  murder! 

[Exit  Josephine,  shrieking. 
Oabor  and  Ulric  fisht.     Gabor  is  disarmed  just  as 

SIralenheim,  Juiephine,  Idenstein,  ^-c.  re-enter. 

Jos.  Oh  !  glorious  heaven  '.  He 's  safe  ! 

Stral.  ((0  Josephine).  Who  's  safe  ? 

Jos.  My 

Ulr.  {interrupting  her  with  a  stem  look,  ajid  turn- 
i7ig  afterwards  to  Stratenheim.)    Both  ! 
Here  's  no  great  harm  done. 

Stral.  What  hath  caused  all  this  ? 

Ulr.  You,  baron,  I  believe;  but  as  ihe  effect 
Is  harmless,  let  it  no'  disturb  you. —  Galjop' 
There  is  your  sword  ;  and  when  you  bare  it  next, 
Let  it  not  be  agiinst  your  friends. 

[Ulric  pronounces'  the  last  words  .slowly  and 
emphatically  in  a  low  voice  to  Gabor. 

Gab.  I  think  you 

Less  for  my  life  than  for  your  counsel. 

Stral.  These 

Brawls  mus'  end  here. 

Gab.  Unking  his  sword).    They  shall.     You  have 
wrong'd  me,  Ulric, 
More  with  your  unkind  th^iieh's  than  sword:  I  would 
The  last  were  in  my  bosom  rather  than 
The  first  in  yours.     I  could  have  borne  yon  noble's 
Absurd  insiniia  ions  —  ignorance 
And  dull  suspicion  are  a  part  of  his 
Entail  will  last  him  longer  ihan  his  lands. — 
But  I  may  fit  him  yet :  —  you  have  variquish'd  me. 
I  was  the  fool  of  passion  to  conceive 
That  I  could  cope  wilh  you,  whom  I  had  seen 
Already  proved  by  greater  perils  thin 
Rest  in  this  arm.     We  may  meet  by  and  by, 
Howet  sr  — but  in  friendship. 

[Exit  Gabor. 


Stral.  I  will  brook 

No  more !  This  outrage  following  up  his  inaulta, 
Perhaps  his  guilt,  has  cnncell'd  all  the  little 
I  owed  him  heretofore  for  ihe  so-vauiiled 
Aid  which  he  added  to  your  abler  succour. 
Ulric,  you  are  not  hurl  ? — 

Ulr.  Not  even  by  a  scratch. 

Stral.  (to  Idei^stein).     Inlendaiit  1  take  your  me»- 
sures  to  secure 
Yon  fellow  :  I  revoke  my  former  lenity. 
He  shall  be  sent  to  Fiankforl  wilh  an  escort, 
The  iiiblaiit  that  the  waters  have  abated. 

Iden.  Secure  him  !  He  halh  got  his  sword  again  — 
And  seems  to  know  Ihe  use  on  't ;  't  is  his  tiade, 
Belike  ;  —  1  'm  a  civilian. 

Slral.  Fool !  are  not 

Yon  score  of  va.«sals  dogging  at  your  heels 
Enough  10  seize  a  dozen  such  ?  Hence  !  after  him  ! 

Ulr.  Baron,  I  do  beseech  you  ! 

Strnl.  I  must  be 

Obey'd.     No  words '. 

Id-n.  Well,  if  it  must  be  so  — 

March,  vassals  !  I  'm  your  leader,  and  will  bring 
The  rear  up  :  a  wise  general  never  should 
Expose  his  precious  life  — on  which  all  rests. 
I  like  that  article  of  war. 

[Exit  Idenstein  and  Attendants. 

Slral.  Come  hither, 

Uliic;  what  doe;  that  woman  here  ?    Oh  !  now 
I  recognise  her,  'I  is  Ihe  stranger's  wife 
Whom  they  name  "  Werner." 

Ulr.  'T  is  his  name. 

Stral.  Indeed ! 

Is  not  your  husband  visible,  fair  dame?  — 

Jvs.  Who  seeks  him  ? 

Slral.  No  one  —  for  the  present :  but 

I  fain  would  parley,  Ulric,  wilh  yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr.  I  will  retire  wilh  ycu. 

Jos.  Not  so : 

You  are  the  latest  stranger,  and  command 
All  places  nere. 
(Aside  to  Ulric,  as  she  goes  out.)     0  Ulric!  have  a 

care  — 
Remember  what  depends  on  a  rash  word  ! 

Ulr.  (to  Joitphine).  Fear  not !  — 

[Exit  Josephine. 

Stral.  Ulric.  I  think  that  I  may  trust  you  ; 
You  sived  my  life  —  and  acts  like  these  beget 
Unbounded  confidence. 

Ulr.  Say  on. 

Slral.  Mysterious 

And  long-engender'd  circumstances  (not 
To  be  now  fully  enter'd  on)  have  made 
This  man  obnoxious  —  perhaps  fatal  to  me. 

Ulr.  Who  ?  Gabor,  the  Hungarian  ? 

Stral.  No— this"  Werner"  — 

With  the  false  name  and  habit. 

Ulr.  How  can  this  be  ? 

He  is  the  poorest  of  Ihe  poor  —  and  yellow 
Sickness  sits  caverii'd  in  hie-  hollow  eye  : 
The  man  is  helpless. 

Stral.  He  is  —  't  Is  no  matter ;  — 

But  if  he  be  'he  man  I  deem  (and  that 
He  is  so,  all  around  us  here  —  and  much 
That  is  not  here  —  confirm  my  apprehension) 
He  must  be  made  secure  ere  twelve  hours  further. 

Ulr.  And  what  have  I  to  do  wilh  this? 


Sir. 


To  Frankfort,  to  the  governor,  my  friend 
(I  have  the  authority  to  do  so  by 
An  order  of  the  house  of  Brandenburg), 
For  a  fit  escort —  but  Ihis  cursed  flood 
Bars  all  access,  and  may  do  for  some  hours. 

Ulr.  It  is  abating. 

Stral.  That  is  well. 

Ulr.  But  how 

Am  I  concern'd  ? 

Stral.  As  one  who  did  so  much 

For  me,  you  cannot  be  indifl'erent  Ic 


I  have  I 


I  That  V 


WERNER; 


[Act  III. 


=-1 


That  which  is  of  more  import  to  me  than 

The  life  you  rescued.—  Keep  your  eye  on  Aim  .' 

The  maij  avoids  me,  knows  that  I  now  know  him. — 

Watch  him  : — as  you  would  watch  the  wild  boar  when 

He  makes  ngainsl  you  in  the  hunter's  gap  — 

Like  him  he  must  be  spear'd. 

Ulr.  Why  so  ? 

Slral.  He  stands 

Betw  een  me  and  a  brave  inhei  llance  ! 
Oh  '.  could  you  see  it !    But  you  shall. 

Ulr.  I  hope  so. 

Stral.  It  is  the  richest  of  the  rich  Bohemia, 
Unscathed  by  scorcliiu?  war.     It  lies  so  near 
The  strongest  city,  Prague,  thit  fire  and  sword 
Have  skimm'd  it'  lighlfy  :  so  that  now,  besides 
Its  own  exuberance,  it  bears  doulile  value 
Confronted  wi  h  whole  realms  afar  and  near 
Made  deseits. 

Ulr.  Yon  describe  it  faithfully. 

Stral.  Ay— could  you  see  il,  you  would  say  so — but, 
As  I  have  said  you  shall. 

Ulr.  I  accept  the  omen. 

Slral.  Then  claim  a  recompense  from  it  and  me, 
Such  as  both  may  mike  worthy  your  acceptance 
And  services  to  me  and  mine  for  ever. 

Ulr.  And  this  sole,  sick,  and  miierable  wretch  — 
This  way-worn  stranger  —  stands  between  you  and 
This  Paradise  ?  — (As  Adam  did  between 
The  devil  and  hU)  —  [JlsicU.] 

Stral.  He  doth. 

U;r.  Hath  he  no  right  ? 

Stral.  Right!  none.     A  di>inlierit-jd  prndijal, 
Who  for  the-e  twenty  years  disgraced  his  lineage 
In  all  his  acts  — but  cliiefiy  by  his  marriage, 
And  living  amidst  cnmmeice-felching  burghers. 
And  dabbling  merchants,  in  a  mart  of  Jews. 

U'.r.  He  has  a  wife,  then  ? 

Stral.  You  'd  be  sorry  to 

Call  such  your  mother.    You  have  seen  the  woman 
He  calLi  his  wife. 

Ulr.  Is  she  not  so  ? 

Stral.  No  more 

Than  he's  your  father:— an  Italian  girl, 
The  daughter  of  a  banish'd  man,  who  lives 
On  love  and  poverty  w  ith  this  same  Werner. 

Ulr.  They  are  childless,  then  ? 

Stral.  There  is  or  was  a  bastard, 

Whom  the  old  man  —  the  gnndsire  (as  old  age 
Is  ever  doting)  took  to  warm  his  bosom, 
As  il  went  chilly  downward  to  the  grave: 
But  the  imp  stands  i  ot  in  my  pa'h  —  he  has  fied. 
No  one  knows  whither;  and  if  he  had  not, 
His  claims  alone  weie  too  contemptible 
To  stand.—  Why  do  you  smile? 

Ulr.  At  ynur  vain  fears: 

A  poor  man  almost  in  his  grasp  —  a  child 
Of  doubtful  birih  —  can  startle  a  grandee  ! 

Stral.  All 's  to  be  fear'd,  where  all  is  to  be  gain'd. 

Ulr.  Tiue  ;  and  aught  done  to  save  or  to  obtain  it. 

Stral.  You  have  harp"d  the  very  string  next  to  my 
heart. 
I  may  depend  upon  you  ? 

Ulr.  'T  were  to  late 

To  doubt  it. 

Stral.        Let  no  foolish  pity  shake 
Your  bosom  (for  the  apjiearance  '  f  the  man 
Is  pitiful)  —  he  is  a  wretch,  as  likely 
To  have  robb'd  me  as  the  fellow  more  suspec'ed, 
Except  that  circums'ance  is  less  against  him  ; 
He  being  lodged  far  off,  and  in  -i  chamber 
Withoril  approach  to  mine;  and,  lo  say  truth, 
I  think  too  well  of  blood  allied  lo  mine, 
To  deem  he  would  descend  to  such  an  act : 
Besides,  he  was  a  soldier,  and  a  brave  one 
Once  — though  too  rash. 

Ulr.  And  they,  my  lord,  we  know 

By  our  expeiience,  never  plunder  till 
They  knock  the  brains  out  first  — which  mnkes  them 

heirs, 
Vol  thieves.    The  dead,  who  feel  nought,  can  lose  no- 
thing. 


Nor  e'er  be  robb'd  :  their  spoils  are  a  bequest  — 
No  more. 

Stral.       Go  to  !  you  are  a  wag.     But  say 
I  may  be  sure  you  'II  keep  an  eye  on  this  man, 
And  let  me  know  his  slightest  movement  towards 
Concealment  or  escape  ? 

Ulr.  You  may  be  sure 

You  yourself  could  not  watch  him  more  than  I 
Will' be  his  sentinel. 

Stral.  By  this  you  make  me 

Yours,  and  for  ever. 

Ulr.  Such  is  my  in  ention.      [Exeun 


ACT  III. 

SCENE    I. 


A  Hall 


the  same  Palace,  from  whence  the  ttaU 
Passage  leads. 

Enter  H'einer  and  Galrnr. 
Gab.  Sir,  1  have  told  my  tale  :  if  it  so  please  yon 
To  give  me  refuge  f..r  a  fe»v  hours,  well  — 
If  not,  1  '11  try  my  fortune  elsewhere. 

Wtr.  How 

Can  1,  so  wretched,  give  to  Misery 
A  shelter  ? —  w  anting  such  myself  as  much 

As  e'er  the  hunted  deer  a  covert 

Gab.  Or 

The  wounded  lion  his  cool  cave.     Methinks 
You  rather  look  like  one  would  turn  at  bay, 
And  rip  ihe  hunter's  entrails. 
fVer.  Ah ! 

Gab.  I  care  not 

If  il  t)e  so,  being  much  disposed  to  do 
The  same  myself.     But  will  you  shelter  me  ? 
I  am  oppre^s'd  like  you  —  and  poor  iike  you  — 

fiisgraccd 

Wtr.  (abruptly).  Who  told  you  that  I  was  disgraced  ? 
Gab.  No  one ;  nor  did  I  say  you  were  so  :  v\ith 
Your  poverty  my  likeness  ended  ;  but 
1  said  /  was  so  —  and  would  add,  with  truth, 
As  undeservedly  as  you. 

Wer.  Again ! 

As  I? 

Gab.  Or  any  other  honest  mm. 
What  Ihe  devil  would  you  have?  You  don't  believe  me 
Guilty  of  this  base  theft? 

Wer.  No,  no —  I  cannot. 

Gab.  Why  that 's  my  heart  of  honour !  yon  young 
gallant  — 
Your  miserly  intendant  and  dense  noble  — 
All  —  all  suspected  me;  and  why?  because 
I  am  the  worst  clothed,  and  least  named  amongst  them ; 
Although,  w  ere  .Vlomus'  lattice  in  your  breasts, 
My  soul  might  brook  to  open  it  more  widely 
1  han  theirs  :  but  thus  il  is  —  you  poor  and  helpless  — 
Both  still  more  than  myself. 

IVer.  How  know  you  that  ? 

Gab.  You  're  right :  I  ask  for  shelter  at  the  band 
Which  I  call  helpless  ;  if  you  now  deny  it, 
I  were  well  paid.     But  you,  who  seem  to  have  prOTCd 
The  wholesome  bitterness  of  life,  know  well. 
By  sympiihy,  that  all  the  outspread  gold 
Of  the  New  World  Ihe  Spaniard  boasts  about 
Could  never  tempi  the  man  who  knoivs  its  worth 
Weigh'd  at  its  proper  v.lue  in  the  balance. 
Save  in  such  guise  (and  there  I  grant  its  power, 
Becau-e  I  feel  it,)  <s  may  leave  no  nightmare 
Upon  his  heart  o'  nights. 

Wer.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gab.  Jus'   what  I  say  ;  I  thought  my  speech  WH 
plain: 
You  are  no  thief  —  nor  I  —  and,  as  true  men, 
Should  aid  each  other. 

Wer.  It  is  a  damn'd  world,  sir. 

Gab.  So  is  Ihe  nearest  of  the  two  next,  as 
The  priests  sav  (and  no  doubt  they  should  know  belt), 
Therefore  I  '11'  stick  by  this  —  as  being  loth 


Scene  I.] 


A  TRAGEDY. 


375 


To  suffer  martyrdom,  at  least  with  such  | 

An  epitaph  as  larceny  upon  my  tomb.  , 

It  is  but  a  night's  lodging  which  I  crave  ;  I 

To-morrow  1  will  try  the  waters,  as 
The  dove  did,  trusting  that  they  have  abated. 

H^er.  Abated?    Is  there  hope  of  thai  ?  I 

Gab.  There  was 

At  noontide. 

fVer.  Then  we  may  be  safe.  I 

Gab.  Are  yuu 

Id  peril  ? 

fVtr.        Poverty  is  ever  so. 

G'lb.  That  I  Icnnw  by  long  practice.     Will  you  not 
Piomise  to  make  mine  less  ?  I 

fVer.  Voiir  poverty  ?  j 

Gab.  No— yon  don',  look  a  leech  for  that  disorder; 
I  meant  my  peril  nnly  :  you  've  a  roof, 
And  I  have  none  ;  1  merely  i^eek  a  covert. 

fVer.  Rightly;  for  how  should  such  a  wretch  as  I 
Have  gold  ?  I 

Gab.  Scarce  honestly,  to  say  the  truth  on  't,       i 

Although  I  almost  wish  you  had  the  baron's.  ' 

fVer.  Dare  you  insinuate? 

Gab.  What  ? 

TVer.  Are  you  aware 

To  whom  you  speak  ? 

Gab.  No  ;  and  I  am  not  used 

Greatly  to  care.  (A  noise  heard  without.)  But  hark  ! 
they  come ! 

fVer.  Who  come  ?  . 

Gab.  The  intendant  and  his  man-hounds  after  me  : 
I  'd  face  them  —  but  it  were  in  vain  to  expect 
Justice  at  hands  like  theirs.     Where  shall  I  go  ?  | 

But  show  me  any  place.     I  do  assure  you,  | 

If  there  be  faith  in  man,  I  am  most  gtiillless:  I 

Think  if  it  were  your  own  case  !  ] 

fVer.  {oxide.)  Oh,  just  God!  i 

Thy  hell  is  not  hereafter  !•    Am  I  dust  still  ? 

Gab    I  see  you  're  moved  ;  and  it  shows  well  in  you : 
I  may  live  to  requite  it. 

IVtr.  Are  you  mt 

A  ?py  of  Stralenheim's  ? 

Gab.  Not  I !  and  if 

I  were,  what  is  there  lo  espy  in  you  ? 
Alihough  I  recollect  his  frequent  question 
About  you  and  your  spouse  might  lead  to  some 
Suspicion  ;  but  you  best  know  —  what  —  ai!d  why. 
I  am  his  deadliest  foe. 

mr.  You  ? 

Gab.  After  such 

A  treitment  for  the  service  which  in  part 
1  render'd  him,  I  am  his  enemy  : 
If  vou  are  not  his  friend,  you  vvill  assist  me. 

iVcr.  I  will. 

Gab.  Rut  how  ? 

WeT.  (showing  the  panel).  There  is  a  secret  spring: 
Remember,  I  discover'd  it  by  chance, 
And  used  it  but  for  safety. 

Gab.  Open  it, 

And  I  win  use  it  for  the  same. 

Wir.  I  found  it, 

As  I  have  snid  :  it  leads  through  winding  walls, 
(So  thick  as  to  bear  pa  hs  within  their  ribs, 
Yet  lose  no  jot  of  strength  or  stateliness,) 
And  hollow  cells,  and  obscure  niches,  lo 
I  know  not  whither;  you  must  not  advance  : 
Give  me  your  word. 

Gab.  II  is  unnecessary  : 

How  should  I  make  my  way  in  darkness  through 
A  Gothic  labyrinth  of  unknown  winding-  ? 

fVer.  Yes,  but  who  knows  to  what  place  it  may 
lead  ? 
/know  not— (mark  you  !)— but  who  knows  it  might  not 
Lead  even  into  the  chamber  of  your  fne  ? 
So  stranzely  were  contrived  these  galleries 
By  our  Teutonic  fathers  in  old  days, 
When  man  built  less  against  the  elements 
Than  his  next  neighbour.     You  must  not  advance 
I  Beyond  the  two  first  uindings  ;  if  you  do 

(Albeit  I  never  pass'd  them),  I'll  not  answer 
I  for  what  you  may  be  led  to. 


Gab.  But  I  will. 

A  thousand  thanks! 

JVtr.  You  '11  find  the  spring  more  obvious 

On  the  other  side  ;  and,  when  you  would  return, 
It  yields  to  the  least  touch. 

Gab.  I  '11  in  —  farewell ! 

[Gabor  gocg  tn  by  the  secret  panel. 

IVer.  (solus).  What  have  I  done  ?    Alas  !  what  htut 
I  done 
Before  lo  make  Ibis  fearful  ?    Let  it  be 
S'ill  some  atonement  that  I  save  the  man. 
Whoso  sicrifice  had  saved  perhaps  my  own  — 
They  come  !  to  seek  elewhere  what  is  before  them ! 

Enter  Idenstein  and  Others. 

Idtn.  I.  he  not  here  ?    He  must  have  vanish'd  then 
Through  the  dim  Gothic  glass  by  pious  aid 
Of  pictured  sainis  upou  the  red  and  yellow 
Casements,  through  which  the  sunset  streams  like  sun- 
rise 
On  long  pearl-colour'd  beards  and  crimson  crosses, 
And  gilded  crosiers,  and  cross  d  arms,  and  cowls. 
And  helms,  and  twisted  arnnur,  and  long  swords, 
All  the  fantastic  furniture  of  windows 
Dim  with  brave  knights  and  holy  he.mils,  whose 
Likeness  and  fame  alike  rest  in  some  panes 
Of  crystal,  which  each  rattling  wind  proclaims 
As  frail  as  any  other  life  or  glory. 
He's  gone,  however. 

IVtr.  Whom  do  you  seek  ? 

Iden.  A  villain. 

Wer.  Why  need  you  come  so  far,  then  ? 

Iden.  In  the  search 

Of  him  who  robb'd  the  baron. 

IVer.  Are  you  sure 

You  have  divined  the  man  ? 

Iden.  As  sure  as  you 

Stand  there :  but  where 's  he  gone  ? 

IVer.  Who  ? 

Iden.  He  we  sought, 

Wer.  You  see  he  is  not  here. 

Iden.  And  yet  we  traced  bim 

Up  to  this  hall.     Are  you  accomplices? 
Or  deal  you  in  the  black  art  ? 

ffier.  I  deal  plainly, 

To  many  men  Ihe  blackest. 

Ide7i.  It  may  be 

I  have  a  question  or  two  for  yourself 
Hereafter  ;  but  we  must  continue  now 
Our  search  for  t'other. 

IVtr.  You  had  best  begin 

I  Your  inquisition  now:  I  may  not  be 
So  patient  always. 

Iden.  I  should  like  to  know,        , 

In  good  sooth,  if  you  really  are  the  man 
That  Stralenheini  's  in  quest  of. 
I      IVer.  Insolent ! 

Said  you  not  that  he  was  not  here  ? 
I     Iden.  Yes,  mie ; 

But  ttiere  's  another  whom  he  tracks  more  keenly 
And  soon,  it  may  be,  with  authority 
Both  paramount  to  his  and  mine.     But,  come! 
Bustle,  my  boys!  we  are  at  fault. 
I  [Exit  Idenstein  and  Mtendantl. 

IVer.  In  what 

A  maze  hath  my  dim  destiny  involved  me ! 
I  And  one  base  sin  hath  done  me  less  ill  than 
;  The  leaving  undone  one  fir  greater.     Down, 
Thou  busy  devil,  rising  in  my  heart! 
Thou  art  too  late!  I  'II  nought  to  do  with  blood. 
i  Enter  Ulfic. 

Ulr,  I  sought  you,  father. 

Wer.  Is 't  not  dangerous? 

Ulr.  No ;  Stralenheim  is  ignorant  of  all 
Or  any  of  the  ties  between  us  :  more  — 
He  sends  me  here  a  spy  upon  your  actions, 
Deeming  me  wholly  his. 

Hlr.  I  cannot  think  it 

'T  is  but  a  snare  he  winds  about  us  both, 
To  swoop  the  sire  and  son  at  once. 


376 


WERNER: 


[Act  III, 


n 


UIt.  I  canna. 

Pause  in  each  petty  fear,  and  stumble  at 
The  doubts  that  ri>e  like  briers  in  our  path, 
But  must  break  through  them,  as  an  unarm'd  carli 
Would,   though   uiih   uaked  limbs,   were  the  wolf 

rustling 
In  the  same  Ih  cket  where  he  hew'd  for  bread. 
Nets  are  for  thrushes,  eagles  are  not  caught  so : 
We  11  overfly  or  rend  them. 

IVer.  Show  me  how  ? 

Ulr.  Can  you  not  euess  ? 

W;r.  "  I  cannot. 

^  f'^''--  That  is  strange. 

Came  the  thought  ne'er  into  your  mind  last  lUght  ? 

Wir.  I  understand  you  not. 
^Ulr.  Then  we  shall  never 

More  understand  each  other.    But  to  change 
The  topic 

Wer.  You  mean  topur.«/.e  it,  as 

'T  is  of  our  safety. 

Ulr.  Right ;  I  stand  corrected. 

I  see  the  subject  now  more  clearly,  and 
Our  general  situation  in  its  bearings. 
The  waters  are  abating  ;  a  few  hours 
Will  bring  his  summon'd  myrmidons  from  Frankfort 
When  you  will  be  a  prisoner,  perhaps  wose  ' 

And  I  an  outcast,  b\stardised  by  practice        ' 
Of  this  s<me  baron  to  make  way  for  him. 

Wtr.  And  now  your  remedy  !  1  thought  to  escape 
of  this  accursed  gold  ;  but 


By. 


I  dare  not  use  it,  sh  iw  it,  scarce  look  on  it 

Melhinks  it  wears  upon  its  face  my  guilt 

For  motto,  not  the  miniase  of  the  state  ; 

And,  for  the  >overeign'3  head,  my  own  begirt 

With  hissing  snakes,  which  curl  around  my  temples, 

And  cry  to  all  beholders,  Lo  !  a  villain  1 

Ulr.  You  must  not  use  it,  at  lea^t  now ;  but  take 
This  ring.  [He  gives  IVemer  a  jeuxl. 

fVer.        A  gem  !  It  was  my  father's  ! 

Ulr.  And 

As  such  is  now  your  own.     With  this  vou  must 
Bribe  the  intendani  for  his  old  caleche' 
And  horses  to  pursue  your  route  at  sunrise, 
Together  with  my  mother. 

f^er.  And  leave  vou, 

So  lately  found,  in  peril  too? 

Ulr.  Fear  nothing ! 

The  only  fear  were  if  we  fled  together. 
For  that  would  mike  our  ties  beyond  all  doubt. 
The  waters  only  lie  in  flood  between 
This  burgh  and  Frankfort;  so  far  's  in  our  favour. 
The  route  on  to  Bohemia,  though  encumber'd, 
Is  not  impassable  ;  and  when  vou  gain 
A  few  hours'  start,  the  difficulties  will  be 
The  same  to  your  pursuers.     Once  beyond 
The  frontier,  and  you  're  safe. 

ffer.  My  noble  boy  ! 

Ulr.  Hush!  hush!  no  transports:  we '11  indulge  in 
them 
In  Castle  Siegendorf  I     Display  no  gold. 
Show  Idenstein  the  gem  (I  know  the  man. 
And  have  look'd  through  him) :  it  will  answer  thus 
A  double  purpose.     Stralenheim  lost  gold- 
No  jewel  :  therefore  it  could  not  be  his  : 
And  then  the  man  who  was  possest  of  this 
Can  hardly  be  suspected  of  abstracting 
The  baron's  coin,  when  he  could  thus  convert 
This  ring  to  more  than  Stralenheim  has  lost 
By  his  last  night's  slumber.    Be  not  over  timid 
In  your  address,  nor  yet  too  arrogant, 
And  Idenstein  will  serve  you. 

"'cr.  I  will  follow 

In  all  things  your  direction. 

Ulr.  I  would  have 

Spared  you  the  trouble;  but  had  I  appear'd 
To  take  an  interest  in  you,  and  still  more 
By  dabbling  with  a  jewel  in  your  favour, 
All  had  been  known  at  once. 

HV.  My  guardian  angel 

Tt^is  overpays  the  past.    But  how  wilt  thou 
Fare  in  our  absence  ?  I 


Ulr.  Stralenheim  knows  nothing 

Of  me  as  aught  of  kindred  with  yourself. 
I  will  but  wail  a  day  or  two  with  him 
To  lull  all  doubts,  and  then  rejoin  my  fither. 

li'tr.  To  part  no  more  ! 

Ulr.  I  know  not  that:  but  at 

The  least  we  '11  meet  again  ouce  more. 

IVer.  My  boy ! 

My  triend  I  my  only  child,  and  sole  preserver! 
Oh,  do  not  hale  me ! 

Ulr.  Hate  my  father  ! 

mr.  Ay, 

My  father  hated  me.     Why  not  my  son  ? 

Ulr.  Your  father  knew  you  not  as  I  do. 

'^er.  Scorpions 

Are  in  thy  words !     Thou  know  me  ?  in  l,his  guise 
Thou  canst  not  know  me.  I  am  not  myself: 
Yet  (hale  me  not)  I  w  ill  be  soon. 

Ulr.  imwaitt 

In  the  mean  time  be  sure  that  all  a  son 
Can  do  for  parents  shall  be  done  for  mine. 

IVer.  I  see  it,  uid  J  feel  it ;  yet  I  feel 
Further—  that  you  despise  me. 

Ulr.  Wherefore  should  I ! 

Wtr.  Must  I  repeat  my  humiliation? 

Ulr.  No! 

I  have  falhom'd  it  and  you.  But  let  us  talk 
Of  this  no  more.  Or  if  it  must  be  ever. 
Not  71010.  Your  error  has  redoubled  all 
The  present  difficulties  of  our  house. 
At  secret  war  with  that  of  Stralenheim : 
All  we  have  now  to  think  of  is  lo  baffle 
Him.     I  have  shown  one  way. 

IVer.  The  only  one. 

And  I  embrace  it,  as  I  did  my  son. 
Who  show'd  himself  and  fathers  safety  in 
One  day. 

Ulr.  You  shall  be  safe  ;  let  that  suffice. 
Would  Stralenheim's  appearance  in  Bohemia 
Disturb  your  rijht,  or  mine,  if  once  we  were 
Admitted  to  our  lauds? 

IVer.  Assuredly, 

Situite  as  we  are  now,  allhoush  (he  first 
Possessor  might,  as  usual,  prove  the  strongest, 
Especially  the  next  in  blood. 

Ulr.  Blood !  \  is 

A  word  of  many  meanings  ;  in  the  veins. 
And  out  of  them,  it  is  a  ditfereni  thing  — 
And  so  it  should  be,  when  the  same  in  blood 
(As  it  is  cali'd)  are  aliens  lo  each  other. 
Like  Theban  brethren  :  when  a  part  is  bad, 
A  feiv  spilt  ounces  purify  the  rest. 

IVcr.  I  do  not  apprehend  you. 

Ulr.  That  may  be  — 

And  should,  perhips  — and  vet- but  get  ye  ready; 

You  and  my  mother  must  avvay  to-night. 

Here  comes  the  intendant :  sound  him  with  the  gem  ; 

'T  will  sink  into  his  venal  soul  like  lead 

Into  the  deep,  and  bring  up  slime  and  mud, 

And  ooze  too,  from  the  botlom,  as  the  lead  doth 

Wi'h  its  greased  understratum  ;  but  no  less 

Will  serve  to  warn  our  ves-els  through  these  shoals. 

The  freight  is  rich,  so  heave  the  line  in  time  ! 

Farewell  !  I  scarce  have  time,  but  yet  your  hand. 

My  father ! 

IVer.  Let  me  embrace  thee ! 

Ulr.  We  may  bC 

Observed:  subdue  your  nature  lo  the  hour ! 
Keep  off  from  me  as  from  your  foe  ! 

fVer.  Accursed 

Be  he  who  is  the  stifling  cause  which  smothers 
The  l)est  and  sweetest  feeling  of  our  hearts; 
At  such  an  hour  too  ! 

Ulr.  Yes,  curse  —  it  will  ease  yov 

Here  is  the  in!endant. 

Enter  Idenstein. 

Master  Idenstein, 
How  fare  you  in  your  purpose  ?    Have  you  cai^ht 
The  rogue  ? 
Iden.        No,  faith  ! 


Scene  JL] 


A  TRAGEDY. 


377 


U 


Ulr.  Well,  there  are  plenty  more : 

You  may  have  be  ler  luck  another  chase. 
Where  is  the  baron? 

Iden.  Gone  back  to  his  chamber : 

And  now  I  think  on  '.,  asking  after  you 
With  nobly-born  imp.itience. 

Ulr.  Your  great  men 

Must  be  answer' 1  on  the  instant,  as  the  bound 
Of  the  slung  slef  d  replies  unio  the  spur  : 
'T  is  well  they  have  horses,  loo  ;  for  if  they  had  not, 
I  fear  that  men  must  draw  their  chariots,  as 
They  ?ay  kings  did  Sesostris. 

Idtn.  Who  was  he  ? 

Ulr.  An  old  Bohemim  —  an  imperial  gipsy. 

Idtii.  A  gipsy  or  Bohemian,  't  is  the  same. 
For  Ihey  pass  by  both  names.     And  was  he  one? 

Ulr.  1  've   heard   so ;  but  I  must   tke  leave.    In- 
tendant, 
Your  servan:  1 — Werner  {to  Wemer  slightly),  if  that 

be  your  name, 
Yours.  [Exit  Ulric. 

Iden.  A  well-spoken,  pretty-faced  young  man  I 
And  prettily  behaved  !     He  knows  his  station, 
You  see,  sir  :  how  he  gave  to  each  his  due 
Precedence ! 

H'er.  I  perceived  i*,  and  applaud 

His  just  discernment  and  your  own. 

Iden.  That 's  well  — 

That 's  very  well.     You  also  know  your  place,  too; 
And  yet  I  don't  know  that  I  know  your  place. 

JVer.  (sfuiwiiig  the  ring).     Would  this  assist  your 
knowledge  ? 

Weji.  How  !  —What !  —  Eh  ! 

A  jewel! 

Hir,  'T  is  your  own  on  one  condition. 

Wen.  Mine !  —  Name  it ! 

IVtr.  That  hereafter  you  permit  me 

At  thrice  its  value  to  redeem  it :  't  is 
A  family  ring. 

Iden.  A  family!  —  yours  .'  — a  gem  ! 

I  'm  breathless ! 

IVer.  You  must  also  furnish  me. 

An  hour  ere  davbreak,  with  all  means  to  quit 
This  place. 

Iden.         But  is  it  real  ?    Let  me  look  on  it : 
Diamond,  by  all  that 's  glorious  I 

WVr.  Come,  I  'II  trust  you : 

You  have  guess'd,  no  doubt,  that  I  was  born  above 
My  pie-ent  seeming. 

Iden.  I  can't  say  I  did. 

Though  this  looks  like  it :  this'is  the  true  breeding 
Of  gentle  blood ! 

ffcr.  I  have  important  reasons 

For  wishing  to  continue  privily 
My  journey  hence. 

Idin.  So  then  you  are  the  man 

Whom  Stralenheim  "s  in  quest  of? 

fTer.  I  am  not ; 

But  being  taken  for  him  mi^ht  conduct 
To  much  embarrassment  to  me  just  now, 
And  to  the  baron's  self  hereafter  —  'I  is 
To  spare  boih  that  I  would  avoid  nil  bu-IIe. 

Iden.  Be  you  the  man  or  no,  'I  is  not  my  business ; 
Besides,  I  never  should  obtain  the  half 
From  this  proud,  niggardly  noble,  who  would  raise 
The  country  for  soirie  missing  bits  of  coin. 
And  never  olfer  a  precise  reward  — 
But  this:  —  another  look  ! 

IVer,  Gaze  on  it  freely  ; 

At  day-dawn  it  is  yours. 

Iden.  Oh,  thou  sweet  sparkler ! 

Thou  more  than  stone  of  the  philosopher ; 
Thou  touchstone  of  Philosophy  herself! 
Thou  bright  eye  of  tie  Mine  !  thou  loadstar  of 
The  soul  !  the  true  magnetic  Pole  to  which 
All  hearts  point  duly  north,  like  trembling  needles  ! 
Thou  flaming  Spirit  of  the  Earth  1  which,  sitting         | 
High  on  the  monarch's  diadem,  atlractest  | 

More  worship  than  the  majesty  who  sweats 
Beneath  the  crown  which  makes  his  head  ache,  like 
Mi!'.ioi3  of  hearts  which  bleed  to  lend  it  lustre !  I 


Shalt  thou  be  mine  ?     I  am,  methinks,  already 
A  little  king,  a  lucky  alchymist!  — 
A  wise  magician,  »  ho  has'  bound  the  devi! 
Without  the  forfeit  of  his  soul.    But  come, 
Werner,  or  what  else  ? 

PVtr.  Call  me  Werner  still  j 

You  may  yet  know  ine  by  a  loftier  title. 

Iden.  I  do  believe  in  thee  :  thou  art  the  spirit 
Of  whom  i  Inng  have  dream'd  in  a  low  garb. — 
But  come,  1  'II  serve  thee  ;  thou  shalt  be  as  free 
As  air,  despite  the  waters  ;  let  us  hence  : 
1  '11  show  thee  I  am  honest  —  (oh,  thou  jewel !) 
Thou  shalt  be  furnish'd,  Werner,  w  ilh  such  means 
Of  flight,  that  if  thou  wert  a  snail,  not  birds 
Should  overtake  thee. —  Lei  me  gaze  again  ! 
I  have  a  foster-brother  in  the  mait 
Of  Hamburgh  skill'd  in  precious  stones.     How  many 
Carats  may  it  weigh?— Come,  Werner,!  will  wing 
lliee.  lExeunt. 

SCENE    IL 
Stratenheim's  Chamber. 
Strale7ihei>n  and  Fritz. 

Fritz.  All's  ready,  my  good  lord  ! 

Stral.  I  am  not  sleepy, 

And  yet  1  must  to  bed :  I  fain  would  say 
To  re  t,  but  something  heavy  on  my  spirit. 
Too  dull  t\r  wakefuliios,  too  quick  for  slumber, 
Sits  on  me  as  a  cloud  along  the  sky. 
Which  will  not  let  the  sunbeams  through,  nor  yet 
Descend  in  rain  and  end,  but  spreads  itself 
'1  wixt  earth  and  heaven,  like  envy  between  man 
And  man,  an  everlasting  niisi :  —  1  will 
Unto  my  pillow. 

Friiz.  May  you  rest  there  well  I 

Stral.  I  feel,  and  fear,  1  shall. 

Fnlz.  And  wherefore  fear  ? 

Stral.  I  know  not  why,  and  therefore  do  fear  more. 

Because  an  undescribable ^ but  'tis 

All  folly.     VVere  the  locks  (as  1  de  ired) 
Changed,  to  day,  of  this  chamber?  for  last  night's 
Adventure  makes  it  needful. 

Fritz.  Certainly, 

According  to  your  order,  and  beneath 
The  inspedion  of  m\self  and  the  young  Saxon 
Who  saved  your  life.     I   hink  they  call  him  "Ulric." 

Stral.  You  think:  you  supercilious  slave  !  what  right 
Have  you  lo  tax  your  memory,  which  should  be 
Quick,  proud,  and  happy  to  retain  the  name 
Of  him  who  saved  your  master,  as  a  litany 
Who^e  daily  repetition  marks  your  duty  ? — 
Get  heiice  !  "  You  Ihinh,^'  indeed  I  you,  who  stood  still 
Howling  and  drippling  on  the  bank,  whilst  I 
Lay  dying,  and  the  stranger  dash'd  aside 
The  roaring  lorrent,  and  restored  me  to 
Thank  him  — and  despise  you.    "you  think!" and 

scarce 
Can  recollect  his  name!  I  wi):   lot  nas'e 
More  words  on  you.     Call  me  betimes. 

Fritz.  Good  night ! 

I  trust  to-morrow  will  restore  your  brdship 
To  renovated  strength  and  temper. 

[The  seme  dote*. 

SCENE  in. 
The  secret  Passage. 
Gab  (sohis).  Four  — 

Five  —  six  hours  have  I  counted,  like  the  guard 
Of  outposts  on  the  never-merry  clock  i 
That  hollow  tongue  of  lime,  whijh,  even  when 
It  sounds  for  joy,  lakes  something  from  enjoyment 
With  every  cl  mg.    'T  is  a  perpetual  knell. 
Though  for  a  marriage-feast  it  rings  :  each  stroke 
Peals  for  a  hope  the  less  ;  the  funeral  note 
Of  Love  deep-buried  wiihout  resurrection 
In  the  grave  of  Possession  ;  while  the  knoH 
Of  lonslived  parents  finds  a  jovial  echo  ' 

To  triple  Time  in  the  son's  ear.  1 

I  -m  cold 


32  • 


378 


WERNERi 


[Act  ill   •. 


1  'm  dark  ;  —  I  've  Idown  my  fingers  --  numbered  o'er 

And  o'er  my  steps  —  nnd  kiiock'd  my  he.id  against 

Some  fifty  buttresses  —  and  roused  tbe   its 

And  bats  iii  geiiejal  insiirrec'ion,  till 

Tbeir  cursed  patterin;  feet  and  whiiling  wings 

Lcive  me  scarce  hearing  for  another  sound. 

A  light  I  It  is  at  distance  (If  I  can 

Measure  in  darkness  distance) :  but  it  bir  iks 

As  through  a  crevice  or  a  key-hoSe,  in 

The  inhibited  direction  :  I  must  on, 

Nevertheless,  from  curiosity. 

A  distant  lanip-light  is  an  incident 

In  such  a  den  as  'his.     Pny  Heaven  it  lead  me 

To  nothing  that  may  tempt  me  '  Else — Heaven  aid  me 

To  obtain  or  to  escape  it  1  Shining  still ! 

Were  it  the  star  of  Lucifer  himself. 

Or  be  himself  girt  with  its  benms,  I  could 

Contain  no  lunger.     Softly  :  mighty  well ! 

That  corner 's  turn'd  —  so  —  ah  1  no ;— right !  it  dravv's 

Nearer.     Here  is  a  darksome  angle  —  so, 

That 's  weither'd.  —  Let  nie  pause.  —  Suppose  it  leads 

Into  some  greater  danger  than  that  which 

I  have  esc  iped  —  no  matter,  't  is  a  new  one ; 

And  novel  perils,  like  fresh  mistresses. 

Wear  more  magnetic  aspects  :  — I  will  on, 

And  be  it  where  it  may  —  I  have  my  digger. 

Which  may  protect  me  at  a  pinch.—  Burn  still, 

Thou  little  light  1  Tb<>u  art  my  ignis  fatuus! 

My  stationary  Will-o'-the-wisp  !  —  So  1  so ! 

He  hears  my  invocation,  and  fails  not. 

[The  scene  closes. 

SCENE  IV. 


Enter  Werner. 
I  co'ild  not  sleep  —  and  now  the  hour 's  at  hand  ; 
Ail 's  ready.     Idenstein  has  kept  his  word  ; 
And  stalion'd  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Upon  the  forest's  edge,  the  vehicle 
Awaits  us.     Now  the  dwindling  stars  begin 
To  pale  in  heaven  ;  and  for  the  last  time  I 
Look  on  these  horrible  walls.    Oh  !  never,  never 
Shall  I  forget  them.     Here  I  came  most  poor. 
But  not  dishonour'd:  and  I  leave  them  with 
A  slain, —  if  not  upon  my  name,  yet  in 
My  heart  !  —  a  never-dying  canker-worm, 
Which  all  the  coming  splendour  of  tbe  lands, 
And  rights,  and  sovereignty  of  Siegendorf 
Can  scarcely  lull  a  moment.     I  must  find 
Some  means  of  restitu'ion,  w  hich  would  ease 
My  soul  in  part :  but  how  without  discovery  ?  — 
It  must  be  done,  however;  and  I  "11  pause 
Upon  the  method  the  first  hour  of  safely. 
The  madness  of  my  misery  led  to  this 
Base  infamy;  repentance  iiiust  retrieve  it: 
I  will  have  nought  of  Stralenlieira"s  upon 
My  spirit,  though  he  would  grasp  all  of  mine ; 
Linds,  freedom,  life,— and  yet  he  sleeps  as  soundly, 
Perhaps,  as  infancy,  with  gorgeous  curtains 
Spre-id  for  his  canopy,  o'er  silken  pillows. 

Such  as  when Hark  :  what  noise  is  that  ?  Agnin  ! 

The  branches  shake  ;  and  some  loose  stones  have  fallen 
From  yonder  terrace. 

[Ulric  leaps  down  from  the  terrace. 
Ulric  !  ever  welcome  ! 
Thrice  welcome  now  !  Ibis  filial 

Utr.  Stop!  Before 

We  approach,  tell  me 

IVtr.  Why  look  you  so  ? 

Utr.  Do  I 

Behold  my  father,  or 

Wtr.  What  ? 

Ulr.  An  assassin  ? 

IVer.  Insane  or  insolent ! 

Ulr.  Reply,  sir,  as 

Ton  prize  your  life,  or  mine ! 

(Ver.  To  what  must  I 

Answer? 

17b-.        Are  vou  or  are  you  not  the  assassin 
Of  Stralenheim'? 


Wer.  I  never  was  as  yet 

The  murderer  of  any  man.     What  mean  yon  ? 

Ulr.  Did  not  you  this  night  (is  the  night  before 
Retrace  the  s-ecret  passige  ?    Did  you  not 

,igain  revisi:  Stralenbeiiu's  chamber?  and 

[Ulric  pauM. 
Wer.  Proceed. 

Uir.  Died  he  not  by  your  hand  ? 

Wo".  Great  Go  I! 

Ulr.  Vou  are  innocent,  then  !  my  father's  innocent ! 

Embrace  me '.  Yes,— your  tone— your  look— yes,  yes 

Yet  say  so.  j  -^  j    . 

Wtr.  If  I  e'er,  in  heart  or  mind. 

Conceived  deliberately  such  a  ihought. 
But  rather  strove  to  tiample  back  to  hell 
Such  thoughts-  if  eer  they  glared  a  moment  through 
The  irritation  of  my  oppressed  spirit  — 
May  heaven  be  shut  for  ever  from  my  hopes, 
As  from  mine  eyes  1 

Ulr.  But  Stralenheim  is  dead. 

Wtr.  'T  is  horrible  !  't  is  hideous,  as  't  is  hateful  !— 
But  what  have  I  to  do  with  lliis.> 

Ulr.  No  bolt 

Is  forced  ;  no  violence  can  be  delected, 
Save  on  his  body.     Part  of  his  ow  n  hou-ehold 
Have  been  alarm 'd  ;  but  as  the  inlendant  is 
Absent,  I  took  u|  on  myself  the  care 
Of  mustering  the  police.     His  chamber  has. 
Past  donbl,  been  enler'd  secretly.     Excuse  me. 

If  naiufe 

Wir.  O's  mv  boy!  what  unknown  woes 

Of  dark  fatality  like  clouds,  are  gathering 
Above  our  house ! 

Ulr.  My  father !  I  acquit  you  ! 

But  will  the  world  do  so  ?  w  ill  even  the  judge, 

If But  you  must  away  this  instant. 

Wer.  No ! 

I  '11  face  it.  Who  shall  dare  suspect  me  ? 
i      Ulr.  Yet 

Vou  had  710  guests  —  no  visiters—  no  life 
Breathing  around  you,  save  my  mothers? 
I      Wtr.  Ah! 

i  The  Hungarian  ! 

I     Ulr.  He  is  gone  !  he  disappeared 

Ere  sunset. 

Wer.        No  ;  I  hid  him  in  that  very 
ConceaI'd  and  fatal  gallery. 
I     Ulr.  TAcrel'lI  findhim. 

I  [Ulric  is  going. 

I      Wer.  It  is  too  late  :  he  had  left  tbe  palace  ere 
I  quitted  it.     I  found  the  stcret  panel 
Open,  and  the  doors  w  hich  lead  from  that  hall 
Which  masks  it :  I  but  thought  he  had  snatch'd  the 

silent 
And  favourable  moment  to  escape 
The  myrmidons  of  Idenstein,  who  viere 
Dogging  him  yesler-even. 

Ulr.  Ton  reclosed 

The  panel  ? 

1      Wer.  Yes ;  and  not  without  reproach 

(And  inner  trembling  for  the  avoided  peril) 
At  his  dull  heedlessness,  in  leaving  thus 
His  shel  erei's  asylum  to  the  risk 
Of  a  discovery. 
I      Ulr.  You  are  sure  you  closed  it  ? 

Wer.  Certain. 
I      Ulr.  That  "s  well  ;  but  had  been  better,  if 

I  Y'ou  ne'er  had  turn'd  it  to  a  den  for [He  pautt*. 

'      Wer.  Thieves ! 

Thou  wouldst  say :  I  must  bear  it,  and  deserve  it ; 

But  not 

Ulr.        No,  ftither  ;  do  not  speak  of  this : 
This  is  no  hour  to  think  of  petty  crimes. 
But  o  prevent  the  consequence  of  great  ones. 
Whv  would  you  shelter  this  man  ? 
I      Wer.  Could  I  shun  K  ? 

A  man  pursued  by  my  chief  foe ;  disgraced 
For  my  own  crime  ;  a  victim  to  my  safety, 
Imploring  a  few  hours'  concealment  from 
The  very  wretch  who  was  the  cause  he  needed 


Scene  IV.] 


A   TRAGEDY. 


379 


Such  refuge.     Had  he  been  a  wolf,  I  could  not 
Have  ill  such  circumslances  thrust  hiin  forth. 

Ulr.  And  like  the  wolf  he  haih  repiid  you.    But 
It  is  too  lale  to  ponder  thus  :  —  you  must 
Set  out  ere  dawn.     I  will  remain  here  to 
Trace  the  murderer,  if  't  is  possible. 

^Ttr.  Bui  this  my  sudden  flight  will  give  the  Moloch 
Suspicion  :  two  new  viclims  in  llie  lieu 
Of  one,  if  I  remain.     The  fled  Hungarian, 
Who  seems  the  culprit,  and 

Vlr.  Who  seem*  .*•  fVhoe\s& 

Can  be  so  ? 

Wer.         Not  /,  though  just  now  you  doubted  — 
You,  my  son !  —  doubted 

Ulr.  And  do  you  doubt  of  him 

The  fugitive? 

W-tr.  Boy  !  since  I  fell  into 

The  abyss  of  crime  (though  not  of  such  crime),  I, 
Having  seen  the  innocent  oppress'd  for  me, 
May  doubt  even  of  the  guil  y's  guilt.     Tour  heart 
Is  free,  and  quick  wiih  vir  uous  wrath  to  accuse 
Appearances;  and  views  a  criminal 
In  Innocence's  shadow,  it  may  be, 
Because  't  is  dusky. 

Ulr.                        And  if  I  do  so. 
What  will  mnnkind,  who  know  you  not,  or  knew 
But  to  oppress  ?    You  must  not  stand  the  hazard. 
Away  !  —  I  '11  make  all  essy.     Idenstein 
VVill  for  his  own  sake  and  his  jewel's  bold 
His  peace  —  he  also  is  a  partner  in 
Your  flight  —  moreover 

IVer.  Fly  !  and  leave  my  name 

Link'd  with  the  Hungarian's,  or  preferr'd  as  poorest. 
To  bear  the  brand  of  bloodshed  ? 

Ulr.  PshTw  !  leave  any  thing 

Except  our  fathers'  sovereignty  and  casties, 
For  which  you  have  so  long  panted  and  in  vain  ! 
What  name?  You  have  no  name, since  that  you  bear 
Is  feign'd. 

fVer.        Most  true  :  but  still  I  would  not  have  it 
Engnved  in  crimson  in  men's  memories. 

Though  in  this  most  obscure  abode  of  men 

Besides,  the  search 

Ulr.  I  will  provide  against 

Aught  thit  can  touch  you.     No  one  knows  you  here 
As  heir  of  Siegendorf:  if  Iden-itein 
Suspects,  't  is  iut  nispicion,  and  he  is 
A  fool  :  his  folly  shall  have  such  eniplovment, 
Too,  that  the  unknown  Wen.er  shall  give  way 
To  nearer  thoughts  of  self.     The  l.>ws  (if  e'er 
Lsws  reach'd  this  village)  are  all  in  abeyance 
With  the  lale  general  wir  of  thirty  years, 
Or  crush'd,  or  rising  slowly  fVom  the  dwit, 
To  which  the  ma.'ch  of  armies  trampled  them, 
Stralenheim,  although  noble,  is  unheeded 
Htre,  save  as  such —  without  lands,  influence. 
Save  what  hath  perish'd  with  him.     Few  prolong 
A  week  beyond  their  funeral  rites  their  sway 
O'er  men,  unless  by  relatives,  whose  interest 
Is  rou.sed  :  such  is  not  here  the  case  ;  he  died 
Alone,  unknown, —  a  solitary  grave. 
Obscure  as  his  deserts,  wilhoul'a  scutcheon, 
Is  all  he  'II  have,  or  wants.     If  /discover 
The  assassin,  't  will  be  well  —  if  not,  believe  me, 
None  else ;  though  all  the  full-fed  train  of  menials 
May  howl  above  his  ashes  (as  they  did 
Around  him  in  his  danger  on  the  Oder), 
Will  no  more  stir  a  finger  now  than  then. 
Hence  !  hence  !  I  must  not  hear  your  answer.— Look  ! 
The  stars  are  almost  faded,  and  the  grey 
Begins  to  grizzle  the  black  air  of  night. 
You  shall  not  answer  :  —  Pardon  me  that  I 
Am  peremptory  ;  't  is  your  son  that  speaks. 
Your  long-lost,  late  found  son.—  Let 's  call  my  mother  1 
Softly  and  swiftly  step,  and  leave  the  rest 
To  me :  I  'II  answer  for  the  event  as  far 
As  regards  you,  and  that  is  the  chief  point, 
As  my  first  duty,  which  shall  be  observed. 
We'll  meet  in  Castle  Siegendorf — once  more 
Our  banners  shall  be  glorious  !     Think  of  that 
Alone,  and  leave  all  other  thoughts  to  me, 


Whose  youth  may  better  battle  with  them. —  Hence! 
And  may  >our  age  be  happy  !  —  I  will  kiss 
My  mother  once  more,  then  Heaven's  speed  be  with 
you ! 

IVer.  This  counsel 's  safe  —  but  is  it  honourable? 

Ulr.  To  save  a  father  is  a  child's  chief  honour. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE    I. 

A  Gothic  Hall  m  the  Castle  of  Siegendorf,  ntat 
Prague. 

Enter  Eric  and  Henrich,  Retainers  of  the  Count, 

Eric.  So,  better  times  are  come  at  last ;  to  these 
Old  Wills  new  masters  and  high  wa-ssail  — both 
A  long  desideratum. 

Hen.  Yes,  for  masters. 

It  might  be  unto  those  who  long  for  novelty. 
Though  made  by  a  new  grave:  but  as  for  waasajl, 
Methinks  the  old  Count  Siegendorf  mainlain'd 
His  feudal  hospitality  as  high 
As  e'er  another  prince  of  the  empire. 

Eric.  Why, 

For  the  mere  cup  and  trencher,  we  no  doubt 
Fared  passing  well  ;  but  as  for  merriment 
And  sport,  without  which  salt  and  sauces  season 
The  cheer  but  scantily,  our  sizings  were 
Even  of  the  narrowest. 

Hen.  The  old  count  loved  not 

The  roar  of  revel  ;  are  you  sure  that  this  does? 

Eric.  As  yet  he  hath  been  courteous  as  he 's  boon- 
teous. 
And  we  all  love  him. 

Hen.  His  reign  is  as  yet 

Hardly  a  year  o'erpast  its  honey -moon. 
And  the  first  year  of  sovereigns  is  bridal 
Anon,  we  shall  perceive  his  real  sway 
And  moods  of  mjnd. 

Eric.  Pray  Heaven  he  keep  the  present ! 

Then  his  brave  son,  Count  Ulric—  there's  a  knight! 
Pily  the  wars  are  o'er  ! 

Heti.  Why  so  ? 

Eric.  Look  on  him ! 

And  answer  that  yourself. 

Hen.  He  's  very  youthful, 

And  strong  and  beautiful  as  a  young  tiger. 

Eric.  That 's  not  a  faithful  vassal's  likeness. 

Hen.  But 

Perhaps  a  true  one. 

i;ric.  Pity,  as  I  said. 

The  wars  are  over  :  in  the  hall,  who  like 
Count  Ulric  for  a  well  supported  pride. 
Which  awes,  but  ye'  offends  not  ?  in  the  field, 
Who  like  him  with  his  spear  in  hand,  when,  gnashing 
His  tusks,  and  ripping  up  from  right  to  left 
The  howling  hounds,  the  boar  makes  for  the  thicket? 
Who  backs  a  horse,  or  bears  a  hawk,  or  wears 
A  sword  like  him?  Whose  plume  nods  knighHier? 

Hen.  No  one's,  I  grant  you.     Do  not  fear,  if  «'ar 
Be  long  in  coming,  he  is  of  that  kind 
Will  make  it  for  himself,  if  he  hath  not 
Already  done  as  much. 

£ric.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Htn.  You  can't  deny  his  train  of  followers 
(But  few  our  native  fellow  vafsals  born 
On  the  domain)  are  such  a  sort  of  knaves 
As (Pauies.) 

Eric.  What  ? 

Hen.  The  war  (you  love  so  much)  leaves  living. 
Like  o'her  parents,'  she  spoils  her  worst  children. 

£rrc.  Nonsense!    they  are  all   brave  irou-visagei 
fellows. 
Such  as  old  Tilly  loved. 

Hen.                              And  who  loved  Tilly  ? 
Ask  that  at  Magdebourg  — or  for  that  matter 
Wallenstein  either;  -they  ure  gone  to 


380 


WERNER! 


[Act  IV. 


Eric.  Rest ! 

But  wbit  beyond  'I  is  not  ours  to  pronounce. 

Hen.  I  wish  Ihey  had  left  us  soniethlne  of  their  rest : 
The  coun'ry  ^nominally  now  at  peace) 
Is  over-run  with  —  God  knows  who  :  'hey  fly 
Py  nieht,  and  disippear  with  sunrise  ;  but 
Leave  us  n"  less  desohtjnn,  nay,  even  more, 
Than  the  most  ope7i  warfare. 

Eric.  But  Count  Ulric  — 

What  has  all  this  to  do  with  him  ? 

Hen.  Wilhftini.' 

He miglit  prevent  it.     As  ynu  sny  he 's  fond 

Of  war,  why  makes  he  it  not  on  those  marauders? 

Eric  You 'd  better  ask  himself. 

Hen.  I  would  as  soon 

Ask  the  lion  why  he  laps  not  milk. 

Eric.  And  here  he  comes  '. 

Hen.  The  devil  ;  you  'II  hold  your  tongue  ? 

Eric.  Why  do  you  turn  so  pale  ? 

He7U  'T  is  nothing  — but 

Be  silent. 

Eric        I  will,  upon  what  you  have  said. 

Hen.  I  assure  you  I  meant  nothing, —  a  mere  sport 
Of  words,  no  more;  besides,  had  it  been  oiherwise, 
He  is  to  esp^use  the  eenlle  Baroness 
Ida  of  Stralenheim,  the  late  baron's  heiress; 
And  she,  no  doubt,  will  soften  w  hatsoe'er 
Of  fierceness  the  late  long  intestine  wars 
Have  given  all  natures,  and  most  unto  those 
Who  were  born  in  them,  and  bred  up  U|)on 
The  knees  of  Homicide  ;  sprinkled,  as  it  were, 
With  blond  even  at  their  baptism.     Prithee,  peace 
On  all  that  I  have  said! 

Enter  Ulric  and  Rodolph. 

Good  morrow,  count. 

Ulr.  Good  morrow,  worthy  Heniick.    Eric,  is 
All  ready  for  the  chae? 

Eric  T?ie  dogs  are  order'd 

Down  to  the  forest,  and  the  vassals  out 
To  beat  the  bushes,  and  the  Aiy  looks  promising. 
Shall  I  call  forth  your  excellency's  suite? 
What  courser  vviil  you  please  to  mount  ? 

Ulr.  The  dun, 

Welslein. 

Eric.  I  fear  he  scarcely  has  recover'd 
The  toils  of  Monday  :  't  was  a  noble  chase  : 
You  spear'd  four  with  your  own  liaud. 

Ulr.  True,  good  Eric; 

I  had  forgotten  —  let  it  be  the  grey,  then. 
Old  Ziska  :  he  has  not  been  out  itiis  fortnight. 

Eric.  He  shall  be  straight  caparison'd.     How  many 
Of  your  immediate  retainers  jhall 
Escort  you  ? 

Ulr.  I  leave  that  to  Weilburgh,  our 

Master  of  the  horse.  [Exit  Eric 

Rodolph ! 

Rod.  Mv  lord ! 

Ulr.  Tlie  news 

Is  awkward  from  ihe— (Rodolph  points  to  Henrich.) 

How  now,  Henrick  ?  why 
Loiter  you  here  ? 

Hen.  For  your  commands,  my  lord. 

Ulr.  Go  to  my  father,  and  present  my  duty, 
And  learn  if  he  would  aught  with  me  before 
I  mount.  [Exit  Henrich. 

Rodolph,  our  friends  have  had  a  check 
Upon  the  frontiers  of  Fraiicouia,  and 
'T  is  rumoiir'd  that  the  column  sent  ajainst  them 
Is  to  be  strengthen 'd.     I  must  join  them  soon. 

Rod.  Best  viait  for  further  and  more  sure  advices. 

Ulr.  I  mean  it  —  and  indeed  it  could  not  »vell 
Have  fillen  out  at  a  lime  more  opposite 
To  all  mv  plans. 

Rod.  It  will  be  difficult 

To  excuse  your  absence  (o  (he  count  your  father. 

Ulr.  Yes,  but  the  unsettled  stale  of  our  domain 
In  hieh  Silesia  will  permit  and  cover 
My  journey.     In  the  mean  time,  when  we  are 
£ogaged  in  the  chase,  draw  off  the  eighty  men 


Whom  Wolffe  leads  —  keep  the  forests  on  your  ronw : 
You  know  it  well  ? 

Rod.  As  well  as  on  that  night 

When  we 

Ulr.  We  will  not  speak  of  that  until 

We  can  repeat  the  same  with  like  success : 
And  when  you  have  join'd,  give  Rosenberg  this  letter. 
[Gives  a  Utter. 
Add  further,  that  I  have  sent  this  slieht  addition 
To  our  force  with  you  and  Wolffe,  as  herald  of 
My  coming,  though  I  could  but  spare  them  ill 
At  this  time,  as  my  father  loves  to  keep 
Full  numbers  of  retainers  round  the  casHe, 
Until  this  marriage,  and  ils  fe  sts  and  fooleries, 
Ate  rung  out  with  ils  peal  of  nuptial  nonsense. 

Rod.  1  thought  you  loved  the  l^dy  Ida  ? 

Ulr.  "  Why, 

j  I  do  so  — but  it  follows  not  from  that 
j  I  would  bind  in  my  youth  and  glorious  years, 
So  brief  and  burning,  with  a  lady's  zone. 
Although  't  were  that  of  Venus :  —  but  I  love  her, 
As  woman  should  be  loved,  fairly  and  solely. 

Rod.  And  constantly  ? 

Uir.  I  think  so  ;  for  I  love 

Nought  else. —  But  I  have  not  the  lime  to  pause 
Upon  these  gewgaws  of  the  heart.  Great  things 
We  have  to  do  ere  long.  Speed  '.  speed  !  good  Rodolph ! 

Rod.  On  my  leturn,  however,  1  shairtind 
The  Baroness  Ida  lost  in  Countess  Siegendorf  ? 

Ulr.  Perhaps  my  father  wishes  it;  and  sooth, 
'T  is  no  bad  policy:  this  union  with 
The  last  bud  of  the  rival  branch  at  once 
Unites  the  future  and  destroys  the  past. 

Rod.  Adieu. 

Ulr.  Yet  hold  —  we  had  better  keep  together 

Until  the  chase  begins  ;  then  draw  Ihou  off, 
And  do  as  I  have  said. 

Rod.  I  will.     Bui  lo 

Return  —  't  was  a  most  kind  act  in  the  count 
Your  father  to  send  up  lo  Konigsberg 
For  this  fair  orphan  of  the  baron,  and 
To  hail  her  as  his  daughter. 

Ulr.  Wondrous  kiDu ! 

Especially  as  little  kindness  till 
Then  grew  between  them. 

Rod.  The  late  baron  died 

Of  a  feier,  did  he  not  ? 

Ulr.  How  should  I  know? 

Rod.  I  have  heard  it  whisper'd  there  was  something 
strange 
About  his  death  — and  even  the  place  of  it 
Is  scarcely  known.  , 

Ulr.  Some  obscure  village  on 

The  Saxon  or  Silesian  frontier. 

Rod  He 

Has  left  no  testament  —  no  farewell  words  ? 

Ulr.  I  am  neither  confessor  nor  notary, 
So  cannot  say. 

Rod.  Ah  !  here 's  the  lady  Ida. 

Enter  Ida  Stralenheim. 

Ulr.  You  are  early,  my  sweet  cousin ! 

Ida.  Not  too  early, 

Dear  Ulric,  if  I  do  not  interrupt  you. 
Why  do  you  call  me  "  cousin  ?  " 

Ulr.  (.miiline).  Are  we  not  SO? 

Ida.  Yes,  but  I  do  not  like  the  name  ;  methinks 
It  sounds  so  cold,  as  if  you  thought  upon 
Our  pedisree,  and  only'weigh'd  our  blood. 

Ulr.  (starting).  Blood ! 

Ida.  Why  does  yours  start  from  your  cheeks  ? 

Ulr.  Ayldolbit? 

Ida.  It  doth  —  but  no  !  it  rushes  like  a  torrent 
Even  to  your  brow  again. 

Uir.  {ricwering  himself).    And  if  it  fled, 
It  only  was  because  your  presence  sent  it 
Back  to  mv  heart,  w'hich  beats  for  you,  sweet  cousin  ! 

Ida.  "Cousin"  again  ! 

Ulr.  Nay,  then,  I  'II  cill  you  sister. 

Ida.  I  like  that  name  still  worse.— Would  we  had 
Been  aught  of  kindred  !  (netr 


Scene  I.] 


A   TRAGEDY. 


381 


Ulr.  {gloomily^.  Would  we  never  had  ! 

Ida.  Oh,  heavens !  and  can  yt.u  wish  that  ? 

Ulr.  Dearesl  Ida ! 

Did  I  nol  echo  your  own  wish  ? 

Ida.  Yes,  Illric, 

Rut  then  I  wish'd  it  not  with  such  a  glance, 
^nd  scarce  knew  what  I  siid  ;  but  let  me  be 
Sister,  or  cousin,  what  you  will,  so  that 
I  still  to  you  am  something. 

Ulr.  You  shall  be 

All  — all 

Ida.  And  you  to  me  are  so  already ; 

But  I  can  wait. 

Ulr.  Dear  Ida ! 

Ida.  Call  me  Ida, 

Tour  Ida,  for  I  would  be  yours,  none  else'i  — 
Indeed  I  have  none  else  left,  since  my  poor  father  — 
{She  pauses. 

Ulr,   You  have  miju  —  you  have  me. 

Ida.  Dear  Ulric,  how  I  wish 

My  father  could  but  view  my  happiness, 
Which  wants  but  this! 

Ulr.  Indeed ! 

Ida.  You  would  have  loved  him. 

He  you  ;  for  the  bmve  ever  love  each  other : 
His  m  inner  was  a  little  cold,  his  spirit 
Proud  (as  is  birlh's  prerogative) ;  but  under 

This  grave  exterior Would  you  had  known  each 

other ! 
Had  such  as  you  been  near  him  on  his  journey, 
He  had  not  died  without  a  friend  to  soothe 
His  last  and  lonely  moments. 

Ulr.  Who  says  that  ? 

Ida.  What? 

Ulr.  That  he  died  alone. 

Ida.  The  general  rumour. 

And  disappearance  of  his  servants,  who 
Have  ne'er  relurn'd  :  that  fever  was  most  deadly 
Which  swept  them  all  away. 

Ulr.  If  they  were  near  him, 

He  could  not  die  neglected  or  alone. 

Ida.  Alas  !  wh^it  is  a  menial  to  a  death-bed, 
When  the  dim  eye  rolls  vainly  round  for  what 
It  loves  ? —  They  say  he  died  of  a  fever. 

Ulr.  Say ! 

It  was  so. 

Ida.        I  sometimes  dream  otherwise. 

Ulr.  All  dreams  are  false. 

Ida.  And  yet  I  see  him  as 

I  see  you. 

Ulr.        IVhere? 

Ida.  In  sleep  —  I  see  him  lie 

Pale,  bleeding,  and  a  man  with  a  raised  knife 
Beside  him. 

Ulr.  But  you  do  not  see  his  face  ? 

Ida  (looking  at  him).  No  !  Oh,  my  God  !  do  yoii  ? 

Ulr.  Whydoyoua^k? 

Ida.  Because  you  look  as  if  you  saw  a  murderer ! 

Ulr.  {agitatedly).  Ida,   this  is  mere  childishness; 
your  weakness 
Infects  me,  lo  my  shame:  but  as  all  feelings 
Of  yours  are  common  lo  me,  it  afl'ects  me. 
Prithee,  sweet  child,  change 

Ida.  Child,  indeed  !  I  have 

Full  fifteen  summers!  [.^  bugle soinids. 

Rod.  Hark,  my  lord,  the  bugle  ! 

Ida  (peevishly  to  Rodolph).  Why  need  you  tell  him 
that  ?    Can  he  not  hear  it 
Without  your  echo  ? 

Rod.  Pardon  me,  fair  baroness  ! 

Ida.  I  will  not  pardon  you,  unless  you  earn  it 
By  aiding  me  in  my  dissuasion  of 
Count  Ulric  from  the  chase  to-day. 

Rod.  You  will  not, 

Lady,  noed  aid  of  mine. 

Ulr.  I  must  not  now 

Forego  it. 

Ida.        But  you  shall  I 

Ulr.  Shall! 

Ida.  Yes,  or  be 

No  true  knight.—  Come,  dear  Ulric !  yield  lo  me 


In  this,  for  this  one  day  :  the  day  looks  heavy, 
And  you  are  lurn'd  so  pale  and  ill. 

Ulr.  You  jesf. 

Ida.  Indeed  I  do  not :  —  ask  of  Rodolph. 

Rod.  Truly, 

My  lord,  within  this  quarter  of  an  hour 
You  have  changed  more  than  e'er  I  saw  you  change 

IJlr.        'T  is  nothing  ;  but  if  't  were,  the  air 
Would  soon  restore  me.     I  'm  the  true  chameleon, 
And  live  but  on  the  atmosphere ;  your  feasts 
In  castle  halls,  and  social  banquets,  nur^e  not 
My  spirit—  1  'm  a  forester  and  breather 
Of  the  steep  mountain-tops,  where  I  love  all 
The  eagle  loves. 

Ida.  Except  his  prey,  I  hope. 

Ulr.  Sweet  Ida,  wish  me  a  fair  chase,  and  I 
Will  bring  you  six  boars'  heads  for  trophies  home. 

Ida.  And  will  you  not  slay,  then  ?  You  shall  not  go ! 
Come  I  I  will  sing  to  you. 

Ulr.  Ida,  you  scarcely 

Will  make  a  soldier's  wife, 

Ida.  I  do  not  wish 

To  be  so ;  for  I  trust  these  wars  are  over. 
And  you  will  live  in  pcice  on  your  domains. 

Enter  IVemer  as  Count  Siegendorf. 

Ulr.  My  father,  I  salute  you,  and  it  grieves  me 
With  such  brief  greeting.— You  have  heard  our  bugle: 
The  vassals  wait. 

Sieg.  So  let  them.—  You  forget 

To-morrow  is  the  appointed  fes  ival 
In  Prague  for  peace  restored.    You  are  apt  lo  follow 
The  chase  with  such  an  ardour  as  will  sc.«rce 
Permit  you  to  return  to-day,  or  if 
Return'd,  too  much  fatigued  to  join  to-morrow 
The  nobles  in  our  marsball'd  ranks. 

Ulr.  You,  count, 

Will  well  supply  the  place  of  both  —  I  am  not 
A  lover  of  these  pageantries. 

Sitg.  No,  Ulric. 

It  were  not  well  that  you  alone  of  all 
Our  young  nobility 

Ida.  And  far  the  noblest 

In  aspect  and  demeanour. 

Sieg.  (to  Ida)  True,  dear  child, 

Thoueh  somewhat  frankly  said  for  a  fair  damsel  — 
But,  Ulric,  recollect  too  our  posi  ion. 
So  lately  reinstated  in  our  Iinnours. 
Believe'me,  't  would  be  maik'd  in  any  house, 
But  most  in  ours,  that  wit  should  be  found  wanting 
At  such  a  lime  anil  place.     Besides,  the  Heaven 
Which  gave  us  back  our  own,  in  the  same  moment 
It  spread  its  peace  o'er  all,  haih  double  claims 
On  us  for  thanksgiving;  first,  for  our  country  ; 
And  next,  that  we  are  here  lo  shaie  its  blessings. 

Ulr.  (aside).  Devout,  too  !  Well,  sir,  I  obey  at  once, 

(The7i  alovd  to  a  Servant.) 

Ludwig,  dismiss  the  train  without  !       [Exit  Ludwig. 

Ida.  And  so 

You  yield  at  once  to  him  what  I  for  hours 
Might  supplicate  in  vain. 

Sifg.  (smiling).  You  are  not  jealous 

Of  me,  I  trust,  my  pre'ty  rebel!  who 
Would  snnclion  disobedience  against  all 
Except  thyself?    But  fear  not ;  thou  shall  rule  him 
Hereafter  with  a  fonder  sway  and  firmer. 

Ida.  But  I  should  like  to  govern  now. 

Sieg.  You  shall, 

Your  harp,  which  by  the  way  awaits  you  with 
The  countess  in  her'chnmber.     She  complains 
That  you  nre  a  sad  truant  to  your  music: 
She  attends  you. 

Ida.  Then  good  morrow,  my  kind  kinsiBMl ! 

Ulric,  you  "11  come  aid  hear  me  ? 

Ulr.  By  and  by. 

Ida.  Be  sure  I  '11  sound  it  better  than  your  buglet; 
Then  pray  yon  be  as  punctual  lo  its  notes: 
I  'II  play  you  King  Gustavus'  march. 

Ulr.  And  why  not 

Old  Tilly's? 


WERNER: 


[Act  IV.  1 


Ida.  Not  that  monsler's  !  I  should  think 

j  My  harp-sliings  rang  with  gmans,  and  not  «i;h  music, 
Could  au^ht  of  htf  sound  on  it .  —  but  come  quickly  ; 
Your  mother  will  be  eager  to  receive  you.    [ExU  Ida. 

Sieg.  Ulric,  I  »  ish  to  speak  with  you  alone. 

Uir.  My  lime's  your  vis-al.— 
(Aside  to  Rodi.lpli.)    Rodolph,  hence  !  and  do 
As  I  directed  :  and  by  his  best  speed 
And  readiest  means  let  Kosenberg  reply. 

Rod.  Count  Siegendorf,  command  you  aught  ?  I  am 
hound 
Upon  a  journey  past  the  frontier. 

Sieg.  (starts).  Ah  '.  — 

Where  ?  on  what  frontier  ? 

Rod.  The  Silesian,  on 

My  way  —  (Aside  to  Ulric.)  —  WTure  shall  I  say  ? 

Ulr.  (Aside  to  Rodolph).  To  Hamburgh. 

(Aside  to  hiimelf.)  That 
Word  will,  I  think,  put  a  firm  padlock  on 
His  further  inquisition. 

Rod.  Count,  to  Hamburgh. 

Sieg.  (agitated).  Hamburgh  1  No,  I  have  nought  to 
do  there,  mir 
Am  aught  connected  with  that  city.     Then 
God  speed  you ! 

Rod.  Fare  ye  well,  Count  Siegendorf! 

[Exit  Rodolph. 

Sieg.  Ulric,  this  man,  who  has  .iust  departed,  is 
One  of  those  strange  companions  w  horn  1  fain 
Would  reason  with  you  on. 

Ulr.  Mv  lord,  he  is 

Noble  by  birth,  of  one  of  the  first  houses 
In  Saxony. 

Sieg.        I  talk  not  of  his  birlh, 
But  of  his  bearing.    Men  speak  lightly  of  him. 

Ulr.  So  they  will  do  of  most  men.    Even  the  mon- 
arch 
Is  not  fenced  from  his  chamberlain's  slander,  or 
The  sneer  of  the  last  couriier  whom  he  has  made 
Great  and  ungrateful. 

Sieg.  If  I  must  be  plain, 

The  world  speaks  more  than  lightly  of  this  Rodolph: 
They  say  he  is  leagued  with  the  "  black  bands"  who 

Ravage  the  frontier, 

Ulr.  And  will  you  believe 

The  world  ? 

Sieg.  In  this  case  —  yes. 

Ulr.  In  any  case, 

I  thought  you  knew  It  better  than  to  take 
An  accusation  for  a  sentence. 

Si(g.  Son ! 

I  understand  you  :  you  refer  to but 

My  destiny  has  so  involved  about  me 

Her  spider  web,  that  I  can  only  flutter 

Like  the  poor  fly,  but  break  it  not.     Take  heed, 

Ulric;  you  have  seen  to  what  the  passions  led  me: 

Twenty  long  years  of  misery  and  famine 

Quench'd  theiii  not— twenty  "thousand  more,  perchance, 

Hereafter  (or  even  here  in  mi/nients  which 

Might  date  for  years,  did  Anguish  make  the  dial) 

May  not  obliterate  or  expiate 

The  madness  and  dishonour  of  an  instant. 

Ulric,  be  warn'd  by  a  father  !  —  I  was  not 

Ry  mine,  and  you  behold  me  ! 

Ulr.  I  behold 

The  prosperous  and  beloved  Siegendorf, 
Lord  of  a  prince's  ippanage,  and  honour'd 
By  those  he  rules  and  tho^e  he  ranks  with. 

S.rg.  Ah! 

Why  wilt  thou  call  me  prosperous,  while  I  fear 
For  thee  ?     Beloved,  when  ihou  lovest  me  not ! 
All  hearts  but  one  may  beat  in  kindness  for  me  — 
But  if  mv  son's  is  cold  I 

Ulr.     '  Who  rfarc  say  that? 

Sieg.  None  else  but  I,  who  see  it  —feel  it—  keener 
Than  would  your  adversary,  who  dared  say  so, 
Tour  sabre  in  his  heart !    But  mine  survives 
The  wound. 

Ubr.  Ton  err.    My  nature  is  not  given 


To  outward  fondling  :  how  should  it  be  so. 

After  twelve  yeirs'  divorcement  from  my  parents? 

Sieg.  And  did  not  /  loo  pass  those  twelve  lorn  jears 
In  a  iTke  absence  ?  But  't  is  vain  to  urge  you  — 
Nature  was  never  cali'd  back  by  remonstrance. 
Let 's  change  the  theme.  I  wish  you  to  consider 
That  these  young  violent  nobles  of  high  name, 
But  dark  deeds  (ay,  the  darkest,  if  all  Rumour 
Reports  be  true),  with  whom  Ihou  consortest, 

Will  lead  thee 

Ulr.  (impatiently).  I  '11  be  led  by  no  man. 
Steg.  Nor 

Be  leader  of  such,  I  would  hope :  at  once 
To  wean  thee  from  the  perils  of  thy  youth 
And  haughty  spirit,  I  have  thought  it  well 
That  thou  shouldst  wed  the  lady  Ida  —  more 
As  thou  appear'st  to  love  her. 

Ulr.  I  have  said 

I  will  obey  your  orders,  v\ere  they  lo 
Unite  with  Hecile—  can  a  son  say  more? 

Steg.  He  says  loo  much  in  sayiiig  this.     II  is  not 
The  nature  of'thine  age,  nor  of' thy  blood, 
Nor  of  thy  temperament,  lo  talk  so  coolly, 
Or  acl  so  carelessly,  in  that  which  is 
The  bloom  or  blight  of  all  men's  happiness, 
(For  Glory's  pillow  is  but  restless,  if 
Love  I  ly  not  down  his  cheek  there) :  some  strong  bias, 
Some  master  fiend  is  in  thy  service,  to 
Misrule  the  mortal  who  believes  him  slave, 
And  makes  his  every  thought  subservient ;  else 
Thou  'dsl  say  at  once — "  1  love  young  Ida,  and 
Will  wed  her  ;"  or,  "  I  love  her  not,  and  all 
The  powers  of  earth  shall  never  make  me." —  So 
Would  I  have  answerd. 
Ulr.  Sir,  you  wed  for  love. 

Sieg-.  I  did.  and  it  has  been  my  only  refuge 
In  many  miseries. 

Ulr.  Which  miseries 

Had  never  been  but  for  this  love-match. 

Sieg.  Still 

Against  your  age  and  nature !     Who  at  twenty 
E'er  answer'd  thus  till  now  ? 

Ulr.  Did  you  not  warn  me 

Against  your  own  example? 

Sieg.  Boyish  sophist  I 

In  a  word,  do  vou  love,  or  love  not,  Ida  ? 
Ulr.  What  riiatiere  it.  if  I  am  ready  to 
Obey  you  in  espousing  her  ? 
I     Sieg.  As  far 

As  )0u  feel,  nothing,  but  all  life  for  her. 
{ She  's  young  —  all-beautiful  —  adores  you  —  is 
lEndow'd  with  qualities  to  give  happiness, 
'Such  as  rounds  common  life  into  a  dream 
Of  something  which  your  poeis  cannot  paint, 
And  (if  it  were  not  wisdom  to  love  virtue) 
For  which  Philosophy  might  barter  Wisdom  ; 
And  giving  so  much  happiness,  deserves 
A  little  in  return.     I  would  not  have  her 
Break  her  heart  for  a  man  who  has  none  to  break; 
Or  wilher  on  her  stalk  like  some  pale  rose 
Deserted  by  the  bird  she  thought  a  nightingale. 

According  lo  the  Orient  tale.     She  is^ 

Ulr.  The  daughter  of  dead  SIralenheim,  your  foe: 
I'll  wed  her,  ne'erlheless ;  though,  to  say  truth, 
Just  now  I  am  not  violently  transported' 
In  favour  of  such  unions. 

Sifg.  But  she  loves  you. 

Ulr.  And  I  Inve  her,  and  therefore  would  think  ttoioe. 
Sieg.  Alas!  Love  never  did  so. 
Ulr.  Then  't  is  time 

He  should  begin,  and  take  the  bandage  from 
His  eyes,  and  look  before  he  leaps  ;  till  now 
He  hath  ta'en  a  jump  i'  the  dirK. 
.Sitg.  But  you  consent  ? 

Ulr.  I  did,  and  do. 

Sieg.  Then  fix  the  day. 

Ulr.  "T  is  usual, 

And  certes  courteous,  to  leave  that  to  the  lady. 
Sieg.  I  will  engage  for  her. 
Ulr.  So  will  not  / 

For  any  woman  :  and  as  what  I  fix. 


rp^ 


Scene  I.] 


A   TRAGEDY. 


383 


I  fain  would  see  unshaken,  when  she  gives 
Her  answer,  I  'II  give  mine. 

Sieg.  But  'I  is  your  office 

To  woo. 

Ulr.       Count,  't  is  a  marringe  of  your  making, 
So  l»!  it  of  your  wooing  ;  but  lo  please  you, 
I  will  now  pav  my  duty  to  my  nio  her, 
With  whom,  you  kuow,  the  lady  Ida  is.— 
What  would  you  have?    You  have  foibid  my  stirring 
For  manly  sports  beyond  the  castle  walls. 
And  I  obey  .  you  bid  me  turn  a  chamberer, 
To  pick  up  gloves,  and  fan-,  and  knitting-needles, 
And  list  to  songs  and  tunes,  and  watch  for  smiles, 
Aod  smile  at  pre  ly  prallle,  and  look  into 
The  eyes  of  feminine,  as  though  they  were 
The  stars  receding  early  lo  our  wish 
Upon  the  dawn  of  a  world-winning  battle  — 
What  can  a  son  or  man  do  more  ?  [Exit  Ulric. 

Sieg.  (solus).  Too  much!  — 

Too  much  of  duty,  and  too  little  love  ! 
He  pays  me  in  the  coin  he  owes  me  not : 
For  such  hath  been  my  wayward  fate,  I  could  not 
Fulfil  a  parent's  du:ies  by  his  side 
Till  now  ;  but  love  he  owes  me,  for  my  thoughts 
Ne'er  left  hira.  nor  my  eyes  long'd  without  tears 
To  see  my  child  again,  and  now  I  have  found  him! 
But  how  — obedient,  but  with  coldness;  duteous 
In  my  sig-ht,  but  with  carelessness;  mystevious  — 
Abstracted  -distant  —  much  given  to  long  .absence. 
And  where  — none  know— in  league  with  the  most 

riotous 
Of  our  young  nobles  ;  though  to  do  hira  justice. 
He  never  stoops  down  to  their  vulgar  pleasures ; 
Yet  there  's  some  tie  between  them  which  I  can  not 
Unravel.     They  look  up  to  him  —  consult  him  — 
Throng  round  him  as  a  leader:  but  with  me 
He  hath  no  confidence  !     Ah  !  can  I  hope  it 
After-  what  1  doth  my  father's  curse  descend 
Even  lo  my  child  ?    Or  is  the  Hungarian  near 
To  shed  more  blood  ?  or  —  Oh  !  if  it  should  be  ! 
Spirit  of  Stralenheim,  dos'  thou  walk  these  walls 
To  wither  him  and  his—  who,  though  they  slew  not, 
Cnlatch'd  the  door  of  death  for  thee  ?    'T  was  not 
Our  fault,  nor  is  our  sin  :  thou  werl  our  foe, 
And  yet  I  spared  thee  when  my  own  destruction 
Slept  with  thee,  to  awake  with  thine  awakening! 
And  only  tiok  —  Accursed  gold  I  thou  liest 
Like  poison  in  my  hands ;  I  dare  not  use  thee, 
Nor  part  from  thee  :  thou  camest  in  such  a  guise, 
Methinks  thou  wouldst  contaminate  all  hands 
Like  mine.     Yet  I  have  done,  to  atone  for  thee, 
Thou  villanous  gold  I  and  thy  dead  master's  doom, 
Though  he  died  not  by  me  or  mine,  as  much 
As  if  he  were  my  brother  !     I  have  ta'en 
His  orphan  Ida  —  cherish 'd  her  as  one 
Who  will  l>e  mine. 

Enter  an  Altmdant, 
Allen.  The  abbot,  if  it  please 

Your  excellency,  whom  you  sent  for,  waits 
Upon  you.  [Exit  Attendant. 

Enter  the  Prtor  Albert. 

Prior.    Peace  be  with  these  walls,  and  all 
Within  them! 

.StVg.                Welcome,  welcome,  holy  father  ! 
And  may  thv  prayer  be  heard  !  —  all  men  have  need 
Of  such,  and  I 

Prior.  Have  the  first  claim  to  all 

The  prayers  of  our  community.     Our  convent, 
Erec'ed'by  your  ancestors,  is  still 
Protected  by  their  childre:i. 

Sieg.  Yes,  good  father ; 

Con-inue  daily  orisons  for  us 
In  these  dim  davs  of  heresies  and  blood, 
Thouzh  the  schismatic.  Swede,  Gustavus,  is 
Gone  home. 

Prior.         To  the  endless  home  of  unbelievers, 
Where  there  is  everlasting  wail  and  woe. 
Gnashing  of  teeth,  and  tears  of  blood,  and  fire 
Eternal,  and  the  worm  which  flieth  not! 


Sieg.  True,  father :  and  to  avert  those  pangs  from 

Who,  though  of  our  most  faultless  holy  church, 
Yet  died  wilhou?  its  last  and  dearest  offices. 
Which  smooth  the  soul  through  purgatorial  pains, 
1  have  to  otter  humbly  this  donation 
In  masses  for  his  spirit. 

ISiegendurf  offers  the  gold  which  he  had  taken 
from  Straltnheim. 

Ptior.  Count,  if  I 

Receive  it,  'I  is  because  I  know  too  well 
Refusal  would  oflFend  you.     Be  assured 
The  l.irgess  shall  be  only  dealt  in  alms. 
And  every  mass  no  less  sung  for  the  dead. 
Our  house  needs  no  donations,  thanks  to  yours, 
Which  has  of  old  endow'd  it ;  but  from  you 
And  yours  in  all  meet  things  't  is  fit  we  obey. 
For  whom  shall  mass  be  said  ? 

Sieg.  {faltering).  For  —  for  —  (he  dead. 

Prior.  His  unme? 

Sieg.  'T  is  from  a  soul,  and  not  a  name, 

I  would  avert  perdiion. 

Prior.  I  meant  not 

To  pry  into  your  secret.     We  will  pray 
For  one  unknown,  the  same  as  for  the  proudest. 

Sieg.  Secret!     I  have  none:  but,  father,  be  who '• 
gone 
Might  have  one  ;  or,  in  short,  he  did  bequeath  — 
No,  not  bequeath  —  but  I  bestow  this  sum 
For  pious  purposes. 

Prior.  A  proper  deed 

In  the  behalf  of  our  departed  friends. 

Sieg.  But  he  who  's  gone  was  not  my  friend,  but  foe^ 
The  deadliest  and  the  stanchest. 

Prior.  Better  still  ! 

To  employ  our  means  to  obtain  heaven  for  the  soult 
Of  our  dead  enemie^,  is  worthy  those 
Who  can  forgive  them  living. 

Sieg^.  But  I  did  not 

Forgive  this  man.     I  loathed  him  to  the  las!, 
As  he  did  me.     I  do  not  love  him  now. 
But 

Prior.  Best  of  all  !  for  this  is  pure  religion  ! 
You  fain  would  rescue  him  you  hate  from  bell  — 
An  evangelical  compassion  —  with 
Your  own  gold  tool 

Sieg.  Father,  t  is  not  my  gold. 

Prior.  Whose  then  ?    You  said  it  was  no  legacy. 

Sieg.  No  matter  whose  —  of  this  be  sure,  that  he 
Wh'i  own'd  it  never  more  will  need  it,  save 
In  that  which  it  may  purchase  from  your  altars: 
'T  is  yours,  or  theirs. 

Prior.  Is  there  no  blood  upon  it  ? 

Sieg.  No;  but  there's  worse  than  blood  —  eternal 
shame  ! 

Prior.  Did  he  who  own'd  it  die  in  his  bed? 

Sieg.  Alas ! 

He  did. 

Prior.  Son  !  yo    .-elapse  into  revenge, 
If  vou  regret  your  enemy's  bloodless  death. 

Sieg.  His  death  was  fathomlessly  deep  in  blood. 

Prior.  You  said  he  died  in  his  bed,  not  battle. 

Sieg.  He 

Died.  I  scarce  know— but — he  was  stabb'd  i'  the  dark, 
And  now  you  have  it  —  perish'd  on  his  pillow 
By  a  cut -throat  !  —  Ay  !  —  you  may  look  upon  me ! 
/am  not  the  man.     I '11  meet  your  eye  on  that  point, 
As  I  can  one  day  God's. 

Prior.  Nor  did  he  die 

By  means,  or  men,  or  instrument  of  yours? 

Sieg.  No  :  by  the  God  who  sees  and  strikes  ! 

Prior.  Nor  know  you 

Who  slew  him? 

Sieg.  I  could  only  guess  at  one, 

And  he  to  me  a  stranger,  unconnected. 
As  unemploy'd.     Except  by  one  day's  knowledge, 
I  never  saw  the  man  who  was  suspected. 

Prior.  Then  you  are  free  from  guilt. 

Sieg.  (eagerly).  Oh!  ami?— ajrll 

Prior.  You  have  said  so,  and  know  best. 


384 


WERNER: 


lActV  !| 


Sieg,  Fklher  !  I  have  spoken 

The  truth,  and  nought  but  truth,  it'  tinl  the  whole; 
Yel  say  I  am  nol  guilty  !  for  the  blood 
Of  this  man  weighs  on  nie,  as  if  1  shed  it, 
Though,  by  the  Power  who  nbliorreth  human  blood, 
I  did  nol '.  —  nay,  once  spared  it,  when  I  might 
And  coti/d—  ay,  perhaps,  should  (if  our  self-safety 
Be  e'er  excusable  iu  such  defences 
Against  the  attacks  of  over-potent  foes) : 
Ful  pray  for  him,  for  me,  and  all  my  house; 
For,  as  I  said,  though  I  be  innocent, 
I  know  not  why,  a  like  remorse  is  on  me. 
As  if  he  had  fallen  by  me  or  mine.    Pray  for  me, 
Father  1  1  have  pray'd  myself  in  vain. 

Prior.  I  will. 

Be  comforted  !    You  are  innocent,  and  should 
Be  calm  as  innocence. 

Sies.  But  calmness  is  not 

AKvays  the  attribute  of  innocence. 
I  feel  it  is  not. 

Prior.  But  it  will  be  so, 

When  the  mind  gathers  up  its  truth  wilhin  it. 
Remember  the  great  festival  to-morrow. 
In  w  hich  you  rank  amidst  our  chiefest  nobles. 
As  well  as  your  brave  son  ;  and  smooth  your  aspect, 
Nor  iu  the  general  orison  of  thanks 
For  bloodshed  stopt,  let  blood  you  shed  not  rise 
A  cloud  upon  your  thoughts.     This  were  to  be 
Too  sensitive.     Take  comfort,  and  forget 
Such  things,  and  leave  remorse  unto  the  guilty. 

lExeu7it. 


ACT  V. 


A  large  and  magnificent  Gothic  Hall  in  the  Castle 
of  Siegendorf,  decorated  with  Trophies,  Banners, 
and  Arms  oj  that  Family. 

Enter  ArnJieim  and  Meister,  attendants  of  Count 
Siegendorf. 

Am.  Be  quick '.  the  count  will  soon  return :  (he 
ladies 
Already  are  at  the  portal.     Have  you  sent 
The  messengers  in  search  of  him  he  seeks  for  ? 

Meis.  I  have,  in  all  directions,  over  Prague, 
As  far  as  the  man's  dress  and  figure  could 
By  your  description  track  him.     The  devil  take 
These  revels  and  processions  I     All  the  pleasure 
(If  such  there  be;  must  fall  to  the  spectators. 
I  'm  sure  none  doth  to  us  who  make  the  show. 

.^rn.  Go  to  1  my  lady  countess  comes. 

Meis.  I  'd  rather 

Ride  a  day's  hunting  on  an  outworn  jade. 
Than  follow  in  the  frain  of  a  great  man. 
In  these  dull  pageantries. 

Aril.  Begone  !  and  rail 

Within.  [Exeunt. 


Jos.  Well,  Heaven  be  praised  !  the  show  is  over. 

Idii.  How  can  vou  say  so?    Never  have  I  dreamt 
Of  aught  so  beautiful.     The  flow  ers,  the  boughs. 
The  banners,  and  the  nobles,  and  the  knights. 
The  gems,  the  robes,  the  plumes,  the  happy  faces, 
The  coursers,  and  the  incense,  and  the  sun 
Streaming  through  the  s  ain'd  windows,even  the  tombs, 
Which  look'd  so  cilm,  and  the  celestial  hynms, 
Which  seem'd  as  if  they  rather  came  from  heaven 
Than  mounted  there.     The  bursting  organ's  peal 
Rolling  on  hizh  like  an  harmonious  thunder ; 
The  while  robes  and  the  lifted  eyes;  the  world 
At  peace  !  and  all  at  peace  with  one  another  1 
Oh,  my  sweet  mother  !  [Embracing  Josephine. 

;<t.  My  beloved  child  ! 

Ful  lucb,  I  trust,  thou  shall  be  shortly. 


Ida.  Oh ! 

I  am  so  already.    Feel  how  my  heart  beats ! 

Jof.  II  does,  my  love  ;  and  never  may  it  tbrcb 
With  aught  more  bitter. 

Ida.  Never  shall  it  do  so  ! 

Iiow  should  it  ?  What  should  make  us  grieve?  I  hate 
To  hear  of  sorrow  :  how  can  we  be  sad, 
Who  love  each  other  so  entirely  ?  You, 
The  count,  and  Ulric,  and  your  daughter  Ida. 

Jfis.  Poor  child  ! 

Ida.  Do  you  pity  me  ? 

Jus.  No :  I  but  eoTjr, 

And  thai  in  sorrow,  not  in  the  world's  sense 
Of  the  universal  vice,  if  one  vice  be 
Moie  general  than  another. 

Ida.  I  '11  not  hear 

A  word  against  a  world  which  still  contains 
You  and  my  Ulric.     Did  you  ever  see 
Aught  like  him  ?  How  he  tower'd  amongst  them  all ! 
How  all  eyes  followd  him  !   The  flowers  fell  faster- 
Rain'd  from  each  lattice  at  his  feel,  melhought, 
Than  before  all  the  rest ;  and  where  he  trod 
I  dare  be  sworn  that  they  grow  still,  nor  e"er 
Will  wither. 

Jut.  You  will  spoil  him,  little  flatterer, 

If  he  should  hear  you. 

Ida.  But  he  never  will. 

I  dare  not  say  so  much  to  bin.  —  I  fear  him. 

Jos.  Why  so?  he  loves  you  well. 

Ida.  But  I  can  never 

Shape  my  thoughts  of  him  into  words  (o  him  : 
Besides,  he  sometimes  frightens  me. 

Jos.  How  so  ? 

Ida.  A  cloud  comes  o'er  his  blue  eyes  suddenly. 
Yet  he  says  nothing. 

Jos.  It  is  nothing:  all  men, 

Especially  in  these  dark  troublous  times. 
Have  much  to  think  of. 

Ida.  But  I  cannot  think 

Of  aught  save  him. 

Jos.  Vel  there  are  other  men. 

In  the  world's  eye,  as  goodly.  There 's,  for  instance, 
The  young  Count  Waldorf,  who  scarce  once  withdrew 
His  eyes  from  yours  to-day. 

Ida.  '  I  did  not  see  him, 

But  Ulric.     Did  you  not  see  at  the  moment 
When  all  knelt,  and  I  wept  ?  and  ye!  methought, 
Through  niy  fast  tears,  though  they  were  thick  and 

warm, 
I  saw  him  smiling  on  me. 

/«t.  I  could  not 

See  aught  save  heaven,  to  which  my  eyes  were  raised^ 
Together  with  the  people's. 

Ida.  I  th'night  too 

Of  heaven,  allhoush  I  look'd  on  Ulric. 

Jos.  Come, 

Let  ns  retire  '.  they  will  be  here  anon 
Expectant  of  the  banquet.     We  will  lay 
Aside  these  nodding  plumes  and  dragging  trains. 

Ida.  And,  aboveall,  these  stiff  and'heavy  jewels, 
Which  mike  my  head  and  heart  ache,  as  both  throb 
Beneath  their  glitter  o'er  my  brow  and  zone. 
Dear  mother,  I  am  wi  h  you.  [ExKwnt. 

Enter  Count  Siegendorf,  in  full  dress,  from  the 
solemnity,  and  Ludwig. 

Seg.  Is  he  nol  found  ? 

Liid.  Strict  search  is  making  every  where ;  and  if 
The  man  be  in  Prasue.  be  sure  he  w  ill  be  found. 

Sieg.  Where  's  Ulric  ? 

l,ud.  He  rode  round  the  other  way 

With  some  young  nobles  ;  but  he  left  them  soon  j 
And,  if  I*rr  nol,  not  a  minute  since 
I  heard  his  excellency,  with  his  train, 
Gallop  o'er  the  west  drawbridge. 

Enter  Ulric,  sple7ididly  dressed. 

Sieg.  (to  Ludwig).  See  Ihey  cease  iMN 

Their  quest  of  him  I  have  described.   [Exit  Ludwig. 

Oh,  Ulric  ! 
How  have  I  long'd  for  thee  ! 


Scene 


A  TRAGEDY. 


sa** 


Your  wish  is  granted- 


Ulr. 
Behold  me. 

Sieg.  1  have  seen  the  murderer. 

Ulr.  Whom  ?     V/here  ? 

Sieg.  The  Hjoguian,  who  slew  SIralenheim. 

Ulr.  You  dream. 

Sicg.  I  live  !  and  as  I  live,  I  saw  him  — 

Heard  him  !  he  dared  to  utter  even  my  name. 

Ulr.  What  name? 
I      Sieg.  Werner!  '< teas  mine. 

Ijb  It  must  be  so 

JVo  more  :  forget  it. 

Sieg.  Never  !  never!  all 

Mjf  destinies  were  woven  in  that  name : 
'  It  will  nol  be  engraved  upon  my  tomb, 
But  it  may  lead  me  there. 

Ulr.  To  the  point the  Hungarian  ? 

SUg.  Listen  !— The  chuicli  was  throng'd:  the  hymn 
was  raised  ; 
"  Te  Deuni"  peal'd  from  nations,  rather  than 
From  choirs,  in  one  giea'  cry  of  "  God  be  praised" 
For  one  diy's  peice,  after  Ihrice  ten  dread  years, 
Each  biriodier  than  the  former:  I  arose, 
With  all  the  nobles,  and  as  I  lo!>k'd  down 
Along  the  lines  of  lifted  faces. —  from 
Our  baniier'd  and  escutchenn'd  gallery,  I 
Saw,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  (for  I  saw 
A  moment  and  no  more),  what  struck  me  sightless 
To  all  el-e  —  the  Hungarian's  f^ce  I  I  grew 
Sick  ;  and  when  i  recover'd  from  the  mist 
\%  tiich  curi'd  about  my  senses,  and  again 
Look'd  diwn.  I  saw  him  not.     The  ihanksgiving 
Was  over,  and  we  maich'd  back  in  procession. 

Ulr.  Continue 

S'tg,  When  we  reach'd  the  Muldau's  bridge. 

The  joyous  crowd  above,  the  numberless 
Barks  mann'd  with  revellers  in  their  best  garbs, 
Which  shot  along  the  glancing  tide  below. 
The  decorated  street,  the  long  array. 
The  clashing  music,  and  the  thundering 
Of  far  artillery,  which  seem'd  to  bid 
A  long  and  loud  farewell  to  i's  great  doings, 
The  standards  o'er  me,  and  the  tramplings  round. 
The  roar  of  rushing  thousands, —  all  —  all  could  not 
Chase  this  man  from  my  mind,  although  my  senses 
No  longer  held  him  palpable. 

Ulr.  You  saw  him 

No  more,  then  ? 

Sieg.  I  look'd,  as  a  dying  soldier 
Looks  at  a  draught  of  water,  for  this  man  ; 
But  still  I  saw  him  not  ;  but  in  his  stead 

Ulr.  What  in  his  stead  ? 

Site.  My  eye  for  ever  fell 

Upon  your  dancing  crest ;  the  loftiest. 
As  on  the  loftiest  and  the  loveliest  head. 
It  rose  the  highest  of  the  stream  of  plumes. 
Which  overtiow'd  Ihe  jliliering  siree  s  of  Prague. 

Ulr.  What's  this  to  the  Hungarian  ? 

Sieg.  Much  5  for  I 

Had  almost  then  foreof  him  in  my  son  ; 
When  just  as  the  ar  iiiery  ceased,  and  paused 
The  music,  and  the  crowd  embraced  in  lieu 
Of  shouting,  I  heard  in  a  deep,  low  voice, 
Dis'inct  and  keener  far  upon  my  ear 
Than  the  late  cannon's  volume,  this  word—"  Werner V^ 

I'lr.  Uitered  by 

S'eg.  Him !  I  lurn'd— and  saw— and  fell. 

'      Ulr.  And  wherefore  ?    Were  you  seen  ? 

Sieg.  The  officious  care 

Of  those  amund  me  draeg'd  roe  from  Ihe  spot. 
Seeing  my  faintne.-s,  ignorant  of  the  cause: 
You,  loo,  were  too  remo-e  in  the  procesion 
(The  old  nobles  being  divided  from  Iheir  children) 
To  aid  me.  .  ^ 

Utr.  But  I'll  .tid  )'ou  DOW.. 

Sieg.  In  what? 

Ulr.  In  searching  for  Ibis  man,  or When  he 's 

found, 
What  shall  we  do  with  bim  ? 

Sieg.  I  know  not  that. 

Ulr.  Then  wherefore  seek  ? 


Sieg.  Because  I  cannot  reit 

Till  he  is  found.     His  fate,  and  Sir.lenheim's, 
And  ours  seem  intertwised  1  nor  can  be 
Uuravell'd,  till 

Enter  an  Attendant, 

Atten.  A  s!rai;ger  to  wait  on 

Your  excellency. 

S'eg.  Who? 

Atten.  He  gave  no  name. 

Sieg.  Admit  him.  ne'ertheless. 

{The  Alundant  intri^ducis  Gahor,  and  afta- 
wards  exit. 

Ah! 

Gab.  'T  is,  then,  Werner ! 

Steg.  (haughtily).  The  same  you  kuew,  sir,  by  thai 
name;  and  ymd 

Gab.  (looking  round).  I  recognise  you  both  :  father 
and  son, 
It  seems.     Count,  I  have  heard  that  you,  or  yours, 
Have  lately  been  in  search  of  me  :  I  am  here. 

Steg.  1  have  sought  you,  and  have  found  you  :  you 
are  charged 
(Your  own  heart  may  inform  you  why)  with  such 
A  c  •  ime  as [He  patuet. 

Gab.  Give  it  utterance,  and  then 

I  'II  meet  the  consequences. 

Sieg.  You  shall  do  so  — 

Unless 

Gab.        First,  who  accuses  me  ? 

Steg.  All  things, 

If  not  all  men  :  Ihe  universal  rumour  — 
My  own  presence  on  the  spot — the  place — the  time— 
And  every  speck  of  circumsance  unite 
To  fix  the  blot  on  you. 

Gab.  And  on  me  only  ? 

P.iuse  ere  you  answer  :  is  no  other  name, 
Save  mine,  stain'd  in  this  business  ? 

Sieg.  Trifling  villain ! 

Who  play'st  with  thine  own  guilt !  Of  all  that  breathe 
Thou  best  dost  know  the  innocence  of  him 
'Gainst   whom   ihy  breath   would  blow   thy  bloody 

slander. 
But  I  will  talk  no  further  with  a  wretch, 
Further  than  justice  asks.     Answer  at  once. 
And  without  quibbling,  to  my  charge. 

Gab.  T is  false! 

Sieg.  Who  says  so? 

Gab.  I. 

Sieg.  And  how  disprove  it  ? 

Gab.  By 

The  presence  of  Ihe  murderer. 

Sieg.  Name  him ! 

Gab.  He 

May  have  more  names  than  one.  Your  lordship  had  M 
Once  on  a  lime. 

Steg.  If  you  mean  me,  I  dare 

Your  utmost. 

Gab.  You  may  do  so,  and  in  safety ; 

I  know  the  assassin. 

Steg.  Where  is  he  ? 

Gab  (pointing  to  Ulric).  Beside  you . 

lUlric  rushes  forward  to   ^tttack  Gabor;  Sk- 
gendorf  iitterpotu. 

Sieg.  Liar  and  fiend  !  but  you  shall  not  be  slain  ; 
These  walls  are  mine,  and  you  are  safe  within  them 

IHe  turn*  to  Ubrie, 
Ulric,  repel  this  calumny,  as  I 
Will  do.     I  avow  it  is  a'growth  go  monstrous, 
I  could  not  deem  it  earth-born  :  but  be  calmj 
It  will  refute  itself.     But  touch  him  not. 

[Ulric  encUavours  to  compose  hxmtdf. 

Gab.  Look  at  Ami,  count,  and  then  hear  rru. 

Sieg.  (first  to  Gabor,  and  then  looking  at  Ulric), 

I  hear  thee. 
My  God  !  you  look 

Ulr.  How  ? 

Sieg.  As  on  thai  CretA  Digbt, 

When  we  met  in  the  garden. 

Ulr.  icumpoiing  himself).    It  is  nothing. 


33 


2.5 


386 


WERNER: 


[ActV. 


Gab.  Count,  you  are  bound  to  hear  me.    I  came 
hither 
Not  seeliing  you,  but  sought.     When  I  knelt  down 
Amidst  the  people  in  tlie  church,  I  dream'd  not 
To  find  Ihe  begjar'd  Werner  in  the  seat 
Of  senators  and  princes;  but  you  hnve  call'd  me. 
And  we  have  met. 

Sieg.  Go  OR,  Sit. 

Gab.  Ere  I  do  so, 

Allow  rae  to  inquire,  who  profited 
By  Straleiiheim's  death  ?  Was  'I  I  —  as  poor  as  ever; 
And  poorer  by  suspicinn  on  my  name  ! 
The  biron  lost  in  that  last  ouira»e  neither 
Jewels  nor  gold;  his  life  alone  was  sought. — 
A  life  which  stood  between  the  cl.iinis  of  others 
To  honours  and  estales  scarce  less  than  princely. 

Sieg.  These  hints,  as  vague  ai  vain,  attach  no  less 
To  me  than  to  my  sou. 

Gab.  I  can't  help  that. 

But  let  the  consequence  alight  on  him 
Who  feels  himself  Ihe  guilty  one  amongst  us. 
I  speak  to  you,  Count  Siegendorf,  because 
I  know  you  innocent,  and  deem  you  just. 
But  ere  I  can  proceed  —  dare  you  protect  me  ? 
J}aTe  you  command  me  ? 

ISiegendorf  fi>st  tonka  at  the  Hungariin,  and 
then  at  Ulric,  who  has  unbuckled  his  sabre, 
and  it  drawing  lines  with  it  on  the  floor  — 
still  in  its  sheath. 

Ulr.  (.looks  at  his  father  and  says).  Let  the  man  go 
on! 

Gab.  I  am  unarm'd,  count  —  bid  your  son  lay  down 
His  sabre. 

Ulr.  {offers  it  to  him  contemptuously).     Take  it. 

Gab.  No,  sir,  't  is  enough 

That  we  are  both  unarm'd  —  I  would  not  choose 
To  wear  a  steel  which  may  be  slain'd  with  more 
Blood  than  came  there  in  battle. 

Ulr.  (casts  the  sabre  from  him  in  contemjit).    It  — 
or  some 
Such  other  weapon,  in  my  hand  —  spared  yours 
Once,  when  disarm'd  and  at  my  mercv. 

Gab.  '  '     True  — 

I  have  not  forgotten  it :  you  spared  me  for 
Vour  own  especial  purpose  —  to  sustain 
An  ignominy  not  my  own. 

Ulr.  Proceed. 

The  tale  is  doubtless  worthy  the  relater. 
But  is  it  of  my  father  to  bear  further? 

[To  Siegendorf. 

Sieg.  (takes  his  son  by  the  hand).    My  son,  I  know 
my  own  innocence,  and  doubt  not 
Of  yours  —  but  1  have  promised  this  man  patience  : 
Let  him  continue. 

Gab.  1  will  not  aetaiu  you, 

By  speaking  of  myself  much:  I  began 
Life  early  —  and  am  what  the  world  has  made  me. 
At  Frankfort  on  the  Oder,  where  1  pass'd 
A  winter  in  obscurity,  it  was 
My  chance  at  several  places  of  resort 
(Which  I  frequented  sometimes  but  not  often) 
To  hear  related  a  strange  circumstance 
In  February  last.    A  mar:ial  force. 
Sent  by  the  stat3,  had,  after  strong  resistance, 
Secured  a  band  of  desperate  men,  supi>osed 
Marauders  from  the  hostile  camp.—  They  proved. 
However,  not  to  be  so  —  but  banditti. 
Whom  either  accident  or  enterprise 
Had  carried  from  their  usual  haunt  — the  forests 
Which  skirt  Bohemia- even  into  Lusatia. 
Many  amongst  them  were  reported  of 
High  rank  —  and  martial  law  slept  for  a  time. 
At  last  they  were  escorted  o'er  the  frontiers, 
And  placed  beneath  Ihe  civil  jurisdiction 
Of  Ihe  free  town  of  Frankfort.     Of  their  fate 
I  know  no  more. 

Sieg.  And  what  is  this  to  Ulric  ? 

Gab.  Amongst  them  there  was  said  to  be  one  man 
Of  wonderful  endowments:  —  birth  and  fortune. 
Tooth,  strength,  and  beauty,  almost  superhuman, 
And  courage  as  unrlvall'd,  were  proclaim'd 


His  by  the  public  rumour ;  and  bis  sway, 
Not  only  over  his  associates,  but 
His  judges,  was  attributed  to  witchcraft. 
Such  was  his  influence :  —  1  have  no  great  faith 
In  any  magic  save  that  of  the  mine  — 
I  therefore  deeni'd  him  weal  by.-  But  my  soul 
Was  roused  with  various  feelings  to  seek  out 
Thi:  pindigy,  if  only  to  behold  him. 
Sieg.  And  did  you  so  ? 

Gab.  You  '11  hear.    Chance  favour'd  m 

A  popular  affray  in  the  public  square 
Drew  crowds  together  —  it  was  one  of  those 
Occasions  where  men's  souls  look  out  of  them. 
And  show  them  as  they  are  — even  in  their  fjces: 
The  moment  my  eye  met  his,  I  exchim'd, 
}  '•  This  is  the  man  !"  though  he  was  then,  assioct^ 
I  VVi  h  the  nobles  of  Ihe  cii'y-     I  felt  sure 
j  I  had  nol  err'd,  and  walch'd  him  long  and  nearly; 
I  I  noted  down  his  form  —  his  ges  ure  —  features, 
[Stature,  and  be.nring  —  and  amidst  Ihem  all, 

I  'Midst  every  natural  and  acquired  distinction, 

I I  could  discern,  methoughl,  the  assassin's  eye 


And  gladiator's  heart. 


Uir.  (smiling).        The  tale  sounds  well. 
Gab.  And  may  sound  better. —  He  appear'd  to  me 
I  One  of  those  beings  to  uhom  Fortune  bends, 
!  As  she  doth  to  the  daring  —  and  on  whom 
I  The  tales  of  others  oft  depend  ;  besides, 
I  An  indescribable  sensation  drew  me 
'  Near  to  this  man,  as  if  my  point  of  fortune 
I  Was  to  be  fix'd  by  him.—  There  I  was  wrong. 

Sieg.  And  may  not  be  right  now. 
I      Gab.  I  foUow'd  hiB, 

Solicited  his  notice  —  and  obtain'd  it  — 

Though  not  his  friendship:  —  it  was  his  intention 

To  leave  the  ci  y  privately  —  we  left  it 
j  Together  —  and  together  we  arrived 
I  In  Ihe  poor  town  where  Werner  was  conceal'd, 

''  And  Siraleiiheim  was  succour'd Now  we  are  on 

I  The  seme  —  dare  you  heir  further  ? 

I     Sieg.  '  '  I  must  do  so— 

I  Or  I  hive  heard  too  much. 

Gab.  I  saw  in  you 

!  A  man  above  his  station  —  and  if  not 
1  So  high,  as  now  I  liud  you,  in  my  then 
i  Conceptions,  't  was  that  I  had  rarely  seen 
i  Men  such  as  you  appeai'd  in  height  of  mind, 
i  In  the  most  high  of  worldly  rank  ;  vou  were 
i  Poor,  even  to  all  save  rags :  I  would  have  shared 
j  My  purse,  though  slender,  with  you  —  you  refused  it. 
Sieg.  Doth  my  refusal  make  a  debt  to  you, 

That  thus  you  ui'ge  it  ? 

I      Gab.  Still  you  owe  me  something, 

I  Though  nol  for  that ;  and  I  owed  you  my  safety, 
i  At  least  my  seeming  safety,  when  Ihe  slaves 

Of  Stralenheim  pursued  nie  on  Ihe  grounds 

That  /  had  robb'd  him. 
!      Sieg.  /  conceal'd  you — I, 

Whom  and  whose  house  you  arraign,  reviving  vipwi 
Gab.  I  accuse  no  man  —  save  in  my  defence. 

Too,  count,  have  made  yourself  accuser  —  judge: 

Your  hall 's  my  court,  your  heart  is  my  tribunal. 

Be  just,  and  /  'II  be  merciful '. 
Sieg.  You  merciful?  — 

Tou  !     Base  calumniator  ! 
!      Gab.  I.     'T  will  rest 

I  With  me  at  last  to  be  so.     Vou  conceal'd  me  — 
I  In  secret  passages  known  to  yourself, 
\  You  said,  and  to  none  else.    At  dead  of  night, 
j  Weary  with  watching  in  the  dirk,  and  dubious 
■  Of  tracing  back  my  way,  I  saw  a  glimmer, 
I  Through  distant  crannies,  of  a  twinkling  light : 
[  I  follow'd  it,  and  reach'd  a  door  —  a  secret 

Portal  —  which  open'd  to  the  chamber,  where, 
I  With  cautious  hand  and  slow,  having  first  undona 

As  much  as  made  a  crevice  of  the  f  .stening, 
;  I  look'd  through  and  beheld  a  purple  bed, 

And  on  it  Stralenheim  '. — 
•     Sieg.  Asleep!    And  yet 

I  Tou  s!ew  him  '.  —Wretch  ! 
I     Gab.  He  was  already  •!•», 


Scene  I.] 


A   TRAGEDY. 


387 


And  bleeding  like  a  sacrifice.     My  on  n 

Blood  became  ice.  i 

Siee.  But  he  wss  all  alone  !  ' 

You  sa vv  none  else ?     I'ou  did  not  see  llie— — 

[//e  j^austs  fioni  agilation. 

Gab.  No : 

He,  whom  you  dare  not  name,  nor  even  I  1 

Scarce  dare  to  lecollecl,  «ai  not  theu  in  j 

The  chamber.  ! 

Sieg.  {tu  Ulric).  Then,  my  boy  ;  thou  art  guiltlp.<is 
still—  I 

Thou  bad'st  me  say  /  was  so  once  —  Oh  !  now  I 

Do  Ihou  as  much  1 

Gab.  Be  patient  1  I  can  not  \ 

Rcced2  now,  though  ii  sh  ike  the  very  walls  ; 

Which  frown  above  us.     You  renienjber, —  or  i 

If  no",  vour  son  does, —  that  the  locks  wei 
Beneath  hit  chief  inspection  oi.  the  morn 
Which  led  to  this  same  Tiight :  how  he  had  enter'd 
He  best  knows  —  but  within  an  antechamber, 
The  door  of  which  was  half  ajar,  I  saw 
A  man  who  wash'd  his  bloody  hands,  and  oft 
With  stern  and  anxious  glance  gazed  bick  upon 
The  bleeding  body  —  but  it  moved  no  mure. 

Sieg.  Oh  !  God  of  fathers  ! 

Gab.  I  beheld  his  features 

As  I  see  yours  —  but  yours  they  were  not,  though 
Resembling  them  —  behold  Ihem  in  Count  Ulric's  ! 
Distinct  as  I  beheld  them,  though  the  exprcssioa 
Is  not  now  what  it  then  was!  —  but  it  was  so 
When  I  first  charged  him  with  the  crime  —  so  lately. 

Svg-  This  is  so 

Gab.  (intenupttng  him).  Nay— but  hear  me  to  the 
end ! 
Now  you  must  do  so.-  I  conceived  myself 
Belray'd  by  you  and  Aim  (for  now  I  saw 
There  was'  some  tie  between  you)  into  this 
Pretended  den  of  refuge,  to  become 
The  victim  of  your  guilt ;  and  my  first  thought 
VVas  vengennce  :  but  though  arm'd  with  a  short  poniard 
(Having  left  my  sword  without),  I  was  no  match 
For  him  at  any  time,  as  had  been  proved 
That  morning' — either  in  address  or  force. 
I  turn'd  and  fled  —  i'  the  dark  :  ch  mce  rather  than 
Skill  mide  me  gain  the  secret  door  of  the  hall. 
And  thence  the  chaniber  where  you  slept  :  if  I 
Hid  found  you  waking,  Heaven  alone  can  tell 
What  vengeance  and  suspicion  might  have  prompted  ; 
Bui  ne'er  slept  guilt  as  VVerrer  slept  that  night. 

Sieg.  And  yet  I  had  horrid  dreams  !  and  "such  brief 
sleep, 
The  stars  had  not  gone  down  when  I  awoke. 
Why  didst  thou  spare  me?  I  dreamt  of  my  father  — 
And  now  my  dream  is  out '. 

Gab.  'T  is  not  mv  fault. 

If  1  have  read  it.—  Well  !  I  fled  and  hid  me  — 
Chance  led  me  here  after  so  many  moons  — 
And  show'd  me  Werner  in  Count  Siegendorf ! 
Werner,  whom  I  had  sousht  in  hu's  in  vain, 
Inhabited  the  palace  of  a  sovereign  ! 
You  sought  me  and  have  found  me  —  now  you  know 
My  secret,  and  may  weigh  its  worth. 

Sieg.  (.after  a  pause).  Indeed  ! 

Gab.  Is  it  revenge  or  justice  which  inspires 
Your  meditation  ? 

Sitg.  Neither  — I  was  weighing 

The  value  of  your  secret. 

Gab.  You  shall  know  it 

At  once  :  —  When  you  were  poor,  and  I,  though  poor, 
Rich  enough  to  relieve  such  poverty 
As  migh  have  envi&l  mine,  I  offer'd  you 
My  purse  —  you  would  not  share  it :  —  I  'II  be  franker 
With  you:  yiu  are  wealthy,  noble,  trusted  by 
The  imperial  powers  —  vou  understand  me? 

Sifg.  '  Yes. 

Gab.  Not  quite.    You  think  me  venal,  and  scarce 
true  : 
»T  is  no  less  true,  however,  that  my  fortunes 
Have  made  me  both  at  present.    You  shall  aid  me : 
I  would  have  aided  you  —  and  also  have 


Been  somewhat  danaged  in  my  name  to  save 

Yours  and  your  son's.     Weigh  well  what  I  have  said. 

.Sieg.  Dare  you  await  the  event  of  a  few  minutes* 
Delibcra  ion?' 

Gab.  (Sii.ils  hi9  eya  cii  Ul>  ic,  who  it  leaning  agairut 

a  pillar).  If  !  should  do  so  ? 
Sieg.  I  pledge  my  life  for  yours.     Withdraw  into 
This  tower.  '       [Opens  a  tnrret  door. 

Gab.  {hciitatingly).  This  is  the  second  safe  asylum 
You  have  olier'd  me. 

S'eg.  And  was  not  the  first  so  ? 

Gab.  I  know  not  that  even  now  —  but  will  approve 
The  second.     I  have  still  a  further  shield.— 
I  did  not  enter  Prague  alone  ;  and  should  I 
Be  put  to  rest  with  Stralenheim,  there  are 
Some  tongues  without  will  wag  in  my  behalf. 
Be  brief  in  your  decision  ! 

Sieg.  I  will  be  so. — 

My  word  is  sacred  and  irrevrcable 
Within  these  walls,  but  it  extends  no  further. 
Gab.  I  'II  lake  it  for  so  much. 

Sieg.  (point!  to  Uirift  sabre,  still  upon  the  ground). 
Take  also  that  — 
I  saw  you  eve  it  eagerly,  and  him 
Distrustfully. 

Gab.  (takes  up  the  sabre).  I  will ;  and  so  provide 
To  sell  my  life—  not  cheaply. 

[Gator  goes  into  the  turret,  which  Siegendorf 
clcsei. 
Sieg.  (advances  to  Ulric).  Now,  Count  Ulric  ! 
For  son  I  dare  not  call  thee—  Whit  say'st  thou  ? 
Ulr.  His  tale  is  true. 
Sieg.  True,  monster ! 

Ulr.  Most  true,  father! 

And  you  did  well  to  listen  to  it :  what 
We  know,  we  can  provide  against.    He  must 
Be  silenced. 

Sieg.  Av,  with  h'lf  of  my  domains; 

And  with  the  ol'her  half,  could  he  and  thou 
Unsay  this  villany. 

Ulr.  It  is  no  time 

For  trifling  or  dissembling.     I  have  said 
His  slory  's  true  ;  and  he  too  must  be  silenced. 
Sieg.  How  so  ? 

Ulr.  As  Stralenheim  is.    Are  you  so  dull 

As  never  to  have  hi^  on  this  before  ? 
When  we  met  in  the  garden,  what  except 
Discovery  in  the  act  could  make  me  know 
His  death  ?    Or  had  the  pi  ince's  household  been 
Then  summonM,  would  the  cy  for  the  police 
Been  left  to  such  a  stranger  ?     Or  should  I 
Have  loi'er'd  on  the  way  ?    Or  could  you,  Werner, 
The  object  of  the  baron's  hate  and  fears. 
Have  tied,  unles-  by  many  an  hour  before 
Suspicion  «oke?    I  sought  and  fathom'd  you, 
Doubting  if  you  were  fal-e  or  feeble:  I 
Perceived  you  were  the  latter:  and  yet  so 
Confiding  have  1  found  you,  that  I  doubted 
At  limes  vour  weakness. 

Sieg.    '  Parricide  !  no  less 

Than  common  slabber  !  What  deed  of  my  life, 
Or  thought  of  mine,  could  make  you  deem  me  fit 
For  your  accomplice? 

Ulr.  Father,  do  not  raise 

The  devil  you  cannot  lay  between  us.     This 
I  Is  time  for  union  and  fir    ction.  not 
i  For  family  disputes.     While  you  were  tortured, 
1  Could  /  be  calm  ?    Thii  k  you  that  1  have  heard 
I  'I  his  fellow's  tale  without  some  feeling  ?  —  You 
Have  taught  me  feeling  for  you  and  myself; 
For  whom  or  what  else  did  vou  ever  teacii  it  ? 
I     Seg.  Oh  :  my  dead  father's'  curse  ?  't  is  working  now. 
I      Ulr.  Let  it  work  on  !  the  gnve  will  keep  it  down: 
Ashes  are  feeble  foes  :  it  is  more  easy 
To  bafiie  such,  than  countermine  a  mole, 
"Which  winds  its  blind  but  living  pMh  beneath  yot. 
Yet  hear  me  still !  —  If  ycu  condemn  me,  yet 
Remember  who  hath  taught  me  once  too  often 
I  To  listen  to  him  !     WAo  p'oclaim'd  to  me 
i  That  there  were  crimes  made  venial  by  the  occaiioD  7 
I  That  pission  was  our  nature  ?  that  the  good* 


388 


WERNER: 


[ActV. 


Of  Heaven  waited  on  Ibe  goods  of  fortune ! 

IVhc  sliou'd  me  his  humanity  secuied 

By  his  nerves  only  ?     H'Vio deprived  me  of 

All  power  to  vindicnte  myself  and  race 

In  open  dny  ?    By  his  disgrace  which  stamp'd 

(It  misht  be)  bastardy  on  me,  and  on 

Him.-elf —  a  feltm'i  brand  !     The  man  who  is 

At  once  both  warm  and  wc  .k  invites  to  deedi 

He  longs  to  do,  but  dare  not.     Is  it  strange 

That  I  should  act  what  you  could  think?    We  have 

done 
With  right  and  wrong  ;  and  now  must  only  poader 
Upon  etiects,  not  c:iuse5.     Slralenheim, 
Whose  life  I  saved  from  inijiule,  as  unknown 
I  would  have  saved  a  peasant's  or  a  dog's,  I  slew 
Known  as  our  foe —  but  not  from  vengeance.    He 
Was  a  rock  in  our  w.jy  which  I  cut  through. 
As  doth  the  bolt,  because  it  stood  between  u> 
And  our  t.  ue  destination  —  but  i.ot  idly. 
As  stranger  I  preserved  him,  and  he  ovctd  me 
His  life:  when  due,  1  but  resumed  the  debt. 
He,  you,  and  I  stood  o'er  a  gull  wherein 
I  hive  plunged  our  enemy.     Yuu  kindled  first 
The  torch  —  J/OM  show'd  the  path  ;  now  trace  me  that 
Of  safety  —  or  let  me ! 

Sieg.  I  have  done  wi'h  life ! 

Ulr.  Let  us  have  done  with  that   which  cankers 
life  — 
Familiar  feuds  and  vain  recriminations 
Of  things  which  c  nnol  be  uudoi.e.     We  have 
No  more  to  learn  or  hide  :  1  know  no  fe^r. 
And  have  wiihin  these  very  walls  men  who 
(Although  you    know   them    not)  dare   venture    all 

things. 
You  stind  high  with  the  state  ;  what  passes  here 
Will  not  excite  her  Ioj  great  curiosily  : 
Keep  your  own  secret,  keep  a  steady  eye, 
Stir  not,  and  speak  not ;  —  le.ive  the  rest  o  me : 
We  mu-t  have  no  third  babblers  thrust  between  us. 

[Exit  Ulric. 

Sieg.  (solus).    Am  I  awake  ?  are  these  my  father's 
halls? 
And  you —  my  son  ?  My  son  !  mine  .'  who  have  ever 
Abhorr'd  both  mystery  and  blood,  niid  yet 
Am  plunged  Into  the  deepest  hell  of  boih '. 
I  must  be  speedy,  or  more  w  ill  be  shed  — 
The  Hungarian's '.  —  Ulric  — he  hath  partisans, 
It  seems ;  I  might  have  guess'd  as  much.     Oh  fool ! 
Wolves  prowl  in  company.     He  halh  the  key 
(As  I  loo)  of  ihe  opposite  door  which  leads 
Into  the  turret.     Now  then  !  or  oice  more 
To  be  the  f  ither  of  fresh  crimes,  no  less 
Than  of  the  criminal  !     Ho  !     Gabor  !    Gabor  ! 

[Exit  into  the  turret,  closing  the  door  after  him. 

SCENE   II. 
Tlu  Interior  of  the  Turret. 
Gabor  and  Siegendorf. 
Gab.  Who  calls  ? 

Steg.  I  —  Siegendorf :  Take  these  and  fly  ! 

Lose  not  i  moment ! 

[Tears  iff  a  diamond  star  and  other  jewels,  and 
thttists  them  into  Gabor's  hand. 
Gab.  What  am  I  to  do 

With  these? 

Sieg.  Whate'er  you  w  ill :  sell  them,  or  hoard. 

And  prosper ;  but  delay  not,  or  you  are  lost ! 
Gab.  You  pledged  your  honour  for  my  safety! 
Sieg.  And 

Mus'  Ihus  redeem  it.     Fly  !  I  am  not  master, 
It  seems,  of  my  own  casile  —  of  my  own 
Retainers  —  nay,  even  of  these  very  walls. 
Or  I  would  bid' them  fall  and  crush  me  !     Fly! 

Or  you  will  be  slaiu  by 

Gab.  Is  it  even  so? 

Farewell,  then  !    Recollect,  however.  Count, 
You  sought  this  fatal  interview  ! 

Sieg.  I  did : 

Let  it  not  be  more  fatal  still !  —  Begone  ! 


Gab.  By  the  same  path  I  enter'd  ? 
Sieg.  Yes ;  that 's  safe  still : 

But  loiter  not  in  Prague  ;  —  you  do  not  know 
With  whom  you  have  to  deal. 

Gnb.  I  know  too  well  — 

And  knew  it  ere  yourself,  unhappv  sire  ! 
Farewell !  '  [Exit  Gabor. 

Sieg.  (solus  and  listening).     He  hath  cleai'd   Ibe 
s'aircase.     Ah  '.  1  hear 
The  door  sound  loud  behind  him  !     He  is  safe  '. 

Safe  !  —  Oh,  my  father's  spirit  1  —  I  am  f.iint 

[He  leans  down  upon  a  stone  seat,  near  the  wall 
of  the  tower,  in  a  drooping  posture. 


Ulr.  Despatch  !  —  he 's  there  ! 
Ltid.  The  count,  my  lord  ! 

Ulr.  {recognising  Siegendorf).     you  here,  sir  ! 
Steg.  Yes:  if  you  want  anolhjr  victim,  strike! 
Ulr.  (seeing  him  stript  of  his  jewels).     Where  is 
the  ruffian  who  halh  plunder'd  you  ? 
Vassals,  despatch  in  search  of  him  !     You  see 
'T  was  as  I  said  —  Ihe  wretch  hath  stript  my  father 
Of  jewels  which  might  frni  a  prince's  heir-loom  ! 
Away  !  I  'II  follow  you  forthwilh. 

[Exeunt  all  hut  Siegendorf  and  Ulric 
What 's  this : 
Where  is  the  villain? 

Sieg.  There  are  two,  sir :  which 

Are  you  in  quest  of? 

Ulr.  Let  us  hear  no  more 

Of  this  :  he  must  be  found.    You  have  not  let  him 
Escape? 
Sieg.  He 's  gone. 

Ulr.  With  your  connivance? 

Sieg.  With 

My  fullest,  freest  aid. 

Uir.  Then  fare  you  well ! 

[Ulric  is  going. 
Sieg.  Stop !  I  cimroand  —  entreat  —  implore !  Oh, 
Ulric! 
Will  you  then  leave  me? 

Ulr.  What !  remain  to  be 

Denounced  —  dragged,  it  may  be,  in  chains  ;  and  all 
By  your  inherent  weakness,  half-humanity, 
Selfish  remorse,  and  temporising  pity. 
That  sacrifices  your  w  hole  race  to  save 
A  wretch  to  profit  by  our  ruin  !     No,  count, 
Henceforth  you  have  no  son  ! 

Steg.  I  never  had  one  ; 

And  would  you  ne'er  had  Iwrne  the  useless  name' 
Where  will  you  go.'  I  would  not  send  you  forth 
Without  protection. 

Ulr.  Leave  that  unto  me. 

I  am  not  alone  ;  nor  merely  Ihe  vain  heir 
Of  your  domains  ;  a  thousand,  ay,  ten  thousand 
Swords,  hearts,  and  hands  are  mine. 

Sieg.  The  foresters ! 

Wi  h  whom  the  Hungarian  found  you  first  at  FranS- 
fort ! 
Ulr.  Yes— men  — who  are  worthy  of  the  name! 
Go  tell 
Your  senators  that  they  look  well  to  Prague ; 
Their  feast  of  peace  was  early  for  the  times  ; 
There  are  more  spirits  abroad  than  have  been  .aid 
With  Wallenstein  ! 

Enter  Josephine  and  Ida. 

Jos.  What  is  't  we  hear  ?    My  Siegendorf! 

Thank  Heav'n,  I  see  you  safe  ! 

Sieg.  Safe ! 

Ida.  Yes,  dear  father ! 

Sieg.  No,  no;  I  have  no  children  :  never  more 
Call  me  by  that  worst  name  of  parent. 

Jos.  What 

Means  my  good  lord  ! 

Sieg.  That  you  have  given  birth 

To  a  demon ! 


Scene  I.]       THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


369 


Ida.  {taking  Ulric's  ha7id).     Who  shall  dare  say 

this  of  Ulric? 
Sicg.  Ida,  beware  !  there's  blood  upon  thit  hand. 
Ida.  Uioopttig  to  kiss  il).  I'd  kiss  it  oil',  thoi.';:h  it 

were  mine. 
Sieg.  It  is  so  ! 

Ulr.  Away  !  it  is  your  father's  !  [Exit  Ulric 

Ida.  Oh,  great  God  ! 

And  I  have  loved  this  man  ! 


[Ida  falls  senseless  —  Josfjihine  standi  spetth- 
less  with  honor. 
Sieg.  The  wretch  bath  slain 

Them  both  !  —  My  Josephine  1  we  are  now  alone ! 
Would  we  had  ever  been  sol  — All  is  over 
For  me  !  —  Now  open  wide,  my  sire,  thy  grave ; 
■|  hy  curse  hath  dug  it  deeper  for  ihy  son 
In  mine !  —  The  race  of  Siegendorf  is  past '. 


THE   DEFORMED   TRANSFORMED: 

A    DRAMA/ 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

This  production  is  founded  partly  on  the  story  of  a 
novel  called  "The  Three  Broheis,''  -  published  many 
years  ago,  from  which  M.  G.  Lewis's  "  Wood  Demon" 
was  also  taken  ;  and  p\rtly  on  the  "  Faust "  of  the 
great  Goethe.  The  pre-eni  publication  contains  the 
two  first  Parts  only,  and  the  opening  chorus  of  the 
third.     The  rest  may  perhaps  appear  hereafter. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONiE. 


stranger,  afterwards  Caesar. 
Arnold. 
Bourbon. 
Phililiert. 
Cellini. 
Bertha. 
Olimpia. 
Spirits,  Soldiers,  Citizens  of  Rome,  Priests,  Pea- 


PART  I. 

SCENE  I. 


Enter  Arnold  and  his  mother  JBerthx. 


I  was  bom  so,  mother '. 


Out 


Bert.  Out,  hunchback 

Am. 

Bert. 

Thou  incubus!    Thou  nightmare  !    Of  seven  sons, 
The  sole  abortion ! 

Am.  Would  that  I  had  been  so, 

And  never  seen  the  light ! 

Btrt.  I  would  so  too ! 

But  as  Ihnu  hast  —  hence,  hence—  and  do  thy  best ! 
That  back  of  thine  m  ly  bear  its  burthen  ;  't  is 
More  high,  if  not  so  bioad  as  thai  of  o'hers. 

Am.  It  bears  its  burthen ;  —  but,  my  heirt !  Will  it 
Susaiu  that  which  vou  lay  upon  it,  mother? 
I  love,  or,  at  the  least,  I  loved  ynu  :  nothing 
Save  you,  in  nature,  can  love  aught  like  me. 
You  nursed  me  —  do  not  kill  me  '. 

Bert.  Yes  —  I  nursed  thee, 

Beciu-e  thou  wert  my  first-born,  and  I  knew  not 
If  there  would  be  another  unlike  thee. 
That  monstrous  'port  of  nature.    But  get  hence, 
And  gather  wood  ! 

Am.  I  will :  but  when  I  bring  it, 


IThis  drama  was  begun  at  Pisa  in  1821,  but  was  not 
publishrd  till  Jaouary,  1621. 

2 The  "Three  Brothers"  is  a  romance,  published  in 
ia03,  the  work  of  a  Joshua  Fickers^ill,  junior.— E. 


Speak  to  me  kindly.    Though  my  brothers  are 
So  beautiful  and  lusty,  and  as  free 
As  the  free  chase  they  follow,  do  not  spurn  me : 
Our  milk  has  been  the  same. 

Bert.  As  is  the  hedgehog's, 

Which  sucks  at  midnight  from  Ihe  wholesome  dam 
Of  the  young  bull,  until  the  milkmaid  finds 
The  nipple  next  day  sore  and  udder  dry. 
Call  not  Ihy  brothers  brethren  !     Call  me  not 
Mother;  for  if  I  brought  thee  forth,  it  was 
As  foolish  hens  at  times  hatch  vipers,  by 
Si  ling  upon  strange  eggs.     Out,  urchin,  out ! 

[Exit  Bertha. 
Am.  (solus).  Oh  mother  ! She  is  gone,  and  I 

must  do 
Her  bidding; —  wearily  but  willingly 
I  would  fulhl  il,  could  I  only  lope 
A  kind  word  in  return.     What  shall  I  do  ? 

[Arnold  begins  to  cut  wood:  in  doing  thit  he 
wounds  one  of  his  hands. 
My  labour  for  the  day  is  over  now. 
Accursed  be  this  blood  tint  flows  so  fast ; 
For  double  curses  will  be  my  meed  now 
Al  home—  What  home?     I  have  no  home,  no  kin, 
No  kind  —  not  made  li>ve  other  creatures,  or 
To  share  their  sports  or  pleas.ires.     Musi  I  bleed  loo 
Like  Ihem  ?    Oh  that  each  drop  which  falls  to  earth 
Would  rise  a  snake  to  stins  them,  as  they  have  stung  me! 
Or  thai  the  devil.  In  whom  they  liken  me. 
Would  aid  his  likeness  !     If  1  must  partake 
His  form,  why  not  his  pnwer?    Is  it  because 
1  have  not  his  will  too?    For  one  kind  word 
From  her  who  bore  me  would  still  reconcile  me 
Even  to  this  hateful  aspect.     Let  me  wash 
The  wound. 

[Arnold  goes  to  a  spring,  and  stoops  to  voosh 
his  hand  :  he  starts  back. 
They  are  right ;  and  Nature's  mirror  shows  me. 
What  she  ha'h  made  me.     I  will  not  look  on  it 
Again,  and  ^carce  dare  think  on  't.     Hideous  wretch 
That  I  am  I     The  very  waiers  mock  me  with 
My  horrid  shadow  —  like  a  demon  placed 
Deep  in  the  fountain  to  scare  back  the  cattle 
From  drinkig  therein.  [Hepauiet, 

And  shill  I  live  on, 
A  burden  to  the  earth,  myself,  and  shame 
Unto  what  brought  me  into  life  !     Thou  blood. 
Which  flowest  so  freely  from  a  scratch,  let  me 
Try  if  thou  wilt  not  in  a  fuller  stream 
Pour  f  nh  my  woes  for  ever  with  thyself 
On  earth,  to  which  I  will  restore  at  once 
This  haeful  compound  of  her  a'oms  and 
Resolve  back  to  her  elements,  and  take 
The  shape  of  any  reptile  save  myself. 
And  make  a  world  for  myriads  of  new  worms! 
This  knife  I  now  let  me  prove  if  it  will  sever 
This  wither'd  slip  of  nature's  nightshade  —  my 
Vile  form  —  from  the  creation,  as  il  hath 
The  green  bough  from  the  forest. 

[Arnold  places  the  knije  tn  Die  ground,  urilh  \ 
the  point  upwards.  I 


33 


390 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED:       [Part 


ril 


Now  't  is  set, 
And  I  can  fall  upon  if.     Yet  one  glance 
On  the  fair  day,  wLich  sees  no  foul  thing  like 
Myself,  and  the  sweet  sun  which  warni'd  Die,  but 
Hi  vain.      J  he  birdi  —  hoiv  joyously  ihey  sing  ! 
So  lei  them,  lor  1  would  noi  be  lamented  : 
Bui  let  their  nieraest  notes  be  Arnold's  knell ; 
The  fallen  leaves  my  monument;  ihe  murmur 
Of  the  near  fountain  my  sole  elegy. 
Now,  knife,  stand  firmly,  as  I  fain  would  fall ! 

[.4.e  he  rushes  to  throw  himself  upcm  the  knife, 
his  eye  is  suddenly  ctughl  by  the  fotinlam, 
which  seems  in  motiun. 
The  fountain  moves  wi  hout  a  w  ind  :  but  shall 
The  ripple  of  a  spring  change  my  resolve  ? 
No.    Yet  it  moves  again  !    The  waters  stir, 
Not  as  wiih  air,  but  by  some  subterrane 
And  rocking  power  of  the  eternal  world. 
What 's  here  ?    A  mist  !     No  more  ?  — 

[A  clnvd  crimes  from  th-  fountain.    He  stands 
gazing  upon  it:  it  is  dispelled,  and  a  tall 
black  }na?i  comes  towards  him. 
Am.  What  would  you  ?    Speak ! 

Spirit  or  man  ? 

Stran.  As  man  is  both,  v*hy  not 

Say  both  in  one  ? 

Am.  Your  foim  li  man's,  and  yet 

You  may  be  devil. 

Siran.  So  many  men  are  that 

Which  is  so  call'd  or  Ihougfit.  that  you  may  add  me 
To  which  you  please,  « ithout  much  wrong  to  either. 
But  come:  you  wish  to  kill  yourself;  —  pursue 
Your  purpose. 

j?rii.  You  have  interrupted  me. 

S  ran.  What  is  that  resolution  which  can  e'er 
Be  interrupted  ?     If  I  be  Ihe  devil 
Ynn  deem,  a  single  moment  would  have  made  you 
Mine,  and  for  ever,  by  your  suicide; 
And  yet  my  coming  saves  you. 

Am.       '  I  said  not 

You  were  the  demon,  but  that  your  approach 
Was  hke  one. 

Stran.  Unless  you  keep  company 

Wi  h  him  (and  you  -ee'ni  scarce  used  to  such  high 
Society)  you  ch.'i  tell  hmv  he  approaches; 
And  for  his  aspect,  look  upon  Ihe  fountain. 
And  then  on  me,  and  judge  which  of  us  twain 
Look  likest  what  Ihe  boors  believe  to  be 
Their  cloven-footed  terror. 

Am.  Do  you  —  dare  you 

To  taunt  me  with  mv  born  deformity  ? 

Stran.  Were  I  to 'taunt  a  buffal  >  with  this 
Cloven  fool  of  thine,  or  Ihe  swift  dromedary 
With  thy  sublime  of  humps,  the  animals 
Would  revel  in  Ihe  com|.liment.     And  yet 
Both  beings  are  more  swifl,  more  strong,' more  mighty, 
In  acliin  and  endurance  than  thyself. 
And  all  Ihe  fierce  and  fair  of  Ihe  same  kind 
With  thee.     Thy  form  is  natural :  'I  was  only 
Nature's  mistaken  larsess  to  bestow 
The  gifis  which  are  of  others  upon  man. 

Arti.  Give  me  the  strength  then  of  the  buffalo's  foot, 
When  he  spurs  high  the  dusi,  beholding  his 
Near  enemy  ;  or  lel  me  have  the  long 
And  patient  swiftness  of  (he  desert  ship. 
The  helndess  dr  med  iry  '.  —  and  I  'II  bear 
Thv  fiendish  -aicasm  with  a  s  intly  patience. 
S'r.iii.  I  will. 

Am.  {with  su'fnr'se).    Thou  canst  ? 
Stra7i.  Perhaps.     Would  you  aught  else? 

Am.  Thou  mockesi  me. 

S  ran.  Not  I.     Why  should  I  mock 

Whit  all  are  mocking?  That 's  poor  sport,  metbinks, 
To  talk  to  thee  in  hu-iian  larzuige  (for 
Thou  canst  not  yet  speak  mine),  llie  forester 
Hun's  not  the  wre  cl^ed  coney,  but  the  boar, 
Or  wolf,  or  lion,  leaving  palliy  game 

tTo  petty  burghers,  who  leave 'once  a  year 
Their  wlU,  to  fill  their  household  caldrons  with 
Snch  scullion  prey.    The  meanest  gibe  at  tnee, — 
Now  /  can  mock  the  mightiest 


Am.  Then  waste  not 

Thy  time  on  me :  I  seek  thee  not. 

Stran.  Your  thoughts 

Are  not  far  from  me.     Do  not  send  me  back  : 
1  'm  not  so  easily  recali'd  to  do 
Good  service. 
Am.  What  wilt  thou  do  for  me? 

Stran.  Change 

I  Shapes  with  you,  if  you  will,  since  yours  so  irks  you; 
Or  form  you  to  your  wish  in  any  shape. 

Arn.  Oh  !  then  yon  are  indeed  the  demon,  for 
Nought  else  would  wittingly  wear  mine. 

Stran.  I  'II  show  thee 

The  brightest  which  the  world  e'er  bore,  and  give  thee 
Thy  choice. 
Am.  On  what  condition  ? 

Stran.  There  's  a  question  ! 

An  hour  ago  you  would  have  given  your  soul 
To  look  like  other  men,  and  now  you  pause 
To  we  ir  the  form  of  heroes. 

Am.  No;  I  will  not. 

I  must  not  compromise  my  soul. 

Stran.  What  soul. 

Worth  naming  Eo,  wou'd  dwell  in  such  a  carcass? 

Am.  'T  is  an  aspiring  one,  whale'er  the  tenement 
In  which  it  U  mislodjed.     But  name  your  compact: 
Must  it  be  sign'd  in  blood  ? 
S'ran.  Not  in  your  own. 

Am.  Whose  blood  Ihen  ? 

Stran.  We  will  talk  of  that  hereafter. 

But  I  '11  be  moderate  w  ith  you,  for  I  ^ee 
Great  things  within  you.     You  shall  hue  no  bond 
But  your  own  will,  no  contract  save  your  deeds. 
Are  you  content  ? 
Am.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word. 

Stran.  Now  then!  — 

[The  Stranger  approaches  the  fountain,  and 
turns  lo  Arnold. 

A  liltle  of  your  blood. 
Am.  '  For  what  ? 

Stran.  To  mingle  with  Ihe  magic  of  Ihe  waters. 
And  make  Ihe  charm  effective. 
Ant.  (holding  out  his  wounded  arm).  Take  it  all. 
Stran.  Not  now.     A  few  drops  will  suffice  for  this. 
[The  Strnvger  takes  some  of  Arnold's  blood  in 
his  hand,  and  cists  it  into  the  fountain. 
Stran.     Shadows  of  beauty  ! 
Shadows  of  power ! 
Rise  to  your  duty  — 
This  is  the  hoiir! 
Walk  lovely  and  pliant 

From  the  de|)th  of  this  fountain, 
As  the  ctoud^fhapen  giant 

Bestrides  the  Hatiz  .Mountain.* 
Come  as  ve  were. 

That  oiir  eye^  may  behold 
The  model  iii  air 

Of  Ihe  form  I  will  mould, 
Brisht  as  the  Iris 

When  ether  is  spann'd  ;  — 
Such  his  desire  is.  [Poinli7tg  toAmcid. 

Such  my  command ! 
Denion<  heroic  — 

Demons  \\  ho  wo'"e 
The  form  of  the  sioic 

Or  sophist  of  vore  — 
Or  Ihe  shnpe  of  each  victor. 

From  Micednn's  b"y. 
To  each  high  Roman's'  picture, 
Vt'ho  breathed  lo  destroy  — 


1  This  is  a  well-kDown  Oerman  supprslilinn  — a  gigan- 
tic fitiadnw  produced  by  reflt-cti-in  on  Ihe  Brorkeu.  [Th' 
Brnrken  is  the  name  <  f  the  loftiest  of  ihe  Hartx  M..un- 
tatott.  a  piclurei'que  range  whiiti  lies  in  Ihe  kiiigdnm  of 
Hanover.  Frnin  Ihe  earliest  periods  of  ;rUllieDtic  history, 
the  Bn-wken  has  been  the  seat  of  llie  mnrvellou*.  For  > 
description  of  the  phenomenon  alluded  to  by  Lord  Bjroa, 
Bee  Sir  David  Brewster's  "Natural  Mogic,"  p.  128.  — E.) 


Scene  I.] 


A   DRAMA. 


391 


Shadows  of  beauty ! 

Shadows  of  power ! 
Up  to  your  duty  — 
This  i^  the  hour! 
[Fnrious  Phantoms  arise  from  the  waters,  and 
pass  in  succtssion  before  the  Stranger  and 
Arnold. 
Am.  What  do  I  see? 

Stran.  The  black-eyed  Roman,  with 

The  eagle's  beak  between  Ihnse  eyes  which  ne'er 
Beheld  a  conqueror,  or  look'd  aloni; 
The  land  he  made  not  Rome's,  while  Rome  became 
His,  and  all  theirs  wh*  heir'd  his  very  name. 
Am.  The  phantom 's  bald ;   my   quest  is  beauty. 
Could  1 
Inherit  but  his  fame  with  his  defects! 
Stran.  His  brow  was  girt  with  laurels  more  than 
hairs. 
Tou  see  his  aspect  —  choose  it,  or  reject. 
I  can  but  promise  you  his  form  ;  his  fame 
Must  be  long  sought  and  fought  for. 

Ant.  I  will  fight  too, 

But  not  as  a  mock  Cassar.     Let  him  pass ; 
His  aspect  may  be  fair,  but  suits  me  not. 

Stran.  Then  you  are  far  more  difficult  to  please 
Than  Cato's  sister,  or  than  Brutus'  mother, 
Or  Cleopatra  at  sixteen  —  an  age 
When  love  is  not  less  in  the  eye  than  heait. 
But  be  it  so  !     Shadow,  pass  on  ! 

[The  phantom  of  Juliiis  Csesar  disappears. 
Am.  And  can  it 

Be,  Ihit  the  man  who  shook  the  earth  is  gone, 
And  left  no  footstep  ? 

Stran.  There  you  err.     His  substance 

Left  graves  enough,  and  woes  enough,  and  fame 
More  than  enough  to  track  his  memory  ; 
But  for  his  shadow,  'tis  no  more  than  yours, 
Except  a  little  longer  and  le>s  crook'd 
r  the  sun.     Behold  another  ! 

[A  second  phantom  passes. 
Am.  Who  is  he  ? 

Stran,  He  was  the  fairest  and  the  bravest  of 
Athenians.    Look  upon  him  well. 

Am.  He  is 

More  lovely  than  the  last.     How  beauliful ! 
Stran.  Such  was  the  curled  son  of  Clinias ;— wouldst 
thou 
Invest  thee  with  his  form  ? 

Am.  Would  that  I  had 

Been  born  with  it !  But  since  I  may  choose  further, 
1  will  look  further. 

[The  shade  of  Alcibiades  disappears. 
Stran.  Lo  !  behold  again  ! 

Arn.  What !  that  low,  swarthy,  short-nosed,  rouud- 
eyed  satyr, 
With  the  wide  nostrils  and  Silenus'  aspect. 
The  splay  feet  and  low  stature  '.    I  had  belter 
Remain  that  which  I  am. 

Stran.  And  yet  he  was 

The  earth's  perfection  of  all  mental  beauty, 
And  personification  of  all  virtue. 
But  you  reject  him  ? 

Arn.  If  his  form  could  bring  ine 

That  which  redeem'd  it—  no. 

Stran.  I  have  no  power 

To  promise  that ;  but  you  may  try,  and  find  it 
Easier  in  such  a  form,  or  in  your  own. 

Arn.  No.     1  was  not  born  for  philosophy. 
Though  I  have  that  about  me  which  has  need  on  'I. 
Let  him  fleet  on. 

Stran.  Be  air,  thou  hemlock-drinker  ! 

[The  shadow  of  Sr,crales  disappears :  another  rises. 
Arn.  What's  here?  whose  broad  brow  and  whose 
curly  beard 
And  manly  aspect  look  like  Hercules, 
Save  that  his  jocund  eye  halh  more  of  Bacchus 
Than  the  sad  purger  of  the  infernal  world, 
Leaning  dejected  on  his  club  of  conquest. 
As  if  be  knew  the  worthlessness  of  those 
For  whom  he  had  fought. 


Slran.  It  was  the  man  «  ho  iMt 

The  aucient  world  for  love. 

Arn.  I  cannot  blame  him, 

Since  I  have  ri>k'd  my  soul  because  I  find  not 
That  which  he  exchanged  the  earth  for. 

Stran.  Since  so  far 

You  seem  congenial,  will  you  wear  his  fealuies  ? 

Am.  No.     As  you  leave  me  choice,  I  am  difficult, 
If  but  to  see  the  heroes  I  should  ne'er 
Have  seen  else  on  the  side  of  this  dim  shore 
Whence  they  float  back  before  us. 

Stran.  Hence,  triumvir, 

Thy  Cleopiira  's  waiting. 

[The  shade  of  Antony  disappears :  another  rita. 

Arn.  Who  is  'his? 

Who  truly  looketh  like  a  demigou, 
Blooming'and  bright,  with  golden  hair,  and  stature, 
If  not  more  high  than  mortal,  yet  immortal 
In  all  that  nameless  bearing  of  his  limbs, 
Which  he  wears  as  the  sun  his  rays  —  a  sometliing 
Which  shines  from  him,  and  yet  is  but  the  flashing 
Emanation  of  a  thing  more  glorious  still. 
Was  he  e'er  human  only  ? 

Stran.  Let  the  earth  speak. 

If  there  be  atoms  of  him  left,  or  even 
Of  the  more  solid  gold  that  form'd  his  urn. 

Arn.  Who  was  this  glory  of  mankind  ? 

Stran.  The  shame 

Of  Greece  in  peace,  her  thunderbolt  in  war  — 
Demetrius  the  Macedonian,  and 
Taker  of  cities. 

Arn.  Yet  one  shadow  more. 

Stran.  {addressing  the  shadow).  Get  thee   to  La- 
mia's lap  I 
[The  shade  of  Demetrius  Poliorcetet  vanishes  : 
another  rises. 

I  '11  fit  you  still. 
Fear  not,  my  hunchback  :  if  the  shadows  of 
That  which  existed  please  not  your  nice  taste, 
I  '11  animate  the  ideal  marble,  till 
Your  soul  be  reconciled  to  her  new  garment. 

Am.  Content  !     I  will  fix  here. 

Stran.  I  must  commend 

Your  choice.    The  godlike  son  of  the  sea-goddess. 
The  unshorn  boy  of  Peleus,  with  his  locks 
As  beautiful  and  clear  as  the  amber  waves 
Of  rich  Paclolus,  roll'd  o'er  sands  of  gold, 
Soflen'd  by  intervening  crystal,  and 
Rippled  like  flowing  waters  by  the  wind. 
All  vow'd  to  Sperchius  as  they  were  —  behold  them 
And  Aim  — as  he  stood  by  Polixena, 
With  sanction'd  and  with  soflen'd  love,  before 
The  altar,  gazing  on  his  Trojan  bride. 
With  some  remorse  within  for  Hector  slain 
And  Priam  weeping,  mingled  with  deep  passion 
For  the  sweet  downcast  virgin,  w  hose  young  hand 
Trembled  in  his  who  slew  her  brother.     So 
He  stood  i'  the  temple  !     Look  upon  him  as 
Greece  look'd  her  last  upon  her  best,  the  instant 
Ere  Paris'  arrow  flew. 

Am,  I  gaze  upon  him 

As  if  I  were  his  soul,  whose  form  shall  soon 
Envelope  mine. 

Stran.  You  have  done  well.    The  greatest 

Deformity  should  only  barter  with 
'1  he  extremest  beauty,  if  Ihe  proverb's  true 
Of  mortals,  that  extremes  meet. 

,9rn.  Come  1  Be  quicfr  ' 

I  am  impatient. 

Slran,  As  a  youthful  beauty 

Before  her  glass.     Few  both  see  what  is  not, 
■  But  dream  it  is  what  must  be. 
I     Am.  Mustr^vait? 

Stran.  No  ;  that  were  a  pity.     But  a  word  or  two: 
His  stature  is  twelve  cubits ;  would  you  so  far 
Outsteji  these  times,  and  be  a  Titan  ?    Or 
(To  lalk  canouically)  wax  a  son 
Of  Anak  ? 

Am.        Why  not  ? 

Stran.  Glorious  ambition ! 

Hove  thee  most  in  dwarfs!    A  mortal  of 


392 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED:       [Part  I. 


Fbilistine  stature  would  have  gladly  pired 

His  own  Goliath  down  to  a  slight  David  : 

But  thou,  my  mannikin,  wouldsl  soar  a  show, 

Rather  than  hero.     Thou  shall  be  indulged, 

If  such  be  Ihy  desire  ;  and  yet,  by  being 

A  little  less  removed  from  present  nien 

In  fignre,  ihou  cinst  swny  them  mo  'e ;  for  all 

Would  rise  against  thee  now,  as  if  to  hunt 

A  new-found  mammoth  :  and  their  cursed  engines, 

Their  culverins,  and  so  forih,  would  find  way 

Through  our  friend's  armour  there,  with  greater  ease 

Than  the  adulterer's  arrow  through  his  heel, 

Wl^ch  Thetis  had  forgotten  to  baptise 

In  Styx. 

jlrrt.  Then  let  it  be  as  thou  deem'st  best. 

Stran.  Thou  shilt  be  beauteous  as  the  thing  thou 
seest, 
And  strong  as  what  it  was,  and 

Arn.  I  ask  not 

For  valour,  since  deformity  is  daring. 
It  is  its  essence  to  o'ertake  mankind 
By  heart  and  soul,  and  make  itself  the  equal 
Ay,  the  superior  of  the  rest.     Tiiere  is 
A  spur  in  i:s  halt  movements,  to  become 
All  that  the  others  cannot,  in  such  things 
As  still  are  free  to  both,  to  compensate 
For  slepdame  Nature's  avarice  at  first. 
They  woo  with  fearless  deeds  the  smiles  of  fortune. 
And  oft,  like  Timour  the  lame  Tartar,  win  them. 

Stran.  Well  spoken  !  And  thou  doubtless  wilt  remain 
Form'd  as  thou  art.     I  may  disinisr-  the  mould 
Of  shadow,  which  must  turn  to  flesh,  to  incase 
This  daring  soul,  which  could  achieve  no  less 
Without  it. 

Am.  Had  no  power  presenled  me 

The  possibility  of  change,  I  would 
Have  done  the  best  which  spirit  may  to  make 
Its  way  with  all  deformity's  dull,  deadly, 
Discouraging  weight  upon  me,  like  a  mountain. 
In  feeling,  on  my  heart  as  on  my  shouldeis  — 
An  hateful  and  unsightly  molehill,  to 
The  eyes  of  happier  man.     I  would  have  look'd 
On  beauty  in  that  sex  which  is  the  type 
Of  all  we  know  or  dream  of  beautiful 
Beyond  the  world  they  brighten,  with  a  sigh  — 
Not  of  love,  but  despair;  nor  sought  to  win, 
Though  to  a  heirt  all  love,  what  could  not  love  me 
In  turn,  because  of  this  vile  crooked  clog. 
Which  makes  me  lonely.    Nay,  1  could  have  borne 
It  all,  had  not  my  mn:her  spuui'd  me  from  her. 
The  she-bear  licks  her  cubs  into  a  sort 
Of  shape  ;  —  my  dam  beheld  my  shape  was  hopeless. 
H<d  she  exposed  nje,  like  the  Spartan,  ere 
I  knew  the  passionate  part  of  life,  I  had 
Been  a  clod  of  the  valley,—  happier  nothing 
Than  what  I  am.     But  even  thus,  the  lowest. 
Ugliest,  and  meanest  of  mankind,  what  courage 
And  persever  inee  could  have  done,  perchance 
Had  made  me  something  — as  it  has  mide  heroes 
Of  the  same  mould  as  mine.     You  lately  saw  me 
I  Master  of  my  own  life,  and  quick  to  quit  it; 
I  And  he  who' is  so  is  the  master  of 

Whatever  dreads  to  die. 
t      Stran.  Decide  between 

j  What  you  have  been,  or  will  be. 

Am.  I  have  done  so. 

Ton  have  open'd  brighter  prospec's  to  my  eyes, 
!  And  sweeter  to  my  heart.    As  I  am  now, 

I  might  be  fear'd,  admired,  respected,  loved 
!  Of  all  sive  those  next  to  nie,  of  whom  I 
j  Would  be  beloved.     As  Ihou  showest  me 
A  choice  of  forms,  I  take  the  one  I  view. 
Hasle  :  haate  ! 
Stra7i.  And  what  shall  /  weir  ? 

Am.  Surely,  he 

Who  can  command  all  forms  will  choose  the  highest, 
Something  superior  even  lo  that  which  was 
Pelidfcs  now  before  us.     Perhaps  Itis 
i  Who  slew  him,  that  of  Paris:  or  — still  higher  — 
I  The  poet's  god,  clothed  in  such  limbs  as  are 
Themselves  a  poetry. 


Stran.  Less  will  content  me  j 

For  I,  too,  love  a  change. 

Am.  Your  aspect  is 

Dusky,  but  not  uncomely. 

Stran.  If  I  chose, 

I  might  be  whiter  ;  but  I  have  a  penchant 
For  black  —  it  is  so  honest,  and  besides 
Can  neither  blush  with  shame  nor  pale  with  fear; 
But  I  have  worn  it  long  enough  of  late. 
And  now  I  '11  lake  your  figure. 
Am  Mine ! 

Stran.  Yes.    You 

Shall  change  with  The'is"  son,  and  I  with  Bertha 
Your  mother's  offspring.    People  have  their  tastes; 
You  have  yours  —  1  mine. 
Am.  Despatch '.  despitch  ! 

Stran.  Even  so. 

[The  Stranger  takes  some  earth  and  moulds  it 
aloTg  the  turf,  and  then  addresses  the  phan- 
tom of  Achilles. 
Beautiful  shadow 

Of  Thetis's  boy  ! 
Who  sleeps  in  the  meadow 

Whose  grass  giow  s  o'er  Troy  : 
From  the  red  eirth,  like  Adam,» 

Thy  likeness  I  shape, 
As  the  being  who  made  him, 

Wtiose  actions  I  ape. 
Thou  clay,  be  all  glow  ing, 

Till  the  rose  in  his  cheek 
Be  as  fair,  as  when  blowing, 

It  wears  its  first  streak ! 
Ye  violets,  I  scatter, 

Now  turn  into  eyes  ! 

And  thou,  sunshiny  water. 

Of  blood  tike  the  guise  ! 

Let  these  hyacinth  boughs 

Be  his  long  flowing  hair. 

And  wave  o'er  his  brows. 

As  thou  wavest  in  air! 

Let  his  heart  be  this  marble 

I  tear  from  the  rock ! 
But  his  voice  as  the  warble 

Of  bi  ds  on  yon  oak  '. 
Let  his  flesh  be  the  purest 

Of  mould,  in  which  grew 
The  lilv-root  surest. 

And  drank  the  best  dew  ! 
Let  his  limbs  be  the  lightest 

Which  clay  can  compound  ! 
And  his  aspect  the  brightest 

On  earth  to  be  found  1 
Elements,  near  me, 

Be  mingled  and  stirr'd, 
Know  me,  and  hear  me, 
And  leap  to  my  word ! 
Sunbeams,  awaken 

This  earth's  animation  ! 
'T  is  done  !     He  hath  taken 
His  stand  in  creation! 
[Arnold  falls  senseless;  his  soul  passes  tnto  the 
shape  ofAch  tilts,  which  rises  from  the  ground  f 
while  the  phantom  lias  disappeared^  part  by 
part,  as  the  figure  was  formed  fromthe  earth. 
love,  and  I  shall  be  te- 


rm his  new  form).  I 
oved!     Oh  life! 


Arn. 

1 
At  hst  I  feel  thee  !    Glorious  spirit, 

Stran.  Slop ! 

What  shall  become  of  vour  abmdon'd  garment, 
Yon  hump  ai  d  lump,  and  clod  of  ugliness. 
Which  late  you  wore,  or  were  ? 

Am.  Who  cares  ?  Let  wolvei 

And  vultures  take  i',  if  they  will. 

Stran.  '  And  if 

They  do,  and  are  not  scared  by  it,  you  'II  say 
It  must  be  peace-time,  and  no  better  fare 
Abroad  i'  the  fields. 

1  Adam  means  "  red  earth,"  from  which  the  4nt  ■■■ 


Scene  I.] 


A  DRAMA, 


3li:Ji 


Am.  Let  us  but  leave  il  there ; 

No  matter  what  becomes  on  't. 

Stran.  That 's  ungracious, 

If  not  ungriteful.     Whatsoe'er  it  be, 
It  hath  sustain'J  your  soul  full  many  a  day. 

Arn.  Ay,  as  the  dunghill  niay  conceal  a  gem 
Which  is  now  set  in  gold,  as  je»els  should  be. 
Siran.  Bu  if  I  give  another  form,  it  must  be 
By  fair  exchange,  not  robbery.     For  they 
Who  mike  men  without  women's  aid  have  long 
Had  patents  for  the  same,  and  do  nni  love 
Your  interlopers,     'i'he  devil  may  lake  men, 
Not  make  i hem,— though  he  reap  the  benefit 
Of  the  original  workmanship: —  and  therefore 
Some  one  must  be  found  to  a^ume  the  shape 
You  have  quitted. 
Am.  Who  would  do  so  ? 

Stran.  That  I  know  not, 

And  therefore  I  must. 
Arn.  You ! 

Slran.  I  said  it  ere 

You  inhabited  your  present  dome  of  beauty. 

Am.  True.     I  forget  all  things  in  the  new  joy 
Of  this  immortal  change. 

Stran.  In  a  few  moments 

I  will.be  as  you  were,  and  you  shall  see 
Yourself  for  ever  by  you,  as  your  shadow. 
Am.  I  would  be  spared  this. 
Stran.  But  it  cannot  be. 

What !  shrink  already,  being  what  you  are, 
From  seeing  what  you  were  ? 
Am.  Do  as  thou  wilt. 

Stran.  (to  the  late  form  of  Arnold,  extended  on 
the  earth.) 
Clay  !  not  dead,  but  soulless  ! 

Though  no  man  would  choose  thee, 
An  immor:al  no  less 

Deigns  not  to  refuse  thee. 
Clay  thou  art ;  and  unto  spirit 
All  clay  is  of  equal  merit. 
Fire  I  without  which  nought  can  live; 
Fire !  but  t/i  which  nought  can  live. 
Save  the  fabled  salamander, 
Or  immortal  souls,  which  wander. 
Praying  what  doth  not  forgive, 
Howling  for  a  drop  of  water. 

Burning  in  a  quenchless  lot : 
Fire  !  the  only  element 

Where  nor  fish,  beas',  bird,  nor  worm. 

Save  the  worm  which  dielh  not, 
Can  preserve  a  moment "s  form. 
But  must  with  thyself  be  blent : 
Fire  I  man's  safeguard  and  his  slaughter 
Fire  !  Creation's  first-born  daughter, 
And  Destruction's  threaten'd  son, 
VVhen  heaven  with  the  world  hath  done: 
Fire !  assist  me  fo  renew 
Life  in  what  lies  in  my  view 

Stiff  and  cold! 
His  resurrection  rests  with  me  and  you  ! 
One  little,  marshy  spark  of  flame  — 
And  he  a^ain  shall  seem  the  same  : 
But  I  his  spirit's  place  shall  hold  ! 
[An  ignisfatuutfits  through  the  wood  and  rests 
on  the  brow  of  the  body.     The  Stranger  dis- 
appears:  the  body  risis. 
Am.  (i;i  his  new  form).    Oh  !  horrible  ! 
Stran.  (in  Arnold's  late  shape).     What !  tremblest 

thou? 
Am.  Not  so  — 

I  merely  shudder.     Where  is  fled  the  shape 
Thou  lately  worest  ? 

Slrart,  To  the  wcrld  of  shadows. 

But  let  us  thread  the  present.     Whilher  wilt  thou  ? 
Am.  Must  thou  be  my  companion  ? 
Stran.  Wherefore  not  ? 

Your  betters  keep  worse  company. 
Am.  My  betters ! 

Stran.  Oh !  you  wax  proud,  I  see,  of  your  new 
form: 
1  'm  glad  of  that.    Ungrateful  too !    That  >s  well ; 


You  improve  ai  ace  ;  —  two  changes  in  an  instant, 
And  ynu  are  old  in  the  world's  wajs  alieady. 
But  bear  with  me:  indeed  )ou  'II  find  me  useful 
Upon  your  pilgrim  ige.     But  come,  pronounce 
Where  shall  we  now  be  erraut? 

Am.  Where  the  world 

Is  thickest,  that  I  may  behold  il  in 
Its  woi  kings. 

Stran.  That 's  to  say,  where  there  is  war 

And  woman  in  activity.     Let 's  see  ! 
Spain  —  laly  —  the  new  Atlantic  world  — 
Afric,  with  all  its  Moors.     In  very  truth. 
There  is  small  choice:  the  whole  race  are  jtisl  now 
Tuzging  as  usual  at  each  other's  hearts. 

Arn.  I  hive  heard  great  things  of  Rome. 

Stian.  A  goodly  choice  — 

And  scarce  a  better  to  be  found  on  earth. 
Since  Sodom  was  put  ou'.     1  he  field  is  wide  too  ; 
For  now  the  Frank,  and  Hun,  and  Spanish  scion 
Of  the  old  Vandals,  are  at  play  along 
The  sunny  shores  of  the  world's  garden. 

.^r»i.  How 

Shall  we  proceed? 

Stran.  Like  gallants,  on  good  coursers. 

What  ho  !  my  chargers  !     Never  yet  were  better, 
Since  Phaeton  was  upset  into  the  Po. 
Our  pages  too ! 

Enter  two  Pages,  with  four  coal-black  horses, 

Arn.  A  noble  sight ! 

Stran.  And  of 

A  nobler  breed.     Match  me  in  Barbary, 
Or  your  Knchlini  race  of  Arahy, 
With  these  ! 

.^m.  The  mizhty  steam,  which  vo!<ime4  higb 

From  iheir  proud  nostrils,  burns  the  very  air; 
And  sparks  of  fiame,  like  dancing  fire-flies,  wheel 
Around  their  manes,  as  common  insects  swarm 
Round  common  steeds  towards  sunset. 

Slran.  Mount,  my  lord : 

They  and  I  are  your  servitors. 

Am.  And  these 

Our  dark-eyed  pages  —  what  may  be  their  names? 

S  ran.  You  shall  baptize  them. 

Am.  What:  in  holy  water? 

SitaJi.  Why  not  ?    The  deeper  sinner,  better  saint. 

Arn.  They  are  beautiful,  and  cannot,  sure,  be  de- 
mons.' 

Stran.  True;  the  devil's  always  ugly;  and  your 
beauty 
Is  never  diabolical. 

Am.  I'll  call  him 

Who  bears  the  golden  horn,  and  wears  such  bright 
And  bloiniing  aspect,  Huon  ;  for  he  looks 
Like  to  the  lovely  boy  lost  in  the  forest. 
And  never  found'till  now.     And  for  the  other 
And  darker,  and  more  thoughtful,  who  smiles  not, 
But  looks  as  serious  though  serene  as  night, 
He  shall  be  Memnon,  from  the  Ethiop  king 
Whose  statue  turns  a  harper  once  a  day. 
And  you  ? 

Slran.  I  have  ten  thousand  names,  and  twice 
As  many  attributes  ;  but  as  1  wear 
A  human  shape,  will  take  a  human  name. 

Arn.  More  human  than  the  shape  (though  it  was 
mine  once) 
I  trust. 

Slran.  Then  call  me  Cjesar. 

Arn.  Why,  that  name 

Bel.ings  to  empires,  and  has  been  but  borne 
By  the  world's  lords. 

Stran.  And  therefore  fittest  for 

The  devil  in  disguise  —  since  so  you  deem  me, 
Unle  s  you  call  me  pope  instead. 

Arn.  Well,  then, 

Caesar  thou  shall  bt.     For  myself,  my  name 
Shall  be  pla;n  Arnold  still. 

Cfeji.  We'll  add  a  title  — 

"  Count  Arnold  : ''  it  hath  no  ungracious  sound, 
And  will  look  well  upon  a  billet-doux. 

Arn.  Or  in  an  order  for  a  battle-field. 


391 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED:        [Paet  I.  i' 


Css,  (sings).  To  horse !  to  horse !  my  coal-black 
steed 
Paws  the  ground  and  snuffV  the  air ! 

There 's  not  a  foal  of  Arab's  breed 
M'lre  knows  whom  he  must  bear; 

On  the  hill  he  will  ikiI  liie, 

Swifter  as  it  waxes  higher  ; 

Id  the  mir-h  he  will  noi  slacken, 

On  the  plain  be  overtaken  ; 

III  the  wave  he  will  not  siuk, 

Nor  pause  at  the  brook's  side  to  drink  ; 

In  the  race  he  will  not  pant, 

In  the  combat  he  "11  not  faint ; 

On  the  stones  he  will  not  stumble, 

Time  nor  toil  shall  make  him  humble; 

In  the  stall  he  will  not  stitten, 

But  be  winged  as  a  griffin. 

Only  flying  wiih  his  feet: 

And  w  ill  not  such  a  voyage  be  sweet  ? 

Merrily  !  merrily  !  never  unsound. 

Shall  our  bonny  black  horse,  skiiii  over  the  ground  ! 
From  the  Alps  to  the  Caucasus,  ride  we,  or  fiy  I 
For  we  '11  leave  them  behind  in  the  glance  of  an  eye. 
IT/iey  mount  iheir  hones,  and  disappear. 

SCENE   11. 

Jl  Camp  before  the  fValts  of  Rome. 

Arnold  and  Csesar, 

Csu.  You  are  well  entered  now. 

Am.  Ay  ;  but  my  path 

Has  been  o'er  carcasses :  mine  eyes  are  full 
Of  blood. 

Cxs.      Then  wipe  them,  and  see  clearly.     Why! 
Thou  art  a  conqueror  ;  the  chosen  knight 
And  free  companion  of  the  gallant  Bourbou, 
Late  constable  of  France  :  and  now  to  be 
Lord  of  the  city  which  hath  been  earth's  lord 
Under  its  emperors,  and  —  changing  sex, 
Not  sceptre,  an  hermaphrodite  of  empire  — 
Lady  of  the  old  world. 

Am.  How  old  ?  What !  are  there 

Ifew  worlds  ? 

Csst.  To  you.    You  'II  find  there  are  such  shortly, 
By  i!s  rich  harvest?,  new  disease,  and  gold  ; 
From  one  half  of  the  world  named  a  whole  new  one, 
Because  you  know  no  better  than  the  dull 
And  dubious  notice  of  your  eyes  and  ears. 

Am.  I'll  trust  them. 

Cses.  Do!     They  will  deceive  you  sweetlv, 

And  that  is  better  than  the  bitter  truth. 

Am.  Dog! 

Css.  Man ! 

Am.  Devil  I 

Cxs.  Your  obedient  bumble  servant. 

Ant.  Say  master  rather.    Thou  hast  lured  me  on, 
Through  scenes  of  blood  and  lust,  till  I  am  here. 

Cxs.  And  where  wouldst  thoic  be? 

Am.  Oh,  at  peace  —  in  peace. 

Caw.  And  where  is  that  which  is  so .-  From  the  star 
To  the  winding  worm,  all  life  is  motion ;  and 
In  lifecommoItOTi  is  the  exiremesi  point 
Of  life.     The  planet  wheels  till  it  becomes 
A  comet,  and  destroying  as  it  sweeps 
The  stars,  goes  out.     The  poor  worm  winds  its  way, 
Livine  upon  the  death  of  other  thines, 
But  still,  like  them,  must  live  and  die,  the  subject 
Of  something  which  has  m  ide  it  live  and  die. 
You  must  obey  what  all  cbey,  the  rule 
OJ  fix'd  necessity:  against  her  edict 
Kebellion  prospers  not. 

Am.  And  w  hen  it  prospers 

Cxi.  'Tii  i.o  rebellion. 

Am,  Will  it  prosper  now  ? 

Cxs.  The  Bourbon  hath  given  oiders  for  the  assault. 
And  by  the  dawn  there  w  ill  be  work. 

A>-n.  Alas! 

And  shall  the  city  yield  ?  I  see  the  eiant 
Abode  of  the  true  God,  and  his  true  saint. 
Saint  Feter,  rear  its  dome  and  cross  into 


That  sky  whence  Christ  ascended  from  the  cross, 
Which  his  blood  nude  a  b  idge  of  glory  and 
Of  joy  (as  once  of  torture  unTci  him, 
God  and  God's  Son,  man's  sole  and  only  refuge). 

Cxs.    T  is  there,  and  shall  be. 

Am.  What? 

Cxs.  The  crjcifix 

Above,  and  many  altar  shrines  below — 

I  some  culverins  up''n  the  walls. 
And  harquebusses,  ar;d  what  not;  besides 
The  men  who  are  to  kindle  them  to  death 
Of  other  men. 

Aril.  And  those  scarce  mortal  arches, 

Pile  above  pile  of  everlasting  wall. 
The  Ihea're  where  emperors  and  their  subjec'i 
(1  hose  subjects  Ronia7n)  stood  at  gaze  upon 
The  battles  of  the  monarch   of  the  wild 
And  wood,  the  lion  and  his  tusky  rebels 
Of  the  then  unt.imed  desert,  brought  to  joust 
In  the  arena  (as  right  well  ihey  niight. 
When  they  had  left  no  human  foe  unconquer'd) ; 
Made  e\en  the  forest  pay  its  tribute  of 
Life  to  their  amphitheatre,  as  well 
As  Dacia  men  to  die  the  eternal  death 
For  a  sole  instant's  paslinje.  and  "  Pass  on 
To  a  new  gladiator !  '  —  Must  it  fall  ? 

Cxs.  The  city,  or  the  amphitheatre? 
The  church,  or  one,  or  all  ?  for  you  confound 
Both  them  and  me. 

Arti.  To-morrow  sounds  the  assault 

With  the  first  cock-crow. 

Cxs.  Which,  if  it  end  with 

The  evening's  first  nightingale,  will  be 
Something  new  in  the  annals  of  ereat  sieges; 
For  men  must  have  their  prey  after  long  toil. 

Arn.  The  sun  goes  dow  n  as  calmly,  and  perhaps 
More  beau'ifully,  than  he  did  on  Rome 
On  the  day  Remus  leapt  her  wall. 

Cxs.  I  saw  him. 

Am.  You  : 

Cxs.  Yes,  sli.    You  forget  F  am  or  was 

Spirit,  till  r  took  up  with  your  cast  shape. 
And  a  worse  name.     I  'm  Ciesar  and  a  hunch-back 
Now.     Well !  the  first  of  Csesars  was  a  bald-head, 
And  loved  his  laurels  better  as  a  wig 
(So  history  says)  than  as  a  glory.     Thus 
The  world  runs  on,  but  n-e 'II  be  merry  still. 
I  saw  your  Rnmulus  (simple  as  I  am) 
Slay  his  own  twin,  quick-born  of  the  same  womb, 
Because  he  leap'  a  ditch  ('t  was  then  no  wall, 
Whate'er  it  now  be);  and  Rome's  earliest  cement 
Was  brothers  blood  ;  and  if  its  native  blood 
Be  spilt  till  the  choked  Tiber  be  as  red 
As  e'er  'i  «  as  yellow,  it  will  never  wear 
The  deep  hue'cf  the  ocean  and  the  earth. 
Which  the  great  robber  sons  of  fntricide 
Have  made  their  never-ceasing  scene  of  slaughter 
For  ages. 

Am.      But  what  have  these  done,  their  far 
Remote  descendants,  who  have  lived  in  peace, 
The  peace  of  heaven,  and  in  her  sunshine  of 
Piety  ? 

Cxs.  And  what  had  they  done,  whom  the  old 
Romans  o  erswept  ?  —  Hark  ! 

Am.  They  are  soldiers  sioging 

A  reckless  roundelay,  upon  the  eve 
Of  manv  deaths,  it  may  be  of  their  own. 

Cxs.  And  why  should  they  not  sing  as  well  as  swaM? 
Thev  are  black  ones,  to  be  sure. 

Arn.  So,  you  are  learn'd, 

I  see,  too  ? 

Ca:?.  In  my  grammar,  certes.     I 

Was  educated  for  a  monk  of  all  times. 
And  once  1  was  well  versed  in  Ihe  forgotten 
Etruscan  letters,  and  —  were  I  so  minded  — 
Could  make  their  hieroglvphics  plainer  than 
Your  alphabet. 

Ant.  And  wherefore  dn  you  not  ? 

Cxs.  It  answers  better  to  resolve  the  alphabet 
Back  into  hieroglyphics.    Like  your  s'l 
And  prophet,  pontiff,  doctor,  alchymist. 


fp^ 


Scene  II.] 


A   DRAMA. 


395i| 


Philosopher,  and  what  not,  they  have  built 
More  Babels,  wilhou'  new  dispersion,  ihan 
The  tiaminering  young  ones  of  Ihe  flood's  dull  ooze, 
Wlio  f  il'd  and  tied  each  other.     Why  ?  why,  marry, 
Because  no  man  could  understand  his  neighbour. 
They  are  wi-er  now,  and  will  not  separate 
For  nonsense.     Nay,  it  is  their  brotherhood. 
Their  Shibboleth,  their  Koran,  Talmud,  Iheir 
Cabala  ;  their  best  brick-work,  wherewithal 

They  build  more 

^rn.  (internipliug  him).    Ob,   thou    everlasting 
sneerer I 
Be  silent  ?    How  the  soldiers'  rough  s'rain  seems 
Soften'd  by  dis  ance  to  a  hymn-like  cadence  ! 
Listen ! 

Csu.  Yes.    I  have  heard  the  angels  sing. 
^rn.  And  demons  howl. 

Ciu.  And  man  too.    Let  us  listen : 

I  love  all  music. 

Song  of  the  Soldiers  within. 
The  black  bands  came  over 
The  Alps  and  their  snow ; 
With  Bourbon,  the  rover. 

They  pass'd  the  broad  Po. 
We  have  beaten  all  focmen. 
We  have  cnpured  a  king, 
We  have  lurn'd  back  on  no  men, 

And  so  let  us  sing  1 
Here 's  the  Bourbon  for  ever  ! 

Though  penniless  all. 
We'll  have  one  more  endeavour 

At  yonder  old  wall. 
With  the  Bourbon  we'll  gather 

At  day-dawn  before 
The  gales,  and  together 
Or  break  or  climb  o'er 
The  wall :  on  the  ladder 

As  mounts  each  firm  foot. 
Our  shout  shill  grow  gladder, 

And  death  only  be  mute. 
With  the  Bourbon  we  'II  mount  o'er 

The  walls  of  old  Rome, 
And  who  then  shall  count  o'er 

The  spoils  of  each  dome  ? 
Up:  up  with  Ihe  lily! 

And  down  wilh  Ihe  keys  ! 
In  old  Rome,  the  seven-hilly, 

We  'II  revel  a(  ease. 
Her  streets  shall  be  gory, 

Her  Tiber  all  red, 
And  her  temples  so  hoary 

Shall  clini  with  our  tread. 
Oh.  the  Bourbon  !  the  Bourbon  ! 

The  Bourbon  for  aye  '. 
Of  our  song  bear  the  burden  ! 

And  fire,  fire  away  ! 
With  Spain  for  the  vanguard, 

Our  varied  host  comes  ; 
And  next  to  the  Spaniard 
Beat  Germany's  drums ; 
And  Italy's  lances 

Are  couch'd  at  Iheir  mother; 
But  O'  r  leader  from  France  is, 

Who  warr'd  with  hts  brother. 
Oh,  Ihe  Bourbon  '.  the  Bourbon  ! 

Sans  c  lunlrv  or  home, 
We  'II  follow  the  B  'Uibou, 
To  plunder  old  Rome. 
Cxt.  An  inditterent  song 

Tor  those  vi-ithin  Ihe  walls,  melhiiiks,  to  heir. 
jjm.  Yes,  if  they  keep  to  their  chorus.    But  here 
conies 
The  general  with  bis  chiefs  .ind  men  of  trust. 
A  goodly  rebel ! 
Enter  the  Constable  Bourbon  >  •'  cvm  suis,"  ^.  t(C. 

Phil.  How  now,  noble  prince, 

Tou  are  not  cheerful  ? 

1  Cbule*  of  Bonrlioa   was  cousin  to  Franci*  I.,  and 


Bourb.  Why  should  I  b«  so  ? 

Phil.  Upon  the  eve  of  conquest,  such  as  ourt, 
Most  men  would  be  so. 

Bourb.  If  I  were  secure ! 

Phil.  Doubt  not  our  soldiers.     Were  the  walls  ada- 
mant, 
They  'd  crack  them.     Hunger  is  a  sharp  artillery. 

Boitrb.  1  hat  they  will  falter  is  my  leist  of  fears. 
That  they  will  be  repulsed,  wilh  Bourbon  for 
Their  chief,  and  all  their  kindled  appetites 
To  marshal  them  on  —  were  those  hoary  walls 
Mountains,  :ind  those  who  guard  Iheni  like  the  gods 
Of  the  old  fables,  1  would  trust  my  Titans  ;  — 
But  now 

Phil.  1  hey  are  but  men  who  war  with  mor'als. 

Bourb.  True  :  but  thoie  walls  have  girded  in  great 
ages, 
And  sent  forth  mighty  spirits.     The  past  earth 
And  present  phantom  of  imperious  Rome 
Is  peopled  wilh  those  warriors;  and  melhinks 
They  flit  along  the  eternal  city's  rampart. 
And  stretch  their  glorious,  gory,  shadowy  hands, 
And  beckon  me  away  : 

Phil.  So  let  them  !    Wilt  thou 

Turn  back  from  shadowy  meinces  of  shadows  ? 

Bourb.  They  do  not  menace  nie.    I  could  have 
faced, 
Methinks,  a  Sylla's  menace  ;  but  they  cbsp. 
And  raise,  and  wring  their  dim  and  deathlike  hands. 
And  with  their  thin  aspen  faces  and  fix'd  eyes 
Fascinate  mine.    Look  there ! 

Phil.  I  look  upon 

A  lofty  battlement. 

Bnurb.  And  there ! 

Pnil.  Not  even 

A  guard  in  sight ;  they  wisely  keep  below, 
Sheltered  by  the  grey  parapet  from  some 
Stray  bullet  nf  our  lansquenets,  who  might 
Practise  in  the  cool  twilight. 

Bourb.  You  are  blind. 

Phil.  If  seeing  nothing  more  than  may  be  seen 
Be  so. 

Bourb.  A  thousand  years  have  mann'd  Ihe  walls 
Wilh  all  their  heroes,— the  last  Caio  stands 
And  tears  his  bowels,  rather  lhan  survive 
The  liberty  of  that  I  would  enslave. 
And  Ihe  first  Caesar  with  his  triumphs  flits 
From  battlement  to  batilement. 

Phil.  Then  conquer 

The  walls  for  which  he  conquer'd,  and  be  greatei' ! 

Bourb.  True :  so  1  will,  or  perish. 

Phil.  You  can  not. 

In  such  an  enterprise  to  die  is  rather 
The  dawn  of  an  eternal  day,  than  death. 

f  Count  .Arnold  and  Cxsar  advance, 

Cx).  And  the  mere  men— do  they  too  sweat  beneath 
The  noon  of  this  same  ever-scorching  glory  ? 

Bourb.  Ah ! 

Welcome  the  bitter  hunchback  !  and  his  masler, 
The  beauty  of  our  host,  and  brave  as  beauteous, 
And  generous  as  lovely.     We  shall  find 
Work  for  you  bo!h  ere  morning. 

Csa.  You  will  find, 

So  please  your  highness,  no  less  for  yourself. 

Bourb.  And  if  I  do.  there  will  not  be  a  labourer 
More  forward,  hunchback ! 

Cies.  You  may  well  say  so, 

For  yoit  have  seen  that  back  —  a>  general, 
Placed  in  the  rear  in  action  —  but  your  foes 
Have  never  seen  it. 

Bourb.  That  "s  a  fair  retnrt. 

For  I  provoked  It :  —  but  Ihe  Bourbon's  breast 
Has  been,  and  ever  shall  be,  far  advanced 
In  danger's  lace  as  yiurs,  were  you  Ihe  devil. 

Cxs.  And  if  I  were,  I  might  have  saved  myself 
The  toil  of  coming  here. 


396 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED:       [Part 


Phil. 
Cscs. 

Of  your  brave  bands  of  the 
Will  go  !o  him,  the  other  li 


Why  so  ? 

One  half 
own  bold  accord 
f  be  >ent, 


More  swiftly,  cot  less  surely. 

Bourb.  Arnold,  your 

Slight  crooked  friend  's  as  snake-like  in  his  words 
As  his  deeds. 

Cxs.  Your  highness  much  mistakes  me. 

The  first  snake  was  a  Halterer—  1  am  lione; 
And  for  mv  deeds,  1  only  sting  when  s  uiig. 

Bourb.  Vou  are  biave,  and  that 's  enough  for  me ; 
and  quick 
In  speech  as  sharp  in  action  —  and  th;it  's  more. 
I  am  not  alone  the  soldier,  but  the  soldiers' 
Comrade. 
I      Cxs.        They  are  but  bad  company,  your  highness  ; 
I  And  worse  even  for  their  friends  than  foes,  as  being 
More  permanent  acquaintance. 

Phil,  How  now,  fellow  ! 

Thou  waxest  insolent,  beyond  the  privilege 
Of  a  buflbon. 

Cies.  You  mean  I  speak  the  truth. 

I  'II  lie  —  it  is  as  eisy  :  then  you  'II  praise  me 
For  calling  you  a  hero. 

Bourb.  Philibert ! 

Let  him  alone  ;  he 's  braie,  and  ever  has 
Been  first,  with  that  swart  face  and  mountain  shoulder, 
In  field  or  storm,  and  patient  in  starva  ion  ; 
And  for  his  tongue,  the  c<mp  is  full  of  license, 
And  the  shnrp  stinging  of  a  lively  rogue 
Is,  to  my  mind,  far  preferable  to 
The  gross,  dull,  heavy,  gloomy  execration 
Of  a  inere  famish'd,  sullen,  grumbling  slave. 
Whom  uoihing  can  convince  save  a  full  meal. 
And  wine,  and  sleep,  and  a  few  maravedis, 
With  which  he  deems  him  rich. 

C'sj.  It  would  be  well 

If  the  earth's  princes  ask'd  no  more. 

Buurb.  Be  silent  • 

Cses.  Ay,  but  not  idle.    Work  yourself  with  words ! 
You  have  few  to  speak. 

Phil.  VVhat  means  the  audacious  prater  ? 

Caw.  To  prate,  like  other  prophets. 
Bnurb.  Philibert! 

Why  will  you  vex  him  ?    Have  we  not  enough 
To  think  on  ?    Arnold  !    I  will  lead  the  attack 
To-morrow. 
./Jni.  I  have  heard  as  much,  my  lord. 

Bourb.  And  you  will  follow  ? 
^ni.  Since  I  must  not  lead. 

Bourb.  'T  is  necessary  for  the  further  daring 
Of  our  too  needy  army,  that  their  chief 
Plant  the  first  foot  upon  the  foremost  1  idder's 
First  step. 

CsBS.        Upon  its  topmo":*,  let  us  hope: 
So  shall  he  have  his  full  deserts. 

Bourb.  The  world's 

Great  capital  perchance  is  ours  to-morrow. 
Through  every  change  the  seven-hili'd  city  hath 
Retain'd  her  s'wav  o"er  nations,  and  the  Caesars 
But  yielded  to  the  Alarics,  the  Alarics 
Unto  the  pontiffs.     Roman,  Goth,  or  priest. 
Still  the  world's  masters  !     Civilised,  barbxrian, 
Or  saintly,  still  the  walls  of  R  imulus 
Have  been  the  circus  of  an  empire.     Well  1 
'T  was  their  turn  —  now  't  is  ours  ;  and  let  us  hope 
That  we  will  fight  as  well,  and  rule  much  better. 
Csbs.  iNo  doubt,  the  camp's   the  school  of  civic 
riih's. 
What  would  you  make  of  Rome? 
Bourb.  That  which  it  was. 

Cxs.  In  Alaric'stime? 
Bmirh.  No,  slave  !  in  the  first  Caesar's, 

Whose  name  you  bear  like  other  curs 

CifS.  And  kings ! 

'T  is  a  great  name  for  blood-hounds. 

Bourb.  There 's  a  demon 

In  that  fierce  rattlesnake  thy  tongue.    Wilt  never 
Be  serious  ? 
Cms.  On  (he  eve  of  battle,  no ;  — 


That  were  not  soldier-like.     "T  is  for  the  gene.'al 

To  be  more  pensive  :  we  adventurers 

Must  be  more  cheerful.   Wherefore  should  we  think? 

Our  tutelar  deity,  in  a  leaderV  shape, 

'lakes  care  of  us.     Keep  ' bought  aloof  fmm  hosts! 

If  the  kii  ives  lake  to  iliinking,  you  will  have 

To  crack  those  walls  alone. 

Biiurb.  You  may  sneer,  since 

'T  IS  lucky  for  you  that  you  fight  no  worse  for  't. 

C«M.  1  thank  j'ou  for  the  freedom  ;  't  is  the  only 
Pay  I  have  taken  in  your  highness'  service. 

Bnurb.  Well,  sir,  to-morrow  you  shall  pay  youiself. 
Look  on  those  towers ;  they  hold  my  treasury  : 
But,  Philibert,  we  'II  in  to  council.    Arnold, 
We  w  ould  request  your  presence. 

.^m.  Prince !  my  service 

Is  yours,  as  in  the  field. 

Bourb.  In  both  we  prize  it. 

And  yours  will  be  a  post  of  trust  at  day-break. 

Cms.  And  mine  ? 

Bourb.  To  follow  glory  with  the  Bourbon. 

Good  night ! 

jji7j.  (to  Cxsar).    Prepare  our  armour  for  the  as- 
sault. 
And  wait  within  My  tent.  I 

[Ex.unt  Bourbon,  .Arnold,  Philibert,  ^c 

Cxs.  (solus).  Within  thy  lent ! 

Think'st  tho'j   that   I   pass  from  thee  with  my  pre- 

Or  that  this  crooked  coffer,  which  contain'd 

Thy  principle  of  life,  is  aiighl  to  me 

Except  a  mask  ?    And  these  are  men,  forsooth  ! 

Heroes  and  chiefs,  the  flower  of  Adim's  bastards! 

This  is  the  consequence  of  g;iving  matter 

The  power  of  thought.     It  is  a  stubborn  substance. 

And  thinks  chaotically,  as  it  acts, 

Ever  relapsing  into  its  first  elements. 

Well  !  I  must  play  with  these  poor  puppets 

The  spirit's  pastime  in  his  idler  hours. 

When  I  grow  weary  of  it,  I  have  business 

Amongst  the  stars,  which  these  poor  creatur 

Were  made  for  them  to  look  at.     'T  were  a  jest  now 

To  bring  one  down  amongst  them,  and  set  fire 

Unto  their  anthill :  how  the  pismires  then 

Would  scamper  o'er  the  scalding  soil,  and,  ceasing 

From  tearing  down  each  other's  nests,  pipe  forth 

One  universal  orison  !    Ha !  ha !  [Exit  Cmiar. 


'tis 


!  deem 


PART  II. 

SCENE    I 

Before  the  walls  of  Rnme.—  The  assauJt :  the  arnij 
t?i  moticn,  with  ladders  to  scale  the  walls  ;  Bour- 
bon, with  a  white  scarf  over  his  armour,  fme- 
most. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  in  the  ai'. 
1. 

»T  is  the  morn,  but  dim  and  dark. 

Whither  flies  'he  silent  lark? 

Whither  shrinks  the  clouded  sun  ? 

Is  the  day  indeed  begun  ? 

Nature's  eye  is  melancholy 

O'er  the  city  high  and  holy : 

But  without  there  is  a  din  _ 

Should  arouse  the  saints  within, 

And  revive  the  heroic  ashes 

Round  which  yellow  Tiber  dashes. 

Oh  ye  seven  hills !  awaken. 

Ere  your  very  base  be  shaken ! 


Hearken  to  the  steady  stamp  ! 
Mars  is  in  their  every  tramp  ! 
Not  a  step  is  out  of  tune, 
As  the  tides  obey  the  moon  ! 


Scene  I.] 


A  DRAMA. 


397 


On  they  inarch,  though  to  self-slaughter, 
Regular  as  rollin?  water, 
Whose  high  waves  o'ersweep  the  border 
Of  huge  moles,  but  keep  their  older. 
Breaking  only  rank  by  rank. 
Hearken  ti  the  armour's  clank  .' 
Look  down  o  er  each  frowning  warrior, 
How  he  glares  upon  the  barrier: 
Look  oil  each  step  of  each  ladder. 
As  the  stripes  that  streak  an  adder. 


Look  upon  Ihe  bristling  wall, 
Manii'd  without  an  interval ! 
Round  and  rouud,  and  tier  on  tier, 
Cannon's  black  mouth,  shining  spear, 
Lit  match,  bell-mouth'd  musquetoon: 
Gaping  to  be  murderous  soon. 
All  the  warlike  gear  of  old, 
Mix'd  with  what  we  now  behold, 
In  this  strife  't  xvixt  old  and  new. 
Gather  like  a  locust's  crevv. 
Shade  of  Remus  !  't  is  a  time 
Awful  as  Ihy  brother's  crime! 
Christians  war  against  Christ's  shrine 
>lubt  its  lot  be  like  to  thine  ? 


Near  —  and  tiear  —  and  nearer  still, 

As  Ihe  earlhquike  saps  the  hill, 

First  with  trembling,  hollow  motion, 

Like  a  scarce  awaken'd  ocean. 

Then  with  stronger  shock  and  louder. 

Till  the  rocks  are  crush'd  to  powder, — 

Onward  sweeps  Ihe  rolling  host ! 

Heroes  of  Ihe  immortal  boast ! 

Mightv  chiefs  !  eternal  shadows  ! 

First  flowers  of  the  bloody  meadows 

Which  encompass  Borne,  Ihe  mother 

Of  a  people  without  brother! 

Will  you  sleep  when  nations'  quarrels 

Plough  the  roni  up  nf  your  laurels  ? 

Ye  who  weep  o'er  Carthnge  burning. 

Weep  no<  —  strike  !  for  Rome  is  mourning 


Onward  sweep  the  varied  nations  ! 
Famine  long  hath  dealt  their  rations. 
To  'he  wall,  with  liate  and  hunger. 
Numerous  as  wolves,  and  stronger, 
On  they  sweep.    Oh  !  glorious  city. 
Must  thou  be  a  theme  for  pity  ' 
Fight,  like  your  first  sire,  each  Roman  — 
Alaric  was  a  gentle  foemnn, 
Malch'd  with  Bourbon's  black  banditti ! 
Rouse  thee,  thou  eternal  city  ; 
Rouse  thee!     Raher  give  Ihe  torch 
With  Ihy  own  h  ind  to  thy  porch, 
Than  behold  such  hosts  pollute 
Your  worst  dwelling  with  their  foot. 


Ah  !  behold  yon  bleedine  spectre ! 
Ilion's  children  find  nn  Hector; 
Primi's  offspring  loved  their  brother; 
Rome's  great  sire  forgot  his  mother, 
When  he  slew  his  gallant  twin, 
With  inexpiable  sin. 
See  the  giant  shadow  stride 
O'er  the  ramparts  high  and  wide  ! 
When  the  first  o'erleapt  thy  wall. 
Its  foundation  mourn'd  thy  fall. 
Now,  though  lowering  like  a  Babel, 
Who  to  stop  his  steps  are  able  ? 
Stalking  o'er  thy  highest  dnnie, 
Remus  claims  his  vengeance,  Rome ! 

1  Sclpio,  thf  second  Africanus,  is  said  to  have  repeated 
a  Terse  of  Homer,  and  wi-pt  over  tile  burning  of  Car- 
thi(e.     He  tiaiJ  teller  have  granted  it  a  capitulation. 


Now  they  reach  thee  in  their  anger : 
Fire  and  smoke  and  hellish  clangour 
Are  around  thee,  thou  world's  wonder! 
Death  is  in  thy  walls  and  under. 
Now  the  meeting  steel  fir?t  clashes. 
Downward  then  the  ladder  crashes. 
With  its  iron  loid  all  gleaming, 
Lying  at  its  foot  blispheming! 
Up  again!  for  every  warrior 
Slain,  another  clinibs  the  barrier. 
Thicker  grows  the  strife  :  Ihy  ditches 
Europe's  mingling  gore  enriches. 
Rome!  although  Ihy  wall  may  perish, 
Such  manure  thy  fields  will  cherish. 
Making  gay  the  harvest-home  ; 
But  Ihy  hearths,  alas!  oh,  Rome!  — 
Yet  be  Rome  amidst  thine  anguish, 
Fight  as  thou  wast  wont  to  v.mquish ! 


Yet  once  more,  ye  old  Penates  ! 

Let  not  your  quench'd  hearths  be  Ales! 

Yet  ngain,  ye  shadowy  heroes. 

Yield  not  to  these  stranger  Neros! 

1  houeh  the  son  who  slew  his  mother 

Shed  Rome's  blood,  he  was  your  brother: 

'T  was  the  Roman  curb'd  the  Roman  j  — 

Brennus  was  a  baffled  foenian. 

Yet  again,  ye  saints  and  martyrs, 

Rise  :  for  yours  are  holier  chirlers  ! 

Mighty  gods  of  temples  falling, 

Yet  in  ruin  still  appalling  ! 

Mightier  founders  of  lh<*se  altars. 

True  and  Christian, —  strike  the  assaulters  ! 

Tiber!  Tiber!  let  thy  torrent 

Show  even  natuie's  self  abhorrent. 

Let  each  breathiug  heart  dilated 

Turn  as  doth  the  lion  baited  ! 

Rome  be  crush'd  to  one  wide  tomb. 

But  be  still  the  Roman  s  Rome  ! 

Bourbon,  Arnold,  Cxsar,  and  ethers,  arrive  at  the 
fool  of  the  wall.  Arnold  is  about  to  plant  his 
ladder. 

Bourb.  Hold,  Arnold  !     I  am  first. 
Am.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Bourb.  Hold,  sir,  I  charge  you  !  Follow  !  I  am  proud 
Of  such  a  follower,  but  w  ill  brook  no  leader. 

{Bourbon  plants  his  ladder,  and  begins  to  mount. 
Now,  boys  !     On  I  on  ! 

lAshot  strikes  him,  and  Bourbon  falls. 
Cxs.  And  oil! 

Ani,  Eternal  powers ! 

The  host  will  be  appali'd,— but  vengeance  I  vengeance! 
Bourb.  'T  is  nothing  —  lend  meyour  hand. 

IBorirbon  takes  Arnold  bv  the  hand,  and  rises; 
but  as  he  puis  his  foot  on  tlie  slrp,  falls  agaiit. 
Arnold  :  1  am  sped. 
Conceal  my  fill  — all  will  go  well  — conceal  it! 
Fling  my  cloak  o'er  what  will  be  dust  anon  ; 
Let  not  Ihe  soldiers  see  it. 
Am.  You  must  be 

Removed  ;  the  aid  of 

Buurb.  No,  my  gallant  boy : 

Dea'h  is  upon  me.     But  what  is  o-ne  life? 
The  Bourbon's  spirit  shall  command  them  still. 
Keep  them  yet  ignorant  that  I  am  but  clay. 
Till  Ihev  are  conqueroTs  —  then  do  as  you  may. 
Caj.  Would  not  your  highness  choose  to  kiss  the 
cross  ? 
We  have  no  priest  here,  but  the  hilt  of  sword 
May  serve  instead  :  —  it  did  Ihe  same  for  Biyard. 

Bourb.  1  hou  bitter  slave !  to  name  Aim  at  this  times 
But  I  deserve  it. 
Am.  (to  Cxsar).  Villain,  hold  your  peace! 
Cses.  What,  when  a  Christian  dies  ?    Shall  I  Bot 
offer 
A  Christian  "  Vade  in  pace  ? " 
Am.  Silence!  Oh! 


34 


398 


THE   DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED:       [PartII. 


Those  eyes  are  glazing  which  o'erlook'd  Ihe  world, 
And  saw  no  equil. 
Bourb.  Arnold,  shouldst  thou  see 

France But  hark !  hark  :  the  assault  grows  warmer 

—  Oh: 
For  but  an  hour,  a  minute  more  of  life, 
To  die  within  the  wall  ;     Hence,  Arnold,  hence ! 
you  lose  lime — they  will  conquer  Rome  without  thee. 
jjrn.  And  without  thee. 

Bourb.  Not  so  ;  I  "11  lead  them  still 

In  spirit.     Cover  up  my  dust,  and  breathe  not 
That  I  have  ceased  to  breathe.     Away  :  an4  be 
Victorious ! 
jjn).  But  I  must  not  leave  thee  thus. 

Bourb.  You  must  —  farewell  —  Up  !  up  !  the  world 
is  winning.  [Bourbon  dits. 

Cces.  {to  Arnold).  Come,  count,  to  business. 
Am.  True.     Ill  weep  hereafter. 

\Amold  covers  BourboiVs  body  with  a  maulle, 
mounts  the  ladder,  crying 
The  Bourbon!     Bourbon!    On,  bojs!    Rome  is  ours  ! 
Cxs   Good  night,  lord  constable  !  thou  »  ert  a  man. 
iCxsnr  follow  Arnold ;   they  reach  the  battle- 
ment ;  Arnold  and  Csesar  are  struck  down. 
Cxs.  A  precious  somerset !     Is  your  couiitship  in- 
jured ? 
Am.  No.  [Remounts  the  ladder. 

Css.  A  rare  blood-hound,  when  his  own  is  heated  '. 
And  't  is  no  boy's  play.     Now  he  s'rikes  them  down  ! 
His  hind  is  on  Ihe  battlement  —  he  grasps  it 
A-.  though  it  were  an  aliar  ;  now  his  foot 

Is  on  it,  and What  have  we  here  .•'  —  a  Raman  ? 

[A  man  falls. 
The  first  bird  of  the  covey !  he  has  fallen 
On  the  ou'side  of  the  nest.    Why,  how  now,  fellow  ? 
Wounded  Man.  A  drop  of  water  ! 
Cass.  Blood  's  Ihe  only  liquid 

Nearer  than  Tiber. 

Wounded  Man.     I  have  died  for  Rome.  [D, 

Cses.  And  so  did  Bourbon,  in  another  sense. 
Oh  these  immortal  men  !  and  their  great  motives ! 
But  I  must  afier  my  young  charge.     He  is 
By  this  time  i'  the'foium.     Charge  !  charge!  j 

[CoEsar  mounts  the  ladder  ;  the  scene  dotes. 

SCENE   II. 

Tlie  City.—  Combats  between  the  Besiegers  and  Be- 
sieged in  the  streets.  Inhabitaiits  flying  in  con- 
ftiiion. 

Enter  Cssar. 
Cxs.  I  cannot  find  my  hero  ;  he  is  mix'd 
With  the  heroic  crowd  that  now  pursue 
The  fujitives,  or  battle  with  the  despera'e. 
What  have  we  here  ?     A  cardinal  or  two, 
That  do  not  seem  in  love  with  martyrdom. 
How  the  old  red-shanks  scamper  !     Could  they  doff 
Their  ho«e  as  they  have  doff  d  their  hais,  't  would  be 
A  blessinff,  as  a  mark  the  less  for  plunder. 
But  let  them  fly;  the  crimson  kennels  now 
Will  not  much' slain  their  stockings,  since  the  mire 
Is  of  the  self-same  purple  hue. 

Enter  a  Party  fighting  —  Arnold  at  the  head  of  the 
Besiegers. 

He  comes, 
Hand  in  hand  with  the  mild  twins  — Gore  and  Glory  ! 
Ilolh !  hold,  count! 
Am.  Away  !  they  must  not  rally. 

Cses.  I  lell  thee,  be  not  rash  ;  a  golden  bridge 
Is  for  a  flying  enemy.     I  gave  thee 
A  form  of  beauty,  and  an 
Exemption  from  some  maladies  of  body. 
But  not  of  mind,  which  is  not  mine  lo  give. 
But  though  I  gave  the  form  of  Thetis'  son, 
I  dipt  'hee  not  in  Styx  ;  and  'gainst  a  foe 
I  would  not  warrant  thy  cliivalric  heart 
Mc7»  than  Pelides'  heei ;  why  then,  be  cautious, 
And  know  thyself  a  mortal  still. 
I       Am.  And  who 

With  aught  of  soul  would  combat  if  he  were 


Invulnerable?     That  were  pretty  sport. 

Think  'st  thou  I  beat  for  hares  when  lions  roar? 

[Ariuild  rushes  into  the  eomboL 
Cxs.  A  precious  sample  of  humanity  ! 
Well,  his  blood 's  up  ;  and  if  a  little  's  shed, 
'T  w  ill  serve  to  curb  his  fever. 

[Arnold  engages  with  a  Soman,  who  retiru 
towards  a  portico. 
Am.  Yield  thee,  slave! 

I  promise  quarter. 
Rom.  That 's  soon  said. 

Am,  And  done  — 

My  word  is  known. 
Rom.  So  shall  be  my  deeds. 

[They  re-engnge.     Catar  comes  forwnrd. 
Cxs.  Why,  Arnold  !  hold  thine  osvn  :  thou  basl  in 
hand 
A  famous  utisan.  a  cunning  sculptor ; 
Also  a  dealer  in  Ihe  sword  and  dagger. 
Not  so,  niy  musqueleer  ;  'i  was  he  who  slew 
The  Bourbon  from  the  wall. 

Am  Ay,  did  he  so  ? 

Then  he  hath  carved  bis  monument. 

Rom.  I  yet 

Miy  live  to  carve  your  better's. 

Cxs.  Well  said,  my  man  of  marble  !     Benvenulo, 
Thou  hast  some  pracice  in  both  ways  ;  and  be 
Who  slays  Cellini  will  have  work'd  as  hard 
As  e'er  thou  didst  upon  Carrara's  blocks. 

[Arnold  disarms    and  wtmnds  Cellini,  but 

sliehtly :  the  Intter  draws  a   pistol,  and 

fires  ;  then  re:ires,  and  disappears  through 

the  portico. 

Cxs.  How  fare>t  thou?  Thou  hast  a  taste,  methioks, 

Of  red  Bellona's  banquet. 

Arn.  (staggers).  'T  is  a  scra'ch. 

Lei  d  me  ihy  scarf.     He  shall  not  'scape  me  thus. 
Cxs.  Where  is  it  ? 

Am.  In  the  shoulder,  not  the  sword-arm  — 

,  And  that 's  enough.     1  am  thirsty  :  would  I  hid 
A  helm  of  waler  ! 

I      Cxs.  That 's  a  liquid  now 

In  requisition,  but  by  no  means  easie:>t 
To  come  at. 

Atn.  And  my  thirst  increases ;  —  but 

I  'II  tind  a  way  to  quench  it. 

Cxs.  Or  be  quench'd 

Thvself. 

Am.  The  chance  is  even  ;  we  will  throw 
The  dice  thereon.     But  I  lose  lime  in  prating; 
Priihee  be  quick.  [Cxsar  binds  on  the  scarf. 

And  what  dost  thou  so  idly  ? 
Why  dost  not  strike? 

Caw.  Your  old  philosophers 

Beheld  mankind,  as  mere  spectators  of 
The  Olympic  games.     When  I  behold  a  prize 
Worth  wrestling  for,  I  may  be  fouud  a  Milo. 
Am.  Ay,  'gainst  an  oak. 

Cxs.  A  forest,  when  it  suits  me 

I  combat  with  a  ma^s,  or  not  at  all. 
Meantime  pursue  thy  sport  as  I  do  mine  ; 
Which  is  just  now  to  gaze,  since  all  these  labourers 
Will  reap  my  harvest  gratis. 

Am.  Thou  art  still 

A  fiend ! 

Cxs.    And  thou  —  a  man. 
Am.  Why,  such  I  fain  would  show  me. 
Cxs.  True  —  as  men  are. 

Arn.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Cxs.  Thou  feelest  and  thou  see'st. 

[Exit  Arnold,  joining  in  the  combat  which  still 
continues  between  detached  parties.  The 
seine  closes. 

SCENE  III. 

St.  Piter's—  The  Interior  of  the  Church— The  Pope 
at  the  Altar  —  Priests,  fyc.  crowding  in  confusion, 
and  Citizens  flying  for  refuge,  pursvtd  iy  Sol- 
diery. 


Scene  III.] 


A   DRAMA. 


399 


Enter  Csaar. 

jt  Spanish  Soldier.    Down   x^ith   them,  comrades.' 
seize  upon  those  lamps  ! 
Cleave  yon  bald-p:iied  shiveiin?  to  the  chine  ! 
His  rosary  's  of  jold  : 

Lutheran  Solditr.  Revenge  !  revenue  ! 
riuuder  hereafter,  but  for  ve'ngeance  noiv 
Yonder  stands  Anil-Christ ! 

Csat  {inierpostng).     How  now,  schismatic  ? 
What  woiild'st  thou  ? 

Lulh.  Sold.  In  the  holy  name  of  Christ, 

Destroy  proud  Anti-Christ.     I  am  a  Christian. 

Css.  Yea,  a  disciple  that  would  make  the  founder 
Of  your  belief  renounce  it,  could  he  see 
Such  proseUtes.    Best  stint  ihyself  to  plunder. 

Lulh.  Sold.  I  say  he  is  the  devil. 

Cxs.  Hush  !  keep  that  secret. 

Lest  he  should  recognize  you  for  his  own. 

Lnth.  Sold.  Why  would  you  save  him  ?  I  repeat  he  is 
The  devil,  or  the  devil's  vicar  upon  earih. 

Cxt.  And  that's  the  reason:  would  you  make  a 
quarrel 
With  your  best  friends  ?  You  had  far  Lest  be  quiet: 
His  hour  is  not  vet  come. 

Liith.  Sold.   '  That  shall  be  seen  ! 

[The  Lutheran  Soldier  rushes  forward:  a  shot 
strikes  him  from  one  of  the  Pope's  Guards, 
I  and  he  falls  at  the  foot  of  the  Altar. 

Cxs.  (to  the  Lutheran).     I  tnld  you  so. 

Luth.  .Sold.  And  will  you  not  avenge  me  .' 

Cxs.  Not  I!    You  know  that  "Vengeance  is  the 
Lord's : " 
You  see  he  loves  no  interlopers. 

Lulh.  Sold,  (dying).  Oh  ! 

Had  I  but  slain  him.  I  hid  gone  on  high, 
Crown'd  with  eternal  glory!     Heaven,  forgive 
My  feebleness  of  arm  that  reached  him  not, 
And  take  thy  servant  to  thy  mercy.     'T  is 
A  glorious  triumph  still ;  proud  Babylon  's 
No  more  ;  the  Harlot  of  the  Seven  Hills 
Hath  changed  her  scarlet  raiment  for  sackcloth 
And  ashes;  {The  Lutheran  diea. 

CtB'.         Yes,  thine  own  amidst  the  rest. 
Well  done,  old  Babel: 

[The  Guards  defend  themselves  desperately,  while 
the  Pontiff  escapes,  Iaj  a  private  passage,  to 
the  Vatican  and  the  Castle  of  St.  Angela. >■ 

Cxs.  Hal  right  nobly  ba'tled  ! 

Now,  priest !  now,  soldier  1  the  two  great  professions. 
Together  by  the  ears  and  hearts  !     I  have  not 
Seen  a  more  comic  pantomime  since  Titus 
Took  Jewry.     But  the  Romans  had  the  best  then  ; 
Now  they  must  take  their  turn. 

Soldiers.  He  hath  escaped ! 

Follow ! 

Another  Sold.    They  have  barr'd  the  narrow  pas- 
sage up, 
And  it  is  clogg'd  with  deid  even  to  the  door. 

Cxs.  I  am' glad  he  ha:h  escaped  :  he  may  thank  me 
for  't 
In  part.     I  would  not  have  his  bulls  abolish'd  — 
'T  were  worth  one-half  our  empire  :  his  indulgences 
Demand  some  in  return  ;  —  no,  no,  he  must  not 
Fall ;  —  and  besides,  his  now  escipe  may  furnish 
A  fiture  miracle,  in  fu;ure  proof 
Of  his  infallibility.  [To  the  Spanish  Soldiery. 

Well,  cutthroats! 
What  do  you  pause  for  ?    If  you  make  not  haste. 
There  will  not  be  a  link  of  pious  gold  left. 
And  you,  too,  Catholics  !     Would  ye  return 
From  such  a  pilgrimage  without  a  relic  } 


i  The  very  Lutherans  have  more  true  devotion  : 
See  how  they  strip  the  shrines  ! 

Scldieis.  By  hoi  v  Peter  I 

He  speaks  the  truth  ;  the  heretics  will  bear 
The  best  away. 

Cxs.  And  that  were  shame !    Go  to  ! 

Assist  in  their  conversion. 

[The  Soldiers  diipene ;  many  quit  the  Chunk, 
others  enter. 
Cxs.  They  are  gone. 

And  other's  come :  so  flows  the  wave  on  wave 
'.  Of  what  these  creatures  call  eternity. 

Deeming  themselves  the  breakers  of  the  ocean, 
I  While  they  are  but  its  bubbles,  ignorant 
That  foam  is  their  foundaiion.    So,  another ! 

Enter  Olimpia,  flying  from  thepursuit — Sheipringi 
I  upon  the  Altar. 

Sold.  She 's  mine  I 
I      Another  Sold,  (opposing  the  former).    You  lie,  I 
track'd  her  first;  and  were  she 
The  Pope's  niece,  I  '11  not  yield  her.  [They fight. 

3d  Sold,  (advancing  towards  Olimpia).    Ynu  may 
I  >etlle 

Your  claims ;  1  '11  make  mine  good. 

Olimp.  Infernal  slave ! 

You  touch  me  not  alive. 
1     3d. Sold.  Alive  or  dead! 

I     Olimp.  (embracing  a  massive  crucifu).    Respect 
your  God  ! 
3d  Sold.  Yes,  when  he  shines  in  gold. 

Girl,  you  but  gra«p  your  dowry. 

[As  he  advances,  Olimpia,  with  a  strong  and 
sudden  effort,  casts  down  the  crucifix:   it 
strikes  the  Soldier,  who  falls. 
3d  Sold.  Oh,  great  God  ! 

OUmp.  Ah  !  now  you  recognize  him. 
3d  Sold.  My  brain  's  crush'd  ! 

Comrades,  help,  ho !    All  's  darkness  !  [He  dies. 

Other  Soldiers  (coming  up).    Slay  her,  although 
she  had  a  thousand  lives: 
She  hath  kill'd  our  comrade. 

i     Olimp.  Welcome  such  a  death ! 

You  have  no  life  to  give,  which  the  worst  slave 
Would  lake.     Great  God  !  through  thy  redeeming  Son, 
And  thy  Son's  Mother,  now  receive  nie  as 
I  would  approach  thee,  worthy  her,  and  him,  and  thee ! 


1  The  caslle  of  St.  Angelo  was  besieged  from  the  6lh 
of  May,  to  the  8th  of  June,  during  which  time,  slauehter 
and  dtrBOlatioQ.  acrompanied  with  every  excess  of  im- 
piety, rapine,  and  luel,  on  tlie  side  of  the  imperialists, 
devastated  the  city  of  Rome.  For  this  picture  of  horrors, 
•ee  especially  the  "  Sackage  of  Rome,"  by  Jacopo  Baona- 
parte,  "gentiluomo  Sammin  ate.«e,  che  fi  se  trovo  pre- 
WBte,"  aod  "Mfe  of  Cellini,"  vol.  i.  p.  124.  —  E. 


Enter  Arnold. 

Am.  What  do  I  see  ?    Accursed  jackals ! 
Forbear. 
Cxs.  (aside,  and  laughing).  Ha  !  ha !  here  'seqnitT 
The  dogs 
Have  as  much  right  as  he.     But  to  the  issue ! 

Soldiers.  Count,  she  hath  slain  our  comrade. 
I      Am.  With  what  weapon? 

Sold.  The  cross,  beneath  which  he  is  crush'd :  be- 
hold him 
Lie  there,  more  like  a  worm  than  man  ;  she  cast  it 
Ufion  his  head. 

'     Am.  Even  so;  there  is  a  woman 

Worthy  a  brave  man  s  liking.     Were  ye  such. 
Ye  would  have  homur'd  her.     But  get  ye  hence, 
■  And  thank  your  meanness,  other  God  you  have  Dont 
For  your  existence.     Had  you  touch'd  a  hair 
Of  tliO-e  dishevell'd  locks,  I  woidd  have  thinn'd 
Your  ranks  more  than  the  enemy.     Away ! 
Ye  jackals  !  gnaw  the  bones  the  lion  leaves, 
But  not  even  these  till  he  permits. 
I     .9  Sold,  (murmuring).  The  lion 

Might  coi  quer  for  himself  then. 

.9rn.  (cuts  him  down).  Mutineer  ! 

Rebel  in  hell  —  you  shall  obey  on  earth  ! 

[The  .Soldiers  assault  ArnfiUL 
Am.  Come  on  !    I  'm  glad  on  't !    I  will  show  yoc, 
slaves, 
IIow  you  should  be  commanded,  and  who  led  you 
First  o'er  the  wall  you  were  so  shy  to  scale, 


400 


THE   DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED.      [Part  II.  j 


Until  I  waved  my  b.inners  from  its  height, 

As  you  are  bold  within  it.  | 

[Arnold  mows  down   the  foremost }  the  rest 

throw  down  their  arms.  1 

Soldiers.  Mercy  :  mercy !  | 

Am.   Then  leani  to  gra_.  it.     Have  I  taught  you 

who  j 

Led  you  o'er  Rome's  eternal  battlements  ?  i 

Soldurs.  We  saw  it,  and  we  know  it ;  yet  forgive 
A  moment's  error  in  the  heit  of  conquest  — 
The  conquest  which  you  led  to. 

Am.  Get  you  hence  ! 

Hence  to  your  quarters  !  you  will  find  them  fix'd 
In  the  Colonna  palace. 

Otimp.  {aside).  In  my  father's 

House  1 
Am.  (to  the  Soldiers).    Leave  your  arms ;  ye  have 
no  further  need 
Of  such  :  the  city  's  render'd.     And  mark  well 
You  keep  your  hands  clean,  or  1  'II  find  out  a  stream 
As  red  as  Tiber  now  runs,  for  your  baptisni. 

Soldiers  {deposing  their  arms  and  departing).  We 

obey  ! 
Am.  {to  Olimpia).    Lady,  you  are  safe. 
Olimp.  I  should  be  so, 

Had  1  a  knife  even  ;  but  it  matters  not  — 
Death  hi'.h  a  thousand  gites;  and  on  the  marble, 
Even  at  the  altar  foot,  whence  I  look  down 
Upon  destruction,  shall  my  he  id  be  da-h'd, 
Ere  thou  ascend  it.     God  forgive  thee,  man ! 

Am.  I  wish  to  merit  his  forgiveness,  and 
Thine  own,  although  I  have  not  injured  'hee. 

Olimp.  No  I  Thou  hast  orjly  sack'd  my  native  land, — 
No  injury  I  —  and  made  my  f  ither's  house 
A  den  of  thieves!     No  injury  !  —  this  temple  — 
Slippery  wi  h  Roman  and  with  holy  gore  — 
No  injury  !    And  now  thou  wouldst  preserve  me, 

To  be but  that  shall  never  be  ! 

[She  raises  her  eyes  to  Heaven,  folds  her  rnbe 

round   her,  and  prepares  to  dash  herself 

down  on  the  side  of  the  Altar  oppoiite  to 

that  where  Arnold  stands. 

Am.  Hold!  hold 

I  swear. 

Olimp.  Spare  thine  already  forfeit  soul 
A  perjury  for  which  even  hell  would  loathe  thee. 
I  know  thee. 
Am.  No,  thou  know'st  me  not ;  I  am  not 

Of  these  men,  though 

Olimp.  I  judge  thee  by  thy  mates ; 

It  is  for  God  to  judge  thee  as  thou  art. 
I  see  thee  purple  with  the  blood  nf  Rome  ; 
Take  mine,  "t  is  all  thou  e'er  shall  have  of  me. 
And  here,  upon  the  mnrble  of  this  temple. 
Where  the  b\p  ismal  font  baptized  me  God's, 
I  offer  him  a  blood  less  h"ly 
But  not  less  pure  (pure  as  it  left  me  then, 
A  redeem'd  infant)  than  the  holy  water 
The  saints  have  sanctified  ! 

lOlimpia  waves  her  hand  to  Arnold  with  dis- 
dain, and  dashes  herself  on   the  pavement 
from  the  Altar. 
Am.  Eternal  God  ! 

I  feel  thee  now  !     Help  !  help  !    She  's  gone. 
Css.  {approaches).  I  am  here. 

Am.  Thou  !  but  oh,  ssve  her  ! 
Cxs.  {assisting  him  to  raise  Olimpia).     She  hath 
done  it  well  ! 
The  leap  was  serious. 
Arn.  Oh  !  she  is  lifeless ! 

Cxs.  If 

She  be  so,  I  have  nought  to  do  with  that : 
The  resurrection  is  beyond  me. 
Am.  Slave ! 

Cia.  Ay,  «lave  or  master,  't  is  all  one:  methinks 
Good  words,  however,  are  as  well  at  limes. 
Arn.  Words !  —  Canst  thou  aid  her? 
Cxs.  I  will  try.    A  sprinkling 

Of  that  same  holy  water  may  be  useful. 

[He  brings  some  in  his  helmet  from  the  font. 


Arn.  'T  is  mix'd 
Cses. 
In  Rome. 

Am.      How  pale  !  how  beautiful !  how  lifeless! 
Alive  or  dead,  thou  essence  of  all  beauty, 
I  love  but  thee  ! 

Cies.  Even  so  Achilles  loved 

Penthesilea:  with  his  form  it  seems 
You  have  his  lieari,  and  yet  it  w,»s  no  soft  one. 
Am.  She  breathes  I    But  no,  't  was  nothingj  or  tte 
last 
Faint  flutter  life  disputes  with  death. 
Cses.  She  breathes. 

Am.  Thou  say'st  it  ?    Then  't  is  truth. 
Cses.  You  do  me  right  — 

The   devil   speaks   truth   much   oflener    than    he  '• 

deem'd : 
He  hath  an  ignorant  audience. 
Arn.  {without  attt7iding  to  him).   Yes !  her  heart 
beat<. 
Alas  !  that  the  first  beat  of  the  only  heart 
I  ever  wish'd  to  beat  with  mine  should  vibrate 
To  an  assassin's  pulse. 

Cses.  A  sage  reflection, 

But  somewhat  late  i'  the  day.     Where  shall  we  bear 

her? 
I  sav  she  lives. 
Arti.  And  will  she  live  ? 

Cir:  As  much 

As  dust  can. 
Arn.  Then  she  is  dead  ! 

Cxs.  Bah !  bah  !  Tou  are  so, 

And  do  not  know  it.    She  will  come  to  life  — 
Such  as  you  think  so,  such  as  you  now  are; 
But  we  must  work  by  human  means. 

.4171.  We  will 

Convev  her  unto  the  Colonna  palace, 
Where  I  hive  pitch'd  my  banner. 
Cxs.  Come  then  !  raise  her  up  ! 
Am.  Softly! 

CffSi  As  softly  as  they  bear  the  dead, 

Perhaps  because  they  cannot  feel  the  jolting. 
Arn.  But  doth  she  live  indeed  ? 
Cies.  Nay,  never  fear  ! 

But,  if  you  rue  it  after,  blame  not  me. 
Am.  Let  her  but  live! 

Cses.  The  spirit  of  her  life 

Is  yet  within  her  breast,  and  may  revive. 
Coun*     count !  I  ain  your  servant  in  all  things, 
And  this  is  a  new  office  :  —  't  is  not  oft 
I  am  en. ploy  d  in  such  ;  but  you  pereei\e 
How  staunch  a  friend  is  what  you  call  a  fiend. 
On  earth  you  have  often  only  fiends  for  friends ; 
Now  /  desert  not  mine.     Soft !  bear  her  hence. 
The  beauiful  half-clay,  and  nearly  spirit! 
I  am  almost  enimnur'd  of  her,  as 
Of  old  the  angels  of  her  earliest  sex. 
Am.  Thou  ! 

Cxs.  I !  But  fear  not.    I  '11  not  be  your  ri»«l 

Am.  Rival! 

Cxs.  I  could  be  one  right  formidable; 

But  since  I  slew  the  seven  hu-bands  of 
Tobias'  future  bride  (and  after  all 
'T  was  suck'd  out  by  some  incense),  I  have  laid 
Aside  intrigue:  'I  is  rarely  worth  the  trouble 
Of  gaining,  or  —  w  hat  is  more  difficult  — 
Getting  rid  of  your  prize  again  ;  for  there  's 
The  rub  !  at  least  to  mortals. 

Am.  Prithee,  pence ! 

Sollly  !  melhinks  her  lips  move,  her  eyes  open  ! 

Cses.  Like  stars,  no  doubt ;  for  that 's  a  metaphor 
For  Lucifer  and  Venus. 

Arn.  To  the  palace 

Colr.nna,  as  I  told  you  ! 

Cxs.  Oh  !  I  know 

My  way  through  Rome. 
Am.  Now  onward,  onward  !    Gently. 

[Exeunt,  bearing  Olimpia.     The  sunt  clotts. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


401 


PART  III. 

SCENE    I. 

I  Cattle  in  the  Apennines,  surrounded  by  a  wild  but 
imiling  country.     Chorus  of  Peasants  singirig 


before  the  Gates. 


CHORIS. 


The  wars  are  over, 

The  spring  is  come; 
The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home : 
They  are  happy,  we  rejoice  ; 
i,et  their  hearts  have  an  echo  in  every  voice  ! 


The  spring  is  come  ;  the  violet 's  gone, 

The  first-born  child  of  the  early  sua  : 

With  us  she  is  but  a  winter's  flower, 

The  snow  on  the  hills  cannot  blast  her  bower, 

And  she  lifs  up  her  dewy  eye  of  blue 

To  the  youngest  sky  of  the  self-same  hue. 


And  when  the  spring  comes  with  her  host 
Of  tlowers,  that  flower  beloved  the  most 
Shrinks  from  the  crowd  that  may  confuse 
Her  heavenly  odour  and  virgiu  hues. 


Pluck  the  others,  but  still  remember 
Their  herald  out  of  dim  December  — 
The  morning  star  of  all  the  flowers. 
The  pledge  of  day-lighi's  len»thcn'd  hours ; 
Nor,  'midst  the  roses,  e'er  forget 
The  virgin,  virgin  violet. 

Enter  Csaar. 
Ctts.  (sxtiging).    The  wars  are  all  over, 
Our  swords  are  all  idle, 
The  steed  bites  the  bridle. 
The  casque  's  on  the  wall. 
There 's  rest  for  the  rover  ; 


But  his  armour  is  rusty, 

And  the  veteran  grows  crusty. 
As  he  yawns  in  the  hall. 

He  drinks  —  but  what 's  drinking  ? 

A  mere  |.ause  from  thinking  ! 
No  bugle  awakes  him  with  lite-and-ieath  all 

CHORUS. 
But  the  hound  bayelh  loudly, 

The  boar's  in  the  wood, 
And  the  falcon  longs  proudly 

To  spring  from  her  hood  : 
On  the  wrist  of  the  noble 

She  sits  like  a  crest, 
And  the  air  is  in  trouble 

With  birds  from  their  nest. 

Cxs.  Oh !  shadow  of  glory  ! 

Dim  image  of  war  ! 
But  the  chase  hah  no  story, 

Her  hero  no  s'ar. 
Since  Nimrod,  the  founder 

Of  empire  and  chase, 
Who  made  the  woods  wonder 

And  quake  for  their  race. 
When  the  lion  was  young. 

In  the  pride  of  his  might, 
Then  't  was  sport  for  the  strong 

To  embrace  him  in  fight; 
To  go  forth,  with  a  pine 

For  a  speir,  "gainst  the  mammoth, 
Or  strike  through  the  ravine 

At  the  foaming  behemo  h; 
While  man  was'in  stature 

As  towers  in  our  time, 
The  firstborn  of  Nature, 

And,  like  her,  sublime ! 

CHORUS. 

,  But  the  wars  are  over, 

i  The  spring  is  come; 

I  The  bride  and  her  lover 

'  Have  sought  their  home : 

They  are  happy,  and  we  rejoice; 

I.et  their  hearts  have  an  echo  from  every  voice . 
j  lExeunt  the.  Peasantry,  tinging. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE: 

A   ROMAUNT. 


Je  baiseais  ma  pair 


qaand  on  n'a  to  que  eon  pays.  J'eo  ai 
3et  pxamea  ne  m'a  point  etc  infrurtueux. 
Toulfs  Its  imperlineDceg  deg  pt-uples  divers,  parmi  Irsquels  j'ai  vecu,  m'ont  reiontilie  avec 
is  tire  d'autre  benefice  de  mes  voyages  que  celui-la,  je  n'en  regretlerais  oi  lea  frai»  ni  le< 

LE  COSMOPOLITE. 


PREFACE 
[to  the  first  and  second  cantosJ. 

The  following  poem  was  wril'en,  for  the  most  part, 
amidst  the  scenes  which  i'  alte-mp's  to  describe.  It 
was  begun  in  Albania  ;  and  the  parts  relative  to  Spain 
and  Portiigd  were  composed  from  the  author's  obser- 
vations in  those  countries.  Thus  much  it  may  be 
necessary  to  state  for  the  correctness  of  the  descrip- 
tions. The  scenes  altemped  to  be  sketched  are  in 
Sp-iin,  Poriugal,  Epirus,  Acarnania,  aBd  Greece. 
There,  for  the  present,  Ihe  poem  stops:  its  reception 
will  determine  whether  the  author  may  venture  to 
conduct  his  readers  to  the  capital  of  the  East,  through 
lonii  and  Phrygia:  these  two  cantos  are  merely  ex- 
perimental. 


A  fictitious  character  is  introduced  for  the  sake  of 
giving  some  connection  to  the  piece;  which,  however, 
makes  no  pretension  to  regularity.  It  has  been  sug- 
gested to  me  by  friends,  on  whose  opinions  I  S(t  a 
high  value,  that  in  this  fictitious  character.  "Childe 
Harold,"  I  may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having  intended 
some  real  personage  :  this  I  beg  leave,  once  for  all,  to 
disclaim  —  Harold  is  the  child  of  imagination,  for  the 
purpose  I  have  stated.  In  some  very  trivial  particu- 
lars, and  those  merely  local,  there  might  be  grounds 
for  such  a  notion  ;  but  in  the  main  points,  I  should 
hope,  none  whatever. 

II  is  almost  superfluous  to  mention  that  the  appella 
lion  '  Childe,"  as  "Childe  Waters,"  "Childe  Chil- 
ders."  &c.,  is  used  as  more  consonant  with  the  old 
structure  of  versification  which  I  have  adopted.  The 
"Good  Night,"  in   the  beginning  of  the  first  canto, 


34 


26 


402 


CHILD  HAROLD'S 


wa>  sugsesled  by  "Lord  Maxwell's  Good  Night,"  in 
the  Border  Minstrelsy,  edited  by  Mr.  Scolt. 

With  the  dift'ereut  poems  which  have  been  publish- 
ed on  Sp:inish  subjects,  there  may  be  found  some  slight 
coincidence  in  the  first  part,  which  treats  of  the  Penin- 
sula, but  it  can  only  be  c^isual ;  as,  with  the  exception 
of  3  few  concluding  stanzas,  the  whole  of  this  poem 
was  written  in  the  Levant. 

The  stanza  of  Spenser,  according  to  one  of  our  most 
nuccessful  poets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Dr.  Beallie 
makes  the  following  observation  :  —"Not  long  ago,  I 
began  a  poem  in  the  style  and  stanza  of  Spenser,  in 
which  I  propose  to  give  full  scope  to  njy  inclination, 
and  be  either  droll  or  pathetic,  dcscripiive  or  senti- 
mental, 'ender  or  satirical,  as  the  humour  s'ribes  me  ; 
for,  if  1  mistake  not,  the  measure  which  I  have  adopt- 
ed admits  equally  of  all  thee  kinds  of  composition."  » 
—  Strengthened  in  my  opinion  by  such  auihority,  and 
by  the  example  of  some  in  the  highest  order  of  Itali m 
poets,  I  sh  ill  make  no  apology  for  attempts  at  similar 
variations  in  the  following  composition  ;  satisfied  that 
if  they  are  unsuccessful,  their  failure  must  be  in  the 
execution,  rather  than  in  the  design  sanctioned  by  the 
practice  of  Ariosto,  Thomson,  and  Beatlie. 

Loodoo,  February,  1613. 


ADDITION   TO  THE  PREFACE. 

I  have  now  waited  till  almost  all  our  periodical 
journals  have  distributed  their  usual  portion  of  criti- 
cism. To  the  justice  of  the  generality  of  their  criti- 
cisms I  have  no:hing  to  object :  it  would  ill  become 
me  to  quarrel  with  their  very  slight  degree  of  cen- 
sure, when,  perhaps,  if  they  had  been  less  kind  they 
had  been  more  candid.  Returning,  therefore,  to  all 
and  each  my  best  thanks  for  their  liberality,  on  one 
point  alone  shall  I  venture  an  observation.  Amongst 
the  many  objections  justly  urged  to  the  very  inditl'er- 
ent  character  of  the  "  vagrant  Childe"  (whom,  not- 
withstanding many  hints  to  the  contrary,  I  still  main- 
tain to  be  a  fictitious  personage),  it  has  been  sated, 
that,  besides  the  anachronism,  he  is  very  unknightly, 
as  the  times  of  the  Kni;;hts  were  times  of  t,ove, 
Honour,  and  so  forth.  Now,  it  so  happens  that  the 
good  old  limes,  when  "  I'amnur  du  bon  vieux  terns, 
I'amour  anique"  flourished,  were  the  most  profligate 
of  all  possible  centuries.  Those  who  have  any  doubts 
on  this  subject  may  consult  SaintePalaye,  passim,  and 
more  particularly,  vol.  ii.  p.  69.  The  vows  of  chival- 
ry were  no  belter  kept  'han  any  other  vows  whatso- 
ever; and  the  songs  of  the  Troubadours  were  not 
more  decent,  and  certainly  were  much  less  refined, 
than  those  of  Ovid.  The  "  Cours  d'amour,  parlemens 
d'araour,  ou  de  courtesie  et  de  gentilesse"  had  much 
more  of  love  than  of  courtesy  or  gentleness.  See 
Roland  on  the  same  subject  wi:h  Sainte-Palaye.  What- 
ever other  objection  may  be  urged  to  that  most  un- 
amiable  personage  Childe  Harold,  he  was  so  fjr  per- 
fectly knightiv  in  his  attributes  —  "  No  waiter,  but  a 
knight  templar.''  2  By  the  by,  I  fear  that  Sir  Tris- 
Irera  and  Sir  Lancelot  were  no  better  than  they  should 
be,  although  veiy  poeticil  personages  and  Irueknighls 
"sans  peur,"  though  not  "sans  reproche."  If  the 
story  of  the  ins'itution  of  the  "  Garter  '  be  not  a  fable, 
the  knights  of  that  order  have  for  several  centuries 
boine  the  badge  of  a  Countess  of  Salisbury,  of  indif- 
ferent memory.  So  much  for  chivalry.  Burke  need 
not  have  regretted  that  its  days  are  over,  though 
Marie-Antoinette  was  quite  as  ch  iste  as  most  of  those 
in  whose  honours  lances  were  shivered,  and  knights 
unhorsed. 

Before  the  days  of  Baynrd,  and  down  to  those  of 
Sir  Joseph  Banks  (the  most  chaste  and  celebrated  of 

1  Bcaltie'B  Letters, 

3  The    Snvers,    or    the    Double    Arrangement.  —  [By 
Me«r8.  Canning  and  Frere;    first  publiahed  in  the  Anti- 
or  Weekly  Examiner,  —  E.] 


ancient  and  modern  times),  few  exceptions  will  b* 
found  to  this  staiement ;  and  I  fear  a  little  investiji- 
ti(in  will  leacli  us  not  to  regret  these  monstrous  mum- 
uieiies  of  the  middle  ages. 

I  now  leave  "  Childe  Harold  "  to  live  his  day,  such 
as  he  is ;  it  had  been  more  agreeable,  and  certainly 
more  easy,  to  have  drawn  an  amiable  character.  It 
had  been  easy  lo  varnish  over  his  faults,  to  make  him 
do  moi  e  and  express  less,  but  he  never  w  as  intended  as 
an  example,  further  than  to  show,  that  early  perver- 
sion of  mind  and  morals  leads  to  satiety  of  pat  plea- 
sures and  disappointment  in  new  ones,  and  that  even 
the  beauties  of  nature,  and  the  stimulus  of  travel  (ex. 
cept  ambition,  the  most  powerful  of  all  excitements) 
are  lost  on  a  soul  so  constiiuted,  or  rather  misdirected. 
Had  I  proceeded  with  the  poem,  this  character  would 
have  deepened  as  he  drew  to  the  close  ;  for  the  outline 
which  I  once  meant  to  fill  up  for  him  was,  with  some 
exceptions,  the  sketch  of  a  modern  TimoD,  perhaps  a 
poetical  Zeluco. 

Lnnclon,  1813, 


TO  IANTHE.3 

Not  in  those  climes  where  I  have  late  been  striving. 
Though   Beauty  long  hath  there  been  matchless 

deem'd ; 
Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 
Forms  which  it  sighs  but  lo  have  only  dream'd, 
Hath  aught  like  thee  in  truth  or  fancy  seem'd. 
Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 
To  paint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they  beam'd — 
To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak  ; 
To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could  they 

speak .' 

Ah  !  may'st  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art, 
Nor  unbeseem  the  promise  of  thy  spring. 
As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  heart. 
Love's  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing, 
And  guileless  beyond  Hope's  imagining! 
And  surely  she  who  now  so  fondly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  hourly  brightening. 
Beholds  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years, 
Before  who-e  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disappears. 

Young  Peri  ♦  of  the  West !  —  'f  is  well  for  me 
My  yeais  already  doubly  number  thine; 
Mv  loveless  eye  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee, 
Aiid  safely  view  thy  ripeniiig  beauties  shine  ; 
Happy,  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline  ; 
Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall  bleed, 
Mine  shall  escape  the  doom  thine  eyes  assign 
To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed, 
But  mix'd  with  pangs  to  Love's  even  loveliest  hours 
decreed. 

Oh!  let  that  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  Gazelle's,  * 
Now  brightly  bold  or  beautifully  shy. 
Wins  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  where  it  dwells, 
Glance  o'er  ihis  page,  nor  to  my  verse  deny 
That  smile  for  which  my  breast  might  vainly  sigh 
Could  I  to  thee  be  ever  more  than  friend  : 
This  much,  dear  maid,  accod  ;  nor  question  why 
Til  one  so  voung  my  strain  I  would  commend, 
But  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  lily  blend. 

3  Tlie  Lady  Charlotte  Harley.  second  daughter  of  Ed- 
ward firth  Karl  of  Ox'nrd  (now  Lady  CharloUe  Bacon),  io 
the  autumn  of  1812,  when  these  lines  were  addressed  la 
her,  had  n  :t  completed  her  eleventh  year.  Mr.  Weslall's 
portrait  of  the  juvenile  beni:tv.  painted  at  Lord  Byron's 
request,  is  engraved  in  "Finden's  Illustrations  of  the 
Life  and  Woiks  of  Lord  Byron."  — E. 

4  Peri,  the  Persian  term  for  a  beautiful  inlermediale 
order  nf  beinics,  Ir  ifenerally  supposed  lo  be  another  form 
of  our  own  word  Fairy.  —  E. 

5  A  species  of  the  antelope.     "  You  have  the  eye*  of  a 
gazelle."  is  considered    all  over  the  East  as  the 
compliment  thai  ran  be  paid  lu  a  woman, —  £, 


i  Canto  I.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


403 


Su:h  is  thy  name  with  ihis  my  verse  entwined ; 
And  long  as  kinder  eyes  a  lonk  sh&ll  cast 
On  Harold's  page,  Untlie's  here  enshrined 
Shall  thus  be  tirs'.  beheld,  forgolleii  last : 
My  days  once  number'd,  should  this  homage  past 
Alttact  thv  fairy  fingers  near  the  lyre 
Of  him  "ho  hail'd  thee,  loveliest  as  thou  wast, 
Such  is  the  most  my  memory  may  desire  j 
Though  more  than  Hope  can  claim,  could  friendship 
less  require  ? 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO   THE    FIRST. 
I. 

Oh,  thou  !  in  Hellas  deem'd  of  heavenly  birth, 
Muse  !  f irm'd  or  fibled  at  the  minstrel's  "ill ! 
Since  shamed  full  ofi  by  later  lyres  on  earth, 
Mine  dares  not  call  thee  from  Ihy  sacred  hill : 
Yet  there  I  \e  wander'd  by  ihy  vaunted  rill ; 
Ves  !  s-igh'd  o'er  Delphi's  long  deserted  shrine,* 
Where,  save  ihai  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still ; 
Nor  mole  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale  —  this  lowly  lay  of  mine. 

n. 

Whilome  in  Albion's  isle  there  dwelt  a  youth, 
Who  ne  in  virtue's  ways  did  lake  delight ; 
But  spent  his  days  in  ri'ol  mos'  uncmth, 
And  vex'd  with  ii'.irth  the  dro^^sy  ear  of  Night. 
Ah  me  !  in  sooth  he  was  a  shameless  wight, 
Sore  given  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee  ; 
Few  earthly  things  found  f ivour  in  his  sight 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  companie, 
And  flaunting  wassailers  of  high  and  low  degree. 

III. 

Childe  Harold   was  he  highf :  —  but  whence  his 
name 

And  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say  ; 

Suffice  i',  that  perchance  Ihey  were  of  fame,  • 

And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day: 

But  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  for  aye. 

However  mighty  in  the  olden  lime  ; 

Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  cnffin'd  clay. 

Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honied  lies  of  rhyme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime. 
IV. 

Childe  Harold  bask'd  him  in  the  noontide  sun, 

Disporting  there  like  any  other  fly  ; 

Nor  deem'd  before  his  little  day  was  done 

One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 

But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  pass'd  by, 

Worse  than  adversiiv  the  Childe  befell ; 

He  fell  the  fulness  'f  saMely : 

Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell. 
Which  seem'd  to  him  more  lone  than  Eremite's  sad 
cell. 

V. 

For  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run, 

Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss. 


1  The  little  Tillage  of  Castri  stands  partly  on  the  site  of 
OHphi.  AIohE  the  path  uf  the  mouiilain,  from  Chrysso, 
are  the  reraaiim  of  sepulrtirrs  hrwn  in  and  frnm  the  rock. 
"One,"  said  the  guide,  "  of  a  king  who  broke  his  nerk 
hnnling."  Hiii  majesty  tiad  certainly  clingen  the  fittest 
spot  for  sDrh  an  aihievement.  A  litile  atx^ve  Castri  is  a 
cave,  supposed  the  PylhiaD,  of  immense  depth;  Ihe  npper 
jmrl  of  it  is  pavd,  and  now  a  <ow-hi)irse.  On  the  oiher 
side  of  Castri  stands  a  Oreek  monastery;  some  way  above 
which  Is  the  cleft  in  the  rock,  with  a  raii^e  of  caverns 
diffli'ult  of  ascent,  and  apparently  leading  to  the  interior 
he  Coryrian  Cavern  men- 
part  desc-;nd  the  louo- 


II  of  the  mountain:  probahly  to  th 
'  tloDed  by  Pausanias.  From  thi 
I    taio  and  the  *■  Dews  of  Castalie. 


Had  sigh'd  to  many  thntigh  he  loved  but  one, 
And  that  loved  one,  alas  !  could  ne'er  be  his. 
Ah,  happy  she  !  lo  'scape  from  him  whose  kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste  ; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  chaitns  for  vulgar  bliss. 
And  spoil'd  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his  vvasie, 
Nor  calm  domestic  peace  had  ever  deign'd  to  taste. 

VI. 
And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at  heart, 
And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  tlee ; 
'T  is  said,  at  times  Ihe  sullen  tear  would  start, 
But  Piide  conge. I'd  the  drop  within  hisee: 
Apart  he  slalk'd  in  joyless  reverie. 
And  from  his  native  land  resolved  to  go. 
And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  Ihe  sea; 
With  pleasuie  drugg'd,  he  almost  long'd  for  woe, 
And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  Ihe  shades 
below. 

VII. 

The  Childe  departed  frnm  his  fathers'  hall  : 
It  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile; 
So  old,  it    eenied  only  not  lo  fall, 
Yet  strength  was  pillar'd  in  each  massy  aisle. 
Monastic  dome  !  condeinn'd  lo  uses  vile  ! 
Where  Si;pers!ilion  once  had  made  her  den 
Now  Faphian  girls  were  known  to  sing  and  smile; 
And  monks  might  deem  their  lime  was  come  agen, 
If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  men. 

VIII. 

Yet  oft-times  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood 
Strange  pangs  would   flash  along  Childe  Harold'f 

brow, 
As  if  the  memory  of  some  deadly  feud 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurk'd  below  -. 
But  this  none  knew,  nor  haply  cared  to  knovr; 
For  hi-  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow, 
Nor  sought  he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole, 
Whale'er  this  grief  mole  be,  which  he  could  not  con. 
trol. 

IX. 

And  none  did  love  him  —  though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gather'd  revellers  from  far"ind  near, 
He  knew  them  flalt'rers  of  Ihe  festil  hour; 
The  heartless  parasiles  of  pre-ent  cheer. 
Yea  !  none  did  love  him  —  not  his  lenians  dear  — 
But  pomp  nnd  power  alone  are  woman's  care. 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  feere  ; 
Maiden-,  like  molhs,  are  ever  caught  by  gl<re, 
And   Mammon  wins  his  way  where  Seraphs  might 
despair. 


Childe  Harold  had  a  mother —  not  forgot, 
ThoHzh  parting  fnm  that  mother  he  did  shun; 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  piljrimage  begun  : 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bide  adieu  lo  none. 
Yet  deern  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel : 
Ye.  who  have  known  what  'i  is  lo  dole  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  b 

XI. 
His  house,  his  home,  his  herifa?e,  his  lands, 
The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight, 
Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  hat 
Might  shake  the  sainlship  of  an  anchorite. 
And  Inns  Ind  fed  his  youthful  appetite; 
His  golilets  liriniin'd  w  i'li  every  easily  wine. 
And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invi'e. 
Without  a  sish  lie  left.  In  cross  the  brine. 
And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's 
line.a 


I      2  Lord  Byron  originally  intended  to  visit  1 


404 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


,  Canto  I. 


XII. 
The  sails  were  fill'd,  and  fair  the  light  winds  l)lew, 
A?  sl'd  '"  "af  him  from  his  native  home; 
And  fast  the  whi'e  rocks  faded  from  his  view, 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam : 
And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Repented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 
One  word  of  wail,  w  hilst  others  sale  and  wept, 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning  kept. 

XIII. 

But  when  the  sun  v/as  sinking  in  the  sea 
He  seized  his  hirp,  which  he  at  times  could  string, 
And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melody, 
When  deem'd  he  no  strange  ear  was  listening: 
And  now  his  fingers  o'er  it  he  did  fling, 
And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight. 
While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing. 
And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  sight, 
Thus  to  the  elements  he  pour'd  his  last  "  Good  Night." 

I. 

"  Adieu,  adieu  !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
The  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee. 

My  native  Land  —  Good  Night ! 


"  A  few  short  hours  and  he  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth  ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies. 

But  no'  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desoUle  ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall ; 

My  dog  bowls  at  the  gate. 
3. 
"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page  ! » 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billows'  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong  : 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along." 
4. 
'Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high 

I  fear  not  waves  nor  wind  : 
Tel  marvel  not.  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

Am  sorrowful  in  mii.d  ;  3 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gone, 

A  mother  whom  I  love, 
And  have  no  friend,  sive  these  alone, 

But  thee  —  and  one  above. 


1  This  "little  paf e  "  was  Robert  Rushton,  the  son  of 
one  of  Lord  Byrnn's  tenants.  *•  Robert  I  talte  with  me." 
says  the  poet,  in  a  letter  to  his  moitier:  "  I  I  ke  him,  be- 
cause,  like  myself,  he  seems  a  friendless  animal :  teU  bi£ 
father  he  is  well,  and  doing  well."  — E. 

2  Seeing  that  the  boy  was  **  sorrowful  ''  at  the  separa- 
tion from  his  parents,  Lord  Byron,  on  reaching  Gibraltar 
■ent  him  bark  to  England,  under  the  rare  of  his  old  ser 

I  Tant  Joe  Murray.  "  Pray,"  he  says  to  hia  muthrr,  •'  show 
J  the  lad  every  kindness,  as  he  is  my  great  favourite." 
,  also  wrote  a  letter  to  the  father  of  the  boy.  whith  leaves 
■  a  most  favourable  impreKsion  of  his  lh"UEhIfulness  anc 
kindliness.  "  I  have,"  he  says,  "sent  Robert  home,  be 
cause  the  country  which  I  am  about  to  travel  through  is 

which  renders  it  iins.le,  particularly  f.ir  oi 
young.  (  a'low  you  to  deduct  from  your  rent  five  and 
twenty  pounds  a  year  for  his  educaticn,  for  three  years, 
provided  I  do  not  return  before  that  time;  and  I  desire 
he  may  t>«  con5idered  as  in  my  service.  He  has  behaved 
•ztremely  well. "  —  E. 


I    i 


I  did  not  much  complain  ; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Till  I  come  back  again.'— 
"  Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad  ! 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye; 
If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had, 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry." 
6. 
"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  staunch  yeoman,* 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  pale  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foeman? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ?  "  — 
'  Deem'sl  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life? 

Sir  Childe,  I  'm  not  so  weak; 
But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 

Will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek. 


'  My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall, 

Along  the  bordering  lake, 
And  H  hen  they  on  their  f  ilher  call. 

What  answer  shall  she  make  ? '  — 
"  Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good. 

Thy  grief  lei  none  gainsay  ; 
But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood, 

Will  laugh  to  flee  away. 
8. 
"  For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 

Of  wife  or  paramour? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eye» 

We  late  saw  streaming  o'er. 
For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve. 

Nor  perils  gathering  near ; 
My  greatest  giief  is  that  I  leave 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 
9. 
"  And  now  I  'm  in  the  world  alone. 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea: 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan. 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

'I'ill  fed  by  stranger  hands  ; 
But  long  ere  I  come  back  again, 

He  'd  tear  me  where  he  stands. 
10. 
"  With  thee,  my  bark,  I  'II  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to. 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark -blue  waves  ! 

And  when  \ou  f^il  my  sight. 
Welcome,  ye'deserts,  and  ye  caves  ! 

My  native  Land  ~  Good  Night !  " 

XIV. 
On,  on  the  vessel  flies,  the  land  is  gone, 
And  winds  are  rude  in  Biscay's  sleepless  bay. 
Four  days  are  sped,  but  with  the  fifth,  anon, 
New  shores  descried  make  every  bosom  gay  ; 
And  Cintra"s  mountain  greets  them  on  their  w»f, 
And  Tagus  dashing  onward  to  the  deep. 
His  fabled  golden  tribute  bent  to  pay  ; 
And  soon  on  board  the  Lusian  pilot's  leap, 
And  steer  'twixt  ferlile  shores  where  yet  few  rustic* 
reap. 

XV. 


3  William  Fletcher,  the  faithful  valet :  — who,  after  ■ 
scrviie  1  f  twenty  years,  ("during  which."  he  says,  "bii 
Irfird  was  more  to  him  than  a  father,")  received  the  Pil- 
frim't  last  words  at  Miesolonehi,  and  did  not  qnit  bis  !•• 
mains,  until  he  bad  seen  them  deposited  in  the  taniif 
vault  nt  Huiknall.     Fletcher  died  in  1640.  —  £. 


Canto  I.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


405 


What  fruits  of  fragrance  blush  on  every  tree  ! 
What  goodly  prospects  o'er  the.  hills  exp.iiid  '. 
Bui  man  would  mar  them  with  an  impious  hand  : 
And  when  the  Almighty  lifts  his  tieicest  scourge 
'Gainst  those  who  most  transgress  his  high  conmiand, 
With  treble  vengeance  will  his  hot  shafts  urge 

Gaul's   locust   host,   and    earth    from   felle^t  foemen 
purge. 

XVI. 
What  beauties  doth  Lisboa  first  unfold  ! 
Her  imige  floating  on  that  noble  tide, 
Which  poets  viinly  pave  wiih  sands  of  gold, 
But  now  whereon  a  thousand  keels  did  ride 
Of  mighty  strength,  since  Albion  was  allied, 
And  to  the  I.usians  did  her  aid  afford  : 
A  naiion  swoln  with  ignorance  and  pride, 
Who  lick  yet  loathe  the  hand  tha'  waves  the  sword 

To  save  I  hem  from    the  wralb  of  Gaul's  unsparing 
lord. 

XVII. 
But  whoso  en'ereth  wi'hin  this  town, 
That,  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  be. 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 
'Mid  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  ee  ; 
For  hut  and  palace  show  like  filihily  : 
The  dingy  denizens  are  rear'd  in  dirt  ; 
No  personige  of  high  or  mean  degree 
Doth  care  for  cleanness  of  surlout  or  shirt. 

Though  shent   with  Egyp.'s  plague,   unkempt,  un- 
wasb'd,  unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor,  paltry  slaves!  yet  born  'midst  noblest  scenes- 
Why,  Nature,  waste  thy  wonders  on  such  men  ? 
Lo  !  Cinlra's  glorious  Eden  in'ervenes 
In  variega'ed  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 
Ah,  me !  what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  or  pen, 
To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye'dilates 
Through  views  more  dazzling  unto  mortal  ken 
Than  Ihose  whereof  such  things  ihe  bard  relates. 
Who  to  the  awe-struck   world   unlock'd  Elysium's 
ga'.es  ? 

XIX. 

The  horrid  crags,  by  toppling  convent  crown'd. 
The  cork-lrees  hoar  that  cli'ihe  Ihe  shajgy  steep, 
The  mountain-moss  by  scorching  skies  imbrown'd. 
The  sunken  glen,  whose  sunless  shrubs  must  weep. 
The  tender  azure  of  the  unruffled  deep. 
The  orange  tints  that  gild  Ihe  greenest  bough, 
The  torrents  that  from  cliff  to  valley  leap. 
The  vine  on  high,  the  willow  branch  below, 
Mix'd  in  one  mighty  scene,  with  varied  beauty  glow. 

XX. 

Then  slowly  dim'   Ihe  many  winding  way, 
And  fre<]uent  turp  to  lineer  as  you  go, 
From  loftier  rocks  new  loveliness  survey, 
And  rest  ye  at  "  Our  Lady's  house  of  woe  ;"  * 
Where  frugal  monks  their  liltle  relics  show. 
And  sundry  legends  to  Ihe  stranger  tell : 
Here  impious  men  have  punish  d  been,  and  lo  ! 
Deep  in  yon  cave  Honoriu.  long  did  dwell. 
In  hope  to  merit  Heaven  by  making  earth  a  Hell. 

I  The  rnnvent  of  "  Our  Lady  of  Punishment,"  JVo»»a 
Senora  de  Pena.  no  the  surnmtt  of  Ihe  rock.  Below,  at 
some  dislanre,  is  the  Cork  Convent,  where  St.  Honorius 
du3  his  deD,  over  which  is  liis  epitaph.  From  Ihe  hilia, 
Ihe  sea  add*  ti  the  beauty  of  the  view.— A'o<e  to  \st  F.di- 
iion  — Since  the  publication  ot  Ihm  poem,  1  have  been 
informed  nf  the  misapprehension  of  the  term  Korta  Se- 
nora de  Pena.  It  was  owing  to  Ihe  warn  of  the  tilde  or 
mark  over  the  n.  which  alters  the  8ignificatii)n  of  the 
word;  with  it.  Pena  signilies  a  rock;  without  it,  Pena 
has  the  sense  I  adopted.  /  d  >  not  think  it  necessary  to 
alter  the  passage  ;  as  though  the  common  acieplalion  af- 
fixed to  it  is  "  Our  I^dy  of  the  Rock,"  I  may  well  as* 
■ume  the  other  sense  from  the  severities  practised  there. 
—Nyf  to  id  Edition. 


XXI.  I 

And  here  and  tt.ere,  as  up  the  crags  you  spring, 
jMark  many  rude-carved  crosses  near  the  path . 
Yet  deem  I'lot  the>e  devotion's  offering  — 
These  are  memorials  frail  of  murderous  wrath : 
For  wheiesoeer  Ihe  ?hiiekin2  viciim  hath 
Four'd  forth  his  blood  beneafh  Ihe  assassin's  knife, 
Some  hand  erects  a  cross  of  mouldering  lath  ; 
And  grove  and  glen  with  tliousaml  such  are  rife 

Throughout  this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not 
life. a 

XXII. 
On  sloping  mounds,  or  in  Ihe  vale  benea'h, 
Are  domes  where  whilome  kings  did  make  repair  ; 
But  now  the  wild  flowers  round  them  only  breathe; 
Yet  ruin'd  splendour  sill  is  lingering  there. 
And  yonder  lowers  the  Prince's  palace  fair : 
There  thou  too,  V.ilhek  !  Engl  ind's  wealthiest  sod. 
Once  form'd  thy  Paradise,  as  no:  aware 
When  wanton  Wealth  her  mightiest  deeds  hath  ione. 

Meek  Peace  voluptuous  lures  «  as  ever  wont  to  shun. 

XXIII. 
Here  didst  Ihou  dwell, here  schemes  of  pleasure  plan, 
Beneaih  yon  mountain's  ever  beauteous  brow  : 
But  now,  as  if  a  thing  unblesi  by  Man, 
Thy  fairy  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  ihou  ! 
Here  giant  weeds  a  piss'ge  scarce  allow 
To  halls  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide: 
Fresh  lessons  lo  the  thinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  .nre  ihe  pleasaunces  on" earth  supplied  ; 
Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time's  ungentle  tide ! 

XXIV. 
Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  la'e  convened! ■ 
Oh  !  dome  displeasing  unio  British  eye  ! 
With  dindem  hight  fooUcap,  lo !  a  lieiid, 
A  little  fiend  that  scoffs  incessantly. 
There  sits  in  parchment  robearray'd,  aod  by 
His  side  is  h'jng  a  seal  and  sible  scroll. 
Where  blazon'd  glare  names  known  lo  chivalry, 
And  sundiy  signatures  idorn  the  roll, 
Whereat  the  Uixhin   points  and  laughs  with  all  bU 
soul. 

XXV, 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foii'd  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome  : 
Of  brains  (if  brains  ihey  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  turn'd  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
Here  Folly  dash'd  to  earth  the  victor's  plume, 
And  Policy  regain'd  what  arms  had  lost : 
For  chiefs  like  ours  in  vain  may  laurels  blnom  ! 
Woe  to  the  conqu'ring,  not  the  conquer'd  host. 
Since  battled  Triumph  droops  on  Lusitania's  coast ! 

XXVI. 

And  ever  since  that  martial  synod  met, 

Britannia  sickens,  Cinira!  at  thy  name; 

And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret, 

And  fain  would  blush,  if  blush  they  could, for  shame. 


2  It  i«  a  well-known  fact,  that  in  the  year  1809,  the  tm- 
sassinaiions  in  the  streets  r.f  Lisbon,  ami  its  vicinity,  were 
not  confined  by  ihe  Portnguese,  to  their  countrymen  ;  bat 
that  Knglishme.i  were  daily  butrhered:  and  so  far  from 
redress  being  obtained,  we  were  reques'ed  not  to  interfere 
if  we  perceived  any  compatriot  defending  himself  against 
his  allies,  i  was  once  stopped  iu  the  way  lo  the  theatre, 
at  eight  o'clock,  in  the  evening,  when  the  streets  were 
not  more  empty  than  they  g.-nerally  are  at  that  hour, 
opposite  to  an  open  shop,  and  in  a  carriage  with  a  friend  : 
had  we  not  fortunately  been  armed,  I  have  nol  the  least 
doubt  Ihal  we  should  have  "adorned  a  tale"  instead  of 
telling  one.  The  crime  of  assassination  is  not  confined  to 
Porlueal:  in  Si.  ily  and  Malta,  we  are  knocked  on  the 
head  at  a  handsome  average  nightly,  and  nol  a  Sicilian  or 
Maltese  is  ever  punished. 

3  The  Convention  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the  palace  Of 
the  Marchese  Marialva. 


rvf 


406 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


[Canto  I. 


How  will  posierity  Iht  'eed  proclaim  1 
Will  Dot  our  own  and  Ulow-nitions  sneer, 
To  view  these  cbampmns  cheated  of  their  fame, 
By  foes  in  fight  o'enhrown,  jet  victors  here, 

VVheie  Scorn  her  finger  points  through  many  a  com 
ing  year  ? 

XXVII. 
So  deem'd  the  Childe,  as  o'er  the  mountains  he 
Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise: 
Sweet  was  the  scene,  ytt  sotin  he  thought  to  flee. 
More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies  : 
Though  here  awhile  he  leirn'd  to  moralize. 
For  Meditation  fix'd  at  times  ou  him  ; 
And  conscious  Rea>on  whisper'd  to  despise 
His  early  youth,  nlis^pent  in  maddest  whim  ; 

But  as  he  gazed  ou  truth  his  aching  eyes  grew  dim 
XXVI 1 1. 
To  horse  I  fo  horse  I  he  quits,  for  ever  qui's 
A  scene  of  peace,  though  sooihing  to  his  soul  : 
Ag.iin  he  rouses  from  his  moping  fi's. 
But  seeks  not  now  the  harlot  and  the  bowl. 
Onward  he  flies,  nor  fix'd  as  yet  the  goal 
Where  he  shill  rest  him  on  his  pilgrimage; 
And  o'er  him  many  changins  scenes  must  roll 
Ere  toil  his  thirst  for  travel  can  assuage, 

Or  he  shall  calm  his  breast,  or  learn  experience  sage. 
XXIX. 
Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay. 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusians'  luckles  queen  ;  l 
And  church  and  court  did  mingle  their  array. 
And  mass  and  revel  were  alleriiaie  seen  ; 
Lordlings  and  freres  —  ill  sorted  fry  I  ueen  ! 
Put  here  the  Bnbylonian  whore  haih  built  2 
A  dome,  where  flaunts  ?he  in  such  glorious  sheen, 
That  men  forget  the  blood  which  she  hath  spilt. 

And  bow  the  knee  to  Pomp  that  loves  to  varnish  guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er  vales  thai  leem  with  fruis,  roman  ic  hills, 
(Oh,  that  such  hills  upheld  a  freeborn  race  ') 
Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaunce  fills, 
Childe   Harold   wends'  through   many   a    pleasant 

place, 
Though  slugjards  deem  it  but  a  foolish  chase, 
And  marvel  men  should  quit  their  easy  chair. 
The  toilsome  wiy,  iind  long,  long  leajue  to  trace. 
Oh  !  ihere  is  sweetness  in  the  mountain  air, 
And  life,  that  bloated  Ease  can  never  hope  to  share. 
XXXI. 
More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede, 
And,  less  luxuriant,  smnniher  vales  extend; 
Immense  h'lrizon-bounded  plains  succeed  ! 
Far  as  the  eye  discerns,  wiihoulen  end, 
Spain's  reilnis  appear  whereon  her  shepherds  tend 
Flocks,   whose   rich   fleece  right  well   the  trader 

knows  — 
Now  must  the  pastor's  arm  his  lambs  defend  : 
For  Spain  is  compass'd  by  unyielding  foes, 
And  all  must  shield  their  all,  or  share  Subjection's 

woes. 


1  "  Her  luckless  Majesty  went  subsequently  mad ;  and 
Dr.  Willis,  who  so  dexterously  ruilgelled  kingly  periera- 
niums,  could  make  nilhing  of  hers."— Byron  MS.  [The 
queen  laboured  under  a  melancholy  kind  of  deraneement, 
from  wh:ih  Khe  never  recovered.  Slie  died  at  the  Biazila, 
in  )H16.— E.) 

2  The  extent  of  Mafra  is  prO"Jiglous :  it  contains  a 
palace,  convent,  and  most  superb  rhurch.  The  six  organs 
are  the  most  beautiful  I  ever  beheld,  in  point  of  decora- 
tion:  we  did  not  hear  them,  but  were  lold  thai  their 
tones  were  corresp«»ndent  to  their  splendour.  Mafra  is 
termed  the  Escurial  of  Portugal.  [Mafra  was  erected  by 
John  v.,  in  pursuance  of  a  vow,  made  in  a  dangerous  lit 
of  illness,  to  found  a  convent  for  the  use  of  the  poorest 
friary  in  the  kingdom.  I'pon  inquiry,  this  poorest  was 
found  at  Mafra;  where  twelve  Franciscans  lived  together 
io  a  hut.  There  is  a  magnifireni  view  of  the  existing 
tdidce  in  Finden's  "  Illustrations."  — E.) 


XXXII. 

Whe'e  Lusitania  and  her  Sister  meet, 

Deem  ye  what  bounds  the  rival  realms  divide? 

Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  greet, 

Doth  Tayo  interfjose  his  mighty  tide? 

Or  dark  Sierras  rise  in  craggy  pride  ? 

Or  fence  of  art,  like  Chinas  vasty  wall  ?  — 

Ne  barrier  wall,  ne  river  deep  and  wide, 

Ne  horrid  crags,  nor  mountains  dark  and  tall, 

Rise  like  the  rtcks  that   part   Hispauias  land  from 
G..ul : 

XXXIII. 
But  the^e  between  a  silver  streamlet  glides. 
And  scarce  a  name  distinguisheth  the  brook, 
Thoush  rival  kingdoms  press  its  verdant  sides. 
Here  leans  the  idle  shepherd  on  his  ciook. 
And  vacant  nn  ihe  rippling  waves  doth  look, 
'Ih.t  peaceful  slill  'twixl  bitterest  fnemen  flow  ; 
For  proud  each  peasnni  as  ihe  noblest  duke: 
Well  doth  Ihe  Spanish  hind  ihe  ditfereuce  knovy 

'Twixl  him  and  Luslan  slave,  the  lowesl  of  the  low.  3 

XXXIV. 

But  ere  the  mingling  bounds  have  far  been  pass'd, 

Dark  Guadiana  rolls  his  power  along 

In  sullen  billows,  murmuring  and  vast. 

So  noted  ancieni  roundela\s  rmong. 

Whilome  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throng 

Of  Moor  and  Knight,  in  mailed  splendour  drest : 

Here  ceased   the  swift   (heir   race,  here  sunk  the 

s'rong ; 
The  Paynim  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 

Mis'd  on  Ihe  bleeding  stream,  by  floating  hosts  op- 
press'd. 

XXXV. 
Oh,  lovely  Spain  !  renown'd,  romantic  land  ! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Peligio  bore. 
When  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  calld  the  band 
That  dyed  Ihy  mountain  streams  wilhGoihic  gore?* 
Where  are  tho  e  bloody  banners  which  of  yore 
Waved  o'er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale, 
And  drove  at  last  the  spoilers  to  Iheir  shoie? 
Red  gleam"d  the  cross,  and  waned  Ihe  crescent  pale. 

While  Afric's  echoes  thrill'd  with  Moorish  matrons' 
wail. 

XXXVI. 
Teems  not  each  di'ty  wi'h  Ihe  glorious  tale? 
Ah  !  such,  alas  !  the  hero's  amplest  fale  I 
When  granite  moulders  and  wjien  records  fail, 
A  peasant's  plaint  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 
Pride  1  bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine  estate, 
See  how  the  Mighty  shrink  into  a  song  ! 
Can  Volume,  Pillar.  Pile,  preserve  thee  great  ? 
Or  must  thou  trust  Tradition's  simple  tongue. 

When  Flatlery  sleeps  with  thee,  and  H istory  does  thee 
wrong  ? 

XXXVII. 
Awake,  ye  sons  of  Spain  I  awake  !  advance  1 
1.0  !  Chivalry,  your  ancient  goddess,  cries; 
But  wields  not,  as  of  old,  her  thirsty  lance. 
Nor  shakes  her  crimson  plumage  in  Ihe  skies: 
Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  bolts  she  flies. 
And  speaks  in  thunder  Ihrough  yon  engine's  roars 
In  every  peal  she  calls  —  "  Awake  !  arise  !  " 
Siy,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  of  yore. 

When  her  war-song  was  heard  on  Andalusia's  shore  ? 

'  3  As  I  found  the  Portuguese,  so  I  have  characterised 
them.  That  they  are  since  impro/ed,  at  least  in  rou 
is  evident.  The  lale  exploits  of  Lord  Wellington,  have 
effaced  Ihe  follies  of  C'inlra.  He  has,  inde-d,  done  won- 
ders:  he  has,  perhaps,  changed  Ihe  characier  of  a  nation, 
reconciled  rival  superstilions,  and  baffled  an  enemy  who 

^  never  retreated  before  his  predecessors.—  1812. 

4  Count  Julian's  daughter,  the  Helen  of  Spain.  Pela- 
gius  pre.servi^d  his  independence  in  the  fastnesses  of  the 
Asturias,  and  the  descend  nis  of  hi»  followers,  after  Domc 

.renturies,   completed    their    struggle    by  the  conquest  of 
Granada. 


Canto  I.] 


PLLGRIMAGE. 


407] 


XXXVIII. 
H»rk  !  heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful  note? 
Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath  ? 
Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  snioie  ; 
Nor  saved  your  brethren  ere  they  sank  beneath 
Tyrants  and  tyrants' slaves  ?  —  the  fires  of  death, 
The  b.ile-tires  flash  on  high  :  —  from  rock  to  rock 
Each  volley  tells  that  thnu-ands  cease  to  bre.ithe; 
Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 
Red  Battle  stamps  bis  foot,  and  nations  feel  the  shock. 

XXXIX. 
Ix) !  where  the  Giant  on  the  mountain  stands, 
His  blood-red  tresses  deep'ning  in  the  sun, 
With  death  shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands, 
And  eye  that  ?corcheth  all  it  glares' upon ; 
Restless  it  rolls,  now  fix'd,  ind  now  anon 
Flashing  afar,— and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers,  to  mirk  what  deeds  are  done; 
For  on  Ibis  morn  three  potent  nations  meet. 
To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most 
sweet. 

XL. 
By  Heaven  !  it  is  a  splendid  sight  to  see 
(For  one  who  hath  no  friend,  no  brother  there) 
Their  rival  scarfs  of  mix"d  embroidery, 
Their  various  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air  ! 
What  gallant  war-hounds  rouse  them  from  their  lair, 
And  gnash  their  fangs,  loud  yelling  for  the  prey  ! 
All  join  the  chase,  but  few  the  triumph  share  j 
The  Grave  shall  bear  the  chiefest  prize  away, 
And  Havoc  scarce  for  joy  can  number  their  array. 

XLI. 

Three  hosts  combine  to  offer  sacrifice ; 
Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high ; 
Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies  ; 
The  shouts  are  France,  Spain,  Albion,  Vic.ory  ! 
The  foe,  the  victim,  and  the  fond  ally 
That  fights  for  all,  but  ever  fights  in  vain. 
Are  met  — as  if  at  home  they  could  not  die  — 
To  feed  the  crow  on  Talavera's  plain, 
And  fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain. 

XLII. 
There  shall  they  rot  —  Ambition's  honoured  fools  ! 
Tes,  Honour  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ! 
Vain  Sophistry  !  in  these  behold  the  tools, 
The  broken  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 
By  myriads,  when  they  dare  to  pive  their  way 
With  human  hearis—  to  wlial  ?  —  a  dream  alone. 
Can  despots  compass  aught  that  hails  their  sway  ? 
Or  call  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their  own, 
Save  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone  by  bone  ? 

XLIII. 
Oh,  Albuera,  glorious  field  of  grief  I 
As  o'er  thy  plain  the  Pilgrim  prick'd  his  steed, 
Who  could  foresee  thee,  in  a  space  so  brief, 
A  scene  w  here  mingling  foes  should  boast  and  bleed  ! 
Peace  to  the  perish'd  !  may  the  warrior's  meed 
And  tears  of  triumph  their  reward  prolone  ! 
Till  others  fill  where  other  chieftains  lead, 
Thy  name  shall  circle  round  the  gaping  throng. 
And  shine  in  worthless  lays,  the  theme  of  transient 
song. 

XLIV. 

Enough  of  Battle's  minions  !  let  them  play 
Their  game  of  lives,  and  barter  breath  for  fame : 
Fame  that  will  scarce  reanimate  their  clay. 
Though  thousands  fall  to  deck  some  single  name. 
In  sooth  't  were  sad  to  ihwart  their  noble  aim 
Whostrike,  blest  hirelings  1  for  their  country's  good, 
And  die,  that  living  might  have  proved  her  shame; 
Perish'd,  perchance,  in  some  domestic  feud. 
Or  in  a  narrower  sphere  wild  Rapine's  path  pursued. 


XLV. 
Full  swiftly  Harold  nends  his  lonely  way 
VVhere  proud  Sevilla  triumphs  unsubdued  : 
Yet  is  she  free—  the  spoiler's  wish'd  for  prey  ! 
Soon,  soon  shall  Conquest's  fiery  foot  intrude, 
Blackenmg  her  lovely  domes  with  traces  rude. 
Inevitable  hour  !    Gainst  f.ite  to  strive 
Where  Desolation  plants  her  famish'd  brood 
Is  vain,  or  llion,  1  yre  might  vet  survive. 
And  Viitue  vanquish  all,  and  Murder  cease  to  thrive. 

XLVI. 

But  all  unconscious  of  the  coming  d^om, 
The  feast,  the  song,  the  level  here  abounds  ; 
Stiange  modes  of  merriment  ihe  hours  consume. 
Nor  bleed  these  pitiiots  with  their  country's  wounds: 
Nor  here  War's  clarion,  but  Love's  rebeck  «  sounds; 
Here  Follv  still  his  voaries  enthralls ; 


Girl  with  the  silent  crimes  of  Capitals, 
Still  to  Ihe  Lst  kind  Vice  clings  to  the  tott'ring  walls. 

XLVIl. 

Not  so  the  rustic  —  w  ilh  his  trembling  mate 
He  lurks,  nor  casts  his  heavy  eye  afar. 
Lest  he  sho-jld  view  his  vineyard  desolate. 
Blasted  below  the  dun  hot  breath  of  war. 
No  more  beneath  sofi  Eve's  consenting  star 
Fandango  twirls  his  jncund  caslanet : 
Ah,  moiiarchs  !  could  ye  taste  the  mil  Ih  ye  mar. 
Not  in  the  tnils  of  Glory  would  ye  fret ; 

The  hoarse  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  Man  be  happy 
yel! 

XLVIIL 
How  carols  now  the  lusty  muleteer? 
Of  love,  romance,  devotion  is  his  lay. 
As  whilome  lie  was  wont  the  leagues  to  cheer, 
His  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way  ? 
No  !  as  he  speeds,  he  chants  '•  Viva  el  Rey  !  "  a 
And  checks  his  song  to  execra'e  Godny, 
The  royal  wittol  Charles,  and  curse  the  day 
When  first  Spain'squeeii  beheld  the  black-eyed  boy, 

And  gore-faced  Treason  sprung  from  her  adulterate  joy. 
XLIX. 
On  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crown'd 
With  crags,  whereon  those  Moorish  turrets  rest. 
Wide  scatfer'd  hoof-marks  dint  the  wounded  ground  ; 
And,  scThed  bv  fire,  the  greensward's  darken'd  vest 
Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia's  guest : 
Here  was  the  camp,  the  watcli-flame,  and  the  hosr, 
Here  Ihe  bold  peasant  storm 'd  the  dragon's  nest; 
Still  does  he  mark  it  with  triumphant  boast, 

And  points  to  yonder  cliffs,  which  oft  were  won  and 
lost. 

L. 
And  whomsoe'er  along  the  path  you  meet 
Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hue. 
Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet:* 
Woe  to  Ihe  nian  that  walks  in  public  view. 


King  Ferdi- 
oish  patriotic 
king 


1  A  kind  of  fiddle,  with  only  two  etrings,  played  on  by 
B  bow,  said  to  have  t>eeu  broueht  bv  llie  Moors  into 
Spain.- E. 

2  '•  Viva  el  Rey  Fernando  !  "  Lon?  livi 
nand !  is  the  ihnrns  of  most  of  the  Spi 
snngs.  They  are  chiefly  in  dispraise  of  the 
Charles,  the  Qiuen,  and  the  Prince  of  Pence, 
heard  many  of  them  :  some  of  the  airs  are  beautiful. 
Don  Manuel  Gndny,  the  Principe  dt  la  Paz.  of  an  an- 
c-  ent  but  decayed  family,  wa^  burn  at  Badajoz,  on  the 
frontiers  of  Potlupal,  and  was  originslly  in  the  ranks  of 
the  Spanish  guards;  till  his  person  attracted  Ihe  queen's 
eyes,  and  raised  him  to  Ihe  duked'-m  cf  Alcudia,  etc.  ic. 

to  this  man  that  the  Spaniards  universally  impute 
ruin  of  their  countr'-.  —  [See,  fnr  ample  particulan 
cnneernine  ihe  Bacilious  conrt  of  Charles  IV.,  Southey'a 
"istory  of  the  Peiiinsulij  War.  vol.  i.  — E.] 

3  The  red  cockade,  with  "Fernando  SeptimV'  ia  tke 
centre. 


408 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


[CAtrre  O 


Without  of  loyally  this  token  true  : 
Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  Ihe  stroke; 
And  sorely  would  Ihe  Gallic  foenian  rue. 
If  subtle  poniards,  urapt  beneath  the  cloak, 

Could  bluni    Ihe  sab  e's  edge,  or  clear  the  cannon's 
smoke. 

LI. 
At  every  turn  Morena's  dusky  height 
Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load  ; 
And,  far  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight. 
The  mountainhoiviizer,  Ihe  broken  road. 
The  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o"erflo»''d. 
The  station'd  bands,  the  never-vacant  ivalch, 
The  migazine  in  rocky  durance  slow'd. 
The  ho!»ler"d  steed  beneath  ihc  shed  of  thatch, 

The  bill-piled  pyramid,t  the  ever-blazing  matcb 

MI. 

Portend  Ihe  deeds  to  come  :  —  but  he  whose  nod 
Has  tumbled  feebler  despots  from  their  sway, 
A  moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  Ihe  rod  ; 
A  little  moment  deignelh  to  delay  : 
Soon  will  his  legions'sweep  through  these  their  way  ; 
The  West  must  own  the  Scourger  of  Ihe  world. 
Ah  1  Spain  !  how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning-day, 
When  soars  Gaul's  Vulture,  with  his  wings  unfurl'd, 
And  thou  shalt  view  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Hades  hurl'd. 

LI  II. 
And  must  they  fall  ?  the  young,  the  proud,  the  brave. 
To  swell  one  bloated  Chiefs  unwholesome  reign? 
No  step  between  submission  :ind  a  grave? 
The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain  ? 
And  doth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordam 
Their  doom,  nor  heed  Ihe  suppliant's  appeal  ? 
Is  all  that  desperate  Valour  acts  in  vain  ? 
And  Counsel  sage,  and  patriotic  Zeal, 

The  Veteran's  skill,  Youth's  fire,  and  Manhood's  heart 
of  steel  ? 

LIV. 
Is  it  for  \hU  Ihe  Spanish  maid,  aroused. 
Hangs  on  Ihe  willow  her  unstrung  guitar. 
And,  all  unsex'd,  the  aniace  halh  espoused, 
Sung  Ihe  loud  song,  and  dared  Ihe  deed  of  war? 
And  she,  whom  once  the  semblance  of  a  scar 
Appall'd,  an  owlet's  larum  chill'd  with  dread, 
Now  views  the  coluninscatlering  bay'net  jar. 
The  falchion  flash,  and  o'er  the  yet  warm  dead 

Stalks  with  Minerva's  step  where  Mars  might  quake 
to  tread. 

LV. 
Yc  who  shill  marvel  when  you  he^r  her  fale, 
Oh  !  had  you  known  her  in  her  softer  hour, 
Mark'd  herbbck  eye  that  mocks  her  coal-black  veil, 
Heard  her  light,  lively  tones  in  Lady's  bower, 
Seen  her  long  locks  that  foil  Ihe  painter's  power, 
Her  fairy  form,  with  more  than  fem.ile  grace, 
Scarce  would  you  deem  that  Saragoza's  tower 
Beheld  her  smile  in  Danger's  gorson  face. 

Thin  the  closed  ranks,  and  lead  in  Glory's  fearful  chase. 

LVI. 

Her  lover  sinks  —  she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear; 
Her  chief  is  slain  —  she  tills  his  fatal  post  ; 
Her  fellows  flee  —  she  checks  their  base  career; 
The  foe  retires  —  she  heads  the  sallying  host : 
Who  c:>ii  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost  ? 
Who  can  avenge  so  well  a  leader's  fall  ? 
What  maid  retrieve  when  man's  flush'd  hope  is  lost? 
Who  hang  so  fiercely  on  Ihe  flying  Gaul, 
Foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  bilter'd  wall  ?  - 


1  All  wm  have  seen  a  battery  will  recollect  the  pyra- 
midal form  io  which  sh.it  and  shells  are  piled.  The 
Sierra  Mnrena  was  fortified  in  every  defile  through  which 
I  I  passed  in  my  way  to  Seville. 


Yet  are  Spain's  maids  no  race  of  Amaions,  \ 

But  form'd  for  all  Ihe  wi-ching  arts  of  love : 
Though  thus  in  ai  ms  they  emulate  her  sons, 
And  in  the  horrid  phalanx  dare  to  move, 
'T  is  but  Ihe  lender  fierceness  of  ihe  dove. 
Pecking  the  hand  that  hovers  o'er  her  mate  : 
In  softness  as  in  firmness  fir  above 
Reitioier  females,  famed  for  sickening  prate  ; 
Her  mind  is  nobler  sure,  her  ch  irms  perchance  as  great. 

LVIII. 

The  seal  Love's  dimpling  finger  hath  impress'd 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  uliich  bears  his  touch: 
Her  lips,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leue  their  nest, 
Bid  man  be  valiin'  ere  he  merit  such  : 
Her  glance  how  wildly  beau'iful  1  how  much 
Halh  Phoebus  woo'd  in  vain  to  spoil  her  cheek, 
Which  glows  yet  smoother  from  his  amorous  clu'ch  ! 
Who  round  the  North  for  paler  dames  would  seek? 
How  poor  their  forms  appear  !  how  languid,  wan,  and 
iveik ! 

LIX. 
Match  me,  ye  climes !  which  poets  love  to  laud  ; 
Match  me,  ye  harems  of  Ihe  land  !  where  now  » 
I  strike  my  strain,  far  distant,  to  applaud 
Beauties  that  ev'n  a  cynic  must  avow  ; 
Match  me  those  Houries,  whom  ye  scarce  allow 
To  taste  the  gale  lest  Love  should  ride  the  wind, 
With   Spain's  dark-glancing  daughters  —  deign   to 

know, 
There  your  wise  Prophet's  paradise  we  find. 
His  black-eyed  maids  of  Heaven,  angelically  kind. 

LX. 

Ob,  thou  Parnassus  !  *  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  phrensy  of  a  dreamer's  eye. 
Not  in  Ihe  fabled  landscape  of  a  layj 
But  soiring  snow-clad  through  thy  native  sky, 
In  the  wild  pomp  of  m' untain-majesty  I 
What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing? 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  thine  Echoes  with  his  string. 
Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  Muse  will  wa»e 
ber  wing. 

LXL 

Oft  have  I  dream'd  of  Thee  !  whose  glorious  name 
Who  knows  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest  lore: 
And  now  I  view  Itiee,  't  is,  alas  !  with  shame 
That  I  in  feeblest  accents  mu-t  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee ; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nar  vainly  dare  to  soar, 
But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 
In  silent  joy  to  think  at  last  I  look  on  Thee! 

Lxn. 

Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have  been. 
Whose  fale  to  distant  homes  confined  their  lot. 
Shall  I  unmoved  behold  Ihe  hallow'd  scene. 
Which  others  rave  of,  though  they  know  it  not? 


heroines.  When  Die  author  was  at  Seville,  she  walked 
daily  on  the  Prado,  decorated  with  medals  and  orders,  by 
command  of  the  Junta.  —  [The  exploits  of  Augustina,  Ihe 
famous  heroine  of  both  the  sieges  of  Saragoza,  are  record- 
ed al  length  io  one  of  the  most  splendid  chapters  of  Sou- 
they's  History  of  Ihe  Peninsular  War.  At  the  lime 
when  she  firxt  attracted  notice,  by  mouDling  a  battery 
where  her  lover  had  fallen,  and  worliing  a  guo  in  his 
room,  she  was  in  her  twenty-second  year,  exceedingly 
pretty,  and  in  a  soft  feminine  style  of  beaiily.  She  has 
further  had  the  honour  to  be  painted  by  Wilkie,  and  al- 
ludeil  to  in  Wordsworth's  Dissertation  on  the  Convention 
(misnamed)  of  Cintra.  —  E.] 

3  This  stanza  was  written  in  Turkey. 

4  These    stanzas  were  written    in    Castri  (Detpbca),  at 
the   fort   of  Parnassus,   now  celled  Liakura,  Dec.  16081 


f  Canto  lA~  PILGRIMAGE 


4091' 


riiouph  here  t  3  more  Apollo  haunts  his  grot, 
And  ihou,  the  Muses'  seat,  art  now  their  grave, 
Some  gentle  spirit  still  per\ades  the  sp  it. 
Sighs  in  the  gale,  keeps  silence  in  the  cave, 
And  glides  with  glissy  loot  o'er  yon  melodious  wave. 

LXIII. 
Of  thee  hereafter.—  Ev"n  amidst  my  strain 
I  turn'd  aside  to  pay  my  homage  here  ; 
Forgot  the  land,  the  sons,  the  maids  of  Spain  ; 
Her  fate,  to  every  freeborn  bosom  deir ; 
And  haii'd  lhee,"not  perchance  wiihout  a  tear. 
Now  to  my  theme  — but  from  thy  holy  haunt 
Le:  me  some  remnant,  some  memori  il  bear  ; 
Yield  me  one  leaf  of  Daphne's  deathless  plant, 
Nor  let  thy  votary's  hope  be  deem'd  an  idle  vaunt. 

LXIV. 
But  ne'er  didst  Ihou,  fair  Mount !  when  Greece  was 

young. 
See  round  thy  giant  base  a  brighter  choir, 
Nor  e'er  did  Delphi,  when  her  priestess  sung 
The  Pythi.in  hymn  with  more  than  mortal  lire, 
Behold  a  train  more  fitting  to  inspire 
The  song  of  love  than  Andalusia's  maids, 
Nurst  in  the  glowing  lap  of  sift  desire  : 
Ah  !  that  to  these  were  given  such  peaceful  shades 
As  Greece  can  still  bestow,  though  Glory  fly  her  glades. 

LXV, 

Fair  is  proud  Seville  ;  let  her  country  boast 
Her  strengih,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days  ;  * 
But  Cadiz,  rising  on  the  distant  coast. 
Calls  forth  a  swee'er,  though  ignoble  praise. 
Ah,  Vice  '.  how  soft  are  thy  voluptuous  ways  ! 
While  boyish  blood  is  maiitling,  who  can  'scape 
The  fascination  of  thy  magic  gaze  ? 
A  Cherub-hydra  round  us  dost  Ihou  gape. 
And  mould  to'every  taste  thy  dear  delusive  shape. 

LXVI. 

When  Paphos  fell  by  time  —  accursed  Time  ! 
The  Queen  who  conquers  all  must  yield  to  thee  — 
The  Pleasures  fled,  but  sought  as  warm  a  clime  j 
And  Venus,  constant  to  her  native  sea, 
To  nought  else  constant,  hither  deign'd  to  flee  ; 
And  fix'd  her  shrine  within  these  walls  of  while; 
Though  not  to  one  dome  circumscribelh  she 
Her  worship,  hut,  devoted  to  her  rite, 
i^  thousand  al  ars  rise,  for  ever  blazing  bright. 

LXVII. 

From  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  startled  M)rn 
Peeps  blushing  on  the  revel 's  laughing  crew, 
The  song  is  heard,  the  rosy  garland  worn ; 
Devices  quaint,  and  frolics  ever  new, 
Tread  on  each  other's  kibes.     A  long  adieu 
He  bids  to  sober  joy  that  here  sojourns  : 
Nought  interrupts  the  riot,  though  in  lieu 
Of  tiue  devotion  monkish  incense  burns. 
And  love  and  prayer  unite,  or  rule  the  hour  by  turns. 

LXVm. 
The  Sabbath  comes,  a  day  of  blessed  rest : 
What  hallows  it  upon  this  Christian  shore? 
Lo  !  it  is  sacred  to  a  solemn  feast : 
Hark  !  heard  you  not  the  forest  monarch's  roar? 
Crashing  the  lance,  he  snuli's  the  spouting  gore 
Of  man  and  steed,  o'erthrown  beneath  his  horn  ; 
The  Ihrong'd  arena  shakes  with  shouts  for  more  ; 
Yells  the  mad  crowd  o'er  entrails  freshly  torn. 
Nor  shrinks  the  female  eye,  nor  ev'n  aflTecis  to  mourn, 

LXIX, 

The  seventh  day  this  ;  the  jubilee  of  man. 
London  !  right  well  thou  kiiow'st  the  day  of  prayer 
Then  thy  spruce  citizen,  wash'd  artisan. 
And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air  : 


1  Seville  was  the  Hlspalis  n(  the 


Thy  coich  of  hackney,  whiskey,  one-horse  chair, 
And  humblest  gig  through  sundry  suburbs  whirl; 
To  Hampstead,  Brentford,  Hairo«  make  repair; 
'J  ill  the  tired  jade  the  wheel  forgets  lo  hurl. 
Provoking  envious  gibe  from  each  pedestrian  churl. 

LXX. 

Some  o'er  thy  Thamis  row  the  ribbon'd  fair, 

Others  aloiig'the  safer  turnpike  fly  ; 

Some  Richmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to  Ware, 

And  many  to  the  steep  of  Hizhgate  hie. 

Ask  ye,  jicEolian  shades!  the  reason  why  ?a 

'T  is  to  the  worship  of  the  solemn  Horn, 

Grasp'd  in  the  holy  hand  of  Mystery, 

In  whose  dread  name  both  men  and  maids  are  sworn, 
And  consecrate  the  oath  with  di aught,  and  dance  till 
morn. 

LXXI. 

All  have  'heir  fooleries  —  not  alike  are  thine, 

Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o'er  the  dark -blue  sea  ! 

Soon  as  the  matin  bell  proclaimelh  nine. 

Thy  saint  adorers  count  the  rosaiy  : 

Much  is  the  f'iigin  teased  to  shrive  them  free 

(Well  do  1  ween  the  only  virgin  there) 

From  crimes  as  numerous  as  her  beadsmen  be; 

Then  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  tliey  fare: 
Young,  old,  high,  low,  at  once  the  same  diversion  share. 

LXXU. 

The  lists  are  oped,  the  spacious  area  clear'd, 
Thousands  on  thousands  piled  are  seated  round; 
Long  ere  the  first  loud  iri.mpet's  note  is  heard, 
Ne  vacant  space  for  lated  wight  is  found: 
Here  dons,  grandees,  bu!  chiefly  dames  abound, 
SkilI'd  in  the  ogle  of  a  roguish  eye. 
Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound ; 
None  ihrough  their  cold  disdain  are  doom'd  to  die, 
As  moon-struck  bards  complain,  by  Love's  sad  archery. 

Lxxru. 

Hush'd  is  the  din  of  tongues  —  on  gallant  steeds, 
With  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  light-poised 

lance, 
Four  cavaliers  prepare  for  venturous  deeds. 
And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance  ; 
Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  chargers  featly  prance  : 
If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day, 
The  crowd's  loud  shout  and  ladies'  lovely  glance, 
Best  prize  of  beter  acts,  they  bear  away. 
And  all  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  gain  their  toils  repay. 

LXXIV. 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  array 'd, 
But  all  afoot,  the  lightlimb'd  Matadoie 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds;  hut  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er, 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed : 
His  arms  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 
Can  man  achieve  without  his  friendly  steed  — 
Alas !  too  oft  condemn'd  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 

LXXV. 
Thrice  sounds  the  clarion  ;  lo!  the  signal  falls, 
The  den  expands,  and  Expectation  mule 
Gapes  round  the  silent  circle's  peopled  walls. 
Bounds  with  one  hshing  spring  the  niighty  brute, 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding  foot, 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe  • 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  tronf,  lo  lUlt 
His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  and  fro 
His  angry  tail ;  red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

LXXVI. 
Sudden  he  stops  ;  his  eye  is  fix'd  :  away, 
Away,  Ihou  heedless  boy  !  prepare  the  spear: 

2  This  was  wriltcn  at  Tliebes,  and  consequently  in  Ihe 
beet  situntinn  for  asking  and  answering  eiicli  a  qurttloa  S 
Dnt  as  the  birthplace  of  Pindar,  but  aa  the  capital  of 
Bedtia,  where  the  first  riddle  was  propounded  and  KolTcd. 


35 


410 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


[Can-to  I. 


Now  is  Ihy  lime,  lo  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  chejk  his  mad  career. 
With  ivell-timed  croupe  the  nimble  coursers  veer; 
On  foam-  the  bull,  but  not  unscathed  he  goes; 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  lorreni  clear: 
He  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes ; 
Dart  follows  dart ;  lance,  lance ;  loud  bellowings  speak 
bis  woes. 

LXXViL 

A^ain  he  comes;  nor  dart  nor  lance  avail, 
Nor  the  wild  plunging  of  the  tortured  horse  ; 
Though  man  and  man's  avenging  arms  assail, 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 
One  gallant  steed  is  s'retch'd  a  mangled  corse ; 
Another,  hideous  sight '.  unseam'd  appears, 
His  gory  chest  unveils  life's  pnnting  source; 
Though  death-struck,  s'ill  his  feeble  frame  he  rears  ; 
Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  loid  unharm'd  he 
bears. 

Lxxvni. 

FoiI'd,  bleeding,  breathless,  furious  to  the  last,  , 

Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bav,  j 

'Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  dart-,  and  lances  brasf,    ; 

And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray  :  I 

And  now  the  Matadores  around  him  play. 

Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready  brand  :        I 

Once  more  through  all   he  bursts  his  thundering 

way  —  I 

Vain  rage  '.  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand,  ' 

Wraps  his  fierce  eye  —  'tis  past  — he  sinks  upon  the 

sand  ! 

LXXIX. 

Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spine, 
Sheathed  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon  lies. 
He  stops  —  he  starts  —  disdaining  to  decline  : 
Slosvly  he  falls,  amidst  triumphint  cries,  j 

Without  a  groan,  u  ithout  a  struggle  dies.  | 

The  decor:ited  car  appears  —  on  high  i 

The  corse  is  piled  —  siveet  sisht  for  vulgar  eyes —   ' 
Four  steeds  Ih  it  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shv,         j 
Hurl  the  dark  bulk  along,  scarce  seen  in  dashing  by.    I 

LXXX. 

Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 
The  Spanish  maid,  and  cheers  the  Sjianish  swain. 
Nurtured  in  blood  betimes,  his  heart  delights 
In  venseance,  gloating  on  another's  piin. 
VVhat  private  feuds  the  troubled  village  slain!  I 

Though  now  one  phalanx'd  host  should  meet  the  foe, 
Enough,  alas  !  in  humbler  homes  remain. 
To  meditate  'gainst  friends  the  secret  blow,  i 

For  some  slight  cause  of  wrath,  whence  life's  warm 
stream  must  flow.  i 

Lxxxr. 

But  Jealousy  has  fled  :  his  bars,  his  bolts, 
His  wither'd  sentinel,  Duenua  sage  ! 
And  all  whereat  the  generous  soul  revolts, 
Which  the  stern  dotard  deemd  he  could  encage, 
Have  pass'd  to  darkness  with  the  vanish'd  age. 
Who  late  so  free  as  Spanish  girls  were  seen, 
(Ere  W  'T  uprose  in  his  volcanic  rage.) 
With  braided  iresses  bounding  o'er  the  green. 
While  on   the  gay  dance  shone  Night's  lover-loving 
Queen  ? 

LXXXH. 
Oh  !  many  a  lime  and  of',  had  Harold  loved, 
Or  dream'd  he  loved,  since  rapture  is  a  dream; 
But  now  his  wayward  bosom  was  unmoved, 
For  not  yet  had  he  drunk  of  Lethe's  sireim  ; 
And  lately  had  he  learn'd  with  truth  to  deem 
Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  his  wings : 
How  fair,  how  young,  how  soft  sne'er  he  seem. 
Full  from  the  fount  of  Joy's  delicious  springs 
Some  bitter    o'er    the    flowers  its  bubbling   venom 
flings. 


LXXXni. 

Yet  to  the  beauteous  form  he  was  not  blind, 
Ttiouzh  now  it  moved  him  as  it  moves  the  wise; 
Nut  that  I'hilosophy  on  such  a  mind 
E'er  deign'd  lo  bend  her  chastely-awful  eves: 
But  Passion  raves  itself  lo  rest,  or  flies  ; 
And  Vice,  that  digs  her  oh  n  voluptuous  tomb. 
Had  buried  long  his  hopes,  no  moie  to  rise : 
Pleasure's  pall  d  victim!  life  abhorring  gloom 
Wrote  on  his  faded  brow  curst  Cain's  unresting  doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled  with  the  throng; 
But  view'd  them  not  with  niisan  hropic  hate: 
Fain  would  he  now  have  join'd  the  dance,  the  song ; 
But  wh'>  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his  fate? 
Nought  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate  : 
Yet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  the  demon's  sway, 
And  as  in  Beauty's  bower  he  pei.sive  sate, 
Pour'd  forth  this  unpremeditated  lay. 
To  charms  as  fair  as  those  that  soothed  his  happier 
day. 

TO  INEZ. 


Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow ; 

Alas  !  I  cannot  sm'ile  again  : 
Yet  Heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shuuldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain. 


And  dost  thou  a^k  what  secret  woe 
I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  ? 

And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  lo  know 
A  pang,  ev'n  thou'muEt  fail  lo  soothe? 


It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate, 

Nor  low  Ambition's  honours  lost, 

That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state, 
And  fly  from  all  1  prized  the  most : 


It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 
From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see : 

To  me  no  pleasure  Beauty  brings ; 
Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a  charm  for  i 


It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 

'Ihe  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore; 

That  will  not  look  bevoud  the  tomb, 
But  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 


What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee  ? 

To  zones  though  more  and  more  remote, 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be, 

The  blight  of  life  —  the  demon  Thought. 

7. 
Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem. 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake  ; 
Oh  !  may  they  still  of  transport  dream. 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake  ! 


Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  go, 
Wi'h  many  a  retrospection  curst ; 

And  all  my  solace  is  lo  know, 

Whate'er  betides,  I've  known  the  wo 


What  is  that  worst  ?  Nay  do  not  a: 
In  pity  from  the  search  forbear : 


Canto  I.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


411 


Smile  on  —  nor  venture  to  nnmask 

Man's  heart,  and  view  the  Hell  that's  there.* 
LXXXV. 
Adieu,  fair  Cadiz !  yea,  a  long  adieu  ! 
Who  may  forget  how  well  thy  walls  have  stood  ? 
When  all  were  changing  thou  alone  wert  true, 
First  to  be  free  and  last  to  be  subdued  : 
And  if  amidst  a  scene,  a  shock  so  rude, 
Some  native  blood  was  seen  thy  streets  to  dye  ; 
A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  Ihe'feud:  a 
Here  all  were  noble,  save  Nobility  ; 
Noue  hugg'd  a  conqueror's  chain,  save  fallen  Chivalry 


1  In  place  of  Itiis  song,  which  was  written  at  Athens, 
January  25,  1810,  auU  which  contains,  at  Mwre  says, 
"some  of  the  dreariest  touches  of  8;nlne68  that  ever 
Byron's  pen  let  fall,"  we  find,  in  the  first  draught  of  the 
Canto,  the  following:—- 


Oh  never  talk  again  to  me 

Of  northern  rltnars  and  British  ladies; 
It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see. 

Like  me,  the  lovely  girl  of  Cadiz. 
All  hough  her  eye  be  not  of  blue. 

Nor  fair  her  locks,  like  English  lasses, 
How  far  its  own  exjiieseive  hue 

The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses! 


Prometheus  like,  from  heaven  she  stole 

The  tire,  that  throueh  those  silken  lashes 
In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll. 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes. 
And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 

In  lenglhen'd  flow  her  raven  tresses, 
You'd  swear  each  clustering  lock  could  feel. 

And  curl'd  to  give  her  ueck  caresses. 
3. 
Our  English  maids  are  long  to  woo, 

And  fneid  eveu  in  possession; 
And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view. 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love's  confession 
Bui  born  beneath  a  brighter  sun, 

For  Inve  ordain'd  the  Spanish  maid  is, 
And  who  — when  fondly,  fair'y  won, — 

Enchants  you  like  the  Girl  of  Cadiz? 
4. 
The  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette, 

Kor  joys  to  see  a  lover  tremble, 
And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate. 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 
Her  heart  can  ne'er  be  bought  or  sold  — 

Howe'er  it  be.ils,  it  bi-als  sincerely; 
And,  though  it  will  not  bend  to  gold, 

'T  will  love  you  long  and  love  you  dearly. 
6i 
The  Spanish  pirl  that  meets  your  love 

Ne'er  taunts  you  with  a  mock  denial. 
For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 

Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 
When  Ihr.  nging  foemen  menace  Spain, 

She  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the  danger; 
And  should  her  l>iver  press  the  plain. 

She  burls  the  spear,  her  love's  avenger. 


And  when,  beneath  the  evening  star. 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  Bolero, 
Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 

Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero. 
Or  counts  her  beads  with  fairv  hand 

Beneath  the  twinkling  rays' of  Hesper, 
Or  joins  devotion's  choral  band. 

To  chaunt  the  sweet  and  hallow'd  vesper;  — 
7. 
In  eaeh  her  charms  the  heart  must  move 

or  all  who  venture  to  behold  her; 
Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove 

Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder  : 
Through  many  a  clime  't  is  mine  to  roam 

Where  many  a  soft  and  melting  rnaid  is. 
But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home, 

.May  match  the  daik-eyed  Girl  of  Cadiz. 
2  Alluding   to    the   conduct   and  deat»    uf  Solano,   the 
(OTCTBor  of  Cadiz,  in  May,  lf09. 


LXXXVl. 

Such  be  the  sons  of  Spain,  and  strange  her  fate ! 
'J  hey  fight  for  freedom  who  were  never  free; 
A  kingless  people  for  a  nerveless  stale, 
Ker  vassals  combat  when  their  chieftains  flee, 
True  to  the  veriest  si  ives  of  Treachery  : 
Fond  of  a  land  which  gave  them  nou«ht  but  life, 
Pride  points  the  palh  that  leads  to  Liberty; 
Back  to  the  struggle,  baffled  in  the  strife. 
War,  war  is  still  the  ciy, "  War  even  to  the  knife  ! »» 

LXXXVTI. 

Ye,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  know, 
Go,  read  whate'er  is  writ  of  bloodiest  strife : 
Whale'er  keen  Vengeance  urged  on  foreign  foe 
Can  act,  is  acting  there  against  man's  life  : 
From  Hashing  scimitar  lo  secret  knife, 
War  mouldeth  there  each  wenpoti  to  his  need  — 
So  may  he  guard  the  sister  and  the  wife. 
So  may  he  make  each  curst  oppressor  bleed  — 
So  may  such  foes  deserve  the  must  remorseless  deed  ! 

LXXXVIII. 
Flows  there  a  tear  of  pily  for  the  dead  ? 
Look  o'er  the  ravage  of  ilie  leeking  plain  ; 
Look  on  the  hands  wilh  female  slauiihter  red ; 
Then  to  the  dogs  resigii  the  utiburied  slain, 
Then  lo  the  vulture  let  each  corse  remain  ; 
Albeit  unworlhy  of  the  prey  bird's  maw. 
Let  their  bleach  d   bones,  and  blood's  uubleaching 

sta  i  n. 
Long  niaik  the  battle-field  w  ilh  hideous  awe  : 
Thus  only  may  our  sons  conceive  the  scenes  we  saw  ! 

LXXXLX. 

Nor  yet,  alas  !  the  dreridful  work  is  done; 
Fresh  legions  pour  adown  the  Pyrenees  : 
It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scace  begun, 
Nor  mortal  eye  ihe  distant  end  foresees. 
Fall'n  mtions  gaze  on  Spain  ;  if  freed,  she  frees 
More  than  her  fell  Pizarros  once  enchiin'd: 
Strange  retribution  !  now  Colombia's  ease 
Repairs  the  wrongs  thai  Quito's  sons  sustain'd. 
While  o'er  the  parent  clime  prowls  Murder  unre- 
straiu'd. 

XC. 

Not  all  Ihe  blood  at  Talavera  shed. 
Not  all  the  marvels  of  Barossa's  fight. 
Not  Albuera  lavish  of  Ihe  dead, 
Have  won  for  Spain  her  well  asserled  right. 
When  shall  her  Olive-Branch  be  free  from  blight  ? 
When  shall  she  breathe  her  from  Ihe  blushing  toil  ? 
How  many  a  doubtful  day  shall  sink  in  night. 
Ere  the  Frank  robber  turn  him  from  his  spoil, 
And  Freedom's  siranger-tree  grow  native  of  the  soil ! 

XCL 

And  thou,  my  friend  !  ••  —  since  unavailing  woe 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mingles  wilh  the  strain- 
Had  Ihe  sword  laid  thee  wilh  ilie  mighty  low, 
Pride  might  forbid  e'en  Friendship  to  complain  : 

3  "War  to  the  knife."  Palafox's  answer  totheFrench 
general  at  the  siege  of  Saragoza.  [In  his  proclamotii 
also,  he  staled,  that,  should  the  French  commit  any  rob- 
beries, devastations,  and  murders,  no  quarter  should  be 
given  them.  The  dogs  by  whom  he  was  beset,  he  said, 
scarcely  left  him  time  to  clean  his  sword  from  their  blood, 
but  they  stll  found  their  gr;ive  at  Saragoza.  »ll  his  ad- 
dresses were  in  the  same  spirit.  "His  language,"  says 
Mr.  Soulhry,  •■  had  the  high  tone,  and  something  of  the 
inflation  of  Spanish  romance,  suiting  the  character  of 
those  to  whom  it  was  directed."  See  History  of  the 
Peninsilar  War,  vol.  iii.  p.  152.— E.] 

4  The  Honourable  John  Wingfield,  of  Ihe  Guards,  who 
died  of  a  fever  at  Coimbra,  (May  14.  1811).  I  hod  kKOWn 
him  ten  years,  the  better  half  of  his  life,  and  Ihe  hap- 
piest part  of  mine.  In  Ihe  short  space  of  one  month,  I 
have  lost  her  who  gave  mt  being,  and  laoet  of  those  wbo 


412 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


[Canto  II. 


But  thus  unlaurel'd  to  descend  in  vain, 
By  all  foisjoiteii,  save  the  lonely  breast. 
And  mix  unbleeding  w  iih  the  boasied  slain, 
While  Glory  crowns  so  many  a  meaner  crest ! 
What  hadst  Ihou  done  to  sink  so  peacefully  to  rest? 

XCII. 
Oh,  known  the  earliest,  and  esteem'd  the  most ! 
Dear  lo  a  heart  where  noughl  was  left  so  dear  ! 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  for  ever  lost, 
In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here! 
And  Morn  in  secret  shall  renew  the  leaf 
Of  Consciousness  awaking  to  her  woes. 
And  Fancy  hover  o'ei  thy  bloodless  bier, 
Till  my  frail  frame  return  to  whence  it  rose, 
And  mourn'd  and  mourner  lie  united  in  repose. 

XCIII. 
Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold's  pilgrimage  : 
Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know. 
Shall  tind  some  tidings  in  a  future  page, 
If  he  that  rhynieth  now  may  scribble  moe. 
Is  this  too  much  ?  stern  Critic  !  say  not  so  : 
Patience  !  and  ye  shall  hear  what  he  beheld 
In  oiher  lands,  where  he  was  doom'd  to  go : 
Lan/ls  thit  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld, 
Ere  Gi  eece  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous  hands  were 
quell'd. 


CANTO  THE   SECOND. 
I. 

Come,  blue-eyed  maid  of  heaven  I  —  but  thou, alas! 
Didst  never  yet  one  mortal  song  inspire  — 
Goddess  of  Wisdom  !  here  thy  temple  wis, 
And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire.t 
And  years,  that  bade  thy  worship  to  expire : 
But  worse  than  steel,  and  ttanie,  and  ages  slow, 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polish'd  breasts 
bestow. 


had  made  that  being  tolerable.     To  i 


arc  I 


ficti. 


ines  of  Young 


"Insatiate  archer!  rould  not  one  suffice  7 
Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  islain. 
And  thrice  ere  thrice  yon  muon  had  fillM  her  horn.** 
I  should  have  ventured  a  verse  to  t!ie  memory  of  the  late 
Charles  Sltinner  Matthews.  Fellow  of  Downing  College, 
Cambridge,  were  he  not  tno  much  ab.Tve  all  praise  of 
mine.  His  powers  of  mind,  shown  in  the  attainment  of 
greater  honours,  ngainst  the  ablest  candidates,  than  those 
of  any  graduate  on  record  at  Cambridse,  have  sufliriently 
established  his  fame  on  the  spot  vthere  it  was  acquired  ; 
while  hissotter  qualities  live  in  the  reccllection  of  friends 
who  loved  him  too  well  lo  envy  his  superiority.— [This 
and  the  following  stanza  were  added  in  August,  1811.  In 
one  of  his  s.  hool-boy  poems,  entitled  •'Childish  Recollec- 
tions,** Lord  Byron  has  thus  drawn  the  portrait  of  young 
Wingfield:  — 

"  Alonzo!  best  and  dearest  of  my  friends. 
Thy  name  eon<ibles  him  who  thus  commends  : 
From  Ibis  fond  tribute  thou  caust  gain  no  praise; 
The  praise  is  his  who  now  that  tribute  pays. 
Oh  !  in  the  promise  of  thy  early  youth, 
If  hope  anticipates  the  words  of  truth, 
S-^me  loftier  hard  shall  sing  ihy  glorious  name, 
To  build  his  own  upon  thy  deathless  fame. 
Friend  of  my  heart,  and  f.)rem.>8t  of  the  list 
Or*  those  with  whom  I  lived  supremely  blest, 
Oft  have  we  drainM  the  f -nt  of  ancient  lore. 
Though  drinking  deeply,  thirsting  i-till  for  more  ; 
Yet  when  confinement's  lingering  hour  was  done, 
Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souts  were  one. 
In  every  element,  un'-hanged.  the  Bame, 
All,  all  that  brothers  should  be,  but  the  name.** 
Matthews,  the  idol  of  Lord  Byron  at  collcsre,  was  drown- 
ed, while  bathing  in  the  Cam.  on  the  !2d  of  August.—  E.) 
1  Part  of  the  Acropolis  was  destroyed  by  the  explosioo 
of  a  mafMioe  during  t^e  Venetian  siege. 


Ancient  of  days !  august  Athena  !  2  where, 
Wheie  are  thy  men  of  might  ?  Ihy  grand  in  soul  ? 
Gone  — glinmiering   through   the"  dream  of  things 

that  were : 
First  in  the  race  that  led  to  Glory's  goal, 
They  won,  and  pass'd  away  —  is  this  the  whole? 
A  schoolboy's  talc,  the  w  nder  of  an  hour  ! 
The  warrior's  weapon  and  the  sophist's  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each  mouldering  tower. 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  grey  flits  the  shade  of 

power. 

HI. 

Son  of  the  morning,  rise  !  approach  you  here  ! 
Come  —  but  molesi  not  yon  defenceless  urn  : 
Look  on  this  spot  —  a  nation's  sepulchre  1 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  burn. 
Even  gods  must  yield  —  religions  take  their  turn  : 
'T  was  Jove's  —  'i  is  iMalioniet's  —  and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  w  iih  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds; 
Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  built 
on  reeds. 

IV. 

Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven  — 
Is  't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing!  to  know 
Thou  art  ?     Is  this  a  bom  so  kindly  given, 
That  being,  thou  would'st  be  again,  and  go. 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies  ? 
Still  wilt  Ihou  dream  on  future  joy  and  woe  ? 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies: 
That  little  urn  saith  more  than  thousand  homilies. 


Or  burst  the  banish  d  Hero's  lofty  mound  ; 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps  :  3 
He  fell,  and  falling  nations  mourn'd  around  ; 
But  now  not  one  of  saddening  Ihousaiids  weeps, 


2  We  can  all  feel,  or  imagine,  the  regret  with  which 
the  ruins  of  cities,  once  the  capitals  of  empires,  are  be- 
held: the  reflections  suggested  bv  such  objects  are  loo 
trite  to  require  recapitulation.  But  never  o'd  the  little- 
ness of  man,  and  the  vanity  of  his  very  be*i  virtuen,  of 
patriotism  to  exalt,  and  of  valour  to  defend  his  country, 
apper  more  conspicuous  than  in  the  record  of  what 
Athens  was,  and  the  certainty  of  what  she  now  is.  This 
theatre  of  contention  between  mighty  factions,  of  the 
struggles  of  nratr.rs,  the  exaltation  and  d»-pn6ition  of 
tyrants,  the  triumph  and  punishment  of  generals,  is  now 
become  a  scene  of  petty  intrigue  and  perpetual  disturb- 
ance, between  the  bickering  agents  of  certain  British 
nobility  and  gentry.  '•The  wild  foxes,  the  owls  and  ser- 
pents in  the  ruins  of  Babylon,"  were  sorely  less  degrading 
than  such  inhabitants.  The  Turks  have  the  plea  of  con- 
quest for  their  tyranny,  and  the  Greeks  have  only  sufler- 
ed  the  fortune  of  war,  incidental  to  the  bravest;  but  how 
are  the  mighty  fallen,  when  two  painters  contest  the 
privilege  of  plundering  the  Parthenon,  and  triumph  in 
turn,  according  to  Ihe  tenor  of  each  succeeding  flrman  ! 
SyUa  could  but  punish,  Philip  subdue,  and  Xerxes  burn 
Athens;  but  it  remained  for  the  paltry  antiquarian,  and 
his  despic  ble  agents,  lo  render  her  contemptible  as  him- 
self and  his  pursuits.  The  Parthenon,  before  its  destruc- 
tion in  part,  by  Are  during  the  Venetian  siege,  had  been 
a  temple,  a  church,  and  a  mosque.  In  each  point  of  view 
it  is  an  object  of  regard:  it  changed  its  worshippers;  but 
still  it  was  a  place  of  worship  thrice  sacred  to  devotion: 
its  violation  is  a  triple  sacrifice.     But  — 

"Man.  proud  man, 
Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority, 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  t>efore  high  heaven 
As  make  the  angels  weep." 

3  It  wbs  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to  hum 
their  dead;  the  greater  Ajax,  in  particular,  was  interred 
entire.  Almost  all  Ihe  chiefs  became  god;*  after  their  de- 
cease; and  he  was  indeed  neglected,  who  had  not  annual 
games  near  his  tomb,  or  festivnlB  in  honour  of  his  me- 
mory by  his  countrymen,  as  Achilles,  Brasidaa,  &c.,  tmt 
at  last  even  Aniinous,  whose  death  was  as  herole  la  kl* 

I  life  V 


Canto  II.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


413 


Nor  warlike-H-orshipper  his  vigil  keeps  I      Blush,  Caledonia  !  such  thy  son  could  be  ! 

Where  denii-eods  appear'd,  as  records  'ell.  Eiigland  !  I  joy  no  child  he  was  t^f  thine : 

Remove  yon  skull  from  out  Ihe  ^catier'd  heaps :  Thy  free  born  men  should  spare  what  once  was  free ; 

Is  that  a  leuiple  where  a  God  nny  dwell  ?  '      Yet  they  could  violate  each  saddeniri?  shriie, 

Wby  ev'u  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  sbalter'd  cell !    And  bear'tbese  altars  o'er  the  long-reluctant  brine* 


VI. 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruin'd  wall, 
It«  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul : 
Yes,  this  was  once  Ambition's  airy  hall, 
The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the  Soul : 
Behold  through  esch  lack  lustre,  eveless  hole, 
The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of 'Wit 
And  Passion's  host,  that  never  brook  d  control : 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 
People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit? 

VII. 

Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son  ! 
«'  All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known." 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  whit  we  cannot  shun  ? 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  iheir  own. 
Pursue  what  Chinee  or  Fate  proclaimelh  best  j 
Peace  waits  us  on  ihe  shores  of  Acheron  ! 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest. 
But  Pileuce  spieads  the  couch  of  ever-welcome  rest. 

VIII. 

Tet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deem'd,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore, 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  Ihe  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore ; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labours  light ! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  fear'd  to  hear  no  more  ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  reveai'd  to  sight, 
The  Bictrian,  Samian  sage,  and   all  who  taught  the 
right ! 

IX. 

There,  thou  !  —  whose  love  and  life  together  fled. 
Have  left  me  here  to  love  and  live  in  vain  — 
Twined  with  my  heart,  and  can  I  deem  thee  dead 
When  busy  Memory  flashes  on  my  brain  ? 
Well—  I  will  dream  that  we  may  meet  again, 
And  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant  bre  isf : 
If  aught  of  young  Remembrance  then  remain, 
Be  as  it  miy  Futurity's  behest. 
For  me't  were  bliss  enough  to  know  thy  spirit  blest!  > 

X. 

Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stone, 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base  ; 
Here,  sou  of  Saturn  !  was  thy  fav'rite  throne:  a 
Mightiest  of  many  such  !     Hence  let  me  trace 
The  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling-place. 
It  may  not  be  :  nor  ev'n  can  F  incy's  eye 
Restore  what  Time  hath  labour'd  lo  deface. 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  parsing  sigh  ; 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  light  Greek  carols  by. 

XT. 

But  who,  of  all  the  plunderers  of  yon  fane 
On  high,  where  Pallas  linaer'd,  lo'h  to  flee 
The  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign  ; 
The  last,  the  worst,  dull  spoiler,  who  was  be  ? 

1  Lord  Byron  wrote  this  Rtanza  at  Newstead,  in  Octotx-r, 
IHl,  on  hearing  (if  Ihe  death  of  his  Cambridfe  friend, 
youn?  K'JdiHslone  ;  •'  making."  lie  says  '  Ihe  sixth,  within 
four  months,  of  friends  and  relati'ins  that  I  have  lust  be- 
tween May  and  the  end  of  August."  — E. 

STlie  temple  of  Jupiter  Oiympius.  of  which  sixteen 
Oblumns,  eotiiely  of  marble,  yet  survive :  orieinally  there 
were  one  hundred  and  fifty.  These  columns,  however, 
•r«  by  many  supposed  to  have  l)el';iiged  to  the  Pantheon. 

— — 


XII. 

But  most  the  modern  Pict's  ignoble  boast. 

To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time  hath 

spared  :  * 
Cold  as  the  crags  upon  his  native  coast, 
His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard. 
Is  he  whose  head  conceived,  whose  hand  prepared. 
Aught  lo  displace  Athena's  poor  remains  : 
Her  sons  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  lo  guard. 
Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains,* 
Aud   never  knew,  till  then,  the  weight  of  Despot't 

chains. 

XIII. 

What !  shall  it  e'er  be  said  by  British  tongue, 
Albion  was  happy  in  Athena's  tears  ? 
Though  in  thy  name  the  slave  her  bosom  wrunj, 
Tell  not  Ihe  deed  to  blushing  Europe's  ears  ; 
The  ocean  queen,  the  free  Britannia,  bears 
The  last  poor  plunder  from  a  bleeding  land  : 
Yes,  she,  whose  gen'rous  aid  her  name  endeirs, 
Tore  down  those  rt-mnanls  with  a  harpy's  hand. 
Which  envious  Eld  forbore,  and  tyran.s  left  to  stacd, 

XIV. 

Where  was  thine  ^gis,  Pallas  !  that  appall  d 
Stern  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way  ?6 
Where  Peleus'  son  ?  whom  Hell  in  vain  en'hrall'd, 
His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  dread  day 
Bursing  to  light  in  terrible  aify  ! 
What !  could  not  Pluto  spare  the  chief  once  more, 
To  scare  a  second  robber  fmm  his  prey  ? 
Idly  he  wander'd  on  Ihe  Styzian  shire. 
Nor  now  preserved  the  walls  be  loved  to  shield  before 

XV. 

Cold  IS  Ihe  heart,  fair  Greece !  that  looks  on  thee. 
Nor  feels  as  lovers  o'er  the  dust  they  loved; 
Dull  is  the  eye  that  will  not  weep  lo  see 
Thy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines  removed 
By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  behoved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  lo  be  restored. 
Curst  be  the  hour  w  hen  from  Iheir  isle  they  roved, 
And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored. 
And  snalch'd  thy  shrinking  Gods  to  northern  climM 
abhorr'd '. 

XVI. 
But  where  is  Harold  ?  shall  I  then  forget 
To  urge  the  gloomy  wanderer  o'er  Ihe  wave  ? 
Liltle  reck'd  he  of  all  that  men  regret ; 
No  loved-one  now  in  feign 'd  lament  could  rave; 

3  The  ship  was  wrecked  in  the  Archipelago. 

4  See  Appendix,  Note  A,  for  some  strictures  on  the  re- 
moval of  the  works  of  ar'  from  Athi«s. 

j      5  1  cnnnot    resist    availing  myself  of  tlie  permission  of 

1  mv  friend  Dr.  Clarke,  whose  name  requires  no  comment 
with  tile  public,  but  wh<»<e  sanction  will  .Jdd  tenfold 
weight  to  my  lestimony,  lo  insert  Itie  following  extract 
from  a  very  obliging  letter  of  his  to  me,  as  a  note  lo  the 

j  above  lines  :  —  "  When  Ihe  last  of  Ihe  Metopes  was  taken 
from  the  Parthenon,  and.  in  moving  of  it,  great  part  of 
Ihe  superstructure  with  one  of  Ihe  triglyphs  vig  thiown 
d'lwn  bv  the  workmen  whom  Lord  Elgin  emflnyed,  the 
Di»dar.  who  beheld  Ihe  mischief  done  to  the  building, 
took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  dropped  a  tear,  and,  in  a 
suppurating  tone  of  voice,  said  to  Lusieri,  TcAoJ  1  —  I 
was  present."  The  Disdar  alluded  to  was  the  father  'f 
Ihe  present  Disdar. 

6  According  to  Znsimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  frighten- 
ed Alaric  from  the  Acropolis;  but  othe 
Gothic  king  was   nearly  aa  miscbievou 

i  peer.  —See  Chandler. 


u  Ibe  Bcottiah 


414 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


[Canto  II. 


No  friend  the  parting  hand  extended  give, 
Ere  the  cold  sirariger  pass'd  to  other  climes: 
Hard  is  his  heart  whom  chirms  may  not  enslave ; 
Bui  Harold  fell  not  as  id  (Ither  times, 

And  left  without  a  sigh  the  land  of  war  and  crimes. 
XVII. 
He  that  has  sail'd  upon  the  dark -blue  sea 
Has  view'd  at  limes,  i  ween,  a  lull  lair  sight; 
When  the  f  esh  breeze  is  fiir  as  breeze  may  be, 
The  while  sail  set,  the  gillaut  frigaie  light ; 
Alasts,  spires,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right, 
The  glorious  main  expanding  o'er  the  boiv, 
The  convoy  spread  like  wild  swans  in  their  flight, 
The  dullest  sailer  wearing  br.ively  now, 

So  gaily  curl  the  waves  before  each'd.ishing  provir. 

XVI 1 1. 

And  oh,  the  little  warlike  world  within ! 
The  well-reeved  guns,  the  netted  canopy.i 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming  din, 
When,  at  a  word,  the  tops  are  manii'd  on  high  : 
Hark,  to  the  Boatswain's  call,  the  cheering  cry  ! 
While  through  the  seaman's  hand  the  tackle  glides; 
Or  schoolboy  Midshipman  that,  standing  by, 
Strains  his  shrill  f)ipe  as  good  or  ill  betides, 
And  well  the  docile  crew  that  skilful  urchin  guides. 

XIX. 

White  is  the  glassy  deck,  without  a  stain. 
Where  on  the  walch  ihe  staid  Lieutenant  walks: 
Look  on  that  part  which  sacred  doth  remain 
For  Ihe  lone  chieftain,  who  majestic  stalks, 
Silent  and  fear'd  by  all  —  not  oft  he  talks 
With  aught  beneath  him,  if  he  would  preserve 
That  strict  restraint,  which  broken,  ever  balks 
Conquest  and  Fame:  but  Brilons  rarely  swerve 

From  law,  however  stern,  which  tends  their  strength 
to  nerve. 

XX. 
Blow  !  swiftly  blow,  thou  keel-compelling  gale  ! 
Till  the  broad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening  ray  ; 
Then  must  Ihe  pennani-bearer  slacken  sail. 
That  lagging  barks  may  make  Iheir  lazy  way. 
Ah  !  grievance  sore,  and  listless  dull  delay, 
To  waste  on  sluggish  hulks  the  sweelest  breeze  ! 
What  leagues  are  lo»t,  before  the  dawn  of  day. 
Thus  loitericg  pensive  on  the  willing  seas, 

The  flapping  sail   haul'd  down  to  halt  for  logs  like 
these! 

XXI. 
The  moon  is  up  ;  by  Heaven,  a  lovely  eve ! 
Long  streams  of  light  o'er  dancing  w  aves  expand  ; 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  maids  believe  : 
Such  be  our  fate  when'we  return  to  land  ! 
Mean'ime  some  rude  Anon's  restless  hand 
Wakes  Ihe  brisk  harmony  that  sailors  love; 
A  circle  there  of  merry  listeners  stand, 
Or  to  some  well-known  measure  featly  move. 

Thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  were  free  to  rove. 

XXIL 

Through  Calpe's  straits  survey  the  sleepy  shore  ; 
Europe  and  Afric  on  each  o'her  gaze  ! 
Lands  of  the  dark-eyed  Maid  and  dusky  Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate's  blaze: 
How  softly  on  the  Spanish  shore  she  plays. 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest  brown. 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning  phase  ; 
But  Mauritania's  giant-shadows  frown, 
From  mountain-clifl'  to  coast  descending  sombre  down. 

XXIII. 
'Tis  Diehf,  when  Medititinn  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  loved,  though  love  i<  al  an  end  : 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  bnflled  zeil. 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a  friend. 


J  To  preTenl  blocks  or  splinters  from  falling  on  deck 
doriHK  sclinn. 


Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend, 
When  Youth  itself  survives  young  Love  and  Joy  ? 
Alas  !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend, 
Death  hath  but  liiile  left  him  to  destroy  '. 
Ah  !  happy  years  '.  once  more  who  w  ould  not  be  a  boy  ? 

XXIV. 

Thus  bending  o'er  Ihe  vessel's  hving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere, 
'Ihe  soul  forge  s  her  schemes  of  Hope  and  Pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear. 
Dearer  thau  self,  possesses  or  pos;ess'd 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear; 
A  flashing  pang  :  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest. 

XXV. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell. 
To  slowly  trace  Ihe  forest's  sh.ady  scene. 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dtrell, 
And  mortal  fool  haih  ne'er  or  rarely  been  ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
W  ilh  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold  ; 
Alone  o'er  sleeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean  ; 
This  is  not  solitude  ;  't  is  but  to  hold 

Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  storet 
unroll'd. 

XXVI. 
But  'midst  the  crowd.  Ihe  hum,  Ihe  shock  of  men. 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess. 
And  roam  along,  Ihe  world's  tired  denizen. 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  v%  horn  we  can  bless ; 
Minions  of  splendocr  shrinking  from  distress! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued. 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  lo  smile  Ihe  less. 
Of  all  that  flalter'd,  follow'd,  sought,  and  sued; 

This  is  to  be  aloue  ;  this,  this  is  solitude  '. 

XXVIL 

More  blest  the  life  of  godly  eremite. 
Such  as  on  lonely  Athos  may  be  seen,^ 
Watching  at  eve  upon  the  giant  height, 
Which  looks  o"er  waves  so  blue,  skies  so  serene, 
That  he  who  there  at  such  an  hour  halh  been 
Will  wistful  linger  on  that  hallow'd  spot; 
Then  slowly  tear  him  from  the  'witching  scene, 
Sigh  forh  one  wish  that  such  had  been  his  lot. 
Then  turn  to  hate  a  world  he  had  almost  forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass  we  the  long,  unvarying  course,  Ihe  track 
Oft  trod,  that  never  leaves  a  trace  behind  ; 
Pass  we  the  c>lm.  the  eale,  Ihe  change,  Ihe  tack. 
And  each  well-known  caprice  of  wave  and  wind; 
Pass  we  Ihe  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find, 
Coop'd  in  Iheir  winged  sea-girt  citadel ; 
The  foul,  the  fair,  Ihe  contrary,  the  kind. 
As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  swell. 
Till  on  some  jocund  morn— lo,  land  !  and  all  is  well : 

XXIX. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles,3 
The  sister  tenants  of  Ihe  middle  deep  ; 
There  for  the  weary  still  a  haven  smiles, 
Though  Ihe  fair  goddess  long  halh  ceased  to  weep, 

2  One  of  Lord  Byron's  chief  dflighln  was,  as  he  hinweir 
stales  in  one  of  his  journals,  after  battling  in  some  re- 
tired spot,  to  seat  himself  on  a  l^igh  rock  abnve  the  aca, 
and  there  remain  fnr  hourr,  gazing  up>'n  Ihe  sky  and  the 
waters.  "  He  led  the  life,"  says  Sir  Egerton  BrydRei, 
•'  as  lie  wrote  the  strains,  of  a  true  pnet.  He  could  sleep, 
and  very  frequently  did  sleep,  wrapped  up  in  his  rough 
great-coat,  on  Ihe  hard  hoards  of  a  deck,  while  Ihe  winds 
and  Ihe  waves  were  rearing  round  liim  on  every  side  and 
could  subsist  on  a  crusl  and  a  glass  of  water.  It  wouW 
be  difficult  to  persuade  me,  that  he  who  is  a  coxcomi)  in 
his  manners,  and  arlifii  iai  in  his  habits  of  life,  could 
write  good  poetry."  —  E. 

S  Goza  is  said  to  have  been  the  island  of  Calypao. 


Canto  II.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


415 


And  o'er  her  cliffs  a  fruitless  watch  to  keep 
For  him  who  dared  prefer  a  morlal  biide: 
Here,  loo,  his  boy  essay'd  the  dreadful  leap 
Stern  Mentor  urged  from  hi?h  to  yonder  tide  ; 

While  thus  of  both  bereft,  the  nymph-queen  doubly 
sigh'd. 

XXX. 
Her  rei^n  is  past,  her  gentle  glories  gone : 
But  trust  not  this ;  too  easy  yuulh,  beware! 
A  mortal  sovereign  holds  her  dangerous  throne, 
And  thou  may'sl  find  a  new  Calypso  there. 
Sweet  Florence  I  could  ano  her  ever  share 
This  wayward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be  thine: 
But  check'd  by  every  tie,  I  may  not  dare 
To  cast  a  worthless  offering  at  thy  shrine. 

Nor  isk  so  dear  a  breast  to  feel  one  pang  for  mine. 

XXXI. 

Thjs  Harold  deem'd,  as  on  that  lady's  eye 
He  look'd,  and  met  its  beam  withoul  a  thought, 
Save  Admiration  glancing  harmless  by  : 
Love  kept  aloof,  albeit  not  far  remote. 
Who  knew  his  votary  often  lost  and  caught, 
But  knew  him  as  his  worshipper  no  more, 
And  ne'er  agiin  the  boy  his  bosom  sought : 
Since  now  he  vainly  urged  him  to  adore, 
Well  deem'd  the  little  god  Lis  ancient  sway  was  o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair  Florence »  found,  in  sonth  with  some  amaze. 
One  who,  't  was  said,  still  sigh'd  to  all  he  saw, 
Withstand,  unmoved,  the  lustre  of  her  gaze. 
Which  others  hail'd  with  real  or  mimic  awe, 
Theirhope,  their  doom,  their  punishment,  theirlaw; 
All  that  gay  Beauty  from  her  bondsmen  claims: 
And  much  she  marvell'd  that  a  youth  so  raw 
Nor  felt,  nor  feign'd  at  least,  theoft-told  flames. 
Which,  though  sometimes  they  frown,  yet  rarely  an- 
ger dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble  heart. 
Now  mask'd  in  kilence  or  withheld  by  pride, 
Was  not  unskilful  in  ihe  spoiler's  art. 
And  spread  its  snares  licentious  far  and  wide; 
Nor  from  Ihe  base  pursuit  had  'urn'd  aside, 
As  long  as  aught  was  worthy  to  pursue  : 
But  Harold  on  such  arts  no  more  relied  ; 
And  had  he  doted  on  those  eyes  so  blue, 
Tet  never  would  he  join  Ihe  lover's  whining  crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not  much  he  kens,  I  ween,  of  woman's  breast. 
Who  thinks  (hat  wanion  thing  is  won  by  sighs: 
What  careih  she  for  hearts  when  O'  ce  possess'd  ? 
iJo  proper  homage  to  ihlne  idol's  eyes; 
Hut  not  too  humbly,  or  she  will  despise 
Thee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving  tropes: 
Disguise  ev'n  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise  ; 
Brisk  Confidence  still  best  with  woman  copes: 
I'lque  her  and  soothe  in  turn,  soon   Tassion  crowns 
thy  nopes. 

XXXV. 

»T  is  an  old  les-on  ;  Time  approves  if  true. 
And  those  who  know  il  best,  deplore  it  most ; 
When  all  is  won  that  all  desire  to  woo, 
The  paltry  prize  is  hardly  worth  the  cost : 
Youth  wasted,  minds  degraded,  honour  lost, 
The»e  are  Ihy  friiits.  successful  Passion  !  these! 
If.  kindlv  cruel,  eaily  Hope  is  crost. 
Still  to  Ilie  last  il  nnkles,  a  disease. 
Net  to  be  cured  when  Love  itself  forgets  to  please. 


IFo 


an  account  of  this  accomplislie.i  hi; 
lose  acquaintance  ttie  iviet  fcrmcd  ni 
ineoii»  Poems,  Sept.,  1809,  "  To  Floreii 


XXXVI. 

Away  !  nor  let  me  loiter  in  my  song, 

For  we  have  many  a  mountain  palh  to  tread, 

And  many  a  varied  shore  to  sail  along. 

By  pensive  Sadness,  not  by  Fiction,  led  — 

Climes,  fair  witlml  as  ever  mortal  head 

Imagined  in  its  little  schemes  of  thought ; 

Or  e'er  in  new  Utopias  were  read. 

To  teach  man  what  he  might  be,  or  he  ought ; 

If  that  corrupted  thing  could  ever  such  be  taugbU 
XXXVII. 
Dear  Nature  is  the  kindest  moher  still, 
Though  always  changing,  in  her  aspect  mild  ; 
From  her  bare  bosom  let  me  t-ke  my  fill, 
Her  never-wean'd,  thcueh  not  her  favour'd  child. 
Oh  I  she  is  fairest  in  hi.'r" features  wild. 
Where  nothing  polish'd  dares  pollute  her  path : 
To  me  by  day  or  night  she  ever  smiled, 
Though  I  have  mark'd  her  when  none  oiher  bath, 

And  sought  her  more  and  more,  and  loved  her  best  Id 
wrath. 

XXXVIII. 
Land  of  Albania  !  where  Iskander  rose. 
Theme  of  Ihe  young,  and  beacon  of  Ihe  wise, 
And  he  his  namesake,  whose  oft-ba/Bcd  foes 
Shrunk  from  his  deeds  of  chivalrous  emprize  : 
Land  of  Albania  !  2  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men ! 
The  cross  descends,  thy  minarels  arise, 
And  the  pale  crescent  sparkles  in  the  glen, 

Through  many  a  cypress  grove  within  each  city's  ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe  Harold  sail'd,  and  pass'd  the  barren  spot, 
Where  sad  Penelope  o'erlook'd  the  wave  ;  ' 
And  onward  view'd  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot, 
The  lover's  refuge,  and  Ihe  Lesbian's  grave. 
Dark  Sappho !  could  not  verse  immortal  save 
That  breast  imbued  wilh  such  immortal  fire? 
Could  she  not  live  who  life  eternal  gave? 
If  life  eternal  may  await  the  lyre. 

That  only  Heaven   to  which  Earth's  children  may 
aspire. 

XL. 
'T  was  "n  a  Grecian  autumn's  gentle  eve 
Childe  Harold  hail'd  Leucadia's  cape  afar  ;  « 
A  spot  he  long'd  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave  : 
Oft  did  he  mark  the  scenes  of  vanish'd  war, 
Actium,  Lepanio,  fatal  'I'rafalgar  ;  * 
Mark  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  delight 
(Born  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 
In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight. 

But  loathed  Ihe  bravo's  trade,  and  laugh'd  at  martial 
wight. 

XLI. 
But  when  he  saw  Ihe  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  woe. 
And  hail'd  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love. 
He  felt,  or  deem'd  he  felt,  no  common  glow : 
And  as  the  stately  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount. 
He  watch'd  the  billows'  melancholy  flow. 
And,  sur.k  .ilbeit  in  thought  as  he  was  wont, 

More   placid   seem'd  his  eyt!,  and  smooth  his  pallid 
front. 

XLIL 
Morn  dawns;  and  with  it  stern  Albania's  hills. 
Dark  Snii's  rocks,  and  Pindus'  inland  peak. 
Robed  half  in  mist,  bedew'd  wilh  snowy  rills, 
Array'd  in  many  a  dun  and  purple  streak, 


2See  Aiipendix,  Note  [B].  S  Ithsca. 

4  Leucadia,  now  Santn  Maura.  From  the  promontory 
((he  Lover's  Leap)  Sappho  is  taid  to  have  thrown  herseir, 

6  Actium  and  Trafalgar  need  no  further  mention.  The 
battle  of  Lepanto,  eijually  t>loody  and  considerable,  but 
less  linown,  was  foueht  in  the  Guir  of  Ptlras.  Here  the 
author  of  Don  Quixote  lost  hia  left  hand. 


416 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S 


[Canto  II. 


Arife ;  and,  as  the  clouds  along  them  break, 
Disclose  the  d»elliii»  of  the  inouiilaineer  : 
Here  roams  the  wolf,  the  eagle  whels  his  beak, 
Birds,  bei>ts  of  prey,  and  wilder  men  appear. 
And  gathei  iog  siorms  around  convulse  the  closing  year. 

XLIH. 

Now  Harold  fell  himself  at  length  alone. 
And  bade  lo  Christian  tongues  a  long  adieu  ; 
Now  he  ndventu'ed  on  a  shure  unknown. 
Which  all  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view  : 
His  breast  w  as  arni'd  'gainst  fate,  his  wants  were  few; 
Peril  he  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet : 
The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  scene  was  new  ; 
This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet. 

Beat  back  keen  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed  sum- 
mer's heat. 

XLIV. 
Here  the  red  cross^  for  slill  the  cross  is  here, 
Though  sadly  scott'd  at  by  the  circumcised. 
Forgets  that  pride  lo  pam'per'd  priesthood  dear; 
Churchman  and  votary  alike  despised. 
Foul  Superstition:  ho  wsoe'er  disguised, 
Idoi,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescen',  cross, 
For  whatsoeve'r  symbol  thou  art  prized, 
Thou  sacerdotal  gain,  but  general  Inss  ! 

Who  from  true  worship's  gold  can  separate  thy  dross  ? 

XLV. 
Ambracia's  gulf  behold,  where  once  wa?  lost 
A  world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing! 
In  yonder  ripplinz  bay.  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a  Roman  chief  and  A«ian  king  l 
To  doubtful  conllict.  certain  slaughter  bring: 
Look  w  here  the  second  Caesar's  trophies  rose  :  ' 
Now,  like  the  bands  that  rear'd  them,  withering: 
'  Imperial  anarchs,  doubling  human  woes! 
God  !  was  thy  globe  ordain'd  for  such  to  win  and  lose  ? 

XLVI. 
From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Ev'n  to  the  centre  of  lllyri.i's  vales, 
Childe  Harold  piss'd  o'er  many  a  mount  sublime, 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  tales; 
Yet  in  famed  Attica  such  lovely  dales 
Are  rarely  seeri ;  nor  cm  fair  Tempe  boast 
A  charm  they  know  not ;  loved  Parnassus  fails, 
Though  classic  ground  and  consecrated  most. 

To  match  some  spots  that  luik  within  this  lowering 
coast. 

XLVII. 
He  pass'd  bleak  Pindus,  Acherusia's  lake,3 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  the  land. 
And  onnadsdid  his  further  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania's  chief,*  w  hose  dread  command 
Is  law  less  law  ;  for  with  a  bloody  hand 
He  swavs  a  nation,  turbulent  and  tiold  : 
Yet  here  and  there  some  daring  mountain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 

Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gold.' 


XLV  II  I. 
Monastic  Zitza  I  6  from  thy  shady  brow. 
Thou  small,  but  fivour'd  s|)Ot  ol  holy  ground  ! 
Where'er  we  gaze,  around,  above,  below. 
What  rainbow  lii.is,  what  magic  charms  are  found  ! 
Bock,  river,  forest,  mountain,  all  abound, 
And  bluest  skies  that  ha  nionise  the  whole: 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
lells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll 

Between  those  haogiog  rocks,  that  shock  yet  pleaM 
the  boul. 

XLIX. 
Amidst  the  grove  that  crow  ns  yon  tufted  hill. 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  oigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still, 
Might  well  itself  be  deem'd  of  dignity. 
The  convent's  white  walls  glisten'fair  on  high  : 
Here  dwells  the  caloyer,''  nor  rude  is  he. 
Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer  ;  the  |  asser  by 
Is  welcome  still  ;  nor  heedless  will  he  flee 

From  hence,  if  be  delight  kind  Nature's  sheen  to  ma 


Here  in  the  sultriest  season  le'  him  rest. 
Fresh  is  the  green  beneilh  those  aged  trees; 
Here  winds  of  gentlest  w  ing  will  fan  his  breast, 
From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  breeze: 
The  plain  is  far  beneath  —  oh  !  let  him  seize 
Pure  plea-ure  while  he  can  ;  the  scorching  ray 
Here  pierceih  not,  impregnate  with  disease: 
Then  let  his  length  the  loitering  pilgrim  lay. 
And  gaze,  UDtired,'the  morn,  the  noon,  the  eve  away. 

LI. 
Dusky  and  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight. 
Nature's  volcanic  amphilhealre,8 
Chimaera's  alps  exend  from  left  to  right: 
Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir; 
Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the  moan* 

tain-tir 
Nodding  above;  behold  black  Acheron  !  » 
Once  consecrated  to  the  se|  ulchre. 
riuto  !  if  this  be  hell  I  look  upon. 

Close  shamed  Elysium's  gales,  my  shade  shall  smk 
for  none. 

LI  I. 
Ne  city's  towers  pollute  the  lovely  view  ; 
Unseen  is  Yanina,  though  not  remote, 
VeM'd  by  the  screen  of  hills  :  here  men  are  few, 
Scanty  the  hamlet,  rare  the  lonely  cot : 
But,  peering  down  each  precipice,  the  goat 
Browseth  ;  and,  pensive  o'er  his  scatier'd  flock. 
The  little  she]>herd  in  his  white  capi  te  lo 
Doth  lean  his  boyish  form  alone  the  rock. 

Or  in  his  cave  awaits  the  tempest's  short-lived  shock. 

LIII. 
Oh  !  where,  Dodona  !  is  thine  aged  grove, 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine  ? 
What  valley  echo'd  the  response  of  Jove? 
What  trace' remainelh  of  the  Thunderer's  shrine? 


1  It  ia  said,  that,  on  tlie  day  previous  to  the  battle  of 
Actiom,  Antony  had  thirteen  kings  at  his  levee. 

2  Nicopol's,  whose  rains  are  most  extensive,  is  at  some 
distance  fr'ia  Aclium,  wliere  the  wall  of  Ilie  Hippodrome 
mrvives  in  a  few  fragments.  Ttiese  runs  are  large 
masses  of  lirirkwork.  ttie  bricks  of  wli:<h  are  juined  by 
Inlerstires  of  mortar,  as  large  as  the  brii  ka  themselves, 
and  equally  durable. 

3  ArcordinK  to  Ponqneville,  the  lake  of  Tanina  :  bnt 
Pouqueville  is  always  nut. 

4  The  celebrated  Ali  Pacha.  Of  this  extraordinary 
man  there  is  an  incorrect  accnunt  in  Pouqaeville's  Tra- 


i  Five  thousand  Suliotes,  among  the  rocks  and  in  the 
castle  of  Suli,  withstood  thirty  thoiiiiand  Albanians  fur 
eilihleen  years;  the  castle  at  last  was  taken  by  bribery. 
lu  this  txintest  there  were  several  acts  performed  not  un- 
worthy of  the  belter  daya  of  Greece. 


6  The  convent  and  village  of  Zitza  are  four  hours'  jour- 
ney from  Joannina,  or  'i'anina.  the  capital  of  the  Facha- 
lit'k.  In  the  valley  the  river  Kalama8(once  theAchemn) 
flows,  and,  not  far  fro  ■.  2iiza,  lorms  a  fine  cataract.  The 
situation  is  perhaps  the  finest  in  Greece,  though  the  ap- 
proaih  to  Delvinachi  and  parts  of  Acarnania  and  Atolia 
may  contest  the  palm.  Delphi,  Parnasi'us,  and,  in  Attica 
even  Cape  Cnlonna  and  Port  Raphti,  are  very  inferior; 
ax  also  every  scene  in  Ionia,  or  the  Troad;  I  am  almost, 
inclineit  to  add  the  approach  to  Constantinople;  but,  from 
the  diflWrent  features  of  the  last,  a  comparison  can  hardlj 
be  made. 

7  The  Greek  monks  are  so  called. 
e  The  Cbimariot  mountains   appear  to  have   be«a 

canic. 


Canto  II.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


417 


All,  all  forgotten  —  and  shall  man  repine 
That  his  frail  bonds  lo  fleeiiiig  life  are  broke? 
Cease,  fonl  1  the  fate  of  gods  may  well  be  thine : 
Wouldst  thou  survive  the  niaible  or  the  oak  ? 
When  nations,  tongues,  and  w.irlds  must  sink  beneah 
the  stroke ! 

LIV. 
Epirus'  bounds  recede,  and  mountains  fail  ; 
Tired  of  up-gazine  still,  the  wearied  eye 
Reposes  gladly  on'as  smooth  a  vale 
As  ever  Spring  ycl;>d  in  erassy  dye: 
Ev'm  on  a  plain  no  humble  beauies  lie, 
Where  sonie  bold  river  breaks  the  long  expanse, 
And  woods  along  the  hanks  aie  waving  high, 
Whose  shadowsin  the  elassy  waters  dwice, 

Or  with  the  moonbeam  sleep'  in   midnight's  solemn 
trance. 

LV. 
The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerif.i 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  carne  roaring  by;  3 
The  shades  of  wonied  niiht  were  gathering  yet, 
When,  down  the  steep  banks  winding  warily, 
Childe  Harofd  saw,  like  me'eors  in  the  sky, 
The  glittering  minarets  of  Tepalen, 
Whose  wa'!s  o'erlook  the  s'reain  ;  i  nd  drawing  nigh, 
He  hearj  the  busy  hum  cf  warrior-men 

Swellir.ff  the  breeze  that  sigh'd  along  the  lengthening 
glen. 

LVI. 
He  pass'd  the  sAcred  Harem's  silent  tower. 
And  underneath  the  wide  o'erarching  gale 
Survey "d  the  dwelling  of  this  chief  of  power, 
Where  all  around  proclaim'd  his  high  esti'e. 
Amidst  no  common  pomp  the  despot  sale, 
Wliile  busy  preparation  shook  the  court. 
Slaves,  eunuchs,  soldiers,  guests,  and  santons  waif; 
Within,  a  i  alace,  and  wi'hout,  a  fort  : 
Here  men  of  every  clime  appear  to  make  resort. 

LVII. 
Richly  caparison'd,  a  ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store, 
Circled  the  wide  ex'endiiig  court  below  ; 
Above,  strange  eroups  adnrn'd  the  corridore  ; 
And  oft-times  through  the  area's  echoing  door. 
Some  hish-capp'd  Tartar  spurr'd  his  steed  away  : 
The  Turk,  the  Greek,  theAlbanim,  and  the  Moor, 
Here  mingled  in  their  many-hued  array, 
While   the  deep   war-drum's  sound  announced  the 
close  of  day. 

Lvm. 

The  wild  Albanian  kirtled  to  his  knee. 
With  shawl-girt  head  and  ornamented  sun. 
And  eold-embroider'd  garments,  fiir  !o  see; 
The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  Macedon; 
The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  terror  on, 
And  crooked  elaive  ;  the  lively,  supple  Greek  ; 
And  swarthy  Nubia's  mutilated  son  ; 
The  bearded  Turk,  (hat  rarely  deigns  to  speak, 
Master  of  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek, 

LIX. 
Are  mix'd  conspicuous :  some  recline  in  groups, 
Scanning  the  motley  scene  th  t  laries  round  ; 
There  some  grave  Moslem  to  devotion  sloops. 
And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are  found  ; 

1  Anciently  Mount  Tomarus. 

2  Tin"  riier  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author  passed 
it:  ana,  immediately  above  Tepalen,  was  lo  the  eye  as 
wide  as  the  Thames  at  Westminster ;  at  least  ia  the 
opinion  of  the  author  and  his  fellow-traveller.  In  the 
summer  it  must  be  much  narrower.  It  certainly  is  the 
finest  ri»er  in  the  Levant ;  neither  Achelous,  Alpheus, 
Arhernn,  Scamaoder,  nor  Cayster,  approached  it  in 
breadth  or  beauty. 


Here  the  Albanian  proudly  treads  the  ground  ; 
Half  whispering  ilieve  iheGreek  is  heard  to  prate; 
Hark  !  from  the  mosque  Ihe  nightly  solemn  sound, 
The  Muezzin's  call  dolh  shake  Ihe  mina'et, 

«  1  here  is  no  god  but  God  !  —  to  prayer  -    lo  !  God  is 
great : " 

LX. 
Just  at  this  season  Ramazani's  fast 
Through  Ihe  long  day  its  penance  did  maintain  : 
But  when  Ihe  lingering  twilight  hour  was  past, 
Revel  and  feast  assumed  Ihe  rule  again  : 
Now  all  was  bustle,  and  the  menial  train 
Prepared  and  spread  the  pleneous  board  within; 
The  vacant  gallery  now  seem'd  made  in  vain, 
But  from  the  chambers  came  the  njinglin?  din, 

As  page  and  slave  anou  svere  passing  out  aud  in. 

LXI. 
Here  woman's  voice  is  never  heard  :  apart, 
Aud  scarce  permitted,  guarded,  veii'd,  lo  move. 
She  yields  to  one  her  person  and  her  heart, 
Tamed  to  her  cige,  nor  feels  a  wish  lo  rove: 
For,  not  unhappy  in  her  master's  love, 
And  jojiul  in  a  mother's  gentlest  caies, 
Blest  ca'resi  all  other  feelings  far  above  I 
Herself  more  sweetly  rears  the  babe  she  bears. 
Who  never  quits  the  breast,  no  meaner  passion  sharei. 

LXU. 
In  marble-paved  pavilion,  where  a  spring 
Of  living  wa:er  from  the  centre  rose. 
Whose  bubbling  did  a  genial  freshness  fling, 
Aud  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  repose, 
^li  reclined,  a  man  of  war  and  woes  : 
Yet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace. 
While  Gentleness  her'milder  radiance  throws 
a:.,::;  '..''it  rgod  venerable  face, 

The  deeds  that'IurK  bf.neath,  and  stain  him  with  di«- 
grace. 

LXIII. 
It  IS  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
111  suits  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth  ; 
l>ove  conquers  age  —  so  Hafiz  haih  averr'd, 
So  sings  the  'I'eian.  and  he  sings  in  sooth  — 
But  crimes  th  it  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  truth, 
Beseeming  all  men  ill.  but  most  Ihe  man 
In  yeirs,  have  maik"d  him  with  a  tiger's  tooth  ; 
Blood  follrjws  blood,  and,  through  their  mortal  spaD, 

In  bloodier  acts  conclude  those  who  with  blood  began.* 

LXIV. 

'Mid  m.-iny  things  most  new  lo  ear  and  eye 
The  pilgrim  rested  here  his  weary  feet. 
And  gazed  around  on  Moslem  luxury. 
Till  quickly  wearied  with  that  spacious  seat 
Of  Wealih'and  Wantonness,  the  choice  retreat 
Of  s  ted  Grandeur  from  the  city's  noise  : 
And  were  it  humbler  it  in  sooth  were  sweet; 
But  Peace  abhorreth  arlificiil  joys, 
And  Pleasure,  Icigued  with  Pomp,  the  zest  of  both 
destroys. 

LXV. 
Fierce  are  Albania's  children,  yet  they  lack 
Not  virtues,  were  those  virtues  more  ranture. 
Wiiere  is  the  foe  tint  ever  saw  their  back  ? 
Who  can  so  well  the  toil  of  war  endure  ? 


3  The  fate  of  All  was  precisely  such  as  the  poet  antiet* 
pate<L  His  bead  was  sent  to  Conslanlinople,  and  exhibited 
at  Ihe  gates  nf  the  seraglio.  As  the  name  of  Ali  had 
made  a  considerable  noise  in  England,  in  consequence  of 
his  negr.iiations  with  Sir  Thomas  Maitland,  and  ».  II 
more,  perhaps,  these  stanzas  nf  Lord  Byron,  a  merchant 
of  Cni.stantinnple  thought  it  would  be  no  bad  speculation 
to  purchase  the  head  and  ronsipn  it  to  a  LondoD  show- 
man; but  this  scheme  was  defeated  by  the  piety  ofiB  old 
servant  of  the  Pacha,  who  bribed  the  executioner  w'.tll  a 
bieher  price,  and  bestowed  decent  sepulture  oa  tk« 
rehc  — E. 


27 


418 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


r  Canto  I. 


Their  native  fastnesses  not  more  secure  | 

Than  they  in  doubtful  time  of  troublous  need  :  | 

Their  wrath  how  deadly  !  but  their  friendship  sure, 
When  Gratitude  or  V  ilour  bids  them  bleed, 

Unsbakeu  rushing  on  where'er  their  chief  may  lead.    I 
LXVl.  I 

Childe  Harold  saw  them  in  their  chieftain's  tower    j 
Thronging  to  war  in  splendour  and  success ;  | 

And  af  er  view'd  them,  when,  wi  hin  their  power, 
Himself  awhile  the  victim  of  distress  ;  i 

That  saddening  hour  when  bad  men  hollier  press  : 
But  these  did  shelter  him  beneath  their  roof,  I 

When  less  barbarians  would  have  cheer'd  him  less, 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof  i — 

In  aught  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  withstand  the 
proof ! 

LXVH.  I 

It  chanced  that  adverse  winds  once  drove  his  bark 
Full  on  the  coast  of  Suli's  shaggy  shore, 
When  all  around  was  desolate  and  dark  ; 
To  land  was  perilous,  to  sojourn  more  ; 
Yet  for  a  while  the  mariners  foibore, 
Dubious  to  trust  where  treachery  might  lurk  ; 
At  length  they  ventured  forth,  though  doubting  sore 
That  those  who  loathe  alike  the  Frank  and  Turk 

Might  once  again  renew  their  ancient  butcher-work. 
LXVIII. 
Vain  fear  !  the  Suliotes  strelch'd  the  welcome  hand, 
Led  them  o'er  rocks  and  past  the  dangerous  swamp. 
Kinder  than  polish'd  slaves  though  not  so  bland, 
And  piled  the  hearth,  and   wrung  their  garments 

damp, 
And  fill'd  the  bowl,  and  trimm'd  the  cheerful  lamp, 
And  spread  their  fare  ;  though  homely,  all  ihey  had  : 
Such  conduct  bears  Philanthropy's  rare  stamp  — 
To  rest  the  weary  and  to  soothe  the  sad. 

Doth  lesson  h  ippier  men,  and  shames  at  least  the  bad. 
LXIX. 
It  came  to  pass,  that  when  he  did  address 
Himself  to  quit  at  length  this  m  untain-land, 
Combined  marauders  half-way  barr'd  egress, 
And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and  brand ; 
And  therefore  did  he  lake  a  trusty  band 
To  traverse  Acarnania's  forest  w  ide. 
In  war  well  season'd,  and  with  labours  tann'd, 
Till  he  did  greet  white  Achelous'  tide. 

And  from  his  further  bank  ^tolia's  wolds  espied. 
LXX. 
Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  its  circling  cove, 
And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest, 
How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  hill's  grove, 
Nodding  af  midnight  o'er  the  calm  bay's  breast. 
As  winds  come  lightly  whispering  from  the  west, 
Kisein;,  not  ruffling,  the  blue  deep's  serene:  — 
Here  Harold  was  received  a  welcome  guest ; 
Nor  did  he  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene. 

For  many  a  joy  could  he  from  Night's  soft  presence 
gleam. 

LXXI. 
Or.  the  smooth  shore  the  night  fires  brightly  blazed. 
The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast, 2 
And  he  that  unawares  had  there  ygazed 
With  gaping  wonderment  h >d  sla  ed  aghast ; 
For  ere  night's  midmost,  stillest  hour  was  past, 
The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began  ; 
Each  PalikarS  his  sabre  from  him  cast. 
And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  link'd  to  man. 

Felling  their  uncouth  dirge,  loig  daunced  the  kiitled 
clan. 

I  AUuJing  lo  the  wreckers  of  Cornwall. 

2 The  Albanion  Mussulmans  do  not  abstain  from  v»ine, 
and,  indeed,  very  few  of  the  others. 

8  Palikar.  shortened  when  addressed  to  a  single  person, 
from  IlaAccapc,  a  genefal  name  for  a  soldier  amongRt  the 
Greeks  and  Albanese  who  speak  Romaic  :  it  means,  pro- 
jer>,"ala<l." 


LXXII. 

Childe  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood 
And  view'd,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelrie, 
Nor  hated  harmless  mirth,  however  lude  : 
Irj  soolh,  it  was  no  vulgar  sight  to  see 
Their  baibarous,  yet  their  not  indecen',  glee; 
And,  as  the  liames  along  their  face^  gleam'd, 
Their  gestures  nimble,  dark  eyes  flashing  free, 
The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  eirdles  stream'd, 
While   thus   in   concert   Ihey  this  lay  half  sang,  ba)f 
scream'd :  ■»— 


Tambourgi  !  Tambourgi  :5  thy  'larum  afar 
Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war; 
All  the  sons  of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 
Chimariot,  lllyrian,  and  da;  k  Suliote  '.  6 


Oh  !  who  is  more  brave  than  a  dark  Suliote, 
I  In  his  snowy  camese  and  his  shagsy  capote  ? 
I  To  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  his  wild  ficck, 
j  And  descends  to  the  ])lain  like  the  stream  from  the  rock. 

I  3- 

Shall  the  sons  of  Chimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fiull  of  a  friend,  bid  an  enemy  live? 
Let  those  guns  so  unerring  such  vengeai;ce  forego  ? 
What  mark  is  so  fair  as  the  breast  of  a  foe  ? 


Macedonia  sends  forth  her  invincible  race  ; 
For  a  time  they  abandon  the  cave  and  the  chase : 
But  those  scarfs  of  binod-red  shall  be  redder,  before 
The  sabre  is  sheathed  and  the  battle  is  o'er. 


Then  the  pirates  of  Farga  that  dwell  by  the  waves, 
And  teach  the  pale  Franks  what  it  is  to  be  slaves, 
Shall  leave  on  the  beach  the  long  gilley  and  oar, 
And  track  to  his  covert  the  captive  on  shore. 


I  ask  not  the  pleasures  that  riches  supply, 
My  sabre  shall  win  what  the  feeble  must  buy  ; 
I  Shall  win  the  young  bride  with  her  long  flowing  hair, 
I  And  many  a  maid  from  her  mother  shall  tear. 

!  ^• 

I  love  the  fair  face  of  the  maid  in  her  youth, 
I  Her  caresses  shall  lull  me,  her  music  shall  sooth  ; 
Let  her  bring  from  the  chanjber  her  many-toued  lyre, 
And  sing  us  a  song  on  the  fall  of  her  sire. 

?. 
Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell,"" 
The  shrieks  of  the  conquer'd,  the  conquerors'  yell ; 
The  roofs  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we  shared, 
The  w  eallhy  we  slaughler'd,  the  lovely  we  spared. 


I  talk  not  of  mercy,  I  talk  not  of  fear ; 
He  neither  must  know  who  would  serve  the  Vizier: 
Since  the  days  of  our  prophet  the  Crescent  ne'er  sawr 
A  chief  ever  glorious  like  Ali  Pashaw. 

10. 
Dark  Muchtar  his  son  fo  the  Danube  is  sped. 
Let  the  yellow-hair'd  8  Giaours  9  view  his  borsetaiU* 
with  dread ; 

4  Per  a  specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaont  dialect  of 
the  Illyric,  see  Appendix,  Note  [C].—  K. 

8  Drummer. 

6 These  stanzas  are  partly  taken  from  different  Altw- 
nese  songs,  as  far  as  I  was  able  to  make  them  out  by  tli« 
expofcition  of  the  Albanese  in  Romaic  and  Italian. 

7  It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French. 

e  Yellow  ia  the  epithet  given  to  the  Russiant. 

0  InBdel.  10  The  i  nsignia  of  a  Pacha. 


Canto  II.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


419 


When  his  Delhis>  come  dashing  in  blood  o'er  the 

banks, 
How  few  sImII  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks! 

11. 

Sellclar!  a  unshea'lie  then  our  chiefs  scimilar 
Tanibour^i  :  thy  Miruni  gives  promise  of  war. 
Ye  nuiuiitains,  li,at  see  us  descend  to  the  shore, 
Shall  view  us  as  victoi^,  or  view  us  no  more ! 

LXXIII. 
Fair  Greece!  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  !  3 
Immortal,  though  no  more  ;  though  fallen,  great! 
Who  now  shall  lead  ihy  scaller'd  children  forth, 
And  long  accustoni'd  bond  ige  uncre.ite  ? 
Not  such  Ihy  sons  who  whilome  did  await, 
The  hopeless  w  arriors  of  a  w  illing  doom, 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchnil  strait  — 
Oh  !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume. 

Leap  from   Eurolas'  banks,  and   call   thee  from  the 
tomb? 

LXXIV, 
Spirit  of  freedom  !  when  on  Phyle's  brow  * 
Thou  sal'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 
Couldst  thou  foiebodu  the  dismal  h  >ur  which  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  Ihine  Allic  plain  ? 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain. 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land  ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 
Trembling  benea  h  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand  ; 

From   birth   till   death  enslaved;  in  word,  in  deed, 
unmann'd. 

LXXV. 

In  all  save  form  alone,  how  changed  !  and  who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye, 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burn'd  anew 
With  thy  unquenched  beam,  lost  Liberty  ; 
And  many  drenm  withtl  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  gives  them  back  Iheir  fathers'  heritage: 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh, 
Nor  solely  dare  encounier  hostile  rage, 

Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  Slavery's  mournful 
page. 

LXXVK 
Hereditary  bondsmen  !  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought  ? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye  ?  no  ! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despnilers  low, 
But  not  for  you  will  Feedom's  al'ars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots  !  triumph  o'er  your  foe  ! 
Greece  !  change  thy  lords,  thy  stale  is  still  the  same  ; 

Thy  glorious  d  ly  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame. 

Lxxvn. 

The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 
1  he  Giaour  from  Oihman's  race  again  may  wrest ; 
And  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 
Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  guest ;  s 
t)r  Wahab's  rebel  brood  who  dared  divest 
The  prophet's  6  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, 
May  wind  Iheir  path  of  blond  along  the  VV'est ; 
But  ne'er  will  freedom  ^eek  this  fated  soil. 
But  slave  succeed  to  slave  through  years  of  endless  toil. 


1  Hnnemen,  answering  to  our  rutlorn  hope. 

2  SworJ-bearer. 

5  Some  Thoughts  on  the  present  State  nf  Greere  and 
Turliey,  will  be  fonnj  in  the  AjpendiX,  Notes  [D]  and 
[E). 

4  Phyle,  whirh  commands  a  beautiful  view  of  Athens, 
has  still  considerable  remains  :  it  was  seized  by  Thrasy- 
bulus, previous  to  llie  expulsion  of  the  Thirty. 

6  When  taken  by  the  Latini,  and  retained  for  several 
year*. 

6  Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  tome  time  ago  by  the 
Wthabees,  a  ser  t  yearly  increasing. 


LXXVIII. 

Vet  ma  k  their  niirlh  —  ere  lenten  days  begin 
That  pei.ance  which  their  holy  rites  piepare 
To  shrive  from  m:in  his  weight  of  mortal  sio, 
By  d  lily  abstinence  and  nightly  prayer ; 
But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  Repeii  ai  ce  wear, 
Some  days  of  jnynuiice  are  decreed  to  all, 
'I'o  take  of  pleasauiice  each  his  secre   share. 
In  mulley  robe  to  dance  at  masking  ball, 
And  join  the  mimic  train  of  meiry  Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And  \vho*e  more  rife  wj  h  merrimen'  than  thine, 
Oh  Stamboul  I  once  the  empress  of  their  reign  ? 
Though  turbans  now  pollute  Sophia's  shrine, 
And  Gieece  her  very  altars  eyes  in  vain  : 
(Al.rs :  her  woes  wiil  still  pervade  my  strain  !) 
Gay  were  her  minstrels  once,  for  free  her  throng, 
All  felt  ihe  common  joy  they  now  must  feign, 
Nor  oft  I  ve  seen  such  sight,  nor  heard  such  song. 
As  woo'd  the  eye,  and  thrili'd  the  Bosphorus  along. 

LXXX. 

Loud  was  the  lightsome  tumult  on  the  shore, 
Of  Music  changed,  but  never  ceased  her  lone, 
And   imely  echo'd  back  the  measured  oar. 
And  rippling  wa'eis  made  a  pleasant  moan  : 
The  Queen  of  tides  on  high  consenting  shone, 
And  w  hen  a  transient  breeze  swept  o'er  the  wave, 
'T  was,  as  if  darting  from  her  heavenly  throne, 
A  brighter  glance  her  form  reflected  gave, 
Till  sparkling  billows  seem'd  to  light  the  banks  thejr 
lave. 

LXXXL 

Glanced  many  a  light  caique  along  the  fonm. 
Danced  on  the  shore  Ihe  dauglilers  of  Ihe  lard, 
Ne  thought  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or  home, 
While  many  a  laneuid  eye  and  thrilling  hand 
Exchanged  Ihe  look  few  bosoms  may  withstand, 
Or  gently  prest,  returi.'d  the  pressure  still : 
Oh  Love  I  young  Love !  bound  in  thy  rosy  band, 
Let  sige  or  cynic  prattle  as  he  will. 
These  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  Life's  yeaisof  ill ! 

LXXXII, 

But,  'midst  the  throng  in  merry  masquerade, 
Lurk  there  no  he  iris  that  throb  with  secre'  pain. 
Even  through  the  closest  searment  half  betray'd? 
To  such  the  genie  murmurs  of    he  main 
Seem  to  re-echo  all  they  mourn  in  vain  ; 
To  such  the  gladness  of  Ihe  gamesome  crowd 
Is  source  nf  wayward  thoueht  and  stern  disdain  : 
How  do  they  l-'atlie  Ihe  laughter  idly  loud. 
And  long  to  change  the  robe  of  revel  for  the  shroud  ! 

LXXXIU. 

This  must  he  feel,  the  true-born  son  of  Greece, 
If  Greece  one  true-born  patriot  still  can  boast: 
Not  such  as  prate  of  war.  but  skulk  in  peace, 
The  bondsman's  leace,  who  sighs  for  all  he  lost, 
Vet  w  ith  smooth  sniile  his  tyrant  can  accost. 
And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword: 
Ah  !   Greece '.  they  love  thee  leas;  who  owe  the* 

most; 
Their  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime  record 
Of  hero  sires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate  horde 

LXXXIV. 

When  riseth  Lacedemon's  hardihood, 
When  Thebes  Epamirondas  rears  again. 
When  Athens' children  are  wi'h  hearts  endued, 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men, 
Then  may'st  thou  le  restored  ;  but  not  till  then. 
A  thousand  years  scarce  serve  to  form  a  stale; 
An  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust :  and  when 
Can  man  its  sha'tler'd  splendour  renovate. 
Recall  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  Time  and  Fate 


d 


420 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


{Cakto  1L 


LXXXT. 
TLr<^ca<tfe<«rxRai.tkr  Mli«<a0«.t  '     Ikfc*  the  pBwer  .hiefc  cmA'd  tfcy  lciBi4e» 


Tb)  baev  tk;  leaflet  to  tan  miiaet  tew. 


LXXXVL 

;*olit*iy 


igrcj 


Tbe  «M.  Che  «<  M  Ml  Ike  rfne.  Ok  MM  ; 
f  iirhi«y4  i»  all  caeepi  ils  fvcaga  lairf — 
rnaoTCs  al*e  iU  bMadt  a^  hoHrftea  iM* 
The  B«r<:e-fieM.  trfaete  r*na't  t  ictia  hocde 
Firrf  tomM  bncath  the  hniM  «r  HeUm"  amm 
At  «•  ibe  mum  to  iimtm  Citrj  tear. 


I  rf  the  eiTC ;  * 
Sivc  «%ec  1  riioaia'S  airr  abrise  admas 
Col«MiaHcliC*aB'el'^>n>**f>urTbeiriTe;  The  ca«f^  (he  kQ«,  the  fiigbt 

Smc  ^er  mme  wairiui''*  h<lf-Or'>('ei.  em-e, 

!  g  er  Clou*  w4  usnc^erted  gns  XC- 

The  flnw  Mf4e.  hiiihiM 


l;« 


!SlTaafenodlTK«rE«arAespw.  '     Tte  ivT  Greek,  kii  lei  rawwc  lyev ; 

IS  like   a^  IKrehaace,10  (ise,  a^  «Sk       MoMtaiw  4«n.  EartkV,  OeeM'h  yfaia  hdMr ; 

Alai!-  1     De>«iattie{raat.OeJracJaaiaihefear! 

LXXXVU.  Swh  nette  wene-  «hil  agg  naaaanelh  hewl 

Trt>Ra9Aie.a.bl.e.lbraapa.*U:  What  ycwj  trcy*y.«k«  the  hrffc»»^  ^mm*, 

S««a<aielhrenitca.aad<et«>tfan^«hriiiia.       1     SS^SS  ^^^^SfS^ll^  ' 

Thiaeaiiaenrea**b»Jii>er(aMBcC  :  ^V^?*^.'^J!^?°*^  *?"*•-         • 


The  freehvB  vraudenr  af  ihr  i 

Ap«ll 
Stilii 


XCL 

..rib. 


—  —  UiK*aOthet«ns(r.  »Hhlb-|a«aahlM. 

Haillbe  bricM  cfiM  of  hai«e  aad  cf  BBiV; 

—^  ..,.,.. -      .  ~ Loag  *aH  iluae  a— ali  ami  i—rai  \tm^m 

K^^^JI^itlLkT^tSteJ^M^L       '  ruiwHhihrfc-elhe,«rtaf«a«faiw; 

K>  e»f^  «f  lhf«  I.  fcl  »  itrigar  ■aaM.  Ba,^,f  Iheaprf:  le-aaaf  the,..i^! 

T^^^^^^.^ItrrSkM?^  Whi«*a»8Biw««aleaaJhaa*a*w^ 

A«<alHheM«eitilea««MtrrfyteM. AaPaHaiMrflhe  >ta«  ■atoJAewarfrtki*. 

nl  l»a  ta»r  rf  the  totiiaaaiaa.  iwticuUrty  UafctMhe  XCIL 

•v>«  ar«M  it  «aURif  »*■*<  •K](mi)MMi£t>t   tbr   i»-  .."^ 

I  %emt  htat  <d  t^tmmmma;  itX.  I  arra  m«  it  ht  ca  the  The  pailei  fcoaOM  cfiap  to  ««aHed  haaae, 

ftaw.r>«ai8«iM«.  U-n^WtkalSkiadreidhMrihevclcawkMl 

I     iocMm^  fwaufaw^  tnm  »»tT>  tw  Martlt  »at  He  tha' it  laa^,  hiilhv  kt  his  iWM. 


Ral  he  trhoM  Sa<ae4 1 

I  -caree  neerai  (be  fcpaa  af  hit  bii^ 
■   rh,r  -  — 


XCJU. 


S  te  aa  4nSnb  V  «r  rsrpfl  J 
boh  Ihn<r  it  at  aceae  aan 
-iiw     Tcihf  iiiiliiiirf  «a< 


-faa<aC>ai>wnik«E»>aa«E<v---MUftr  aa  BKi^-'     Aad  laaiia  neaeeahiae«e  aaMwa*; 
■aa-C.<»aaaha»ygaaaty  iiiltiawT*.a^hratt«al       B««  «.  ^re  i1»  wiiea  -  lei  »•  b»y  h*B< 
^«i  rf  »a)c.»»^  MbM  ■■  "*-    r*Bt  a««  Pha.  ate  lar-        UefaSe  the ate««.  atoeai*  h»»*&erf ! 

-Hciciathttatfcrsi^  tr  V"^^*?"^.  .     Bereie  the  lOBMH  BTja^  «att  rrcered : 

Sa  KIT  a«r  ciiai^ij'%  Btaie  be  < 


fn^  ite  Mfaa-      la 


TUa  ttafiF  4^  Hiama  Bar  be  aeca  at  wa  f-oa  a  rn«       So  anr V  Ihoa  praver  •liere  <1>T  i«il<b  WM  nalV, 
^»aaO»eCiltat^aa;»ie»fc«a«tarT  wOe.  ay  lai^    oj  cray  ■«»  joy  «  ti»«  a»  •»  ta^ar^  . 

xcnr. 

lee.  trhs  fta*  ia  ta*  |at«iMirf  aHC 
aiarhei  *mk  idleiK  wrh  iaelnriat  hjt. 


taif  a»  >r  U«  tn>ia-a»K  «f  ar  tw  *.l>aaiaai :  caan"^  '      «" 
taalv actr  M  Imlj'.  Wl  tektir.  that  wt  ha«  a  r«f       Of  i 


lt»a  tewt  <<  ^aurtt  l^aa  if  puShs;  (bnc 
•Ihc  bii  if  aitai  rtaaila  kia  |a«ir  4n^ 


!^, 


«-SaleT-aler— W*ea<*Va«:*-«aB  (be  (^itaiAi  aa 
CbraaaawOa«MKrm:— vhal  fbra  aaia  ke  aar  <M«- 
!  iwi  •bra  HaMliac  «•  the  taotatv  vt  ibr  ti»a  I  aaiiat 
(6rrra»:  «b«  leB  «a  Mara(b<«7    TW  >r  1    fat  kan«» 


(a<«B««^aa-8La«TjawGnT.  *«.)  «aa>«.  *c.  Wa«  towrf   ky  ihr  «««a«i«<v.    The  |l>ia 

Katarr.  vrtk  tbe  i*i  of  An.  baa  «-««  rbal  for  Manatna  «aa  <«Far«  to  mt  tm  aair  «  the  w»  ^  a*>  | 

I  »^l<Tiaai«  rat<b  tp  CTic«*t  trrrj  tii»»t»c«  laf  Aonaa<  Ma«  ■  ■■  **■««  aa  haaAiiif^n**  Ala;  . 

iri«c  -.  aai«  bi»f  totparw  lay  a^aaiaawt  »«k  —  »K«?>aar— ^aatWraa  ta  <»■»  ■■■f  :^';"Ji^l^j 


Canto  IH.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


421 


To  such  resign  llie  strife  for  fading  bnys  — 
III  may  sucli  c'>nlest  now  (he  spirit  move 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproach  nor  parlial  praise, 
Sii.ce  cold  eich  kinder  heari  llial  inisjht  ap  rove, 
And  none  aie  left  lo  please  where  none  are  left  to  iove. 

XCV. 
Thofj  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely  one ! 
Whom  youth  and  youih's  att'eclirins  bound  to  me ; 
Who  did  for  me  what  none  beside  have  done, 
Nor  shrank  from  one  albeit  unworthy  thee. 
What  is  my  being  ?  thou  liasi  ceased  to  be  ! 
Nor  sl.iid  lo  welcome  here  thy  wanderer  home. 
Who  mourns  o'er  hours  wliich  we  no  more  shall 

see  — 
Would  Ihey  had  never  been,  or  were  to  come! 
Would   he  haH  ne'er  return'd  to  find  fresh  cause  lo 
roam '. 

X'CVI. 
Oh  '.  ever  lovins;,  lovely,  and  belived  ! 
How  selfish  Sorrow  ponders  on  the  past. 
And  clings  to  ihoujhts  now  be!ler  fir  removed  ! 
But  Time  shall  tear  Ihy  shadow  from  me  last. 
All  tt:ou  couldst  have  of  mine,  stern  Death  !  thou 

hast ; 
The  parent,  friend,  and  now  the  more  than  friend : 
Ne'er  yet  for  one  thine  arrows  flew  so  fast. 
And  grief  with  erief  conlinuini;  still  to  blend, 
Hatb  snatch'd  the  little  joy  that  life  had  yet  to  lend. 

xcvri. 

Then  must  I  plunge  again  into  the  crowd, 
And  follow  all  that  Peace  disdains  to  seek  ? 
Where  Revel  calls,  and  Laugh'er,  vainly  loud, 
Fal-e  lo  the  heari,  distorts  the  hollow  cheek, 
To  leive  the  tiagging  spirit  doubly  weak  ; 
Still  o'er  the  features,  which  i)erforce  Ihey  cheer, 
To  feign  the  pleasure  or  conceal  the  pique  ; 
Smiles  from  the  channel  of  a  fuiurc  leir. 
Or  raise  the  writhing  lip  vvith  ill-dissembled  sneer. 

XCVIII. 
What  is  the  worst  of  woes  thai  wait  on  age  ? 
What  stimps  the  wrinkle  deeper  on  the  brow  ? 
To  view  eich  loved  one  blotted  from  life's  page. 
And  be  alone  on  earth,  as  I  am  now. 
Pefore  the  Chas'ener  humbly  let  me  bow. 
O'er  hearts  divided  and  o'er  hopes  destroy 'd; 
Roll  on,  vain  days  !  full  reckless  may  ve  flow. 
Since  Time  hath  reft  whaie'er  my  soul  enjoy'd. 
And  with  the  ills  of  Eld  mine  earlier  years  alioy'd. 


CANTO    THE    THIRD. 


"'  Aftn  que  cetle  application  vouj  fnrcat  de  pe nuer  a  au- 
tre cho«r;  il  n'y  a  imi  verile  de  remircle  que  <flui-la  rt  le 
temp«  " —  Let'  fu  Roi  de  Pruste  a  D'Alembert,  Sept. 
7.  1778. 


I. 
h  Ih)  '        like  Ihy  mother's,  my  fair  child  ! 
Jlda!  sf•^c  daugh  er  of  my  liiuse  and  heart? 2 
When  last  I  saw  thy  younz  blue  eyes  Ihey  smiled, 
And  then  we  parted,— not  as  now  we  part, 
Bui  with  a  hope.— 

Lake  of  Ge- 


Awaking  with  a  start. 
The  waters  heave  around  me  ;  and  on  high 
1  he  winds  lift  up  their  voices:  I  depart. 
Whither  1  know  not  ;3  but  the  hour  's  gone  by. 

When  Albion's  lessening  shoici  could  grieve  or  gUd 
mine  eye. 

11. 
Once  more  upon  the  waters  1  yel  once  more  ! 
And  the  waves  hound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
'1  hat  knows  his  rider.     Welcome  to  the  roar ! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe'er  it  lead  ! 
Though  the  sirain'd  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed, 
And  ihe  rent  cmvass  fluttering  strew  the  gale. 
Still  must  I  on;  fir  1  am  as  a  weed. 
Flung  from  Ihe  inci;,  on  Ocean's  loam  to  sail 

Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's  breath 
prevail. 

III. 
In  my  youih's  summer  I  did  sing  of  Ore, 
The  wandering  oulliw  of  his  own  dark  mind  ; 
Again  I  seize  Ihe  theme,  then  but  begun, 
Aiid  hear  it  wiih  rnc,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  Ihe  cloud  onwards:  in  that  Tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-np  tears, 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  Ihe  journeyins: years 

Plod  the  last  sands  of  life,—  where  not  a  tiower  ap- 
pears. 

IV. 
Since  my  young  days  of  passion  — joy,  or  pain. 
Perchance  my  lieari  and  harp  have  lost  a  siring, 
And  both  may  jar:  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  would  cssiay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Yet,  though  a  dreary  s  rain,  to  ihi'*  1  cling, 
So  that  il  wean  me  from  Ihe  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness  — so  il  fling 
Forgetfulness  around  me  — it  shall  seem 

To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful  theme. 

V. 

He  who,  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  woe. 
In  deeds,  not  years,  piercing  the  depths  of  life, 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him  ;  nor  below 
Can  love  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife. 
Cut  to  his  heart  again  with  Ihe  keen  knife 
Of  silent,  sharp  endurance  :  he  can  tell 
Why  thought  i-eeks  refuge  in  lone  caves,  yet  rife 
With  airy  images,  and  si. apes  which  dwell 
Still  ummpair'd,  though  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted  celL 

VI. 

T  is  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 

A  l)eing  more  intense,  that  we  endow 

With  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give 

The  life  we  image,  even  as  I  do  now. 

What  am  I  ?  Nothing  :  but  not  ^o  art  thou. 

Soul  of  my  thought  !  with  whom  I  traverse  earth. 

Invisible  but  g-2ing,  as  I  glow 

Mix'd  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  Ihy  birth. 

And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crush'd  feelings 
dearth. 

VII. 
Tel  must  I  think  less  wildly  :  —  I  have  Ihoughl 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 
In  its  n«  II  eddy  l)oiling  and  n'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  aid  flame: 
And  thus,  untaught  in  you'h  my  heart  to  tame. 
My  spring-,  of  life  were  poison'd.     'T  is  loo  la(e! 
Vet  am  I  changed  ;  though  still  enough  Ihe  same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  can  not  abate, 

And  feed  on  hitler  fruits  without  accusing  Fate. 


2  In  a    hilhntn  unpnb!i»hc<l  leltrr,  dale!  Verona,  Nic 
»cmber  6,  11518.  Lnrd  Byrnn    !inyM~"B)r  Ihe  way,  Aia'n 

namr  (which  I  fouud  in  nur  pedierec,  under  king  J.ihn's .. 

r>i;n),  ia  Ihe  name  wilh  llial  of  Ihe  sinier  uf  Charle- |  Fletcher  and  R^ibert  RuKJiton,  llie  "  yeuman"  and  "p«je" 
B.avnr,  as  I  redde  the  other  day,  in  a  book  treating  of  the  \  "t  Caiiln  I.;  his  phytirian,  Dr.  Polidor: ;  and  ■  Swia  «•• 
Bhine."— E.  |  let.— E. 


36 


42-2 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


[Canto  III. 


VIII. 

Somrlhing  fno  much  of  this :  —  but  now  'I  is  past, 
And  the  spell  closes  with  iis  silent  seal. 
Long  ab  ent  Harold  re-appcirs  at  I  ist ; 
He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  would  feel, 
Wrun?  wlih  the  wounds  which  kill  not,  but  ne'ei 

heal  ; 
Tet  Time,  who  charges  all,  had  aller'd  him 
Jn  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age  :  vears  sleal 
Fire  from  ihe  mind  as  vigour  fioni  the  limb  ; 
And  life's  eacbanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  !he  brim. 

IX. 

His  had  been  quaff 'd  (oo  quickly,  and  he  fiund 
The  dregs  were  wormwood  ;  but  he  fill'd  again, 
And  from  a  purer  fount,  ou  holier  ground. 
And  deem'd  ils  spring  perj  etual ;  but  in  vain  ! 
Still  round  him  clung' invisibly  a  chain 
Which  gall'd  for  ever,  fettering  though  unseen. 
And  heavy  though  it  clank'd  nol ;  worn  with  pain. 
Which  pined  allhough  It  spoke  not.  and  grew  keen, 
Entering  wiih  every  step  he  took    through   many   a 
scene. 


Secu-e  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mix'd 
Again  in  fancied  safety  with  his  kind, 
And  deem'd  his  spirit  now  so  firmly  lis'd 
And  sheath'd  with  an  invulneiable  mind, 
That,  if  no  joy,  no  sorrow  lurk'd  behind ; 
And  he,  as  one,  mighi  'mid^t  Ihe  many  siand 
Unheeded,  searching  through  the  ciowd  to  find 
Fit  speculation  ;  such  as  in  sinnge  land 
He  found  iu  wonder-works  of  God  and  Nature's  hand. 

XI. 
But  who  can  view  Ihe  ripen'd  rose,  nor  seek 
To  we.r  it  ?  who  can  Cwriously  behold 
The  smoothness  and  Ihe  sheen' of  beauty's  cheek. 
Nor  feel  Ihe  heart  can  liever  all  grow  old  ? 
Who  can  cintemplaie  Fame  through  clouds  unfold 
The  star  which  rise-  o'er  her  steep,  i^or  climb  ? 
Harold,  once  more  wihin  the  vore.x,  roli'd 
On  with  the  giddy  ciicle  chasing  Time, 
Yet  with  a  nobler  aim  than  in  his  youth's  fond  prime. 

XII. 
But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man;  with  whom  he  held 
Litile  in  common  ;  uiitnnjht  to  submi' 
His  though's  to  others,  thongh  his  snul  was  qiiell'd 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts;  still  unconqjeird, 
He  would  lint  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 
To  spirits  ajainst  whom  his  own  rebell'd  ; 
Proud  Ihough  in  desolation;   which  could  find 
A  life  within  itself,  to  breaihe  wilhou:  mankind. 


XV. 


there   to   him   were 


But  in  Man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  wearisome, 
Uroop'd  as  a  wild-born  falcon  with  dipt  wing, 
to  «  horn  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home  • 
Then  came  his  fit  aijain,  which  to  o'crcome, 
As  eaeerly  Ihe  barr  d-up  bird  »  ill  beat 
His  breasi  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  Ihe  blood  tinge  hfs  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom  eat. 
XVI. 
Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again, 
With  nought  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom  ; 
The  very  knowledge  thai  he  lived  in  vain, 
Th  if  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb. 
Had  made  Despair  a  smi'ingness  asumc. 
Which.  Ihough  't  weie  wild,  —  as  on  the  plunder'J 

wreck 
When  mariners  would  madly  meet  their  doom 
Wi'h  diaiighls  infemperale  on  the  sinking  deck, — 
pire  a  cheer,  which  he  forbore  to  check. 


Did' 


XIII. 

Where   rose  the  mountains 

friends ; 
Where  roM'd  the  ocean,  thereon  ws  his  home  ; 
Wheie  a  blue  sky,  and  slowing  cUme,  extends, 
He  had  Ihe  passion  and  tlie  power  to  roam  ; 
The  desert,  f  .rest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam, 
Were  unto  him  companionship;  they  spake 
A  mutual  langunje,  dealer  thn  Ihe  'ome 
Of  his  land's  ionsiie,  w  hich  lie  «  ould  oft  forsake 
For  Nature's  pages  glass'd  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake. 

XIV. 
Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars. 
Till  lie  had  peopled  iheiii  with  beings  briuht 
Astheirown  I  earns  ;  and  ear  h,  and  earih-born  jars, 
And  human  f.ailtie*    were  forjotlen  quite:  I      i  ..p.jde  of  plane  "  i«  a    lerm  nf  fal.onry.  and   meaa* 

Could  Ire  have  kejil  his  spirit  to  that  flight,  the  hi(?hfsl  pin  h  of  fliirlii.     Src  Mai  briti.  ftc. 

He  had  been  happy  ;  bul  this  day  will  sink  ••  An  ra^le  loweiinE  in  lii-  pridi;  of  plan ,"  iic. 

Itsspiikinimnrlal,  envying  it  the  light  2 8^p  Ihe  famou«  song  nn  Harmrriiu«    and  ArislngitoB. 

To  which  It  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link  |  The  best  Eii^libli  tran«lolion  U  in  Bland's  Antliolagr,  hf 

Th»t  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  woos  us  to  its  '  Mr.  (now  Lord  Chief  Justice)  Denir.an  — 

brink.  I         "With  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe,"  Ire. 


XVH. 

Stop  !  —  for  thy  tread  is  on  an  Empire's  dust ! 
An  Earthquake's  s[ioil  is  sepulchred  below  I 
Is  the  spot  m  irk  "d  uiih  no  coloss  I  bust? 
Nor  column  Irnphied  for  triumphal  show  ? 
None  ;  but  Ihe  moral's  tr  uth  tells  simpler  so, 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  le'  it  be  ;  — 
How  that  red  rain  halh  made  llie  harvest  grow! 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gain'd  by  thee, 
Thou  first  and  last  of  fields  !  king-making  Victory  ? 

XVI  n. 

And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls. 
The  eraveof  Fnnce.  Ihe  deadly  Waterloo! 
How  in  an  hour  Ihe  jrower  which  gave  annuls 
I's  gifts,  iransferring  f.me  as  Hee'lng  too! 
In  '•  pride  of  place  '  i  here  last  Ihe  eajle  flew, 
Then  lore  wi  h  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain. 
Pierced  by  the  shafi  of  banded  nations  through; 
Ambition's  life  and  labour   all  w  ere  vain  ; 

He  wears  the  ahat:er'd  links  of  the    world's  broken 
chain. 

XIX. 
Fit  retribution  !  Gaul  may  champ  Ihe  bit 
And  f..am  in  fellers;  —  bu   is  Earth  more  free? 
Did  nations  combat  |o  maKe  One  subniit ; 
Or  league  to  leach  all  kinss  true  sovereignty  ? 
What !  shall  revivins  Thraldom  again  be 
The  palch'd  np  idol  of  enlishien'd  days? 
Shall  «e.  who  struck  'he  Lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  Wolf  homage?  proffering  lowly  gaze 

And  servile  knees  to  thrones  ?    No  ;  jn'oue  before  ye 
prai.-e  ' 

XX. 
If  not,  o'er  one  fallen  ilespol  boast  no  more! 
In  vain  fiir  cheeks  were  fuTOw'd  with  hot  tears 
For  Europe's  flowers  long  rooted  np  before 
The  irampler  of  her  vineyards;  in  vain  years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  blindage,  fears. 
Have  all  been  borne,  and  broken  by  the  accord 
Of  roused-up  millions:  all  that  most  endears 
Glory,  is  when  the  myrtle  wieaihes  a  sword 

Such  as  Harmodius'i  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord. 

XXI. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  hy  night, 

And  Belgium's  ca   ital  liaH  gather'd  ihen 

Her  Beau  y  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 

The  lanips  shone  o'er  fiir  women  and  brave  nien: 


Canto  HI.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


423 


A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluj.tuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  lo  eyes  which  spike  again, 
And  all  Weill  merry  as  a'niarriage-bell :  » 

But  bush  !  bark '.  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 
knell ! 

XXII. 
Did  ye  nof  hear  it  ?  —  No :  't  was  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 
On  with  the  dance  :  let  joy  be  uncontiued  ; 
No  sleep  till  mom,  when  Youth  and  Fle;isure  meet 
.  To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet  — 
But  hark  !  —  th  it  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more. 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  lepeat ; 
And  netter,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before! 

Arm  1  Arm  !  it  is  —  it  is — the  canuou's  opening  roar  ! 
XXIII. 
Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brun-.wick's  fated  cliieflajn  :  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  w  iih  Deaih's  prophetic  ear  ; 
And  when  :hey  smiled  bee  luse  he  deem'd  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  loo  well 
Which  sirelch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 2 
And  lOused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell : 

He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 
XXIV. 
Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gaihering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  leijeated ;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 

Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise ! 
XXV. 
And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed. 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  s«  if  ly  foiming  in  the  ranks  of  w  ir  ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar  ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  th'ong'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 

Or  whispering,  with  «h.te  lips— "The  fje!    They 
come  !  they  come !  " 

XXVI. 
And  wild  and  high  Ihe  "  Cameron's  gathering"  rose  ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes  : — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  ihrills. 
Savage  and  shrill  !     But  with  Ihe  breMh  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
Wi;h  Ihe  fierce  native  dariirg  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 

And  Evan's,  Donald's^  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's 
ears! 

1  On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  it  is  said  that  a 
ball  was  given  at  Brussels. —  [The  popular  error  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellinglon  ha»iiigbeeu  iurprised.  on  the  eve  of 
the  battle  of  Waterloo,  at  a  ball  given  by  the  Duchess  of 
Richmond  at  Brussels,  was  first  ccirrectnl  on  authority,  in 
the  History  of  Napoleon  Buonsparte,  which  farms  a  por- 
ti<jn  of  the '■  Family  Library."  The  Duke  had  received 
inlclligenco  of  Napoleon's  decisive  operations,  and  it  was 
intended  lo  put  off  the  ball ;  but,  on  reflection,  it  seemed 
highly  important  that  the  people  of  Brussels  should  be 
kept  in  ignorance  as  to  the  r?our»i-  of  events,  and  the  Duke 
not  onlT  desired  that  the  ball  shou'd  pr(x;eed,  but  the  ge- 
neral officers  received  his  commands  to  appear  at  it— each 
taking  care  to  quit  the  apartment  n.s  quietly  as  possible  at 
leu  o'clock,  ai:d  proceed  to  join  his  respective  division  en 
rculc]  —  E. 

SThe  father  of  Ihe  Duke  of  Brunswick,  who  fell  at 
Qiialre-bras,  received  his  death-wound  at  Jena. —  E. 

S Sir  Evan  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  Donald,  the 
"fcnile  Lochiel"  of  th<  "forty-five." 


XXVII. 

And  Ardennes*  waves  above  them  lier  green  leaves, 
Dewy  wiih  na'.ure's  lear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  auglit  inanimate  e'er  grieves. 
Over  the  unrelurning  brave,— alas  \ 
Kre  evening  to  be   rodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneith  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 
low. 

XXVIII. 
Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
List  eve  in  Beauiy's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  biouglil  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, —  the  d.iy 
Bittle's  magnificenlly-stern  array  ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
T  he  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  hesp'd  and  pent, 
Rider  and   horse,-  friend,  foe,—  in  one  red   burial 
blent ! 

XXIX. 
Their  praise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps  ihan  mine; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong.s 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song ; 
And  his  was  of  thebravest,  and  when  shower'd 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinird  files  along, 
Even  where  Ihe  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lower'd, 
j  They  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young,  gal- 
lant Howard  ! « 

XXX. 
I     There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee, 
i     And  mine  were  noihing,  had  I  such  to  give; 
But  when  1  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree, 
VVhich  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live, 
And  saw  around  Die  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forlh  her  work  of  gladness  locont.ive. 
With  all  her  reckless  bird-  upon  the  wing, 
I  turii'd   from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not 
bring.  1 


4  The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a  remnant  of 
Ihe  tores!  of  Ardennes,  famous  in  Boiardo's  Orlando,  and 
immortal  in  Shakspeare's  "As  you  like  It."  It  is  also 
celebrated  in  Tacitus,  as  being  the  spot  of  successful  de- 
fence by  Ihe  Germans  against  the  Roman  encroachments. 
I  have  ventured  lo  ailopt  the  name  connected  with  nobler 
associations  than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 

5  See  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.  — E. 

6  "In  the  late  battles,  like  all  the  world,  I  have  lost  a 
connexion --poor  Frederick  Howard,  the  best  of  his  race. 
I  had  little  intercourse  of  laie  years  with  his  family  ;  but 
1  never  saw  or  heard  but  good  of  him."-- -Lord  B.  to  Mr, 
Moore. —  E. 

7  My  guide  from  Mont  Si.  Jean  over  the  field  seemed 
intelligent  aud  accurate.  The  place  where  Major  How- 
ard fell  was  not  far  from  two  tall  and  solitary  trees 
(there  was  a  third  cut  down,  or  shivered  in  the  battle), 
which  stand  a  few  yards  from  each  other  at  a  pathway's 
side.  Beneath  these  he  died  and  was  buried.  The  body 
has  since  been  removed  to  England.  A  small  hollow  for 
Ihe  present  marks  where  it  lay,  but  will  probably  soon  be 
effaced  ;  the  plough  has  been  upon  it,  and  Ihe  grain  is. 
Alter  p'Hntiiig  out  the  different  spots  where  Piclon  and 
other  gallant  men  had  perished;  Ihe  guide  said,  "Here 
Major  Howard  lay  :  I  was  near  him  when  wounded."  I 
told  him  my  relationship,  and  he  seemed  then  still  more 
anxious  to  point  out  Ihe  particular  spot  and  circumstances. 
The  place  is  one  of  the  most  marked  in  Ihe  field,  fmm  the 
peculiarity  of  Ihe  two  trees  above  mentioned.  I  went  on 
horseback  twice  over  the  field,  comparing  it  with  my  re- 
collection of  similar  scenes.  As  a  plain,  Waterloo  seems 
marked  out  for  Ihe  scene  of  some  gre.it  action,  though 
this  may  be  mere  imagination  :  I  have  viev  rd  with  alleu- 
tion  those  of  flalra,  Troy,  Manlinea,  Leuctra,  Chaeronea, 
and  Marathon;  and  Ihe  field  around  MonI  SI.  Jean  and 
Hougoumont  appears  to  want  little  but  a  belter  cause, uxl 
that  undefinable  but  impressive  halo  which  the  lapae  of 


«   4-^4 


H  !I  DF    HAROLDS 


[Cavto  III. 


IFkci  dMM'ii  ihee  fcr  a  tnw  vtele'er  ikM  AM  a 
XXXTlll. 
Ok,  MM*  «r  less  Mmi  ■>••  —  is  k^  «r  knr. 
Now       ""  .---..- 


B«lfM«ni  Ml  ikT  putties*  ywiiioB.  Mr, 


tH«U, 


SaiadK  iitarai  i%  «rii4-wara  hi:nl(MMte  ue  i 
The  %•>«  aarrrre  «ke  cif«iv*  ^Ikt  eirtbn] : 


wl  ikM  Ike  kcaat  wai  kteak.  jTt  bnkcals' Sn  w : 

E«M  as  a  hnfen  Binw.  vkkk  ite  fjtae 
bi  uwttf  fr^wMl  Mri:i|iiiM5:  aai  ataks 

A  ttOBUri  MK^B  oC  «Me  thv  WJ^ 

ne  swe.  aid  jJliU  Ike  Mm.  Ike  MR  it  breaks; 

Aari  IkB  tt*  knit  «iU  4a  v-kick  Ml  tesatas, 


Aid  klMrfie!<>.  «iik  Hs  rfeei^es  san««  Mke% 
Tel  wiOMsoB  ^  aH  Tiilnai  iioM, 
kMiais  M  vMkte  s^«,  far  sack  ikinQS  «e  MMU. 


TitaMref  I 


tan  Ikil  ««■««•<  Fa«  «iU  le>i«  Ike  MSHI 


Tet  well  IkT  m«I  katk  bRnkM  (be  tanMstida 
Wi«  OM  Mtaoekt  JM>«e  pfcJaiKyhi, 
Wkkk,  le  ■<  w^Amb.  c«U>ei«,  ar  de^  p>id% 
Is  «all  aad  *(v«i<r«c4  »  aa  cnaiT. 
Wkea  Ike  «i1me  kee*  of  latRd  3«nol  kaxl  kr, 
Tb  «^tk  aal  Mxk  ikM  dwwUii^  ik««  kM«  a 
WMfc  a  sedate  and  aU-<«dwiK  ei« ; — 
Wkea  FkTMe  fled  ker  sfMiM'aad  fem 


XL, 

Dses;  fcriafl 
I  itceTdi  ttee  M  le*  fur  la  9 


Thai  jwt  kakilaal  aorvB.  wkick  omM  fill— 
>l(aa*irk(irtknKk«:  *«  wat  »■<«  IB  fad.  Ml  9 
Tb  weaar  ii  et«r  «■  ikv  Np  aad  brow. 


Iwir  toSan««r\MB«  4c9Bstei  rrui. 
L&e  IB  Ike  andes  t  f«  Ike 
AH  askcs  ta  Am  tase:  IM 

EsHiieMe  kr  mjrmum,  a 

Sack  kMTs '^jauBl  |<(ws  af  Ufe,— ar. 


Tail  iker  arete  ivniiit 
i     >TBkMa««rrkl(»«««U«n«iBarlcM; 
teRmn        ISakalft  Uprorad  i»lkee,aidaUMckhil«ki»i 

K,Iike9 


Ir,^»Z^  I     TkMhrftfkcnMidelnKaiidfrfiAakML 

^;i2i^  !     Swkw«M«f»Mha*kelf«llB*»wifceia*; 

—  ar  .a>UbenBB       Bm  aca^ Ikeagkb «eR Ike ahys  vkick faiciii 


..•Kk.n.1,.^....  TkefMtt<rhiSif.\sir»»»««ki«ie,Mta«l 

Tv,a«.«,i;k;a-.rrtn^^jr-    1  iS^^tiis^ii^JS.^?:^^^ 

XLIL 
IM  qetel  ho  ijbkI:  hsNKS  na  bell. 
And  l*tw balk  kBM  IkT kkM;  l»«t«iiafim 
AM  M«M  (€  ikeanri  «kick  artD  Ml  4««i 
is  As  <Mra  nnov  !«!«,  k«i  ai^ae 
~  Ike  finiiajc  Meifiaai  ar  fcm  ; 


Tkeir  ckiUieaV  fips  9«nU  cckn  %»,  ani  nr — 
*-  Heae,  vkeae  Ike  sirawi  «Bi%d  uti(«s  4rev, 
Omcoamtrfwmtm  wcie«amM;a«lhal^y  !* 


TTI\L 


il  rrmcfnaa 

Icf  ike»iekrMtt.aiilaruB  1  Of  a«ki  b.1 1*« :  a  few  alike  cow^ 

ffki  MMe  «^cH  »ak  t^e  ftwe-a  fa*.  ;  Fa^  to  k«  vko  bean,  to  all  ska  reer  kore. 
SatRMeiaaillkiMs;  fca«<«*knalr(»bee«ixl,  ^.^ 

T1irlfcnMha«itfllbmlk9M.<rMi«r>«m;  ;  SUO. 

Tvivhm^tn^l^nseastiiazthrm^rtk.-*  i  Tkn  toak«s (ke mdani  arko kaw arde mc 

Ef«atMr  tofc^ssMBelkeMfovaaHM.  1  Fv  nun- cMtasirai :  CMq«p«n  aad  Kiasv 


iXWIU 


Ste  tairttes  at  •k«' itill,  aiBi  ikr  «  BJ  BM« 
Was  M>r  Mve  biaJtad  ■■  toeaVauiA  ikui  i 
TkM  •««  an  Mlkw«.  are  Ike  j««  of  Fjta«, 


rPaaiBCTS  ••■  stl's  ana  *, 
Srfktsas,  Barls,  SSaii 

SThr  9m«l  «mr  «*  S»r*«»^W  «•  fanv  wHt  lar 

k»«MI««aa  n«BanM9«rf>vKaC  »r«r«<di  llwai; 
|nila|i  ani*  «<r  aiiwn  »>  ImBM*  vm«it  •>>••  Are  mum 

rakSr  a»  «■»«■»  ■■  w«  aa  iaA- 
V  nfiir>«r«s  «k3(k  kr  in  avd  t: 


like  r«KM}  •!•<•  Ml  Ike  taiak  ( 
aM>Miia>  to  Mr  «Mai«.ank.  1 


Canto  HI.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


425 


Which  s  ir  too  strongly  the  soul's  s^crft  fpiin^s,        i 
AiiJ  are  IheiineKes  Ihe  fo"U  lo  those  they  fool ; 
Euviei,  yet  hoiv  unenviable:  wh.ilsliii^  ' 

Aie  theirs  !    One  breast  1  «id  i>i>eii  «ere  a  school 
Whiih  would  uule.tcli  iiiaukiuJ  tiie  lust  to  sbiue  or 
rule:  -I 

XLIV. 

Their  brettli  is  agitation,  and  their  life  ! 

A  sioriu  \vhere<iii  they  i  ide,  lo  sink  at  last, 
And  vet  so  nursi-d  and  biicoleil  to  strife,  I 

Thal'slioulJ  their  d  >ys,  survivin<  peiils  past, 
Melt  to  calm  t»ili;hl,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrotv  and  supineness,  and  so  die  ;  ! 

Even  as  a  flame  unfed,  which  runs  lo  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by,  I 

Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 

XLV.  I 

He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops  shall  find 


But  Thon,  exultinc  and  abounding  river ! 
Makir^  tliy  wave-  a  blessins;  as  tliey  [low 
'I'linnigh  banks  whose  be.iuiy  would  ei  dure  forever 
Could  in 'U  but  leave  thy  bilijht  cira  ion  so, 
N'r  It-  f«ir  promise  Iitiii  the  su'f.ice  m  >w 
With  the  >h<rp  scythe  of  contlicl,— tl.en  lo  see 
Thy  valley  of  s»eel  walers,  ueie  lo  know 
Earth  |»ved  like  Heaven  ;  and  to  seem  such  to  me, 
Fveu  now  what  wauls  ihy  stre.\m  ?— that  it  should 
Le  he  be. 

LI. 
A  thousand  battles  have  assail'd  thy  banks. 
But  these  afid  half  their  fame  have  pass'd  away. 
And  Slaughter  heap'd  on  hi?h  his  weltering  ranks; 
Their  very  graves  are  pone,  and  wh^xt  aie  they  ? 
Thy  lide  wash'd  dowu'the  blo.nl  of  yesterday, 
Anil  all  was  slainle-s  and  on  thy  clear  stream 
Glass  d  wi'.h  i's  dancing  light  the  sunny  ray  ; 
But  o'er  the  blacken'd  meniory's  blighting 'di«am 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  cl  'iids  and  snow ;     Thy  waves  would  vaiuly  roll,  all  sweeping  as  tbcT 


He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind, 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  alovt  the  sun  of  glory  glow, 
And  far  bciteath  the  eaith  and  ocean  spread, 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head, 
Aud  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led. 


seem. 


Lll. 


XLVl. 


ill  be 


Away  with  these  !  true  Wisdom's  w< 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  Ihine, 
Maternal  Nature  !  for  «  ho  teems  like  thee. 
Thus  on  the  bmks  of  thy  m<jc»lic  Rhine? 
There  Harold  gizes  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all  beauties ;  st'eams  and  dells. 
Fruit,  fihage,  crag,  woixl.corntield,  mountain,  vine. 
And  chierte'is  castles  breathing  stern  farewells 
From  grey  but  leafy  walls,  where  Ruin  greenly  dwells. 

XLVII. 
And  there  they  staini,  as  stands  a  lofly  mind. 
Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd. 
All  tenaiiile<s,  save  lo  the  crannying  wind, 
l)r  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 
There  w.as  a  day  when  they  were  young  and  proud. 
Banners  on  higli,  and  b»Itle>  pass'd  below  ; 
But  they  who  fought  are  in  a  bloody  shroud. 
And  those  which  wned  are  shretlless  dust  ere  now. 
And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  blow. 


XLVIII. 
Beneath  these  battlements,  within  those 


alls 


Power  dwelt  amidst  her  passions  ;  in  proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  halls, 
lloing  his  evil  w  ill,  nor  less  elale 
Than  mightiwr  hen>es  of  a  Ion»er  dale. 
\Vh\t  want  these  outlaws  «  conquerors  should  have? 
But  Hi-tory's  purchased  |>age  to  call  them  great  ? 
A  wider  spice,  an  ornimenteil  grave  ? 
Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  ilieir  souls  were  full 
as  brave. 

XI.IX. 

In  their  bironial  feuds  and  single  fieMs. 
What  deeds  of  prowess  U'lrecoiMed  died  ! 
And  Love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields. 
With  emblems  well  deviseil  by  amorous  pride. 
Through  a  1  the  mail  of  irtm  lieirts  would  glide; 
But  still  their  fianie  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Keen  contest  and  destiuction  near  allied. 
And  many  a  tower  for  some  f 'ir  mischief  won. 
Saw  the  discolour'd  Rhine  beueath  ils  ruin  run. 


Thus  Harold  inly  said,  and  pass'd  along, 

Yet  ni>t  insensibly  to  all  which  here 

Awoke  the  jocund  birds  to  early  song 

In  glens  which  might  have  made  eveu  exile  dear: 

Though  on  his  brow  were  graven  lines  auslere. 

And  tranquil  sternness  which  had  fa'eu  the  place 

Of  feelings  fierier  far  bu'  less  severe, 

Joy  was  not  alwavs  absent  from  his  I'ace, 

But  o'er  it  in  suchscenes  would  steal  with  transient 
trace. 

LIIL 
Nor  was  all  love  shut  fn->m  him,  though  his  days 
Of  passion  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  coldly  gaze 
On  such  as  smile  upon  us ;  the  heart  must 
Leap  kindiv  back  to  kindness,  though  disgust 
Hath  wean'd  it  from  all  worldlings  :  thus  he  fel'. 
For  there  was  soft  remembi-ance,  and  sweet  trust 
In  one  foi.d  brea-f,  to  which  his  own  would  melt. 

And  ill  its  tenderer  hour  on  that  his  bosom  dwelt, 

LIV. 
And  he  had  learn'd  lo  love, —  I  know  not  why. 
For  this  in  such  as  him  seems  straige  of  mood, — 
The  helpless  lixiks  of  blooming  infancy. 
Even  in  its  earliest  nurture  ;  what  subdued, 
To  change  like  this,  a  mind  so  far  imbued 
With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  IhwIs  to  know  ; 
But  thus  it  was;  and  though  in  solitude 
Small  power  the  nipp'd  att'ections  have  to  grow. 
In  him  this  glow'd  when  all  beside  had  ceased  to  glow, 

LV. 
And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said. 
Which  unto  his  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 
1°han  the  church  links  withal  ;  and,  though  unwed, 
That  love  was  pure,  and,  far  above  disgufse. 
Had  stood  (he  test  of  mortal  enmities 
S'ill  undivided,  and  cemented  more 
By  peril,  dreuled  moM  in  female  eyes: 
liiit  ihis  was  tirm.  and  fiaim  a  foreign  shore 
Well  to  that  heart  might  his  these  absent  greetings 
pour  I 

1. 
The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels  a 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waie.-^  bro.adly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 


'     a  Tlie  (■sRtle  of  Prachcnfcls  • 

'  mil  of  "thr  Srvrn  Mmintaiiis 

1  "Wlial  wants  that  ltn»»e  ttiat  a  king  »hontd  liaveT"    it    in    in    ruins,  ami  connoclril 

was   King   Jam««'s    quvslioo   nu    mrelinii  Johnny  Arm-    dllinns.     II  is  Ihr  fir«t  in  virr 

•trong  and  his  follower*  it   full  accoulremenU.— 8e«  Iha    hut  oh  the  opposite  sidsof 

Ballad.  facing  it,  ttr   the    remain 


B  on  the  hi^heitt  ram- 
ver  the  Rhmr  banks: 
h  some  singular  tra- 
1  ihe  road  (mm  Hono, 
It  rivrr:  on  this  bank,  nearly 
of  another,  ealleil  the  JewV* 


CIJILDE   HAROLD'S 


[Camto  III. 


And  hills  all  rich  wi'h  bloss-^m'd  trees. 
And  ticlds  which  pr  mise  cnrii  aDd  wioe, 
And  -ca'ler'd  cities  crOMDiiu;  these. 
Whose  far  white  walls  al  i.j  them  shine, 
Kaie  strew  'd  a  scene,  w  hicli  I  should  see 
Wiih  double  joy  wen  thou  with  nje.> 


And  peasant  cirls,  n  ith  deep-blue  eyes, 
And  bands  which  offer  early  Cowers, 
Walk  sniilins  o'er  Ibis  pira'dise ; 
Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Tbroush  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  erey, 
Aiid  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers," 
And  noble  arch  in  proi,d  decav,' 
L<ook  o'er  ihis  vile  of  viiit^se-bowers  ; 
But  one  Ihiii'  want  ihe^c  banks  of  Rhine,— 
Thy  gentle  band  to  clasp  in  mine  : 


I  send  the  lilse?  giren  to  me  ; 
Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 
I  knnw-  that  they  must  withered  be, 
But  yet  reject  iliem  not  a-  such  ; 
For  I  have  cherish 'd  them  as  dear. 
Because  ihey  yet  may  meet  thiise  eye, 
And  guide  I'hy  sou!  to  mire  even  here. 
When  ihou  beholdV>t  them  droopinj  nigh. 
And  kiHjWst  them  gathe;'d  by  It*  Rhine, 
And  offer'd  from  my  heart  to'lbiDe ! 


The  river  nobly  foiims  and  flows. 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  cround, 

And  all  its  Ihouand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  varviig  round: 

The  haughtiest  breast  i's'  w  [sh  might  bound 

Through  life  to  d»»ell  delighted  here; 

Nor  cr.uld  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear. 

Could  thy  deir  eyes  in  following  mine 

Still  swee.ea  more  these  banks  of  Bfaine ! 

LVI. 
By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground. 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyraniid. 
Crowning  the  sununr  of  the  verdant  moand  ; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid, 
Our  enemy's  —  but  let  not  ihit  forbid 
Honour  to  Marceau  ;  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  the  roush  soldier's  lid, 
Lamentirs  and  yet  envyins  such  a  doom. 
Falling  for  France^  whose'  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 

LVir. 
Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  vonng  career, — 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends  and  foes; 
And  filly  may  the  strnger  lingerms  here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose; 
For  he  was  Freedom's  champion,  one  of  those. 
The  few  in  numtier,  who  had  not  o'ersiept 
The  charter  lo  chastise  which  she  bestows 
On  such  as  wield  her  weapons ;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  bis  soul,  aud   thus  men  o'er  him 
trept.9 


L\T1L 
Here  Ebrenbreitstein,^  with  her  shatter'd  wall 
Bl^ck  with  Ibe  miner's  blast,  upon  her  heisht 
Tet  shows  of  ivhat  she  was,  w  hen  shell  and  bail 
RebouLding  idly  on  her  streng  h  did  light  : 

"     A  tower  nf  victory-  :  fp.Di  »  hei  ce  the  dight 
Of  bffled  foes  was  wa  chd  al  ng  the  plain: 
Bu'  Peace  destroy 'd  w  hal  War  could  never  blirh', 
And  hid  those  proud  ro.-ifs  bare  lo  Sunimer's  rain — 

On  w  hich  the  irtm  shower  for  years  had  poured  ia  rain 

I  LIX. 

Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine  '.    How  Ici^  delighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way: 
■      Thit*  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
j      Or  lonely  Contemplation  thus  mieht  stray  ; 

And  could  the  cea-eless  vultures  cease  to  prey 
I      On  self-condecjoing  bosoms,  it  were  here, 
'      Where  Nature,  nor  too  sombre  r.or  too  gay, 
'      Wild  but  Wit  rude,  awful  yet  not  austere. 
Is  to  the  mellow  Earth  as  Aulumu  to  the  year. 

LX. 

Adieu  to  Ihee  again  !  a  vain  adieu  I 
There  on  te  no  farewell  to  scene  lite  tbioe; 
The  mind  is  colnur'd  by  thy  every  hue ; 
And  if  reluctantly  the  eyes  resign 
Their  cherish'd  gaze  upon  thee,  lovely  Rhine  !  * 
'T  is  with  the  thankful  glance  of  parung  praise; 
More  mighty  spots  may'rise  —  more  glaring  shine, 
But  noneun'ile  in  one  at'aching  maze 
The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft, —  the' glories  of  old  dayi, 

LXI. 

The  nezlisenlly  grand,  Ibe  fruitful  blnom 
Of  coming  ripeness,  the  white  city's  sheen. 
The  rolling  stream,  the  precipice's  slonm. 
The  forest's  gron  th.  and  Gothic  walls  between. 
The  w  ild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets  been 
In  mockery  of  man  s  art ;  and  these  wi:hal 
A  race  of  fices  happy  as  the  scene. 
Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all, 
S'iU  springinz  o'er  thy  banks,  though  Empires  Dear 
them  falL 


Cntle,  and  a  hrje  rrttm.  cominmioraliTe  of  the  monler 
of  a  chief  by  his  bmther.  The  oomtKT  of  rastlrs  and 
eilies  al.>D«  the  coaree  of  the  Rhine  on  b-ilh  sides  i»  very 
treat,  anl  their  sitaalioiui  renurisablv  branlifi,!. 

I  Thes?  Terse*  were  written  en  the  hacks  of  the  Rhine, 
in  May.  The  orlffioal  pem-illios  ia  be^ire  tut.  It  i«t  need- 
leas  to  ntwerre,  that  they  were  sddrrswd  by  (he  poet  to 
bis  SiKter.  —  K. 

3  The  Rinoament  nf  the  y-^onc  aod  lamecied  General 
Xamaa.  (killrtl  by  a  r.fle  ball  at  A'llerkirrbeo.r.o  ihe  L.i.t 
day  of  the  fnorth  year  of  the  Freorh  repubjr)  slill  re- 
j  maioi  a*  dc^=«Til)ed.  The  in^ri['ti'iiw  t>a  hi^  monnmeot 
'  ue  rather  tno  Vnos,  ud  not  rrqairrd:  his  name  was 
eaoc^fa  ;  Fraore  ad«tred,  and  her  eoeoiie*  adoitrcd ;  both 
,  wtf.:  wrer  bim.     His  funeral  «s*  atlecded  by  the  genenla 


and  detachmeoH  fmm  hctb  armies.  In  the  nme  frare 
General  Hocbe  is  interred,  a  gallaDt  man  also  in  erery 
Eense  nf  the  word :  bat  tbooeb  be  dislinsnisbed  himaelf 
greatly  in  balt^  ks  hzd  not  Ibe  i>ood  fbrtnoe  to  die  there  ; 
bis  death  was  attended  by  suspirioca  of  |u;soa.  A  sepa- 
rate monnmeDt  (not  nver  his  body,  which  is  btiried  by 
Marresu':-)  is  'ai^ed  fur  him  near  Ardercacb,  nfpisiie  to 
which  one  nf  bis  most  memorable  expl-its  was  performed, 
in  Ibmwice  a  bridge  to  an  islaiid  on  the  Rhine.  The 
shape  a£d  style  are  dSerenl  fmm  that  nf  Matrean*s,  and 
the  inscription  more  simple  and  pleasin;;: — '*Tbe  Army 
of  the  Sambre  and  Mecse  lo  its  Ccmmaoder-iD-Cbief 
Horbe."  This  is  all,  and  as  it  sboold  b'.  Horte  was 
esteemed  amoof  Ibe  first  of  France's  earlier  generals,  be- 
.  fare  Boooaparie  mnonpolised  her  triomphs.  He  was  U:e 
'  destined  commander  of  ttie  invading  army  of  Ireland. 

SKfirenbreitstein,  i.  e.  -Ihe  bmad  stnne  of  hoaoar,*  ' 
one  at  the  stmDee>i  fortresses  in  Eompe,  was  dismaalled 
sod  blown  up  by  Ihe  French  at  the  trnce  of  Lt-oben.  It 
had  been,  and  conld  nniy  be,  redoced  by  bmioe  ot  Im- 
cbery.  It  yielded  to  the  turmer,  a'ded  by  surprise.  Af- 
ter haviBa  seen  Ibe  foriiEcstioos  of  Gibraltar  and  Malta, 
it  did  ooi  much  strike  by  mmparicnn:  bat  Ibe  sitaaliOB 
is  commaodrD?.  Geoeral  Marceaa  br^ie^ed  it  in  vaio  for 
s^me  time,  and  I  slept  in  a  ro^m  where  I  was  shown  a 
wiucr.w  at  which  he  is  said  to  have  beei,  stacdiog  dbBtrr- 
ins  the  progress  cf  the  sirtte  by  moculigbt,  when  a  kail 
strock  icnmrdiaiely  below  it. 

40n  lakin?  Hockheim.lh-e  AostrsiH.  in  one  part  nflbe 
ecsasemeot.  gnt  lo  the  brow  of  the  hill,  whence  tbey  lud 
their  arel  view  of  the  Rhine.  They  instantly  halted  — 
iK>t  a  pan  was  fir>^  —  014  a  voice  heard  :  but  they  stood 
paiin:>  ou  ti  e  river  with  lh<>se  feeliugs  uhirh  the  events 
of  Ihe  last  fifteen  years  at  nnce  called  up.  Priooe 
Schwanienberg  rode  up  10  kr;ow  Ihe  cause  of  Ihis  fcdde« 
slop ;  Iben  they  cave  three  cheers,  rushed  after  the  eaeay, 
and  drove  them  into  tbe  water.  —  E. 


Canto  III.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


427 


LXIl. 
But  these  recede.     Above  me  are  the  Alps, 
'I'he  palaces  of  N^'ure.  ivhnse  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  ihcir  snowy  scalps, 
And  throned  Eleriiiry  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  f  )riiis  and  f:>ll3 
The  avala  che —  the  thunderbolt  of  snow  ! 
All  that  expinds  the  spiiil,  yet  appals, 
G  liber  around  these  sunimiis,  as  to  show 

How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vaitiraan 
below. 

LXHI. 
But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I  dare  to  scan, 
There  is  a  sjiot  should  not  be  pass'd  in  vain, — 
Moral  !  the  proud,  the  patriot  field!  where  man 
May  gaze  on  srii  'Stiy  Irnphies  of  the  slain, 
Nor  blush  for  those  who  conqner'd  on  that  plain  ; 
Here  Burgundy  bequeath'd  his  tonibless  host, 
A  bony  heap,  through  ages  lo  reniiin, 
The^l^elves  their  monument ;  —  the  Stygian  coast 

Unsepulchred  ihey  roani"d,  and  bhriek'd  each  wander 
ing  ghost. 1 

LXIV. 
While  Waterloo  with  Cannae's  carnage  vies, 
Morat  and  Marathon  Iwi.i  names  shall  -tand  j 
They  were  true  Glory's  stainless  victories. 
Won  by  the  unaiiibi  ious  heail  and  hind 
Of  a  proud,  brotherly,  and  civic  band. 
All  uubou:;ht  champions  in  no  prince  y  cause 
Of  vice-entail'd  Coirup'ion  ;  they  no  land 
Doom'd  to  bewail  the  blasphemy  of  laws 

Making  kings'  rights  divine,  by  some  Draconic  clause. 

LXV. 
By  a  lone  wall  a  lonelier  c^ilumn  rears 
A  grey  and  grief-w  orn  aspect  of  old  days  ; 
'Tis  the  last  remnant  of  the  wreck  of  years, 
And  liK)ks  as  w  ilh  the  wildbewilder'd  gaze 
Of  one  to  si  ne  c  mver'ed  by  amaze. 
Yet  still  with  consciousness  ;  and  Ihere  it  stands 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays, 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  humm  hands, 
LevelI'd  Aveuticum,^  hath  strew'd  her  subject  lands. 

Lxvr. 

And  there  —  oh  !  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name  !  — 
Julia  —  the  daughter,  the  devoted  —  gave 
Her  youth  to  Heiven  ;  her  heart,  beneath  a  claim 
Nearest  to  Heaven's,  broke  o  er  a  father's  grave. 
Justice  is  sworn  'gainst  tears,  and  hers  would  crave 
The  life  she  lived  in  ;  but  the  judje  was  just. 
And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could  not  save. 
Their  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a  bust, 
And  held  within  their  uru  one  mind,  one  heart,  one 
dust.3 


ITlie  chapel  is  destrnypd,  and  the  pyramid  of  bnnea  di- 
lainivhed  l<>  a  KinaM  number  by  the  B'irguiidian  legion  in 
the  >ierviie  of  France:  who  anxiously  eflficed  this  record 
of  tlieir  anrealnrs'  less  surressni!  invasions.  A  few  litill 
remain,  notwithstanding  thi-  pains  taken  by  the  Burt;i>n- 
diaiin  for  age«  (all  wh"  passed  that  way  rrm'ivin?  a  bore 
to  tlieir  <.wn  country),  and  tile  less  justitiabie  larcenies  of 
the  Swi«.i  poslilmns,  who  carried  them  olT  to  sell  for 
knife-handles;  a  purpose  for  which  llie  wtii'eiiess  imbibed 
by  the  bleaching  of  years  had  lendered  them  in  great 
request.  Of  these  reliis  I  ventured  to  bring  away  as 
much  as  may  hive  made  a  quirler  of  a  hen.  f<ir  which 
the  sole  ex-Lse  is.  tl^at  if  I  hal  not,  Ihe  n^xt  passer-by 
might  have  perveiled  them  t-t  worse  tj^ts  than  the  care- 
ful piesi-rvati'-n  whiih  I  intend  fgr  them. 

2  Aventiciim,  mar  Morat.  was  the  Roman  capital  of 
Helve'ia,  where  Avenches  now  stand-. 

8  Julia  Alpinul:!,  a  young  Aveniian  priestess,  died  soon 
after  a  vain  endeavour  to  cave  her  father,  condemned  to 
death  as  a  traitor  by  Aulus  Cecina.  Her  epitaph  was  dis- 
covered many  years  ago;  —  it  is  ihns: — -Julia  Alpinula  : 
Hie  jaieo.  Infelicis  palris  infelix  proles.  DraeAvenliae 
Sicerdoa.  Exorare  palris  nerem  non  polui  :  Male  mori 
iD  fatis  ille  erat.  Vixi  ant!cs  XXIII."— 1  know  of  no 
Stumao  composition  so  affecting  as  this,  nor  a  history  of 


But  these  are  deeds  which  should  not  pass  away. 
And  iiaine^  that  must  not  wither,  though  Ihe  earth 
Forgers  her  em,  ires  w  iih  a  just  decav. 
The  enslavers   and  the  enslaved,  their  death  and 

birth; 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe. 
And  from  its  immirtaliiy  look  forth 
In  Ihe  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow,« 
Imperishably  pure  beyond  all  things  below. 

Lxvin. 

Lake  Leman  woos  me  w  ilh  its  crystal  face, 
The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 
Its  clear  deplh  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hue; 
There  is  loo  much  of  ni>n  here,  to  look  through 
Wi  h  a  fi:  mind  the  might  which  1  behold  ; 
But  soon  in  me  shall  Lonelinfes  renew 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cheiish'd  than  of  old. 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  peund  me  in  their 

fold. 

LXIX. 
To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hale,  mankind : 
All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  (oil, 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  ii  overboil 
In  :lie  hoi  throng,  w here  we  become  the  spoil 
Of  our  infeciinn,  till  loo  la'e  and  long 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  wi;h  the  coil. 
In  wrenched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong 
'Midst  a  conleotious  world,  striving  where  none  are 

strong. 

LXX. 
There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our  years 
In  falal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears. 
And  colour  tilings  lo  come  with  hues  of  Night; 
The  race  of  life'becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness  :  on  the  sea, 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite. 
But  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity 
Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchor'd  ne'er 

shall  be. 

LXXI. 
Is  it  rot  belter,  then,  lo  be  alone. 
And  love  Earlh  only  for  is  earthly  sake? 
By  Ihe  blue  rushing  of  Ihe  arrowy  Rhone,* 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake. 
Which  feeds  il  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  frowaid  infant  her  own  care. 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake  ;  — 
Is  il  not  better  thus  our  lives  lo  wear. 
Than  join  Ihe  crushing  crowd,  doom'd  to  inflict  or 

bear? 

LXX  1 1. 
I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  lliat  around  me  ;  and  to  me 
High  mountains  are  a  feeling,  but  Ihe  hum 
Of  human  cities  lorlure  :  I  can  see 


deeper  interest.  These  are  the  names  and  actions  which 
oueht  not  to  perish,  and  to  which  we  turn  with  a  true 
and  healthy  lendernesM,  from  Ihe  wretched  and  triittering 
detail  of  a  confused  mass  of  comioests  and  battles,  with 
which  the  mind  is  roused  for  a  time  lo  a  fal*e  and  fever-  ^ 
ish  sympathy,  from  whence  il  recurs  at  lenglh  with  all 
the  nausea  consequent  on  such  intoxication. 

4  This  IS  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blan.  (June  Sd, 
1816),  which  evrn  at  this  distant e  da7zlcs  mine.— (July 
20lh.)  1  this  day  ohserveil  for  some  lime  the  distinct  re- 
flection of  M'nlBlanc  and  Mont  Argentiere  in  the  crilit 
of  the  lake,  which  1  was  crrssirg  in  my  boat  ;  the  dia- 
tance  of  these  miuutaics  from  their  mirror  U  silty 
miles. 

5  The  colour  of  Ihe  Rhone  at  Geneva  is  blue,  to  a  d« 
of  tint  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled  in  water,  wl 
fresh,  except  in  the  Mediterranean  and  Archii«U((k 


428 


CIIILDE   HAROLD'S 


[Canto  III. 


Koiliin?  to  loathe  in  nntiire,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluc  ani  in  a  fleshly  chain, 
Cla»5"(l  among  creatuies.  wtjeii  .he  soul  can  flee, 
And  wiih  the  sky,  the  peik,   he  heaving  plain 
Of  ocean,  or  tbe  stars,  mingle,  and  not  iii  vain. 

LXXIII. 
And  thus  I  am  absorb'd,  and  this  is  life; 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  pist, 
As  on  a  iJace  of  a^riny  and  >irife, 
Where,  for  some  sin,  to  sorrow  1  was  cast, 
To  act  and  ^ull'er,  but  remount  at  last 
With  a  fresh  pinion  ;  which  I  feel  to  spring. 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous,  as   he  blast 
Which  it  would' cope  with,  on  delighted  wing, 

Sjurjinglheclaycold  bonds  which  round  our  being 
cling. 

LXXIV, 
And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all  free 
From  what  it  h  iles  in  this  degraded  foim, 
Reft  of  i's  carml  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Eiis'ent  hippier  in  the  fly  and  worm,— 
When  elements  to  elements  confo  r.i, 
And  dust  is  as  ii  should  be,  shall  I  m.t 
Feel  all  1  see,  les-  dizzlii  g,  but  more  warm  i 
The  bodiless  thought  ?  Hie  Spirit  of  each  spot  ? 

Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  limes  the  immortal  lot  ? 

LXXV. 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a  part 
Of  me  and  of  my  .-oul,  a^-  1  of  Ihem  ? 
Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  niv  he  irt 
With  a  pure  passion?  should  I  not  contemn 
All  objects,  if  compared  with  lhese?aud  stem 
A  tide  of  suUeriniT,  rather  th  m  forego 
Such  feelinas  for  the  hird  and  worldly  phlegm 
Of  those  whose  ejes  are  only  turn'd  below. 

Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with   thoughts  which  dare 
not  glow  ? 

LXXVI. 
But  this  is  not  my  theme;  and  I  return 
To  that  which  is'immediale.  and  require 
Those  who  tind  contemplation  in  the  urn, 
To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all  lire, 
A  native  of  the  land  h  here  I  respire 
The  clear  air  for  a  while  — a  pa-sing  guest, 
Where  he  became  a  being,—  w  hose  desire 
Was  to  be  glorious  ;  'I  was  a  foolish  quest, 

The  which  to  gain  and  keep,  he  sacrificed  all  rest. 

LXXVII. 
Here  the  self-lorturine  sophist,  wild  Rousseau,! 
The  apostle  of  affliction,  he  who  threw 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched  :  yet  he  knew 
How  to  make  madness  beautiful,  and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  though's  a  heavenly  hue 
Of  words.like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  past 
The  eyes,  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  and  fast. 

LXXVIII 
His  love  was  passion's  essence  —  a?  a  tree 
On  fire  by  ligh'ning:  wiih  ethereil  flnnie 
Kicdled  he  was.  and  bias  ed  ;  for  to  be 
1  hus,  and  enamour'd,  were  in  him  the  same. 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  livins  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  ri^e  upon  our  dieams, 
B-jl  of  ideal  bemty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erflowinj  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  dis  emper'd  though  it  seems. 


LXXIX. 

This  breathed  itself  'o  life  in  Julie,  l.hit 
liuCbled  her  with  all  Itnl  's  wild  and  sweet; 
Tins  hallow'd,  loo.  the  memor  Lie  kissl* 
Which  every  morn  his  levei'd  lip  woi:ld  greet. 
From  hers,  who  but  "  I'l.  (iiend>hi|>  his  would  meet ; 
But  to  that  gentle  touch,  llirougli  brain  and  breast 
Flash'd  the  ihrili'd  v|iirii's  love-devoiiring  heat; 
lu  that  absorbing  sigh  i)erchance  moie  blest 
Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  seek  posseit. 

LXXX. 

His  life  was  one  long  war  w  ith  self-sought  foes, 
Or  friends  by  him  self-banish'd  ;  for  his  mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion's  sane  mry,  and  chose, 
For  is  own  cruel  sacrifice,  the  kind 
'Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  strange  and  blind. 
But  he  was  phrensied,—  wherefore,  «  ho  may  know  ? 
Since  cause  might  be  which  skill  could  never  find; 
But  he  was  phrensied  b>  disease  or  woe, 
To  that  worst  pitch  of  all,  which  wears  a  rcascsing 
show. 

LXXXI. 

For  then  he  was  inspired,  and  from  him  came, 
As  from  the  Fylhi  in's  mystic  cave  of  yore, 
Those  or icles  which  set  the  world  in  fiame. 
Nor  ceased  to  burn  till  kingdoms  were  no  more: 
Did  he  not  this  for  France?  which  lay  before 
Bow'd  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years? 
Broken  and  trembling  to  the  yoke  she  bore, 
'I'ill  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers. 

Roused  up  to  too  much  wrath,  w  hich  follows  o'ergrown 
fears  ? 

LXXXII. 
They  made  themselves  a  fearful  monument! 
The  wreck  of  old  opinions-  things  which  grew, 
Breathed  fiom  the  birth  of  time:  the  veil  'hey  rent, 
And  w  hat  behind  it  lay,  all  earth  shall  view. 
But  good  with  ill  they  also  overthrew, 
Leaving  but  ruins,  w  herewith  lo  rebuild 
ITpoii  the  same  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  and  thrones,  which  the  simehour  refiU'd, 

As  heretofore,  because  ambition  was  self-xvill'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured  ! 
Mankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made  it  felt. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigour,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another;  pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  her  once  natural  charities.     But  they. 
Who  in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had  dwelt. 
They  were  not  eagles  nourish'd  with  the  day  ; 
What  marvel  then,  at  times,  if  they  mistook  their  prey  ? 

Lxxxn'. 

What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  w  hich  disfigures  it ;  and  they  who  war 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquished, 

bear 
Silence,  but  not  submission  :  in  his  lair 
Fix'd  Passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  for  years  ;  none  need  despair: 
It  came,  it  comelh,  and  will  come,— the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive  —  in  mxe.  we  shall  be  slower. 


traversfd    all  Ro 


span's   eroMiid 
ik  to  a  (Irert-e  II 


2Thifi  refers  fo  the  accrunt  in  hiB  "Cnnfre«ions"nr  hi» 
paaiiion  for  Ihe  Comtesse  d'Hoiidflot  (the  mixtress  of  St. 
L:;nilii;rl),  and  his  long  walk  every  mnrnioi;,  for  llie  sake 
of  I  lie    single    kiss   whi'h  was    Ihe  common  oalutation  of 

h  the    Frenih  m  quaiiilance.     RnuKseau's  description  of  his  feel. 

I  ran-     ings  nn  this  ocrasinn  mav  be  consulered  as  the  most  pa«- 


aod  Vevay,  and  Ihe  Chateau  de  Chillon.  are  plaiei 
which  I  shall  say  little  ;  because  all  I  roiild  say  must 
•iurt  of  the  impressions  they  stamp."--  B.  Lette.rs.- 


n«,  thai  ever  kindled  into  woids; 
of  felt,  from  their  very  fone,  to  1 
'all    lineation  :  a  painting  can  givt 


on  and  expression  of  love  | 
which.  Biter  all,  must  ^  > 
!  ioadeqnate  lo  Ihe  de- 
DO  sufficient  idea  o/  lb* 


Ganto  IIl.J 


PILGRIMAGE, 


429 


LXXXV. 

Clear,  pUcid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake, 
Wi;h  111  ^ild  world  I  dwell  in,  is  a  lliirig 
Which  Wi-i.s  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earil'  !  troubltd  waters  for  a  purer  sp  ing. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wiii» 
To  wafi  me  trom  distraction  ;  once  1  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  Sis:er's  voice  repioved. 

That  1  with  stern  deliglits  should   e'er  have  been  so 
moved. 

LXXXVI. 
It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Tliy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Piecipilou>ly  steep;  and  drawing  neir. 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  liom  the  shore. 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  ihe  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 

Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-uighl  carol  more : 

LXXXVII. 
He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  611  ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  fron\  nut  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floalins  whisper  on  the  hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  sai  light  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues.* 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye  stars !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven ! 

If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 

Of  men  and  empires, — 't  is  to  be  forgiven, 

That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great. 

Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  s  ate, 

And  claim  a  kindied  with  you  ;  for  )e  are 

A  beiuty  and  a  mystery,  arid  create 

In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 

That  fortune,  fame,  power,  lite,  have  named   them- 
selves a  star. 

LXXXIX. 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still  —  though  not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  loo  deep :  — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still  :  From  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  mountain-coast, 
All  i."  concentered  in  a  life  intense, 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
Bill  halh  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 

Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

XC. 
Tlien  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  w  here  we  are  least  alone  ; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt, 
And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone. 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm 
Like  to  t>c  fabled  CyinereaS  tone. 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty  ;  — 't  would  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  barm. 

XCI. 
Not  vainly  did  Ihe  earlv  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  |  ck 
Of  eartho'ergazing  mountains,'^  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwall'd  temple,  there  to  seek 

I  During  Lord  Byrnn's  stay  in  Switzerland,  he  took  up 
hig  residenre  at  tlie  CampagneDindali,  in  the  village  of 
Colinny.  It  "lands  nt  tlie  tup  nf  a  rapidly  descending  vini-- 
yard;  llie  windows  commanJing.  rue  way,  a  noble  view 
i>f  ttie  lake  snd  nf  Geneva  :  the  other,  up  llie  lake.  Every 
pveniiiR,  the  pnet  emharked  on  the  lake  ;  and  to  the  feel- 
inga  created  by  these  excursioDB  we  owe  these  delightful 
•tanzan.—  E. 

'iSee  Appendix,  note  [F]. 


The  Spirit,  in  whose  honour  shrines  are  weak, 
Upreai'd  of  human  hands.     Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol  duellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
Wi'h  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  a«d  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  pray'r ! 

XCII. 
The  sky  is  changed  !  —  and  such  a  change  !    Oh 

night. 
And  stoim,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  d.ark  eye  in  woman  !     Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder  !     No'  from  one  lone  cloud, 
Bill  eve  y  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misly  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  w  ho  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

XCIII. 
And  this  is  in  the  night :  —  Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, —  | 

A  portion  of  Ihe  tempest  and  nf  thee  !  3 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea. 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  ihe  earth  ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black,— and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  ninunlain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

XCIV. 
Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  be- 

tween 
Heighs  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That   they   can   meet    no    more,   though    broken- 
hearted ; 
Though   in  their  souls,   which    thus    each   other 

ihwarled. 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 
Which   blighted   their  life's  bloom,  and  then  de- 
parted :  — 
Itself  expired,  but  learing  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters, —  war  within  themselves  to  wage. 
XCV. 
Now,  where  Ihe  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  slorins  hath  ta'en  his  stand : 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play. 
And  fling  their  thunderbolis  from  hand  lo  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around  ;  of  all  Ihe  band. 
The  brightest  through  the,e  parted  hills  halh  fork'd 
Hi^  lightnings,— as  if  he  did  nndeisland. 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desola'i  m  work'd. 
There  the   hot   shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein 
lurk'd. 

XCVL 
Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings!  ye! 
With  night,  and  clonds,  ai.d  thunder,  and  a  soul. 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  Ihe  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  wh  '.t  in  me  is  sleepless, —  if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests !  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ve  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles  some  high  neslf 

XCVII. 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  no  .v 
That  which  is  most  within  me,— could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  ihus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek. 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe—  into  o>ie  word. 
And  that  one  word  w  ere  Lightning,  1  would  speak  ; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  arid  die  unheard. 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

SThe  thunder-storm  tn  which  these  'ines  refer  ocrnrred 
on  the  ]3lh  of  June.  Ifl6,  at  miiln.elil  I  have  seen, 
among  the  Acroceraunian  mountains  uf  Uhimari,  seven) 
more  terrible,  but  none  more  beautiful.  I 


430 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


[Cahto  III. 


XCVIII. 
The  morn  's  up  again,  I  he  dewy  morn, 
With  bieith  all  incense,  and  wiih  cheek  nil  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  plajful  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  e^irth  conlain'd  no  "lonib, — 
And  glowing  into  day  :  "e  may  resume 
The  niarcli  of  our  ei:istence  :  ;ind  thus  I, 
Siill  on  Ihy  shores,  fair  Lenian  !  may  find  loom 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  ponder'd  fittingly. 


XCIX. 

Clarens  !  sweet  Clarens,  birth-plnce  of  deep  Love  ! 
Thine  ait  is  the  young  breath  of  passiona'e thought; 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  Love  ;  the  snows  above 
The  very  Glaciers  have  his  colours  caught. 
And  sun-set  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly  :  the  rocks. 
The  permanent  crng^,  tell  hereof  Love,  who  sought 
In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks. 

Which  itir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  woos, 
then  mocks. 

C. 
Clarens  !  by  heavenly  feel  thy  p:iths  are  trod, — 
Undying  Love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  which  the  steps  .ire  mnuutains  ;   w  here  the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  and  light, —  so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  nlme 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest ;  o'er  the  Ho«er 
His  eye  is  spirkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown. 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender  power 

Passes  the  sirensth  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate 
hour.l 

CL 
AH  things  are  here  of  Aim  ;  from  the  black  pines, 
Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  lisieneth,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  piih  downward  to  the  shore, 
Where  the  bow'd  waters  meet  him,  and  adore, 
Kissing  his  feet  with  murmurs ;  and  the  wood, 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  hoar. 
But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy.  stands  where  it  stood, 

Oflfering  to  him,  and  his,  a  populous  solitude. 

cn. 

A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds. 
And  fairy-form'd  and  inany-colnur'd  things. 
Who  worship  him  with  mics  more  sweet  ihan  words, 
And  innocen  ly  open  their  glad  winjs. 
Fearless  and  full  of  life  :  the  gush  of  springs, 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend. 
Mingling,  and  made  by  Love,  unto  one  mighty  end. 

cin. 

He  who  hath  InveJ  not,  here  would  learn  that  lore. 
And  make  his  heart  a  spirit ;  he  who  knows 
That  lender  mystery,  will  love  the  more, 
For  this  is  Love's  recess,  where  vain  men's  woes, 
And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  him  far  from 

those, 
For  't  is  his  nature  to  advance  or  die  ; 
He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 
Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity  ! 

CIV. 
'T  was  not  for  fiction  chose  Rou«seau  (his  spot, 
Peoplins  it  with  affections  ;  but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind's  purified  beings  ;  't  was  the  ground 
Whc:re  early  Love  his  Psyche's  zone  unbound. 
And  hallow'd  it  with  loveliness:   'I  is  lone. 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound. 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness ;  here  the  Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have  rear'd  a 
throne. 


I  CV. 

'     Lausanne!  and  Ferney  I  ye  have  been  the  abodes 
Of  names  which  unto  yoi'i  bequeath'd  a  name  ;« 
Mortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  dangerous  roads, 
A  path  t'l  perpe  uity  of  f  .me  : 
I     '1  hey  were  gi-jamic  minds,  and  their  steep  aim 
!      VVas,  Ti  an  like,  on  d  iring  doubts  to  pile 
I     Thoughts  which  should  call  down  thunder,  and  the 
I  fl.nie 

Of  Heaven,  asain  assail'd,  if  Heaven  the  while 
Of  man  and  man's  research  could  deign  do  more  than 
smile. 

CVL 
The  one  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a  child, 
Most  mutable  in  wishes,  but  in  mind, 
A  wit  as  varinus, —  gay,  grave,  sage,  or  wild, — 
Historian,  bard,  philosopher,  combined; 
He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind, 
The  Froteus  of  their  talents  :  But  his  own 
Breathed  most  in  ridicule,—  w  liich,  as  the  wind, 
Blew  where  ii  listed,  laying  all  things  prone, — 
Now  to  o'erlhrow  a  fool,  and  now  to  shake  a  tbrone. 

CVIL 

The  other,  deep  and  slow,  exhausting  thought. 

And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  year, 

In  meditation  dwell,  with  learning  wrought, 

And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe. 

Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer; 

'J'lie  lord  of  irony, —  that  master-spell, 

Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  from 

fear. 
And  doom'd  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  Hell, 
Which  answers  to  alt  doubts  so  eloquently  well. 

CVIII. 

Yet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes,—  for  by  them, 
If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid  ; 
It  is  not  ours  to  judge,—  far  le  s  condemn  ; 
The  hour  must  come  when  such  things  shall  be  made 
Known  unto  all, —  or  hope  and  dread  allay'd 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow, —  in  the  dust. 
Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  lie  decay'd; 
And  when  it  shall  revi 
'Twill  be  to  be  forgiven, 

CIX. 
But  let  me  quit  man's  works,  again  to  read 
His  Maker's,  spread  around  me,  and  suspend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I  feed. 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  \v  ithoui  end. 
The  clouds  abnve  me  loathe  while  Alps  tend. 
And  I  must  pierce  them,  and  survey  whate'er 
May  be  permilted,  as  my  steps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  region,  where 
The  earth  lo  her  embrace  compels  the  powers  of  air. 

ex. 

Italia  !  too,  Italia  .'  looking  on  thee. 
Full  Hashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages. 
Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  wen  thee. 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages 
Who  glorify  Ihy  consecrated  pages; 
Thou  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires;  still, 
The  fount  at  which  the  panting  mind  assuages 
Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quaffing  there  her  fill. 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's  imperial  biL 

CXL 

Thus  far  have  I  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renew'd  vvilh  no  kind  auspices:  —  to  feel 
We  are  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  what  we  should  be,—  and  lo  sleel 
The  heart  against  itself;  and  lo  conceal, 
Wilh  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  aught,— 
Passion  or  feeling,  purpose,  gief,  or  zeal, — 
Which  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought, 
Is  a  stern  task  of  soul :  —  No  matter,—  it  is  taught. 


,  as  IS  our  trust, 
•  suffer  what  is  just. 


1  Bee  Appendix,  note  [OJ. 


3  Voltaire  and  Oibboo. 


Canto  HI.J 


PILGRIMAGE. 


431 


CXII. 

And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into  song, 
It  may  be  tliatthey  are  a  harmless  wile, — 
The  colouring  of  the  scenes  which  Heet  along, 
Which  I  would  seize,  in  passing,  to  beguile 
My  breast,  or  ihat  of  others,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth, —  but  I  am  not 
So  young  as  to  regard  men's  frown  or  smile, 
As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot ; 
1  stood  and  stand  alone, —  reniember'd  or  forgot. 

CXIII. 
I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me; 
I  have  not  fiatler'd  its  ranK  brealh,  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  p  itient  knee, — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles,— nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo ;  in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such  ;  1  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them  ;  in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts   which   were  not  their  thoughts,  and 
still  could. 
Had  I  not  filed  >■  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

CXIV. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me,^ 
But  let  us  part  f:iir  foes  ;  I  do  believe, 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  thiigs,— hopes  which  will  not 

deceive, 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing:  1  would  also  deem 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve  ;  2 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem, — 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream. 

CXV. 
My  d^.ughfer !  with  thy  name  this  song  begun  — 
My  daughter  !  with  thy  name  thus  much  shall  end— 
I  see  thee  not  —  I  hear  thee  not, —  but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapt  in  thee ;  thou  art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  yean  extend  : 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  should'st  behold, 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions  blend, 
And  reach  into  thy  heart,—  when  mine  is  cold, — 
A  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  father's  mould. 

CXVI. 
To  aid  thy  mind's  developement,— to  watch 
Thy  dawn  of  little  joy<  —  to  At  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growtl   -  to  view  thee  catch 
Knowledge  of  objects, —  wonders  yet  to  thee! 
To  hold  thee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee. 
And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  parent's  kiss, — 
This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for  me; 
Yet  this  was  in  my  nature  :  —  as  it  is, 
I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  something  like  to  this. 

CXVII. 

Yet,  though  dull  Hale  as  duty  should  be  taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me;  though  my  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  spell  still  fraught 
Wi)h  desolation,— and  a  broken  claim; 
Though  the  grave  closed  between  us,— 't  were  (ihe 

same, 
I  know  th«t  thou  wilt  love  nie;  though  to  drain 
My  blood  from  out  thy  being  were  an  aim, 
And  an  attainment,— all  would  be  in  vain, — 
Still  thou  would'st  love  me,  still  that  more  than  life 

retain. 

CXVIII. 
The  child  of  love,—  though  born  in  bitterness.. 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion.     Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements, —  and  ihine  no  les* 
As  yet  such  are  around  thee,—  but  thy  fire 


ohall  be  more  temper'd,  and  thy  hope  far  higher. 
Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers  !     O'er  the  sea, 
And  from  the  mountains  where  I  now  respire, 
Fain  would  1  waft  such  ble^sing  upon  thee, 
As,  with  a  sigh,  I  deem  thou  mighi'sl  lia\e  been  lomel* 


CANTO   THE    FOURTH. 


Visto  ho  Toscaua,  Lombardia,  Romagna. 

Quel  Monte  chedividf,  e  qurl  ihe  serra 

Italia,  e  un  marc  e  1'  allro,  ctie  la  bagna. 

Artoslo,  Satira  iii. 


■  It  hP  tlius 


For  Banquo'b  issue  have  I  JiUd  my  mind."— Macbeth. 

a  tt  is  said  by  Rochefourault,  that  "there  is  nlwayi) 
something  in  the  misfortunes  of  men's  best  frieods  not 
dibpleasing  to  them." 


JOHN    HOBHOUSE,    ESa.    A.M.  F.R.S. 

4-c.  SfC.  4-c. 

Venice,  J^-nuary  2,  1818. 
My  dear  Hobhouse, 

After  an  interval  of  eight  years  between  the  com- 
position of  the  first  and  last  can  os  of  Childe  Harold, 
the  conclusion  of  the  poem  is  about  to  be  submitted  to 
the  public.  In  parting  with  so  old  a  friend,  it  is  not 
extraordinary  that  1  should  recur  to  one  siill  older  and 
better,— 10  one  who  has  beheld  the  birih  and  death  of 
the  other,  and  to  whom  I  am  far  more  indeb  ed  for 
the  social  advantages  of  an  enlijhlened  Mendship, 
than  —  though  not  ungrateful  —  I'can,  or  could  be,  to 
Childe  Harold,  for  any^public  favour  reflected  through 
the  poem  on  the  poet,—  to  one,  whom  I  have  known 
long,  and  accompanied  far,  whom  I  have  found  wake- 
ful over  my  sickness  and  kind  in  my  sorrow,  glad  in 
my  prosperity  and  firm  in  my  adversity,  tiue  in  cojn- 
j  sei  and  trusty  in  peril, —  to  a  friend  often  tried  and 
never  found  wanting  ;  —  to  yourself. 

In  so  doing,  I  recur  from  fiction  to  truth  ;  and  in 
dedicating  to  you  in  its  complete,  or  at  least  concluded 
slate,  a  poetical  woik  which  is  the  longest,  the  most 
thoughtful  and  comprehensive  of  my  compositions,  I 
wii-h  to  do  honour  to  myself  by  the  record  of  many 
years'  intimacy  with  a  man  of  learning,  of  talent,  of 
steadiness,  and  of  honour.  II  is  not  for  minds  like 
ours  to  give  or  to  receive  fJatteiy  ;  yet  the  praises  of 
sincerity  have  ever  been  permitted  to  the  voice  of 
friendship ;  and  it  is  not  for  you,  nor  even  for  others, 
but  to  relieve  a  heart  which  has  not  elsewhere,  or 
lately,  been  so  much  accustomed  to  the  encounter  of 
good-will  as  to  withstand  the  sh^ck  firmly,  that  I  thus 
attempt  to  commemorate  yoursjrod  qualities,  or  rather 
the  advantages  which  I  have  derived  from  their  ex- 
ertion. Even  the  recurrence  of  the  date  of  this  letter, 
the  anniversary  of  the  most  unfortunate  day  of  my 
past  existence,  but  which  cannot  poison  my  future 
I  while  I  retain  the  resource  of  your  friendship,  and  of 
my  own  faculties,  will  henceforth  have  a  more  agree- 
able recollection  for  both,  inasmuch  as  it  will  remind 
I  us  of  this  my  attempt  to  thank  you  for  an  indefatiga- 
ble regard,  such  as  few  men  have  experienced,  and  no 
one  cuuld  experience  without  thinking  better  of  his 
species  and  of  himself. 

It  has  been  our  fortune  to  traverse  together,  at  vari- 
ous periods,  the  countries  of  chivalry,  history,  and 
fable — Spain,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Italy;  and 
what  Athens  and  Cnnstanlinople  were  to  usa  few  years 
ago,  Venice  and  Rome  have  been  more  recently.  The 
poem  also,  or  the  pilgrim,  or  both,  have  accompanied 
me  from  first  to  last ;  and  perhaps  it  may  be  a  pardon- 
able vanity  which  induces  me  to  leCectwith  conipla- 
cency  on  a  composition  which  in  some  degree  connects 
me  with  the  spot  where  it  was  produced,  and  the  ob- 
jects it  wouMftindescribe  ;  and  however  unworthy 
it  may  be^^dMiilMfrnse  niasical  and  memorable 
abode.s,  however  short  it  may  fall  of  our  distant  con- 


s'-Byron,  July  4th,  leie.  Diodatl."— MS.— E. 


432 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S 


[CaxNto  IV. 


ceptions  and  immediate  impressions,  yei  as  a  mark  of ! 
respect  lor  whai  is  venerable,  and  if  leelinfr  for  what  } 
is  glorious,  il  has  been  to  me  a  source  of  pleasure  in  I 
the  production,  and  I  part  u  ith  it  \vi:h  a  kind  of  re- 
gre,  winch  1  hardly  suspected  that  events  could  have  ' 
left  me  for  imaginary  objects.  | 

With  regard  to  llie  conduct  of  the  last  canto,  there 
will  he  found  less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of  the 
preceding,  and  that  little  slightly,  if  at  all,  separated 
from  the  author  speaking  in  his  own  person.  The 
fact  is,  that  I  had  become  weary  of  drawing  a  line  j 
vihich  everv  one  seemed  determined  not  to  perceive: 
like  the  Chinese  in  Goldsmith's  "Citien  of  the] 
VVorlJ,"  whom  nobody  wwuld  believe  to  be  a  Chi-  ' 
nese,  it  was  in  vain  that  I  a>serled,  and  imagined  that 
I  h  id  drawn,  a  dl.-linrtion  between  Ihe  author  and  the 
pilgiim  ;  and  the  very  anxiety  to  preset  ve  this  differ- 
ence, and  disappointment  at  finding  it  unav.iiling,  so 
far  crushed  my  ett'orts  in  the  ciaiipo.-.i'ion,  that  1  de- 
termined to  abandon  it  altogether  —  and  have  done  so. 
The  opinions  which  have  been,  or  may  be,  formed  on 
that  subject,  are  jiou'  a  matter  of  indifieience :  the 
work  is  li!  depend  on  itself,  and  not  on  the  writer; 
and  the  author,  who  has  no  resources  in  his  own  mind 
beyond  the  repuiaion,  transient  or  permanent,  which 
is  to  arise  from  his  literary  efforts,  deserves  the  fate  of 
authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  canto  it  was  my  in- 
tention, either  in  the  text  or  in  the  notes,  to  have 
touched  upon  the  pie^ent  state  of  Italian  literature, 
and  perhaps  of  manners.  But  the  text,  within  the 
limits  I  proposed,  I  soon  fiund  hardly  sufficient  for  the 
labyrinth  of  exlerniil  objects,  and  the  consequent  re- 
flections ;  and  tor  the  whole  of  the  notes,  excepting  a 
few  of  Ihe  shortest,  I  am  indeb'ed  to  youi  self,  and 
these  were  necessarily  limited  to  the  elucidation  of 
the  text. 

It  is  also  a  delicate,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to 
dissert  upon  Ihe  literature  and  manners  of  a  nation  so 
disjimil.ir;  and  requires  an  attention  and  impartiality 
which  would  induce  us— though  pet  haps  no  inattentive 
observers,  nor  ignorant  of  the  language  or  customs  of 
the  people  amongst  whom  we  have  receniy  abode — to 
distrust,  or  at  least  defer  our  judgment,  and  more  nar- 
rowly examine  our  informa  ion.  Thcsia  c  f  literary, 
as  well  as  political  pirty,  ppeirs  to  run,  or  to  have 
run,  so  high,  that  for  a  stranger  to  steer  impartially 
between  them  is  next  to  impossible.  Il  n^ay  be 
I  enough,  then,  at  least  for  my  purpose,  to  quote  from 
!  their  own  beiuliful  language— "Mi  pare  che  in  un 
paese  tutto  poetico,  che  vanta  la  lingua  la  piu  nobile 
I  ed  insienie  la  piu  dolce,  tutte  tutte  le  vie  diver  e^i  pos- 
sono  tentare,  e  che  sinche  la  patri  i  di  Alfieri  e  di 
Monti  non  ha  perduto  I'anlic"  valore,  in  tutte  essa 
dovrebbe  essere  la  prima  "  Italy  has  great  names  s'ill 
—  Canova,  Monti,  Ugo  Foscolo,  "Pindemonte,  Viscnnti, 
Morelli,  Cicognara.  Albri  zi,  Mezzophai.ti,  Mai,  Mus- 
toxidi,  Aglietti,  and  Vncci,  will  secure  to  Ihe  present 
generation  an  honourable  place  in  most  of  the  depart- 
ments of  Art,  Science,  and  Belles  Leltres  ;  and  in 
some  'he  very  highest:  Europe  —  the  World  — has 
but  one  Canova. 

It  has  been  snniewhere  said  by  Alfieri,  that  "La 
piania  uomo  nasce  piu  rohusta  in  Italia  che  in  qualun- 
qne  altra  terra  —  e  che  gli  stessi  atroci  deliiti  che  vi  si 
coBiraettoni)  ne  sonn  una  prova  "  Without  subscribing 
to  the  latter  part  of  his  proposi'ion,  a  dangerous  dic- 
trine,  the  truth  of  which  may  be  disputed  on  better 
grounds,  namely,  that  the  liali ins  are  in  no  respect 
iBore  ferncioui  'han  their  neighbours,  that  man  must 
be  wilfully  blind,  or  ignorantly  heedless,  who  is  not 
s'ruck  with  the  ex  raordinary  capacity  of  this  people, 
or,  if  such  a  word  be  admisible,  their  cnpalnlitiea, 
the  facility  of  their  acquisitions,  the  rapidity  of  their 
conceptions,  the  fi  e  of  their  genius,  their  sense  of 
bf-auty,  and,  amidst  all  the  disadvantiges  of  rejieated 
revolutions,  the  desolation  of  battles,  and  Ihe  despair 
of  ages,  their  still  unquenched  ''  longing  after  immor- 
laiity,"— the  immortality  of  independence.  And  «  hen 
we  ourselves,  in  riding  round   the  walls  of  Rome, 


heard  the  simple  lament  of  the  labourers'  chorui, 
"Roma  1  Rimi  '.  Roma  :  Roma  non  e  piu  come  era 
piinia,"  it  was  difficult  not  to  contrast  this  melancholy 
diige  with  the  bacchanal  roar  of  the  songs  of  exulta- 
tion still  yelled  fr.m  he  London  taverns,  over  the  car- 
nage of  Mont  St.  Jean,  ai.d  the  betrayal  of  Genoa,  of 
I  aly,  of  France,  and  of  the  world,'  by  men  whose 
conduc'  you  jourself  have  exjiosed  in  a  work  woilhy 
of  the  better  days  of  our  history.     For  me, — 

"  Non  movero  mai  corda 


What  Italy  has  gained  by  the  late  transfer  of  nations, 
it  were  useless  for  Englishnien  to'inquire,  till  it  be- 
comes ascertained  that  England  has  acquired  some- 
thing more  than  a  permanent  army  and  a  suspended 
Habeas  Corpus  ;  it  u  enough  for  them  ^o  look  at  home. 
For  what  they  have  done  abroad,  and  especially  in  the 
South,  "Verily  they  ivilt  have  their  leward,"  and  at 
no  very  distant  period. 

Wishing  you,  my  dear  Hobhouse,  a  safe  and  agree- 
able rcurn  to  that  country  whose  real  welfare  can  be 
dearer  to  none  than  to  yourself,  I  dedicate  to  you  this 
poem  in  its  completed  state;  and  repeat  once  more 
bow  tiuly  I  .'m  ever, 

Vour  obliged 

And  affectionate  friend, 

BYRON. 


I. 

I  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  j » 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand  : 
I  saw  from  out  Ihe  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand  : 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  e.xpand 
Around  n!e,'and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 
O'er  (he  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
I.ook'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 

Wheie  Venice  sate  in  slate,  thioued  on  her  hundred 
isles ! 

II. 
She  looks  a  sea  Cybele.  fresh  from  ocean,9 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  nnjeslic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  wafers  and  their  powers: 
And  such  she  was;  —  her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
From  sjioils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Pour'd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  spaikling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 

Monarchs  partook,  and  deem'd  their  dignity  increased. 

in. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more,3 
And  silent  rows  Ihe  songless  gondolier; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore. 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  Ihe  ear; 
Those  davs  are  gone  —  but'  Beauty  still  is  here. 
Stales  fall,  arts  fade  — but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity. 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy  ! 

IV. 
But  unto  us  she  bath  s  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  aiTay 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above"  the  dogeless  city's  vanisli'd  sway  j 


ISce  Appendix,  "Historical  Noteg,"  So.  I. 

2  SaliellicuB,  describing  ilie  appi-arance  o'  Venice,  has 
made  wc  of  tile  ab'i»e  ima?e,  whu  li  would  not  be  puetl<al 
were  it  not  true.  — "Quo  tit  «t  qui  superne  nrlimi  rtn- 
templelur.  turrilam  telluria  imagiueni  medio  Ocraoo  fi#a- 
ratam  86  pulet  inspicere." 

3  See  Aipendix,  "  Hietorical  Notes,"  No.  II. 


Canto  IV.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


433 


Ours  IS  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  RiMlio  ;  Shylnck  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  can  not  be  swept  or  worn  away  — 
The  keysiones  of  tlie  arch  !  though  all  were  o'er, 
For  us  re|:eopled  were  the  solitary  shore 

V. 

The  bfings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay  ; 
Essentially  immortal,  (hey  crea'e 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence  :  that  which  Fate 
Prohibits  to  duil  life,  in  this  our  stale 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spiri's  supplied, 
First  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hale; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 
Aod  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the  void. 

VI, 

Such  is  the  refuge  of  our  youth  and  age. 
The  first  from  H"pe,  the  I  ist  from  Vacancy  ; 
And  this  worn  feeling  peoples  many  a  P'ge, 
And,  may  be,  that  which  grows  benea'h  mine  eye- 
Yet  there  are  things  vvhose  strong  reality 
Oushines  our  faiiy-land  ;  in  shape  and  hues 
More  beautiful  than  our  fantastic  sky, 
And  the  strange  constellations  which  the  Muse 
O'er  her  wild  universe  is  skilful  to  diffuse: 

VII. 

I  saw  or  dre.im'd  of  such,— but  let  them  go, — 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappcar'd  likedreams; 
And  wha'soe'er  they  were  —  are  now  but  so  : 
I  could  replace  them  if  I  would  ;  slill  teems 
My  mind  with  many  a  form  which  aptly  seems 
Such  as  I  sought  for,  and  at  moments  found  ; 
Let  these  too  go  —  for  waking  Reason  deems 
Such  overweening  phanlnsies  unsound, 
Aud  other  voices  speak,  and  oilier  sights  surround. 

VIII. 
I  've  taught  me  other  tongues  —  and  in  strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a  stranger;  to  the  mind 
Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise; 
Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make," nor  hard  to  find 
A  country  with  —  ay,  or  without  mankind  ; 
Yet  was  I  born  where  men  are  proud  to  be, 
Not  without  cause  ;  and  should  I  leive  behind 
The  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  and  free, 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea, 

IX. 
Perhaps  I  loved  it  well  ;  and  should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine. 
My  spirit  shall  resume  it  —  if  we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuary.     I  twine 
My  hopes  of  being  remember'd  in  my  line 
With  my  land's  language  :  if  loo  fond  and  far 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope  incline, — 
If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are. 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion  bar 

X. 

My  name  from  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honour'd  by  the  nations  —  let  it  be  — 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  lofiier  head  ! 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitiph  on  me  — 
"  Sparta  halli  many  a  worthier  son  than  he."l 
Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need  ; 
I      The  thorns  which  I  have  reap'd  are  of  the  tree 
I      1  planted,  —  they  have  torn  me.  —  and  I  bleed  : 
I  I  should  have  known  what  fruit  would   spiing  from 
such  a  seed. 

XI. 
The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord  ; 
;      And,  annual  niarriaee  now  no  more  renevv'd, 
I      The  Bucentiur  lies  rotting  unrcslored. 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood  ! 

1  The  answer  of  the  mother  of  Brasidas,  the  Laredemn- 
Diaa  general,  I)  tt>:  8traugera  who  praiaetl  the  memory  of 
her «ou. 


St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood  • 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  wither'd  power. 
Over  the  proud  1  lace  where  an  Emperor  sued. 
And  mnnnchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequall'd  dower 

XII. 

The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns  —  • 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt ; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities  ;  nations  melt 
From  power's  hish  pinnacle,  w hen  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a  w  hile,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosen'd  from  the  mountain's  belt  j 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo!  * 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 

XIII. 
Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass. 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun  ; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass  ?  * 
Are  they  not  bridled  F —  Venice,  Io-,t  and  won. 
Her  thirieen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose  ! 
Belter  be  whelm'd  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  des  ruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes. 

From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 
XIV. 
In  youth  she  was  all  glory,— a  new  Tyre, — 
Her  very  by-word  sprung  from  victory. 
The  "  Planter  of  the  Lion,"  8  which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea ; 
Thnujh  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free, 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Oltomite ; 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Cnndia  !    Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fiahl ! 

For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight. 

XV. 

Sta'ues  of  glass  —  all  shiver'd  —  the  long  file 
Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust ; 
But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  pila 
Bepeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust, 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger  :  empty  halls. 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals,'* 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o  er  Venice'  lovc-iy  wall*. 

XVI. 
When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  felter'd  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war, 
Redemp'ion  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse,8 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar  : 
See  :  as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the  car 
Of  the  o'ermaster'd  victor  slops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands  —  his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  i's  belt  —  he  lei  ds  his  captive's  chains, 

And   bids  him   thank  the  bard  for  freedom  and  his 
strains, 

XVII. 
Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine. 
Were  all  thy  proud  hi-loric  deeds  forgot. 
Thy  choral  memorv  of  the  Bard  divine. 
Thy  love  of  Ta:-so,'shnuid  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  lies  thee  to  thy  tyrants;  and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations,—  most  of  all, 
Albion  !  to  thee  :  the  Ocean  queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children  ;  in  the  fall 

Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  wall. 


'Historical  Notes,' 


III. 


SThat  is,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  the  iiandard  t>t  the  !•• 
public,  which  in  (he  origin  of  the  word  I'aiitaluoa  —  ViaA* 
lairrne,  Pantalon,  Paulalnnn. 
7 See  Arremlix,  "  Histori  al  Nolce,"  No.  VII, 
8Tlie  slory  is  told  in  Plulcrch's  Life  ofNiciafc 


37 


'28 


434 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


[Canto  IvTil 


XV  in. 

I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood  —  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  cily  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  waier  columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart ; 
And  Otnay,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Sliakspeare's  art,> 
Had  slamp'd  her  image  In  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  ihus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 
Thau  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show 

XIX, 

I  can  repeople  wi'h  the  past  —  and  of 

The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought. 

And  meditation  chaslen'd  down,  enough  ; 

And  more,  it  may  be,  than  1  h"|  ed  or  sought ; 

And  of  the  happiest  momens  which  were  wrought 

Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 

From  thee,  fair  Venice  1  have  their  colours  caught: 

There  are  some  feelings  Time  can  not  benumb. 

Nor  Tortuie  shake,  or  mine  would  Doiv  be  cold  and 
dumb. 

XX. 
But  from  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grow  a 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least  sheller'd  rocks, 
Rooted  in  Ijnrrenness,  where  nought  below 
Of  soil  supports  them  'gainst  the  Alpine  shocks 
Of  eddying  storms  ;  yet  springs  ti.e  trunk,  and  mocks 
The  howling  tempest,  till  its  height  and  frame 
Are  worthy  of  the  mountains  from  whose  blocks 
Of  bleak,  grey  granite  into  life  it  came. 

And  grew  a  giant  tree  ; — the  mind  may  grow  the  same. 

XXI. 

Existence  may  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sutferance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms:  mute 
The  cnmel  labours  with  the  heaviest  load, 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence, —  not  bestovv'd 
In  vain  should  such  example  be;  if  they, 
Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savaje  mood, 
Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nobler  clay 
May  temper  it  to  bear,  —  it  is  but  for  a  day. 

XXII. 

All  suffering  doth  destroy,  or  is  destroy'd, 
Even  by  the  sufferer;  and,  in  each  event. 
Ends:— Some,  with  hope  replenish'd  and  rebuoy'd, 
Return  to  whence  they  came—  with  like  iritent, 
And  weave  their  web  again;  some,  bow'd  and  bent. 
Wax  erey  and  ghastly,  withering  ere  their  time, 
And  perish  with  ihe  reed  on  which  they  leant; 
Some  seek  devotion,  toil,  war,  good  or  crime. 
According  as  their  souls  were  form'd  to  sink  or  climb. 

XXIII. 

But  ever  and  anon  of  griefs  subdued 
There  comes  a  token  like  a  scorpion's  sting. 
Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued  ; 
And  slight  wittial  may  be  the  things  wliicli  bring 
Back  on  ihe  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  for  ever  :  it  may  be  a  sound  — 
A  tone  of  music  —  summer's  eve  —  or  spring  — 
A  flower— the  wind  — the  ocean  — which  shall 

Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewilh  we  are  darkly 
bound  ; 

XXIV. 
And  how  and  ivhy  we  know  not.  nor  cm  trace 
Home  to  its  cloud  this  lightning  of  the  mind, 
But  feel  the  shock  renew'd,  nor  can  efface 
The  blight  and  blackening  which  it  leaves  behind, 

IVen 


Which  out  of  things  familiar,  undesigu'd. 
When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  up  to  view 
The  spectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind, 
The  cold— the  ch-mged— perchance  the  de.ad- anew, 

The  n.ourn'd,  the  loved,  the  lost  —  too  many!  —  yet 
how  few  • 

XXV, 
But  my  soul  wanders ;  I  demand  it  back 
To  medita'e  amongst  decay,  and  stand 
A  ruin  amidst  ruins  ;  there  to  track 
Fall'n  slates  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  was  the  mightiest  in  its  old  command, 
And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
1  he  master-mould  of  Nature's  heavenly  hand, 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  free, 

The  beautiful,  the  b-'ave  — the  lords  of  earth  and  sea, 

XXVI, 

The  commonwealth  of  kings.  Ihe  men  of  Rome  ! 
And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy  ! 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,' Ihe  home 
Of  all  Art  vielJs.  and  Nature  can  decree; 
Even  in  thy  desert,  what  is  like  to  thee  ? 
Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  was'e 
More  rich  than  olher  climes'  fertility  ; 
Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With'an  immaculate  charm  which  can  not  be  defaced. 

XXVII. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her  —  a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue'  Friuli's  mountains  ;  Heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colours  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 
Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity; 
While,  on  the  olher  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  Ihe  azure  air — an  island  of  the  blest  !• 

XXVIII. 
A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ;  but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brigh'ly,  and  remains 
Koll'd  o'er  the  peak  of  Ihe  far  Rhaelian  hill. 
As  Day  and  Night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaim'.]  her  order;  —  gfntly  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose, 

Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd  within 
It  glows, 

XXIX. 
Fill'd  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  a&r, 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters;  all  its  hues, 
From  Ihe  rich  sunset  to  Ihe  rising  star. 
Their  magical  variety  ditiuse: 
And  now  they  chanse  ;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains ;  parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  colour  as  it  gasps  awav, 

The  last  still  loveliest,  till— 't  is  gone— and  all  is  grey. 

XXX. 

There  is  a  tomb  in  Arqua  ;  —  rear'd  in  air, 
Pillir'd  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover  :  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes. 
The  pilgrims  of  his  geniu<.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  languaee,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dullvoke  of  her  liarbaric  foes  : 
Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name* 
With  his  melodious  teais,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 


Prpservpd:  Mvsteries  of  Urt'.lphn;  the  GhosN  S.The  abi>Ti 

Seer,  or  .\rmirn  an;  tile  Merchant  of  Venice;  Othello.  geraled  I.)  Ih< 

2  Tannen  is  ttie  plural  of  tanne,  a  species  nf  fir  peculiar  Hsli^n  cky.  y 

to    the  Alps,    wlii.h    (inly  thrive*    In    very    nxky    paiH,  [inealioii   nf  ; 

where  warceiy  soil  buIBc  ient  for  its  nourishment  can  be  [emplaled 


description  may  seem  fantaslical  or  tXBf 
e  who  have  never  seen  an  Oriental  or  ti 
t  it  is  but  a  liteial  anil  hardly  sufBcieiit  de" 
I  Aufust  evening  (Ihe  eiehlcenlh),  as  eon- 
one  nf  many  rides  along    the    tKinka   of  tbl 


ppots  it  grows  I 


greater  height  than    Brenla.  near  La  MIra. 

1      4  See  .\ppendix,  ••  Histrrical  Notes,"  Mo.  VIII. 


Canto  IV.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


435I' 


XXXI. 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died  ;  1 
The  iiiouii(.iin-villa»e  where  his  l.iferdays 
Went  down  (he  vale  of  years  ;  and  't  is  their  pride— 
An  honest  pride  —  and  lei  it  be  their  piaise, 
To  offer  10  (he  pa-sin;  stranger's  §^ze 
His  mansion  and  his  >epulchie  ;  both  pbia 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feelin»  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Thau  if  a  pyramid  form'd  his  monumeulal  fane. 

XXXII. 

And  'he  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 
For  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt, 
And  sOH»ht  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  decay'd 
In  the  deep  umbraje  nf  a  green  hills  shade, 
Which  shows  a  distant  pro  peci  f.ir  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  displ.iv'd. 
For  they  can  lure  no  further ;  and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday, 

XXXIII. 

Developing  the  mountains,  leives,  and  flowers, 
And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-by. 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  'he  sauntering  hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  10  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  monlity. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
'T  is  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die  ; 
It  hath  no  flatterers  ;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid  ;  alone— man  with  his  God  must  strive : 

XXXIV. 

Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impair  a 
The  strength  of  belter  thoughts,  and  seek  their  prey 
In  mela'  choly  b'>soms,  such  as  were 
Of  nioodv  texture  frnm  their  earliest  day, 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  disri.ay, 
Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
Which  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  away  ; 
Making  the  sun  like  blood,  the  earth  a  tomb, 
The  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  murkier  gloom. 

XXX^'. 

FerniTa !  in  thy  wide  and  grass-gro^vn  streets, 
Whi'ise  symmetry  was  not  for  solitude, 
There  seems  as  't  were  a  curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  former  sovereigns,  and  ihe  aniique  b  ood 
Of  Es'e,  «  hich  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  within  thy  walls,  and  was  nf  yore 
Patron  or  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impeli'd.  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which  Danie's  brow  alone  had  worn  before. 

XXX\'I. 

And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame. 
Hark  to  his  s'rain  !  and'  then  survey  his  cell ! 
And  see  how  dearly  earn'd  Torqnato's  fame, 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell : 
The  miserable  despot  could  not  quell 
The  insul  ed  miud  he  sought  to  quench,  and  blend 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plunged  it.     Glory  without  end 
Scaller'U  the  clouds  away  —  and  on  that  name  attend 

XXXVII. 

The  tears  and  praise-  nf  all  time;  whiie  thine 
Would  rot  in  is  oblivion  —  in  Ihe  sink 
Of  worthless  dust,  which  from  'liy  boasted  line 
Is  shaken  into  no.hing  ;  but  the  link 


ISee  Appendix, 
STtie  •Irugple  ia  tc  \hr  (, 
betttr  tlioughli 


•  with  :ur  beUrr  tiioughln.     Sal: 
tot   Ihe    temptatido  of  uur  Saviour.     . 
ioliD  Lijcke  prereried  the  prcwoce  of  1 


Hiaturieal  .V  il.s."  Sn.  IX. 

:  thr  full  an  likrly  to  br  »il>)  drmnns 


Thou  forniesf  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  itjy  poor  malice,  naming  ihee  uiih  scorn  — 
Alfonso  :  how  Ihy  ducal  jiageants  shrink 
From  thee:  if  in' another  station  b)rn. 
Scarce  fit  to  be  Ihe  stave  of  him  thou  mad'st  to  mouro  : 

XXXVJII. 

Thou',  form'd  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die 
Even  as  the  beasts  Ihat  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a  more  splendid  trough  and  w  ider  sty  : 
Ht  !  w  ith  a  glory  round  his  furrow'd  brow, 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now, 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  Ihe  Ciuscan  quiie, 
And  Boileiu,  w  h.ise  rash  envy  could  allow  3 
No  s:rain  which  shamed  his  country's  creaking  lyre, 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth  —  monotony  i.T  wire! 

XXXIX. 

Teace  to  Torquato's  injured  shade  !  't  was  Lis 
In  life  and  death  to  be  Hie  mark  where  Wrong 
Aim'd  wi  h  her  poison'd  arrows ;  but  to  miss. 
Oh,  victor  unsurpiss'd  in  modern  song ! 
Each  year  brings  forth  it*  millinns  ;  but  how  long 
The  liiie  of  generations  shall  roll  on. 
And  not  Ihe  whole  combined  and  countless  throng 
Compose  a  mind  like  thine?  though  all  in  one 
Condensed  their  scatler'd  rays,  Ibey  would  not  form 
a  sun. 

XL. 

Great  as  thou  art,  yet  pirallel'd  by  those, 
Thy  countrymen,  before  thee  born  to  shine, 
The  Bards  of  Hell  and  Chivalry  :  first  rose 
The  Tuscan  father':  comedy  divine  ; 
Then,  not  unequal  to  the  Florentine, 
The  southern  Scott,  the  minstrel  who  call'd  forth 
A  new  creation  with  his  magic  line, 
And,  like  the  Arioslo  of  the  Norlh, 
Sang  iadye-ioveand  war,  romance  and  knightly  worth. 

XLI. 
The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto's  bust  * 
The  iron  crown  of  laurel's  niimick'd  leaves; 
Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust. 
For  the  true  laurel-wreath  which  Giory  weaves 
Is  of  the  tiee  no  boll  of  thunder  cleaves,* 
And  the  false  semblance  but  disgraced  his  brow  j 
Yet  still,  if  fondly  Superslition  grieves. 
Know,  that  the  lightning  -anclihes  below  S 
Whate'er  it  strikes ;  —  yon  head  is  doubly  sacred  oow. 

XLII. 
Italia  !  oh  Italia  !  thou  "ho  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  jiasf. 
On  thy  sweel  brow  js  soirow  plough  d  bv  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 
Oh,  God !  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakednevs 
J-ess  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  cfuldst  cl  im 
Thy  righ  ,  and  awe  Ihe  mbbers  back,  who  press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  Ihy  distress; 

XLIII. 
Then  niighl'st  thou  more  appal ;  or,  less  desired, 
Pe  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplnred 
For  thy  destructive  charms ;  then,  still  untired. 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour'd 
Down  Ihe  deep  Alps  ;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many  naiion'd  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff  binod  and  water  ;  nor  ilie  stranger's  sword 
Be   hy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquish'd,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe.' 

'      3,  4,  5,  e  See  AppenJix,  "Hislorii-al    Notes,"  No*.  X. 

XI.  XII.  XIH. 
TThe  two   stanzas  xlii.  ami  xliii.  are,  witli  the  exec^ 

li"n  nf  a  line  or  twn,  a  translation  "f  tlie  famous  sonnet  of 
I  Filiiaia;  — •'  Italia,  Italia,  O  tu  cui  fee  la  Borte  !  " 


'4» 


CillLDE  BA 


'uii^  riiu-  iu  IB  . 


-r  l»  Mil—  OWf<^  <N1'  J>»rBNM»g  <r- 


r'     Air  4imi»  wrw  la  »i 


.TS-vtaipi 


««ii»*f; 


'  AtuMiim  Jo 


Canto  IV.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


437 


Their  bones,  diilinguith'd  from  our  coDiuion  clay 
In  dcslh  It  life  ?    Are  Ihey  rciolved  to  dint, 
And  hive  their  coumry'i  riiaible»  nought  to  iny  ? 
Could  ttol  her  quarriet  furni-h  forth  one  bust  i 
Did  Ibey  not  in  her  breant  their  iilial  earlh  entrutt  ? 

i.vir. 

Unijrateful  Florenre  '.  Dante  iilrep*  afir,» 
Like  8ci|>io,  buried  by  the  u|)briidiiiit  »hore  :  t 
Thy  faciion*.  in  their  wor»e  Ih^ii  civil  wnr, 
prf)»cribed  the  l/ard  who**  name  for  evermore 
Tluir  children  »  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  agr»  ;  and  the  crown 
Which  FeirarchS  laureate  b  ow  supremely  wore, 
Ufioii  a  far  and  foreign  lorl  hid  crown, 

Hii  life,  hi«  f»uie,  lii>  gnie,  though  rilled  —  not  lblD( 
own. 

LVIil. 
Boccaccio  lo  hn  parent  earth  be<|'ieith'd  * 
H>»  dujt,— and  lief  it  not  her  (in-al  anioiiif. 
With  many  a  swrel  and  tolcmn  ri-quieni  breilhcd 
O'er  him  who  forni'd  the  Tjkciii'*  «iren  lont[ue  ? 
!      Thai  music  in  ilielf,  M|io»e  wiund*  are  »on>;. 
The  poe'ry  of  r|,eecli  >  No;  —  even  hit  tomb 
Uptorn.  nnjif  bear  the  h)  Jena  bieot't  wron?. 
No  more  amidHt  the  meaner  dead  find  room. 

Nor  ctaioi  a  pajting  tigh,  liccauu;  it  lold  for  whom  I 

LIX. 

And  Santa  Croce  wantt  their  mighty  dmt ; 
Yet  f'lr  thit  want  more  noted,  an  of  yore 
The  CjBiar'i  pigi-an',  thorn  of  Bruiut'  butt. 
Did  but  of  Rome's  be»t  S.in  remind  her  more: 
Happier  Rivenna  '.  on  ihy  hoary  ihore, 
Kortrewrif  falling  empire  !  honour  d  ^leepi 
The  irnniortal  exile;  —  Arrjua,  tryi,  her  tirjre 
Of  tuneful  relica  proudly  cl  linit  and  keep. 

While  Florence  vainly  be?i   her   banith  d   dead   and 
weept. 

LX. 

What  \<i  her  pyramid  of  preciom  ttnnei  ?  i 
Of  jjorphyrv,  jasper,  a(;a  e.  and  all  hue^ 
Of  gem  and  niar1)le.  to  encrust  the  boiiej 
Of  nn-rchan'-dukei  ?  the  momentary  dewt 
Which,  iparklin<  to  the  twilight  ttart,  infute 
Freshneto  in  the  green  turf  thai  wm|i«  the  dead, 
Whose  namro  are  mauioleumi  of  ihe  Mute, 
Are  ueiilly  pre  t  wi  h  fir  more  reierent  tread 

Thau  ever  paced  the  tUb  which  paveithe  priacely  bead. 

LXI. 

There  be  m-^re  thinji  lo  greet  the  heart  and  tye% 
In  Arnri't  dome  r,f  Ar  N  mo»t  princely  thrine. 
Where  Sculpture  with  her  rainbow  titter  viet; 
There  be  more  marvelt  yet  —  bu'  not  for  mine  ; 
For  I  have  been  accutl'im'd  lo  entwine 
iMy  thouihtt  wiih  N  iiure  rather  in  Ihe  fields, 
Thin  Art  in  galleriet:  though  a  ivoik  divine 
Callt  for  mv  tpiril't  homage,  )H  il  yirldt 
Lett  than  it  feeh,  becaute  Ibc  wea[ion  which  it  wields 

J.XII. 
I«  of  another  temper,  and  I  rmm 
Hy  Thrasimcne'n  I  -ke,  in  ihe  ricfile» 
Fatal  lo  R'inian  railinc-ts.  ni'^re  ai  home; 
For  there  the  Canhagii.ian'i  warlike  wiles 
C'^me  back  before  me,  at  hit  tkill  beguile* 
The  h'>ti  between  tde  mount  lii.t  and  Ihe  thore, 
Where  Courage  fallt  in  her  de^piiring  filet. 
And  lorrentitivoll'n  lo  rivert  with  their  gore. 
Reek  through  Ihe  tultry  plain,  wi  b  legioni  tcalter'd  o'er, 

LXI  II. 
Like  lo  a  forett  fvll'd  by  mnun'ain  trindi ; 
And  tuch  the  t'orm  of  bitilc  on  Ihit  day. 
And  ••uch  Ihe  frenzy,  who^  convultion  blindi 
To  all  tave  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  fray, 


An  earihquake  retl'd  uoheedcdly  a«ay  '.  • 
None  fell  fern  Nature  rocking  at  hit  feel, 
And  yawning  forth  a  grave  for  ihoic  who  lay 
Upon  their  buckleit  h.r  a  winding  theel ; 
Such  it  Ihe  absorbing  hale  w  hen  «  ariing  natiOM  3ie«! 
LXIV. 
The  Ear  h  lo  lliem  was  ae  a  rolling  bark 
Which  l«rc  Iheni  to  Eternity  ;  they  taw 
The  Ocean  round,  but  had  no  lime  lo  mark 
The  molioni  of  Iheir  veiicl  ;  Natuie't  law, 
In  them  ^u<ll  ended,  leck'd  not  of  the  awe 
Which  reigiH  when  moun'aini  Iren.ble,  and  Ihe  bird* 
Plunee  in  the  clouds  for  refuge,  and  withdraw 
From   t.'.eir  down-loppling  nettj ;   and   bellovriog 
hedt 
Stumble  o'er  heaving  plaint,  and  man't  dicad  hath  no 
wordi. 

LXV. 

Far  oiher  Kene  it  Thrnimene  now; 

Her  lake  a  theel  of  silver,  and  her  plain 

Ren!  by  no  ravage  tave  ihe  genlle  plough  ; 

Her  aged  tree*  riic  thick  at  once  the  tiain 

Liy  xvhere  their  rontsare;  but  a  brofik  halh  la'en  — 

A  little  rill  of  tcanty  ttream  and  bed  — 

A  name  of  birxxl  frrim  that  day's  sanguine  rain ; 

And  Sanguiiiclto  lellt  ye  wheie  the  dead 

Made  the  earlh  wet,  and  lurn'd  the  unwilling  watert 
red. 

LXVI. 
But  thou,  Cli'umnut '.  in  Ihy  twcefcsl  wavet 
Of  the  m'itt  living  crystal  (hat  wat  e'er 
1  he  haunt  of  river  n\mph,  to  gaze  and  live 
Her  limbs  where  nolhing  hid  lh<.-ni,  thou  dost  rear 
Thy  grnny  banks  whereon  the  milk-whi:e  tteer 
Gnzet ;  the  |iiirest  gr,d  of  gentle  wilers  ! 
And  motl  tc'ene  of  as|  ect,  and  most  clisir; 
Surely  that  sireim  was  unprofined  by  si  lUgh'ert  — 

A  mirror  and  a  bath  for  Beauty'i  youngest  daughlert ! 


LXVII. 

And  on  Ihy  happy  shore  a  Temple  still. 

Of  tmall  and  delicate  profiortion,  kcept, 

Uj/on  a  mild  declivity  of  hill, 

It-  memory  rif  ihee  ;  beneath  il  swec|n 

1  hy  current's  calmness  ;  ofi  from  out  it  leap* 

The  tinny  dirter  wi  h  the  gli'ttring  fcaUt, 

Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  gl'ssy  deeps  ; 

While,  chance,  some   catte.'d  waerlily  tails 

Down  where  the  -hallow er  wave  tlill  lelli  it* " 
tale*. 

LXVIII, 
Pass  not  unblett  Ihe  Genius  of  Ihe  place  ! 
If  through  the  air  a  zephyr  more  serene 
Win  to  the  brow,  'I  is  his;  and  if  ye  trace 
Along  his  margin  a  more  eloquenl  green, 
If  on  the  heart  the  freshness  of  Ihe  ttcnc 
Sprinkle  its  cnolnes-,  and  from  the  dry  di.tt 
Of  weary  life  a  momeni  lave  il  clean 
With  Nature's  baptism,— 't  Is  'o  him  ye  mi»t 

Fay  oritont  for  thii  tuspension  of  disguit. 

LXIX. 

The  roar  of  waters '.  —  from  Ihe  headlong  height 
Velino  cleivet  the  wave-worn  precipice  ; 
The  fall  of  svaters !   rapid  a«  the  light 
The  flashing  maw  f  ams  shaking  Ihe  abytt; 
Tlie  hell  of  waters  '.  where  Ihey  howl  and  hit*, 
And  boil  in  endless  lor'ure  ;  while  Ihe  sweat 
Of  their  rrcil  agony,  wrung  out  from  thit 
Their  phleKetlion,  cnrlt  round  the  rockt  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

(Hire  Appendix.  "  Hittrriml  If.itet."  K".  XXIII-— [An 
rarthqiMke  whiih  •ti'^k  all  Italy  ocrurr«l  during  lh» 
bailie,  and  was  onf.-ll  hy  any  of  the  r^iinha'oots.  J  —  t- 

7Nol>ook  of  trav.-l»  hat  omilliJ  to  ripatiale  on  tb« 
Irmplenr  Ibr  Clilomnot,  t«l»»«n  Folignn  tod  ilpolrto; 
and  w)  Kile,  or  tceueiy,  evtn  In  luly,  U  moit  wurtby  • 
dncripilon. 


37* 


43S 


CUILDi:  HAROLD'S 


CC 


IV.  I 


LXX, 

And  niniinla  In  uprav  ihu    liin',  anil  Ihnncs  ii«E<«ia 
Bo  ui  iiB  III  III  iiiiLiMniiii;  -.lio.vRi',  tvliiuli  ruuuii, 
Writ  im  iiiiitiii|,iii;(l 
In  III  elciiiiti  Aijiil  ' 
\UH><%  II  .ill  "imui 
Tlid  <iill 


ii{|  ol   ^aiinu  l.llll, 
\a  ;;i'>iiilul, 

iilil  .  —  llll^w  iiriiluunJ 
(11  lilt  eluiiiuiil 


Triiiii  niuK  III  rai'll  lapii  w|i||  iJhIiihiiih  b 'unil, 
Ciu»lii<i«ll»iii!lii^,  »liidMl.iwii«3i(l  w.ii'ii  ,iml 
Willi  llm  linrua  liiulniui.n,  viuli 


LXXI. 
Tn  (ha  bmnil  cfiliiinn  which  polls  on,  and  ahiiwi 
Mum  llkn  llln  (nun  :iiii  •>(  4ii  iiil.iiil  aiiil 
Torn  Inini  ilia  wimili  .ic  niiiiiiiMiiin  liy  ihu  lltrom 
Ol  »  imw  tviirl.l.  ilMii  Hilly  ihna  In  hu 
Hnraiil  .il  nvRi'^i,  wlmrh  ll>>>v  jtunhinKly, 
Wilhiniiii)  n  I,  ilinij-i,  i|irfiiii;li  Ihu  uiln  .—Lmik  back  ! 

Lll  1     Whuro  ll   CT.iiiM,   liltB    ,„  glui  |l|ly, 

Ai  if  III  »<v  :u|>  diiivii   ill  l||iii|{ti  III  Kit  daclc, 
Cborniiag  lUa  oya  wilh  Jiaaii—  .t  ni^ilchluaii  calarnct, 

LWIU 

Horribly  bBnul  fiil  !  bur  fiii  the  vorife, 
from  i>Hla  di  aiiln,  Innimih  Ihu  i^liKiMing  morn, 
An  III!)  iiln,  iiiikIk'  ihe  iiiruiii.il  9iir:;ii,> 
Lilla  Hi>|)B  111)1111  a  ilailh-bifd,  ami,  iukviiih 
llSDleaily  ilym,  whiln  ill  irniiiul  m  liiiii 
By  Ihn  illnlriciuit  ii  alen,  liBiira  idrirnu 
|ii>  biilliiiii  huK)  ivilli  a  I  iliair  Iihuiiii  iinnhnrn  : 
RonemblinK,  'iniil  ihu  niruira  iil'  Ilia  ictinH, 
I«va  walchiiig  .VLulimM  miiiIi  uiiallaiable  unaii. 

LX.XIII. 
f)nc«  more  upon  Ihu  wooilv  Anminiiia, 
ThB  iiiAuii  AipH,  which  -h.iil  I  nnt  bofrtra 
G.iittHi  on  ilhiK  itiKliiini'  |i  ii'Du'D,  t«  hara  (ha  pins 
6ils  on  niiiin -ih  iiKy  viiiiniiiis,  ami  whara  i-oar* 
Tbu    Ihniiilnniig    Uim  iiiu  —  iiiighl    ba    ivaisllipp''! 

mort) ; 
Ilu»  I  hivr?  Men  IhB  90nrini{  Jiinatyiii  rear 
Hap  nnvar-lnidilan  »ni»»,  iimI  aaeii  'ho  hmr 
Gl.ician  o(  bitiak  Mont  niaiiir  huih  Tir  mil  near, 
And  in  Chiiiiari  hanrd  Ihn  Ihuiidarhilb  ul  laur. 


Anil  ipiriia  in  claaMU  rapturoa,  and  awaha 
Tilt:  IiiIIm  kvilt)  L.>liiin  achiim  ;   I  .ibhiirr'd 

T'lii  iiiiiuh,  III  oiMii^iiar  I'ur  ihu  i  imi'i  nattn, 
Tha  ilnlld  dull  lanwm,  l'niL't:<l  .i>>>vii  .vijid  by  <*( 
In  my  lapugiiHiil  youlll,  Mill)  plcuuia  lu  racui'd 

LXXVI. 
Aiighl  ilinl  PBcslla  iha  daily  drug  which  hini'd 
My    aiL-IUiKiiK   luuniiiiy  ;  and,  ll)iiu||h   Tiiua 

laiiilhl 
My  mind  In  mRdiCilB  whiit  than  i(  laarn'd, 
Vul  I'lch  Iha  lU'd  iiive.arauv  wiiniglil 
By  Ihu  iiripaliaiicu  nl  my  unriy  lliuiiKhl, 
'rh.il.  Willi  Iha  IrKuhnuM  waiinii^  iiui  buAira 
My  miiiiJ  uiiulil  rvlinll  wh.il  il  aiitfhl  hava 


L.XXIV. 

Th'  AcrocHnnniiin  mnuninini 


If  Hid 

lu.  dv 


LUtB  ipinU  of  Iha  i|iii(.  n  '(  wifiu  ftir  f  ima, 
for  tlill  ihBV  aiiiir'd  iiiiuKBrihly  hi!<h  ■ 
I  '«a  liiiik'd  im  Ma  'i  ilh  i    ri.>jiiii'»  ay«  ; 
Alhiin,  illviniiUH,  .'E'lia,  .Ulan,  niida 
TIlBMi  hillnianni  ihinioi  "I  Insnur  diitnitv. 
All,  »avi<  Ihf  loiiii  Siii:iu<n'l  hnii{h(,  'linplnv'd 
Not  >iuu>  in  iim)«v,  which  auks  Ilia  lyric  Haniaii'a  aid 

LXXV. 

For  our  raiiiBiMbrnncs,  and  fr'im  mil  (ha  plain 
Hoiivas  Ilka  a  l(iii« otapl  waua  ,ihiiii(  (n  braik. 
And  on  iIib  curl  haiiija  piimiiii;     mil  in  vaiu 
May  ba,  who  will,  hiit  racullBUluinii  r.tka, 


11 

Its  lluallli  ,  bill 


B,    I  I 


,  Dllll 


LXXVI  I 


Than  Inrswall,  Hnraca  ;  whom  t  halod  mt^ 
>iil  liir  ihv  (aiiliii,  hill  niiiio;  il  i»  a  ciiraa 
I'll  iiiidaial  iiid.  mil  leal  Ihy  lyric  (low, 
To  mini|iiahanil,  but  iiavar  hivs  Ihy  vara*^ 
AMhiMiKh  mi  tlBopar  Miiralml  rahaama 
•  iiir  IiMb  IiFb,  iiiir  Haiti  piancribu  hlH  art, 
>tir  livnliar  ;jalinnl  iha  c>iiim:iuiica  piurca, 
AwakviiinK  wiihiiiil  wiiiiniliiitf  iha  liiiich''  haari; 
Yul  lara  lliai:  tvall  —  upiiii  aoiacle'a  rid((a  Ma  part. 


Lxxvin. 


'  IDUl  ! 

Ill  (hoa, 
uoniial 


lOrUia  lira*.  I 


or  ihiK 


Thu  l.•^  prow,  hour  ilia  uwi,  .mil  piiid  your  w»« 
()  ni'  J)  apn  Hi  hriikan  Ihniiiuti  and  luiiiplaa,  Ta^ 
Whiiw   i<.iiiiii..  ar«  evila  (iC  a  .lay  — 
L  vMjilil  la  al  iiur  luai  as  IVi^iIb  an  our  oiay. 

L.XXI.X. 

ThB  Ninba  of  naliona  !  Ihara  nhe  stnndii, 
ChihllitM  and  cnnvnIaM.  in  linr  voiirBlwn  woa; 
All  amply  urn  wiuiin  bar  wiiharM  haiidii, 
VVhiiaa  holy  diiat  waa  ncallar'd  lmi|{  ago  ; 


u  Ki  MuHfrtil. 
w  inn   il>iir  in 


iriilifin-  I  w.iH  .1.  I  I  .1.  .V.  'ti.  ..ijii  ,111  tilii  nuy  ;  anil  t  li«- 
litivH  iin  onn  iKiMlil,  <ir  i*nn  hi*<  mom  aftHiihml  In  tfttrniw 
ihiin  I  tlaw"  always  Hn«n,  ami  wnh  rnawni ;  — a  pari  af  the 


iinvfr  ihiuHa  •!<  him  but  Willi 


Nrttn  Ai|r<ii)iiiii  *p.  anllRngro, 

tin  Ihn  uniHtnr  pari  ut  4wi 

kanw^  by  Uia  uaraa  of  lanwli 


Canto  IV.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


439 


The  Sclpim'  tomb  containt  no  aihet  now ; 
Th«  very  •e|iulchrci  Mr  lenantleH 
Of  llieir  heroic  dwelleni:  (Jo«t  Ih'itt  flow, 
Old  'I'iher !  through  a  niarhle  wihlenieM  ? 
Biw,  with  thy  yellow  wavea,  and  mantle  bet  diilreH. 

I.XXX. 

The  Goth,  the  Chritlian,  Time,  War,  FUiod,  and 

Fire, 
Have  de^ilt  upon  the  icvenhill'd  ci'y'i  pride; 
Hhe  (iw  her  ((loriet  ttir  hy  iilar  expire, 
And  up  the  drcp  h^rtMrian  tiioiiarctin  ride, 
Where  the  car  cllml/d  the  cipilol  ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tow  er  went  doiv  n,  nor  left  a  lite  :  — 
Ch^of  fit  ruin*  !  who  nhall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragmentii  coil  a  lunar  light, 
And  lay,  "  here  waa,or  i>,'*  where  all  ii  doubly  night  f 

LXXXI. 

The  double  nit;ht  nt  »ge«,  and  of  her. 
Night'*  daughter,  Ignorance,  haih  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  ui ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err : 
The  ocean  hath  hi*  chart,  the  ttara  their  map, 
And  KnowIHge  apreailn  them  on  her  ample  lap  ; 
But  Kome  i»  »%  the  de»ert,  where  we  ileer 
Htunibling  o'er  recollection*;  now  we  clap 
Our  hand*,  and  cry  ''  Kurelu  !  "  it  i*  clear  — 
When  but  tome  Calte  mirage  of  ruin  rinct  near. 

LXXXIl. 
Alat!  the  lofty  city  1  and  ala«l 
The  Irelily  hundred  triumph*  !  '  and  the  day 
When  Rrului  made  the  dagger'*  edge  turpanii 
The  conqueror'*  «word  in  beiring  fame  away  ! 
Ala*,  for  Tully'*  voice,  and  Virgil'*  lay, 
And  Livy'»  pictured  iiage  1  —  but  lhe«c  ahall  be 
Her  rr«urrec'ion  :  all  be*ide  —  decay. 
Ala«,  for  Karlh,  for  never  *hill  we  •ee 
That  brigblnei*  in  her  eye  *he  bore  when  Rome  wa* 
free ! 

LXXXIII. 
Oh  thou,  whoMs  chariot  roli'd  on  Fortune'*  wheel, 
Triumphant  Sylla  !  Thou,  who  did*t  tubduc 
Thy  country'*  foo*  ere  thou  would*r  pauae  to  feel 
The  wrath  "f  thy  own  wrong*,  or  reap  the  due 
Of  hoardivl  vengeince  till  thine  eagle*  flew 
O'er  nrotira'e  A«ia  ;  —  Ihon,  who  with  thy  frown 
Annihilated  fceiialt*—  Roman,  t'lo. 
\V>lh  all  thy  vice*,  for  thou  did*i  lay  down 
With  an  atoning  imile  a  more  than  earthly  crown  — 

LXXXIV. 
The  dictatorial  wreath,' —  couldat  thou  divine 
To  what  would  one  day  dwindle  Ihit  which  made 
Thee  more  than  mortal  ?  and  that  «o  •upiiio 
thu*  1 
wa*  named  Elernal,  and  array'd 
Her  warri'ir*  but  to  conquer  —  the  who  veii'd 
Earth  with  her  haughty  abadow,  and  diaplay'd, 
Until  the  o'crcanopied  horizon  fiil'd. 
Her  ruahing  winga— Uh  I  *he  who  wat  Almighty  hail'd 


lOrnalu*  givea  TXI  for  ttie  numlvr  <■(  trliim|ih».  It«  la 
tiltowol  tijr  I'ki.itlnlua;  ami  I'liiiviiilua  tiy  Mr.  (ilblx<n  and 
tllr  miatrin  wiilrra. 

SCrrliliilr,  weri!  It  n»t  for  Ihrac  two  Inilla    In  ttin  tlfi- 

of  Hylla,  allu<lril  to  In  Una  alttiiia,  wi-  uti'mli)  regard  hlin 

M  •  iii>iiialiTr  unrnlrrmi'il  tijr  any  lulrnlral)!)-  (|ii»lily. 

•lon'Rianf    <if  hia    voluntary  rralgnulioii   (,f  rrn|>ire   majr 

ti3|r*  lie  a'Teiiti'd  t>y  ua,aa  It  aerinn  totiovi;  .uliaArd    ' 


LXXXV, 

Sylla  wa*  flrit  of  victori  ;  but  our  own 
'I  he  (ageat  of  u*ur|ieri,  Cromwell ;  he 
Too  awept  riir  aenatea  while  he  hew'd  the  throM 
iJown  to  a  block  —  immortal  retiel  '  .See 
VVIjal  cnrni;*  it  cotit  tn  be  a  moment  free 
And  famou*  tlirouxh  all  age*  !  but  l>ciieath 
III*  fite  the  moral  lurki  of  de*i|ny  ; 
III*  day  of  double  victorv  and  death 

lieheld  him  win  two  realni'i,  and,  happier,  yield  hi* 
breath.a 

I.XXXVI. 
The  third  of  the  *anie  m'Kin  whoae  former  courM 
Mad  all  but  croivn'd  biin,  on  the  aelfrinie  day 
IJi-poMvl  liiiii  geiilly  friiii  hi*  Ihroneri  force, 
An.l  I.kI  l.ini  wilh  theeaitf,'*  preceding  clay. 
And  iliovvM  n')l  fortune  ihna  b'lW  fame  and  away, 
And  all  we  deem  delightful,  and  conaume 
Out  wjula  to  compaa*  through  each  ardiiout  way, 
Are  in  her  eyea  le«t  happy  than  the  tomb? 

Were  they  but  »o  in  man'*,  how  dilTerenl   were  bit 
doom ! 

I-XXXVII, 
And  Ihou,  dread  »tatue  !  vr;(  exialeni  in* 
The  auiteri'tt  for  in  of  niked  riiaje«ly, 
TliMi  who  l,.|irlde»t,  'mid  the  aa,ai*in»' dm, 
At  lliy  bi'lied  Imm;  the  blrwidy  Cse»ar  lie, 
Fol.ling  l,i'>  roi.e  in  dying  dignity. 
An  oIlHnng  to  (liine  altar  Irom  the  queen 
Of  god*  and  men,  great  Nemetia !  did  he  die. 
And  Ihou.  trjo,  perith,  Pompey  /  have  je  l>ecn 

Victor!  of  counlleta  king*,  or  puppeU  of  a  tccne  ? 

LXXXVIll. 

And  thou,  the  thunder-itricken  nurae  of  Rome  !  • 
She-wolf ;  whoae  braz^n-imagcl  Jug*  impart 
The  milk  of  cnnqueat  yet  within  the  dome 
Where,  a*  a  rnonomcnl  of  antique  art. 
Thou  aiandeal  :  —  M'.lhcr  of  Ihe  mighty  heart. 
Which  the  great  founder  aiirk'd  f  run  thy  wild  teat, 
8corchM  tjy  the  Hrmnn  Jove'a  ethereal  dart. 
And  thy  limb*  black  wiih  lightning  —  doat  thou  yet 
Guard  thine  immortal  cuba,  nor  thy  fond  charge  forget } 

LXXXIX. 

Thou  do*t  J  —  but  all  thy  foater-babe*  are  dead  — 

The  men  of  iron  ;  and  the  woild  hath  rear'd 

Citie*  from  out  their  «epulchren :  men  bled 

In  imilatirin  of  the  thing*  they  fenr'd, 

And   f'HiKiil  and  conquer'd,  and   the  lame  courie 

ateer'd. 
At  api«h  di*tance  ;  but  a*  yet  nr>ne  have. 
Nor  could,  the  aame  iupremacy  have  ncar'd. 
Save  one  vain  man,  who  ia  not  in  the  grave, 
Bui,  tranqiiiih'd  by  bimieif,  to  hii  own  alave*  a  ilave  — 

XC. 
The  fool  of  false  dominion  — and  a  kind 
f»f  ba>tard  Canaar,  following  him  of  old 
Wi'h  a'eiM  unequal ;  for  the  Uoman's  mind 
Waa  mfHlell'd  in  a  lea*  teiiolrial  mould.o 
Wilh  pmaiona  fiercer,  yet  a  iudgment  cold, 
And  an  imtnorlal  inatinct  which  redreni'd 
The  fiailtii-*  r.f  a  heart  «o  »r,fl,  vet  NId, 
Alcldea  with  the  ditiaflT  now  he  aeemd 
At  Cleopatra'!  feet,—  and  now  himacif  he  beam'd, 

XCI. 

And  came — and  mw— and  conquer'd  !  But  the  man 
Who  would  have  I  imcd  hia  eaitle^  down  to  flee, 
Like  a  irain'd  falcon,  in  Ihe  (iailic  van, 
Which  he,  in  arjoth,  long  led  lo  viciory. 


nf  hia    voluntary  realgnutioii  nr 

a'Tefiti'd  t>y  ua,aa  It  aerinn  to  hove 

ho  ir  llirjr  hwl  not  rn«pe<  trd  mi 
alloyed  liiin.  I'tii-ri-  loiilit  hn  no  rnrnri.  ri 
opinion;  liny  mu«l  tin»r  all  Ihouglil,  lllie  Kiiiralra,  that 

what  ha/1  upp-ared  amtnlion  waa  a  love  of  glory,  arid  that  'On  the  at  of  Beiti-mtwr  Cro 
what  ha<t  Iwen  riiKlakeo  for  pridn  waa  a  red  grandeur  of  of  Dui.bar :  a  vear  ofierviafrt.  he  .1 
•out.— ("  Hrlgiirur,  »  xia  rhmtfz  loiilea  rnra  Idcr.  de  la  I  rne  rry"  of  Worr  eater  ;  and  a  few  yeura  after,  on  tlieaanw 
(aeon  doni  j«  vnua  vol.  aalr.  Je  iroyaia  <|iie  »ooa  aviei  day,  whieh  he  had  ever  ralcrmed  the  m«l  forluriatt  foi 
de  t'amblilon.  maia  aiiruiie  iirnnur  pour  la  ginire  ;  je  voyala    him,  died. 

bleu  <|u>  voire  arn«  eiait  haute;  mala  je    ne    tounronnala       4,6,9  gee  Appendix,  "Illatorlrat  aotw,"  Woa.  ZZIT. 
PM«u'all«  ful  (rwid«."~l><a<(/fu»  <(«  Sylla  d  (PtueraltM  XXV,  XXVI. 


440 


CIIILDE  HAROLD  S 


[Canto  IV. 


!      With  a  deaf  heart  which  never  rfem'd  to  be 
j       A  listener  to  itself,  was  strar.jeljr  framed  ; 
\S'ith  but  one  weikesi  weikness —  vaniiy, 
Coqijeiii^b  in  ambiiicn  — sill  he  aiot'd  — 
At  what  ?  c  .n  he  avouch — cr  aos» er  w  bat  be  claim'd  ? 

XCII. 

And  wcnld  be  all  or  nmhina  —  unr  could  irait 
For  the  sore  frave  to  level  him ;  few  years 
Had  fiiM  hmi  wi  h  The  Ca^ars  in  his  fate. 
On  wlx)in  we  tread  :  Fur  tktt  the  coiiq^jeror  rean 
The  arch  of  triuiuph  :  and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth  liow  on  as  (hey  have  fion-'-d. 
An  universal  delu§e,  which  appears 
Without  a  a  ark  fo    wretched  man's  abode. 
Aad  ebfas  bat  to  reriow  :  —  Renew  thy  raiubow,  God  : 

XCIII. 
What  from  this  bar; en  beiur  do  we  reap  ? 
Our  senses  Darronr,  and  our  reason  frail.t 
Life  shirt,  and  truth  a  lem  which  I  .ves  the  deep, 
Atd  all  thinirs  wei'h'd  "in  cu-1'.ni's  falsest  scale ; 
Opini'^n  an  omnipotence, —  whose  veil 
Mantles  the  earth  with  dirfcness,  un>il  risht 
Aad  wmn;  are  acciden  s,  and  men  ^row  "pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  «hould  became  oo  bri'h', 

And  their  free  thoughts  be  criu^es,  and  eanh  have~!oo 
miKh  li  jhL 

XCIT. 
And  thtis  they  plod  in  5lu»?ish  misery. 
Rotting  from  sire  lo  s'.n,  aMl  age  lo  aje. 
Proud  of  their  trampled  nature,  and  SJ  die. 
Bequeathing  their  hereditary  rase 
To  the  ne*  race  of  inborn  slaves,  who  wage 
War  for  their  ch-ir.-^  and  raster  than  be  free. 
Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  ea;aze 
Within  the  same  arena  where  tiiey  see 

Tbeir  fellows  fall  before,  liie  leaves  of  the  same  tree. 

xcv. 

I  speak  not  of  menS  creeds  —  they  rest  betvreen 
Man  and  hn  Maker  —  bu'  nf  thin^  allow'd, 
Averr'd.  and  known.—  and  duly,  hourly  seen  — 
The  yoke  Ihi!  is  upon  us  doubly  bovv'd. 
And  the  in'ent  of  lyrauny  avow  'd, 
The  edict  of  Earth's  rulers,  who  are  erown 
The  apes  of  him  >»ho  humbled  once  he  proud. 
And  shook  thein  from  their  slumbers  on  the  throne; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  bis  mighty  arm  lad  done. 

XCVI. 

Can  tyrant?  but  by  tyrants  conrjuer'd  be. 
And  Freed  m  fiid  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  O-lumbia  saw  ari-«  when  she 
Spruns  (brih  a  f^lla<.  anm'd  and  undefiled  ? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourish "d  in  the  wild. 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  "midst  'he  ronr 
Ol  cataracts,  where  i.oriirf  Nature  smiled 
On  infant  Wash inston?     Hif  Eanh  no  more 
SOvh  seeds  within  ber  breast,  or  Europe  no  such  shore  ? 

XCTIL 
But  France  eot  drunk  with  Wood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  ber  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  ase  and  clime  ; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen, 


.■  Omoe*  ppoe  yrr^nmi  qai  nihil  ctapnceri,  niljil 
sihil  liciri  pneK*e  Cixemot:  aaeo«tas  eeosiu ;  im-  i 
nioios,  brrTia  curricaia  vita^;  ia  profoodo  T»»ri-  ' 
iBlcm  drmrrum;  rpintouibjs  <rl  inslilotis  rmnia  tffu^ri ;  , 
■ibil  Teritati  refiDqui:  driorer* '-mcia  tenrbrn  circom- 
fon  csae  dixcruBI." — .\<-.Kj«a».  I.  13.  The  rijhtpfB  hun- 
drnj  ye«r*  wbirb  hare  dapW  »iij«  Cictro  "rote  tbia,  ' 
kavr  not  mnovn]  any  ot  the  ioiprr'Mrtir.oa  of  hain»nit]r  : 
■iKi  tbe  cumplaiiila  of  Ihe  ancient  pbil-«rfihrr>  mar,  *i(h< 
oaC  iajaxtice  or  alSEctatioii,  be  traoscribed  in  a  poem  wril- 
lea  yeiterday. 


And    i!e  Ambition,  that  built  up  berweea 
Man  and  his  hopes  au  adamantine  wall. 
And  li.e  b  se  pa^-eanl  last  upon  the  scene. 
Are  srown  the  pretext  for  the  e'emal  thrall 

Which' nips  life's  tree,  ai:d  dcoois  man's  worst—  kb 
second  fall. 

XCVIII. 
Yet,  Freedom  '.  yet  thy  hancer.  frm,  ba'  fiyins, 
S  ream-,  like  the  tbuoijer .storm  agaiiut  the  wind  ; 
Tby  trun.pet  voice,  tboufb  b  ckco  now  and  dyiag, 
The  loudest  still  the  fempes'  leaves  behind  ; 
Thy  tree  hath  lo~t  i's  bio^soms,  a;:d  the  riod, 
Chopp'd  b,  the  axe.  locks  roush  aud  little  worft, 
But  the  sap  lasts,—  and  still  the  seed  ue  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  Norh ; 

So  shall  a  better  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring  forth. 

XCIX. 
There  is  a  stern  rxind  tow  er  of  other  diys,* 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  wi  h  its  fence  of  stooe, 
Such  as  an  army's  tr<9ed  >trenfh  delays, 
Standin;  with  half  i  s  battlements  alone. 
And  wih  two  thousaiid  years  of  ivy  gro^m, 
The  jiriand  of  etemity.'where  wave 
The  sreen  leaves  over'ail  by  time  o'erthrown  ;  — 
What  was  this  tower  of  strens'h  ?  within  its  e<»e 
What  treasure  lay  so  lock'd.  so  hid  ?— A  woman^  grzTb 

i  ^• 

j      Put  who  was  she.  the  lady  of  the  dead, 

[      Tonib'd  in  a  pahce?    Was  she  chaste  and  feir? 

!      Worthy  a  kind's  —  or  more  —  a  Roman's  bed  ? 

j      What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes  did  she  bear? 

What  daujhter  of  her  beauties  was  he  heir? 
I     How  live-J— how  lovtd — how  died  she  ?  Was  sheaot 
I      So  boiK-ur'd  —  and  conspicuously  there. 

Where  meaner  relics  niust  not  dare  to  rot. 
Placed  to  commemorate  a  icore  than  mortal  lot? 

CL 

j      Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  Iord«,  or  fhey 
Who  love  the  lords  of  others  ?  -uch  have  been 
Even  in  the  olden  time,  Rome^  annals  say. 
I      Wis  she  a  ma'ron  f>f  Corjielii's  mien, 
;      Or  the  light  air  of  E?> pi's  graceful  queen, 
i      Profuse  of  joy  —  or  'eains"  i'  did  she  war, 
I      Inveterate  in  virtue  ?  Did  she  !ein 
'      To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  rr  wisely  bar 
Love  from  amongst  ber  griefs  ?  —  for  such  the  afte> 
tions  ire, 

CIL 
Pprchaoce  she  died  in  youth  :  it  may  be,  bowVl 
With  wees  far  heavier 'than  the  por^jerous  tomb 
T  hat  weish'd  upon  ber  jeoile  dus',  a  cloud 
Mishl  ea'her  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
In  her  dark  eye.  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Heaven  gives  i's  favourites — early  death  ;  yet  alied* 
A  sunset  charm  arrund  her,  and  illume 
With  hectic  liiht.  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead. 
Of  ber  cousuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf-like  rei. 

CIIL 

Perchance  she  died  in  age  —  sorvivinj:  all. 
Charms,  kindred,  children — wih  the  silver  grey 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  mishi  yet  reaaJI, 
It  may  be,  s-'ill  a  «omethine  of'the  day 
When  they  were  braided,  and  her  proud  array 
And  lovely  form  were  envied.  praiWd.  and  eyed 
Bv  Rome  —  but  whither  noutd  Conjecta-e  stray? 
Thos  much  alone  we  know  —  Metella  died, 
The  weal'hiest  Roman's   wife :    Behold  his  love  or 
pride : 

3  AUodlne  lo  the  tamb  nf  Orilia  MeteDa.  caOcd  C(po« 
Bove.     See  -  HtBtornal  Illostrati'Jiu.'* 
»'Ov  of  SirA  (it>cvcT.v,  dTo^injffca  i-ior 
Td  ydg  -S-aviiv  oi<  aij-xfc  v,  dAA'  aUrxf^ 

Rich.  Fiasc  PhiL  Bmsck.     Poela  ( 
17*4. 


CAxNTO  IV.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


44] 


CIV. 

1  know  not  «liy  —  but  Mandin?  thus  by  thee 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  thine  iiinia:e  known, 
Thou  Tomb  !  and  other  days  come  b~.ck  OD  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tune 
U  chansed  and  solemn,  like  the  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wii.d  ; 
Yet  could  1  seat  me  bv  this  ivied  stone 
Till  1  had  b>dieJ  forth  the  hered  mind, 

Forms  from   the   lioatin?  wreck  which  Ruin  leaves 
behind ; 

CV. 
And  from  the  planks,  fir  sh:iller"d  o'er  the  rocks, 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 
Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
Where  all  lies  fouiider'd  that  was  ever  dear  : 
But  could  I  gather  from  ttie  wave-worn  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I  sleer  ? 

There  woos  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save  wliat  f 
here. 

CVI. 
Then  let  the  « inds  Inwl  on  !  their  Iiarmony 
Shall  henceforth  be  mv  music,  and  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlets'  cry 
As  1  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 
Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  daikness'  native  si'e, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine. 
With  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  grevand  bright. 
And  sailing  pinions.— Upon  such  a  shrilie 

What  are  our  petty  griefs  ?— let  me  not  number  mine. 

CVII. 
Cypress  and  ivy,  weed  and  wallflower  grown 
Matted  and  mi'ss'd  loge'her,  hillock^  heap'd 
On   what    were  chambers,   arch   crush'd,   column 

strown 
In  fragments,  choked-up  vaults,  and  fre«coes  steep'd 
In  subterranean  damps,  where  iheowl  peep'd. 
Deeming  it  midnight :  —  I  emples,  baths,  or  halls  ? 
Pronounce  »  ho  can  ;  for  all  that  Lenrning  reap'd 
From  her  research  hath  been,  that  ihe'e  are  walls- 
Behold  the  Imperial  Mount  I  't  is  thus  the  mighty  falls." 

CVIII. 
'Ihere  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tiles  ;  a 
'Tis  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past. 
First  Freedom,  and  then  Glory—  when  that  fails, 
Weillh,  vice,  corruption,— barbarism  at  last. 


IThe  Palutine  is  one  maas  of  ruins,  particu'arly  on  the 
«ide  towaritatheCirua  Maximus.  Theverysoil  is  furmtd 
of  crumbled  briikwork.  Nothing  haa  hven  told,  nothing 
can  be  toW,  to  satiufy  the  tielief  of  any  hut  a  Roman  anti- 
quary.    See  "Historical  Illustrations,"  p.  206. 

2The  author  of  the  Life  of  Ciitro,  speaking  of  the 
opinion  enterlaini-d  of  Britain  by  that  orator  and  his  co- 
temporary  Romans,  has  the  following  einquent  passage  : — 
'•  Fri)m  their  railleries  of  this  Itind,  on  the  bart>arity  and 
misery  of  our  island,  one  cannot  help  reflecting  on  the 
aurprinlng  fate  and  revolutions  df  kingdoms ;  h»w  Rome, 
iince  the  mixlrrsfi  of  the  world,  the  seal  of  arts,  empire, 
and  glory,  now  lien  gnnk  in  cloth,  ignorance,  and  poverty, 
enslaved  to  the  most  cruel  as  well  aa  to  the  most  con- 
temptitile  of  tyrants,  superstition  and  religiouH  Imposture: 
while  this  remote  country,  anciently  the  jest  and  con- 
tempt of  the  polite  Romans,  is  become  the  happy  seat  of 
liberty,  plenty,  and  letters;  flourishing  in  all  the  arts  and 
refinements  cf  civil  life;  yet  running,  perhnps,  the  fame 
ciiurse  which  Rome  itself  had  run  before  it,  from  virtuous 
indu-lry  to  wealth;  from  wealth  In  luxury;  from  luxury 
to  an  impatience  of  discipline,  and  corruption  nf  morals: 
till,  by  a  total  degeneracy  and  loss  of  virtue,  beini?  grow.n 
ripe  for  destruction,  it  fall  a  prey  at  last  to  some  hardy 
oppressor,  and,  with  the  loss  of  liberty,  losing  every  thing 
thai  i»  valuable,  sinks  gradually  again  into  its  original  bar- 
barism." (See  History  of  the  Life  of  M.  lulti  is  Ciceto, 
leeU  vi.  vol.  ii.  p.  102.) 


And  History,  wi'h  all  her  volumes  vast, 
H>th  but  one  page,— 't  is  better  written  here, 
Where  gorgeous  Tyranny  h>th  thus  amiss'd 
All  tre.vsures.  all  deligh's,  that  eye  or  ear, 

Hea;  t,  soul  could  seek,  tongue  a^k— Away  with  words ! 
diaw  near, 

CIX. 
Admire,  csult  —  despise  ~  laugh,  weep,  —  for  here 
There  is  tuch  nutter  for  all  feeling :  —  Man ! 
'J  liou  pendulum  betwix'  a  smile  and  teir, 
Azes  and  leilms  are  crowded  in  this  span, 
This  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled. 
Of  Glory's  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van 
Till  ihe  sun's  rays  with  added  flame  were  fill'd  ! 

Wheie  are  its  golden  loofs?  where  those  who  darel 
to  build? 

ex. 

Tully  was  not  so  eloquen'  as  thou, 
Thou  nameless  column  with  the  buried  base! 
What  are  tht  laurels  of  the  C-esir's  brow  ? 
'  i      Crown  me  with  ivy  from  his  duelling-place. 
Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 
Tiiusor  Tiajan's?     No— 'lis  that  of  Time: 
Triumph,  arch,  pillar,  all  he  do  h  displace 
Scoffing  ;  and  apostolic  stitues  c'imb 
To  crush  .he  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime,3 

CXI. 

Buried  in  air,  the  deep-blue  sky  nf  Rome, 

And  looking  to  the  stars:  they  had  cont  in'd 

A  spirit  wtiicli  with  these  would  fit  d  a  home. 

The  last  of  those  who  o'er  the  whole  earlh  reign'd, 

The  Roman  globe,  for  .nfier  none  sustain'd. 

But  yielded  bark  his  conquests :  —  he  was  more 

Than  a  mere  Alexander,  and.  unstain'd 

With  household  blood  and  wine,  serenely  wore 

His  sovereign  virtues  —  still  we  Trajan's  name  adore.4 
CXII. 
Where  is  Ihe  rock  of  Triumph,  the  high  place 
Where  Rome  embraced  herheroe^  ?  where  Ihe  steep 
Tarpeian  ?  titles!  goal  for  Tieason's  race. 
The  promontury  whence   he  Traitor's  Leap 
Cuied  all  ambition.     Did  the  conquerors  heap 
Their  spoils  here?    Yes  ;  and  in  yon  field  below, 
A  thousand  years  of  silenced  factions  s-leep  — 
The  Forum,  where  the  iinmor  al  accents  glow. 

And  still  the  eloquent  air  breathes — burns  wiih  Cicero  ! 
CXIII. 
The  field  of  freedom,  faction,  fime,  and  blood: 
Here  a  proud  people's  passions  we:e  exhaled, 
Fiom  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  Ihe  bud 
To  that  when  funher  worlds  to  conquer  fail'd  ; 
But  Ions  before  had  Freedom's  face  been  veil'd. 
And  Anarchy  assumed  her  attributes  : 
Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assail'd 
Trod  on  ihe  trembling  senate's  slavish  mutes, 

Or  r.iised  the  venal  voice  of  b.iter  prostitutes. 


4  Trajan  was  provertially  Ihe  best  of  the  Roman  princes; 
and  it  wnuld  be  easier  t'  find  a  sovereign  uniting  exactly 
Ihe  opposite  i-haracreristicH.  than  one  (Kissesaed  of  all  Ihe 
happy  qualities  ascribed  to  this  emperor.  "When  he 
mounted  the  throne,"  says  the  biHtnhan  Dion,  ■'  he  was 
strong  in  body,  he  was  vtgi.rons  in  mind;  age  had  im- 
paired none  of  his  facullies;  he  was  altoaether  free  from 
envy  anil  from  detraction  ;  he  honoured  all  the  good,  and 
he  .advanced  ihem :  and  on  this  account  they  could  not  be 
the  oi-iccts  of  his  fear,  or  of  his  hate;  he  never  listened  lo 
informers;  he  pave  nor  way  to  his  anger;  he  abstained 
>qiinlly  f  nm  unfair  exactions  and  unjust  punishments;  he 
had  rather  t>e  loved  aa  a  man  than  honoured  as  a  sove- 
reign, he  was  afl'able  with  hi«  people,  respectful  to  the 
seiialp,  and  universally  beloved  by  both;  he  inspired  none 
wilh  diead  but  Ihe  enemies  of  his  country."  See  Eu- 
trop.  nrev.  Hist.  Rom.  lib.  viii.  c.  6.  Dion.  Hist.  Eom. 
lib.  Ixiii.  c.  f   7. 


442 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


[Canto  IV. 


CXIV. 
Then  turn  we  to  her  latest  tribune's  name, 
From  her  ten  Ihousand  tyrants  turn  to  thee, 
Redeemer  of  drirk  ceoturies  of  shinie  — 
The  friend  of  Petrarch  —  hope  of  Italy  — 
Rienzi  !  last  of  Romans  1  »     While  the  tree 
Of  freedom's  wither  d  trunk  puts  forth  a  leaf, 
Even  for  lliy  tomb  a  garland  let  it  be  — 
The  forum's  champion,  and  the  people's  chief — 
Her  new-boru  Munia  thou — with  leign,  alas  !  too  brief. 

cxv. 

Egeria  !  sweet  creation  of  some  heart  2 
Which  found  no  nioilal  resting-place  sn  fair 
As  thine  ideal  bieast ;  whate'er  ihnu  art 
Or  wert,—  a  young  Aurora  of  the  air, 
The  nynipholepsy  of  some  fond  despair; 
Or,  it  niiglit  be,  a  beauty  of  the  eaith, 
Who  found  a  more  than  conunon  votary  there 
Too  much  adoring  ;  whitsne'er  thy  birth. 
Thou  wait  a  beautitul  thought,  and  softly  bodied  forth. 

CXVI. 
The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  sill  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Ely^ian  water-drop^ ;  the  face 
Of  thy  cue-guarded  spring,  with  years  unwrinkled. 
Reflects  the  meek  eyed  genius  of  the  place. 
Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works  ;  nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Prjson'd  in  marble,  bubbling  from  the  base 
Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentle  leap 

The  rill  runs  o'er,  and  round,  fern,  flow  ers,  and  ivy, 
creep 

CXVI  I. 
Fantastically  tangled  :  the  green  hills 
Are  clothed  with  early  bloss  .ms,  through  the  grass 
The  quick-eyed  lizard  rustles,  and  the  bills 
Of  summer  birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass  ; 
Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class, 
Implore  the  pausing  step,  and  with  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a  fairy  mass ; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violet's  deep  blue  eyes, 

Kiss'd  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seems  colour'd  by  its 
skies. 

CXVIII. 
Here  didst  thou  dwell,  in  this  enchanted  cover, 
Egeria  !  thy  all  heavenly  bosom  beating 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover  ; 
The  purple  Midnight  veii'd  that  mystic  meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  seating 
Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befel  ? 
This  cave  was  surelv  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enamour'd  Goddess,  and  the  cell 

Haunted  by  holy  Love  —  the  earliest  oracle  '. 

CXIX. 

And  didst  thou  not,  thy  brea-l  to  his  replying, 
Blend  a  celestial  with  a  human  heart  ; 
And  Love,  which  dies  as  it  was  born,  in  sighing, 
Share  with  immortal  transports?  could  thine  art 
Mjke  them  indeed  imm^irtal,  and  impart 
The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys. 
Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart  — 
The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys  — 

And  root  from  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed  which 
cloys? 

CXX. 
Alas !  our  young  affections  run  to  waste, 
Or  water  but  the  desert ;  whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  d  irk  luxuriance,  tares  of  haste. 
Rank  at  the  core,  thoujh  templing  to  the  eyes, 
Flowers  whose  wild  odours  breathe  but  ajonies. 
And  trees  whose  gums  are  poison  ;  such  the  plants 
Which  sprine  beneath  her  s  eps  as  Pas-ion  files 
O'er  the  world's  wllderr.ess,  and  vainly  pants 

For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 

1  The  name  and  exploits  of  Rieczi  must  be  nimiliar  to 
tfee  reader  of  Gibbon. 

as«t  Appendix,  ■•  Historical  Notts,"  No.  XXVII. 


1  CXXI. 

Oh  Love  !  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art  — 
An  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee, 
A  f  lith  w  hose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart. 
But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e'er  shall  see 
The  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be; 
The  mind  hath  made  thee,  as  it  peopled  heaven, 
Even  w  ilh  its  own  desiring  phantasy, 
And  to  a  though!  such  shape  and  image  given. 
As  haunts  theunquench'd  soul  —  parch'd  —  wearied  — 
wrung  —  and  riven. 

CXXII. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased. 
And  fevers  into  false  creation  : —  where. 
Where  are  the  forms  the  sculptor's  soul  hath  seized  ? 
In  him  alone.     Can  Nature  show  so  fair? 
Where  are  the  charnjs  ar.d  virtues  which  we  dare 
Conceive  irj  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men. 
The  unreach'd'Paradise  of  our  despair. 
Which  o'er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 
And  overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom  again  ? 

CXXIII. 
Who  loves,  raves — 't  is  youth's  frenzy — but  the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still  ;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
Ideal  shape  of  such  ;'yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on. 
Reaping  the  whirlwind  fiom  the  oft-sown  winds; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchvmy  began. 
Seems  ever  near  the  prize  —  w'ealtbiest  when  most  un- 
done. 

cxxw. 

We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away  — 
Sick— sick  ;  unfound  the  boon— unslaked  the  thirst, 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay, 
Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought'at  first  — 
But  all  too  late,—  so  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice— 'tis  the  same, 
Each  idle  —  and  all  ill — and  none  the  worst  — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  ditferent  name, 
And  Death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flame. 

CXXV. 

Few  — none  —  6nd  what  they  love  or  could  have 

loved. 
Though  accident,  blind  contact,  and  the  strong 
Nec-ssity  of  loving,  have  removed 
Antipathies—  but  to  recur,  ere  long, 
Envenoni'd  with  irrevocible  wrong  ; 
And  Circum-tance,  that  unspiritual  god 
And  miscrealor,  makes  and  helps  along 
Our  coming  evils  with  a  crutch-like  rcxl. 
Whose  touch   turns  Hope  to  dust,  —  the  dust  we  all 

have  trod. 

CXXVT. 
Our  life  is  a  false  nature — 'tis  not  in 
The  harmony  of  things, —  It  is  ha.-d  decree, 
This  uneradicable  taini  of  sin. 
This  boundless  upas,  this  all-blasting  tree, 
Whose  root  is  earth,  w  hose  leaves  and  branches  be 
The -kies  which  rain  their  ])1  igues on  men  like  dew- 
Disease,  death,  bondage  —  all  the  woes  we  ?ee  — 
And   worse,  the   woes   we  see  not  —  which  Ihrcitt 

through 
The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new. 

cxxvn. 

■Vet  let  us  ponder  boldly  — 't  is  a  base  3 
Abandonment  of  reason  to  resign 
Our  right  of  thought- our  last  and  only  place 
Of  refige;  this,  at  least,  shall  still  be  mine: 


1  events,"  cays  Itie  author  of  the  Academical 
"  I  liu>t,  whdiever  may  be  the  fate  of  my  own 
le,  that  philosophy  will  regain  that  eslimatfoa 
bght  to  possess.     The  tree  and  pbilO!>opbif  spirit 


Canto  IV.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


443 


7hough  from  our  birlh  the  hciilly  divine 
Is  chain  d  and  Inrlur&i  —  ciliin'd,  cribb'd,  confined, 
And  bred  in  darkness,  lesi  Ihe  truth  should  shiiit; 
Too  biiehtly  on  the  unprepared  mind, 

Tbe  beam' pours  in,  for  time  and  bkill  will  couch  the 
blind. 

CXXVIII. 
Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  we  e  that  Rome, 
Collecllne;  Ihe  chief  trophies  of  her  Ime, 
Would  build  up  .ill  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 
Her  Coliseum  st.inds  j  the  nionubeims  shine 
As  't  were  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  liiht  which  streiiris  here,  to  illume 
This  lon»-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  coniempl.it ion  ;  and  the  azure  gloom 

Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues  which  h^ve  words.  anJ  speak  to  ye  of  heaven. 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  ?lory.     Theie  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  «  hich  Time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feelms,  and  where  he  ha'h  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  mnsic  in  the  ruin'd  battlement. 
For  which  Ihe  pilace  nf  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  tilt  a^es  are  its  dower. 

cxxx. 

Oh  Time  !  the  beiutifier  of  the  dead, 
Adorner  of  the  ruin,  comforter 
And  only  healer  when  Ihe  heart  hath  bled  — 
Time  !  the  corrector  where  nur  judgments  err, 
The  test  of  truth,  love, —  sole  philosopher. 
For  all  beside  are  sophis's,  from  ihy  thrift, 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer  — 
Time,  the  avenger !  unto  thee  I  lift 
My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of  thee  a  gift : 

CXXXI. 

Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a  shrine 
And  temple  more  divinely  desola'e. 
Among  Ihy  migh'ier  ofierings  here  are  mine, 
Ruins  of  ye.irs  —  though  few,  yet  full  of  fate :  — 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate. 
Hear  me  not;  but  if  calmly  I  have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  hate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
This  iron  in  my  soul  iu  vain  — shall  they  ml  mourn? 

CXXXI  I. 

And  thou,  who  never  yet  of  human  wrong 
I.eft  the  nnbalunced  >cile,  great  Nemesis  I  t 
Here,  where  'he  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long  — 
Thou,  who  didst  call  'he  Furies  from  the  abyss, 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution  —  just. 
Had  it  l)ut  been  from  hands  less  near  —  in  this 
Thy  former  realm,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust ! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart'.  — Awake!  ihou  shall, 
and  must.  . 


of  onr  Dntinn  has  been  the  theme  nf  admiration  to  the 
world.  This  was  the  prnud  di»liiiction  of  EnElishmm, 
and  tbe  luminous  grurce  nf  all  Iheir  ?lory.  Shall  we  then 
forget  the  manly  and  dignified  eenlimentaof  uur  aucetlnrti, 
to  prate  in  the  laiiKuage  nf  the  mother  or  the  nurse  about 
ctrg.iod  old  prejudiies?  This  is  not  tlie  way  to  defend 
the  iau8e  of  truth.  It  was  not  thus  that  our  fathers 
maintained  it  in  Ihe  brilliant  peri'xis  of  our  history.  Pre- 
iudire  may  be  trusted  to  guiird  the  outworks  for  a  short 
(pace  of  time,  while  reanon  slumbers  in  the  citadel;  but  if 
the  latter  sink  into  a  lethargy,  the  former  will  quicklv 
erect  a  standanl  for  herself.  Philosophy,  wisdom,  and 
liberty  support  each  other  ;  he  who  will  not  reas.io  is  a 
bigot ;  he  who  cannot,  is  a  fool;  and  he  who  dares  not,  is 
a  Jlave."— Vol.  i.  pref.  p.  14,  15. 

18ee  Appendi.\,  "  Historical  Notes,"  N,->.  XXVIII. 


CXXXIII. 

It  is  not  thai  I  may  not  ha\e  incurr'd 

For  my  anceslnl  'faults  or  mine  the  wound 

I  bleed  withal,  and,  had  i   been  conferr'd 

Willi  a  just  weapon,  it  hid  flown  unbound  ; 

Bui  now  my  blood  shall  not  sink  in  the  ground; 

To  thee  I  do  devote  it—  thou  ^h^lt  hike 

The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be  sought  and  found, 

Which  if  /have  not  taken  lor  Ihe  sake 

lut  let  that  pass  —  I  sleep,  but  Ihou  shall  yet  awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  't  is  not  that  now 
1  shrink  from  what  is  suti'er'd  :  let  him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow. 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak ; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  «ill  I  seek. 
Not  in  the  air  .-hill  lhe..e  my  words  disperse, 
Though  1  he  ashes  ;  a  far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  deep  prophetic  fuluissof  this  verse. 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my  cune ! 

cxxxv. 

That  curse  shall  be  Forjiveness. —  Have  I  not  — 
Hear  me,  my  mo'her  Earth  !  behold  it.  Heaven  !  — 
Have  I  not  had  to  wresle  vvith  my  lot  ? 
Have  1  not  sufler'd  things  to  be  forgiven  ? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  seir'd,  my  heart  riven, 
Hopes  sapp'd,  name  blighted,  Life's  life  lied  away? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven, 
Because  not  altogether  of  such  clay 
As  lots  in  o  Ihe  souls  of  those  whom  I  survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy 
ilave  I  not  seen  what  human  things  could  do? 
From  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  Ihe  >mall  whisper  of  the  as  paltry  few, 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew. 
The  Janus  glance  of  w  hose  significant  eye. 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  stem  true. 
And  without  utterance,  save  the  shri  g  or  sigh, 
Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speechless  obloquy, 

cxxxvn. 

But  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  in  vain  ; 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  fire, 
And  my  frame  perish  even  in  conquering  painj 
But  there  is  that  vvithin  me  which  shalTlire 
Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  when  I  expire; 
Something  unearthly,  which  they  deem  not  of. 
Like  the  remember'd  lone  of  a  niute  lyre. 
Shall  on  their  soflen'd  spirits  sink,  and' move 
In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  remorse  of  love. 

CXXXVIII. 

The  seal  is  set  —  Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk'si  in  the  shadow  of  ihe  midnielii  hour 
With  1  deep  awe,  yet  a'l  dis'inci  from  fear  ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  Ihe  solemn  scene 
Derives  frt^m  thee  a  sense  s  ■  deep  and  clear 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been. 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And  here  Ihe  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran. 
In  murmur'd  pity,  or  loud-roar'd  applause, 
As  man  »vas  slaiieh'er'd  by  his  fellow  man. 
And  wherefore  slaushter'd  ?  wherefore,  but 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  eenial  laws. 
And  Ihe  imperial  pleasure. —  Wherefore  not? 
What  mailers  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms  —  on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot  ? 
Both  arc  but  theatres  vsliere  the  chief  actors  rot. 


444 


CHILDE  HAROLDS 


[Canto  IV. 


CXL. 
I  see  before  me  the  Gl.idis  or  lie : 
He  leans  upon  his  h  md  —  his  manly  brow 
Consents  lo  death,  bul  conquers  agony, 
And  his  droop'd  head  siiiljs  gradually  low  — 
And  through  his  side  ihe  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  Ihe  red  gssh.  fall  he;»iy,  one  by  one, 
Like  Ihe  lirsl  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he  is  gone. 

Ere  ceased  Ihe  inhuman  shout  which  hail'd  the  wretch 
who  won. 

CXU. 
He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  thai  was  far  away;  l 
He  rect'd  not  of  ihe  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  Ihe  Danube  lay. 
There  were  his  young  baibarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  D.ician  mother  —  he,  their  sire, 
Butcher';!  10  make  a  Roma:i  holiday  2_ 
All  ihii  rush'd  wiih  his  blood  —  Shall  he  expire 

And  unavenged  ?— Arise  !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire  ! 

CXLII. 
Bul  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam  ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  chnked  Ihe  ways, 
And  roar'd  or  niurmur"d  like  a  miuiitain  stream 
Dishinj  or  winding  as  i's  torrent  s'rays  ; 
Here,  where  Ihe  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 5 
My  voice  sounds  much— and  fall  Ihe  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void  —  seats  crush'd  —  walls  bow'd  —   | 

And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely 
loud. 

CXLHl. 
A  ruin  —  yet  what  ruin  !  from  i's  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half  cities,  have  been  rear'd  ; 
Tel  oft  Ihe  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass. 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  ciuld  have  appear'd. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  bul  clear  d? 
Alasl  developed,  opens  Ihe  decay. 
When  the  colossal  fabi  ic's  form  "is  near'd  : 
It  will  not  bear  Ihe  brightness  of  Ihe  day. 

Which  streams  loo  much  on  all  jears,  man,  have  reft 
away. 

CXLIV. 
But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there  ; 
When  Ihe  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  srey  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesir's  head  ;  « 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead  : 

Heroes  have  trod  this  spot— 'I  is  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 


CXLV. 
"  While  stands  the  Coliseum.  Rome  shall  stand;  • 
"  When  falls  the  Coliseum.  Rome  shall  fall ; 
"And  when  Rome  falls  — the  World."    From  oui 

own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  limes,  which  we  a;e  wont  to  call 
Ancient  ;  and  these  three  mortal  Ihines  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unalter'd  all ; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill. 
The  World,  the  same  w  ide  den  —  of  thieves,  or  what 

ye  will. 

CXLVL 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sub.^iie  — 
Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods. 
From  Jove  to  Jesus  — spared  and  blest  by  lime    • 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man  plods 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes  —  glorious  dome  ! 
Shill  thou  not  la-t?  Time's  scyihe  and  tyrants'  rods 
Shiver  upon  thee  —  sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety  —  Pantheon  !  —  pride  of  Rome ! 

cxLvn. 

Relic  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts  ! 
Despoil'd  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts  — 
To  art  a  model ;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages.  Glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture  ;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads; 
And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on   honour'd   forms,  whose  busts  around 
them  close.  1 

CXLVill. 

There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light  9 
What  do  I  gize  on  ?  Nothing :  Look  again  1 
Two  forms  are  slowly  shadow'd  on  my  sight  — 
Two  insulated  phantr  ms  of  Ihe  brain  : 
It  is  not  so  ;  I  see  them  full  and  plain  — 
An  old  man,  and  a  female  young  and  fair. 
Fresh  as  a  nursing  mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar  :  —  but  what  doth  she  there, 
With   her   unmantled   neck,    and   bosom   white  and 
bare.' 


j  him  to  wear  a  wreath  of  lanrel  on  all  occaeione.  He  wa« 
I  anxious,  not  lo  show  that  he  wan  the  conqueror  of  the 
j  world,  but  lo  hide  that  he  was  bald.  A  stranger  at  Rome 
I  would  hardly  have  eueseed  at  the  motive,  per  should  we 
I  without  the  help  of  Ihe  historian. 

I  5Thi8  is  quoted  in  the  •'  Derliiie  and  Fall  of  the  Rnman 
\  Empire.**  ati  a  proof  Ihat  the  Coliseum  was  entire,  when 

seen  by  the  Anglo-Saxon  pitgrimp  at  the  end  of  tbeseveiitb, 

or  Ihe  beginning  of  the  eightli,  century. 

6  "Though  plundered  of  all    its   brass,  except  the  ring 

whiih    was   necessary  to  preserve    Ihe    aperture   above; 

though    exposed    to    repealed    fires -.   though    sometimes 

flooded    hy  the  river,  and    always   open    to   the    rain,  no 


from  the  Pagan 


tudioii 


It  passed  v\itb  little  altera 

present    worship;  and    so  convenient  were  ite 

)r  Ihe  Christian  altar,  that  Mi.hael  Anselo,  ever 

of  ancient  beauly,  introduced    their  design    a«  a 

the  Catholic  church."— Forsyth's /to/y,  p.  JS7. 


1  Whether  the  wonderful  statue  which  suggested  this 
image  be  a  laquearian  gladiator,  which,  in  spite  of  Win- 
kelmann's  criticism,  has  been  stoutly  m,iulained;  or 
whether  it  be  a  Greek  herald,  as  that  sreat  antiquary  po*i. 
lively  asserted;  »  or  whether  it  is  ti  be  Ihooghl  a  Spartan 
or  barbarian  shield-bearer,  according  to  the  opinion  of  his 
Italian  editor;  it  must  assuredly  seem  a  copn  of  that 
masterpiece  of  Clesilaus  which  represented  "  a  wounded 
roan  dying,  who  perfectly  expressed  what  there  remained 
of  life  in  him."  Montfaucon  and  Matfei  thought  il  the 
identical  statue;  but  that  statue  was  of  bronze.  The 
Gladiator  was  once  in  the  V'il'a  I.udovizi,  and  was  bought  model  i 
by  Clement  XII.  The  right  arm  is  an  entire  restoration  3d  edit, 
-  -,.  ,,   ..  -  TThePanlh 

Nos.   XXIX.  I  of  modern  er. 
IXX. 

4  Suetonius  informs  us  Ihat  Julius  Cesar  was  particU' 

larly  gratified  by  that  decree  of  the  senate  which  enabled    rous    assemblage  of  morlals,  some  one  or  two  of  whom 

}  have  been  almost  deified  by  the  veneration  of  their  coun- 

»  Either  Polifontes,  heral  I  of  Laius,  killed  by  Bxtipns  ;  i  trymen.     For  a  notice  of  the   Pantheon,  see  ••  Historical 
or  Cepreas.  herald  of  Eurilhcus,  killed  hy  ihe  Athenibns,  Illustrations.*' 

when  he  endeavoured  to  drag  the  Heraclida  from  Ihe  altar  6 This  and  Ihe  three  next  stanzas  allude  to  the  story  of 
of  mercy,  and  in  whose  h"nour  Ihey  instituted  annual  '  the  Roman  daughter,  which  is  recalled  I  >  Ihe  traveller  by 
games,  continuetl  to  the  time  of  Hadiian  :  or  Anthemo-  the  site,  or  pretended  site,  of  thai  adventure,  now  showa 
crilus,  the  Athenian  herald,  killed  by  Ihe  Meenrenses,  who  at  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas  inCarcere.  ThediScultie* 
Dever  recovered  Ihe  impiety.  See  Storia  delle  Arti,  &c.  attending  the  full  belief  of  the  tale  are  slated  in  "  HistOTi- 
torn.  ii.  pag.  203,  204,  205,  206,  207.  lib.  ix.  cap.  ii.  {  cat  Illustrations." 


chael  Angelo. 
2.  3  See  Appendix,  "Historical  Notes," 


I  has  been  made 


I  flood  of  light  which  1 


receptacle  for  the  busts 
leasl.  d  8lingui^hed,  men.  The 
fell  through  the  large  orb  above 


Canto  IV.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


445 


CXLIX. 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  life, 
Where  on  the  heart  and  from  the  liei'rt  we  tonli 
Our  first  and  swee'esi  nurture,  when  the  wife, 
Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look, 
Or  even  the  pipins;  cry  of  lips  Ihit  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  is  cradled  Bcok 
She  sees  her  little  bud  put  fonh  its  leaves  — 

What  may  the  fruit  be  yet  ?  —  1  know  not  —  Cain  was 
Eve's. 

CL. 
But  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food, 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift :  —  it  is  her  sire 
To  whcim  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blond 
Born  with  her  birth      No;  he  shall  not  expire 
While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 
Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature's  Nile,  vvho^e  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Than  Egypt's  river:  —  from  that  gentle  side 

Oriiik,  drink  and  live,  old  man  I  Heaven's  realm  holds 
DO  such  tide. 

CLI. 
The  starry  fable  of  -he  milky  way 
Has  not  thy  s'ory's  purity  ;  it  is 
A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray, 
And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 
Keverst-  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  ibyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worlds  :  —  Oh,  holiest  nurse ! 
No  droj)  of  Ihat  clear  streim  its  way  shall  miss 
To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 

With  life  as  our  fieed  souU  rejoiu  the  uuiverse. 

CLH. 

Turn  to  the  Mole  which  Hadrian  rear'd  on  high,* 

Imperial  mimic  of  old  Egypt's  piles, 

Colossal  copyist  of  defoimiiy. 

Whose  travell'd  phantasy  from  the  far  Nile's 

Enormous  mndel,  dooin"d  the  artist's  toils 

To  build  for  giants,  and  f 'r  his  vain  earth, 

His  shrunkeifashes,  raise  this  dome  :  How  smiles 

The  gazer's  eye  with  philosophic  mirth. 

To  view  the  huge  design  which  sprung  from  such  a 
birb ! 

CLIH. 
But  lo  !  the  dome  —  the  vast  and  wondrous  dome,3 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell  — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  (omb  ! 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle  — 
Its  columns  stiew  the  wilderness  and  dwell 
The  hyaena  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade; 
I  have  beheld  Sophii's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  iinss  i'  the  sun,  and  have  survey'd 

Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  pray'd  ; 

CLIV. 
But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altirs  new, 
Standest  alone—  with  no'hing  like  to  thee  — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  his  former  city,  what  could  be. 
Of  earthly  structures,  in  his  honour  piled, 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect  ?  Mijesty, 
Power,  Glory,  Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  are  aisled 
Id  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 

CLV. 
',  Enter:  its  erandeur  overwhelms  thee  not ; 
And  why  ?'it  is  not  les?en'd  ;  but  thy  mind, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot. 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 

1  The  castle  of  St.  Angelo.  See  "  Historical  Illu^tra- 
linn«." 

STtiis  and  the  «ix  next  stanzas  have  a  reference  to  the 
church  of  St.  Peter's.  For  a  measurement  of  the  com- 
parslive  lenglti  of  Ihin  basilica  and  Iheoltiei  great  rhurch.-9 
of  Kurope,  see  the  [lavement  of  St.  Peler>,  and  the  Claa- 
•ical  Tour  through  Italy,  vol.  ii.  p.  125.  et  seq.  ch.  iv. 


A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  imnrar  ality  ;  and  thou 
Shall  one  day,  if  f  mntl  wo  thi,  so  defined. 
See  tliy  God  face  to  face,  as  :hou  do<t  now 
His  Holy  of  Holiej,  nor  be  blasted  bj  his  brow. 

CLVI. 
Thou  mnvest —  but  increasing  with  the  advance, 
Like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  dotb  rise, 
Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance  ; 
Vaituess  which  grows —  but  grows  to  harmonite  — 
All  musical  in  its  immensities; 
Rich  marbles— richer  painliig— shrines  where  flame 
The  lamps  of  gold  —and  haughty  dome  which  vies 
lu  air  with  Earth's  chief  struciuies,  though    their  , 
frame  j 

Sits  on  the  lirm-set  ground  —  and  this  the  clouds  must  I 
claim.  I 

CLVII.  I 

Thou  seest  not  all ;  but  piecemeal  thou  must  break, 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  niuke, 
That  ask  the  eye  —  sohere  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objec's.  and  contrul 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
I  seloiguenl  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  pirt  by  part, 

The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart, 

CLVIH. 
Not  by  its  fault  —  but  thine :  Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  gra!-p  —  and  as  it  is 
Thai  whai  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstrips  our  faint  expression  ;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  o'erwhelniiiig  edifice 
Fools  our  fond  gaze,  and  greatest  of  the  great 
Defies  at  first  our  Nature's  littleness, 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 

CLIX. 
Then  pause,  and  be  enlighten'd  ;  there  is  more 
In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  w  hich  would  adore 
The  worship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  great  masters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  time,  nor  skill,  nor  thought  could  plan  ; 
The  fountain  of  si.blimi;y  displays 
Its  de|ith,  ai.d  theice  may  draw  the  mind  of  miD 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  conceptions  Cab 

CLX. 

Or,  turning  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 
Laocoon's  torture  dignifying  p.-\in  — 
A  father's  love  and  mortal's  agony 
With  an  inimortal'>  patience  blending:  —  VaiD 
The  siruzgle  ;  vain,  against  the  coiling  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's  grasp, 
The  old  man's  cleich  ;  the  long  envenom'd  cbain 
Rivets  the  living  links,— the  enormous  asp 
Enforces  pang  on  pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on  gasp. 

CLXI. 

Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow, 
The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light  — 
The  Sun  in  human  limbs  array'd,  and  brow 
All  ridiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  fight; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot  —  the  arrow  bright 
With  an  iniDi'Ttal's  vengeance;  in  his  eye 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain,  aid  might 
And  majesty,  t^ash  their  full  lightnings  by. 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 

CLXII. 

But  in  his  de!i'^te  form  —  a  dream  of  Love, 
Shnped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  bread 
Long'd  for  a  deathless  lover  fiom  above. 
And  madden'd  in  that  vision  —  are  exprest 


38 


44f 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


[Canto  IV. 


All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  bless'd 
The  mind  with  in  ils  most  unearthly  mood. 
When  each  ci.ncep  ion  was  a  heiveidy  guest  — 
A  ray  ot  iniruorlality  —  and  >,tood, 
Starlil^e,  around,  until  they  gallier'd  to  a  god  : 

CLXIII. 
And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven 
The  tire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  givea 
Which  this  poe.ic  niaibJe  h  ith  amv'd 
Wi'h  an  eternal  glory  —  which,  if  iriade 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought  ; 
And  Time  himself  haih  hallow'd  it,  nor  liid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust  —  nor  hath  it  CAUght 
A  linge  of  yeais,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  which 
't  was  wrought. 

CLXIV. 
But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song, 
The  being  who  upheld  it  through  (he  past? 
Methiiiks  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 
He  is  uo  more  —  Ihese  breathings  are  his  last ; 
His  w  iiideriiigs  done,  his  visions  ebbirg  last, 
And  he  himself  as  nothing:  —  if  he  was 
Aught  but  a  phiiitasy,  and  could  be  class'd 
With  forms  which  live  and  suffer  —  let  that  pass  — 
His  shadow  fades  away  into  Destruction's  mass, 

CLXV. 
Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  all 
That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud, 
And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall 
Through  which  all  things  grow  phantoms  ;  and  Ihe 

cloud 
Bet"  een  us  sinks  and  nil  which  ever  glow'd, 
Till  Glory's  self  is  twilight,  and  displays 
A  melancholy  halo  scarce  allow'd 
To  hover  on  llie  verge  of  darkness;  rays 
Sadder  than  sadde=t  night,  for  they  distract  Ihe  gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss. 
To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  the  frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
Is  wretched  essence;  and  to  dieam  of  finie. 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  off  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear,—  but  never  more, 
Oh,  happier  thought!  cut  we  be  mnde  the  same: 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore 

These  fardels  of  the  heart  —  the  heart  whose  sweat 
was  gore. 

CLXVH. 
Hark  !  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds, 
A  long,  low,  distant  mu'uiur  of  dread  sound. 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound  ; 
Through  storm   and   darkuess   yawns  Ihe   rending 

ground. 
The  gulf  IS  thick  with  phantoms,  but  Ihe  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrown'd. 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  wi'h  maternal  giief 

She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief. 

cLxvni. 

Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarch^,  where  art  thou  ? 
Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  ail  thou  dend  ? 
Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
Some  less  mnjeslic,  less  beloved  head  ? 
In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled. 
The  mother  of  i  moment,  o'er  thy  boy. 
Death  hush'd  that  pang  for  ever  :  with  thee  fled 
The  pre  enl  h  •p|iiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  fill'd  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seem'd  to  cloy. 

CLXIX.  I 

Feasants  bring  forth  in  safety. —  Can  it  be, 
Oh  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored  1 
Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee, 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard    ' 


Her  many  griefs  for  One  ;  for  she  had  pour'd 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris.—  '1  hou,  to,-,  lonely  lord, 
And  desolate  coiisoit —  vainly  wert  thou  wed  '. 
The  husband  of  a  year !  the  father  of  the  dead  ! 

CLXX. 
Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made; 
Thy  bridU's  fruit  is  ashes :  in  the  dust 
The  lair-hair  d  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid, 
The  love  of  millions  !     Hoiv  we  did  entrust 
Futurity  lo  her  !  and,  though  it  must 
Dirken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deem'd 
Our  children  should  obey  her  chid,  and  bless'd 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whcse  promise  seem'd 
Like  s'ars  to  shepherds'  eves:— 'twas  but  a  metecT 
beam'd. 

CLXxr. 

Woe  unto  us,  not  her  ;  »  for  she  sleeps  well : 
T  he  fickl»"  ■v'lc  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counse^,  the  false  oracle. 
Which  from  Ihe  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rung 
Its  knell  in  princely  ears,  till  the  o'eistung 
Naiions  have  arm'd  in  madness,  the  strange  fate  3 
Which  tuniblei  mi»hiie-t  sovereigns,  and  hath  Rung 
Against  their  blind  omnipo'encea  weight 
Withiu  theopposingscale,  which  crushes  soon  or  late,— 

CLXXII. 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny  ;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it :  aid  so  young,  so  fair. 
Good  without  etfort,  grei^t  without  a  foe  ; 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother  —  and  now  there  I 
How  many  ties  did  that  stern  moment  tear ! 
From  thy  Site's  to  his  huniblest  subject's  breast 
Is  link'd  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  ear'hquake's,  and  opprest 

The  land  uhich  loved  ihee  so  that  none  could  love 
thee  best. 

CLXXIII. 
Lo,  Nemi !  3  navell'd  in  the  woody  hills 
So  far,  that  the  uprooting  wind  which  tears 
The  oak  from  his  foundation,  and  which  spills 
The  ocean  o'er  its  boundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  against  Ihe  skies,  reluctant  spares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thy  glassy  lake  ; 
And,  calm  as  cherish'd  hale,  its  surface  wears 
A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  nought  can  shake, 

All  coil'd  into  itself  and  round,  as  sleeps  Ihe  snake. 

CLXXIV. 

And  near  Albano's  scnrce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a  sister  valley  ;  —  and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latinn  coast  where  sprung  the  Epic  war, 
'■  Arms  and  the  Man,"  whose  re-ascei.ding  star, 
Rose  o'er  an  empiie:-but  beneath  thy  right 
Tully  rejiosed  from  Home  ;  —  and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight 
The  Sabine  farm  was  tiird,  the  weary  bards  delight.* 

1  "  The  death  of  the  Prinress  Charlntte  has  been  a  shock 
even  here  (Venii-e).  and  must  have  been  aj  e*"r£tiquake  at 
home.  Tile  fate  of  this  poor  girl  is  melnucboly  in  every 
respect ;  dying  at  twenty  or  an,  in  childbed  — of  a  boy  :oo 
a  present  princess  and  future  queen,  and  just  as  she  be-a^ 
to  be  tiappy,  and  lo  enjoy  herself,  and  Ihe  hnpes  whii  h 
she  ini-pired.  I  feel  sorry  in  every  respect. "— Byron 
ie«er«.— E. 

2  Mary  died  nn  the  scaffold;  Klizabeth  of  a  broken  hearr  ; 
Charles  V.  a  hermit;  Louis  XIV.  a  bankrupt  in  nieaos 
and  glory;  Cromwell  of  anxiety  ;  and,  -'the  ^reatesl  ia 
behind."  Napoleon  lives  ii  prisoner.  To  thest-  s.:Tetei£na 
a  IcnK  t>ut  Miperl1:ious  list  might  be  added  of  names  e^^ually 
illiiKtrious  and  unhappy. 

3The  village  of  Nemi  was  near  the  Ari-ian  retreat  of 
Egeria.  and,  from  the  ^had•s  which  emboi-omed  Ihe  tem- 
ple of  Diana,  has  preserved  to  this  day  its  distinnive  ap- 
pellation of  The  Grove.  Nemi  is  but  aa  eveaiog's  tide 
from  the  comfortable  inn  of  Albaoo. 

i  The  whole  declivity  of  the  Albao  bill  is  of 


Canto  IV.] 


PILGRIMAGE. 


447 


CLXXV. 

But  I  fcrget. —  My  Pil;rim"s  shrine  is  won, 
And  b«  and  I  must  pari,  —  so  let  it  be, — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  d  me ; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  loolc  upon  ihe  sea ; 
'I'he  midlmd  ocean  breaks  oji  him  and  me, 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  thai  Ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  bv  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we'foUow'd  on  till  the  dark  Euxine  roU'd 

CLXXVI. 
Upon  the  blue  Symple^ides:  long  years  — 
Long,  though  not  very  miny,  since  have  done 
Tlieir  work  on  bo:h  ;  >onie'sutfering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun  : 
Yet  no:  in  vain  our  mortal  race  halh  run, 
We  have  had  our  re -vard  — and  it  is  here; 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden'd  by  the  sun, 
And  reap  from  earlli,  sei,  joy  almost  ns  dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 

CLXXVII. 

Oh  !  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling  place, 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister, 
1  hat  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  haling  no  one,  love  but  only  her  ! 
Ye  Elements  1  —  in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted  —  Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being  ?    Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 

CLXXVIII. 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  r.iplure  on  the  lonely  shore. 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  i^s  roar  : 
I  love  not  Man  Ihe  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll '. 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  ear'h  with  ruin  —  his  conlrol 
Stops  with  Ihe  shore  ;  —  upon  Ihe  watery  plain 
The  tvrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  re'maio 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  b'lbbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncofBn'd,  and  unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,— thy  fields 

Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,—  ihou  dost  arise 

And  shake  him   fiom   thee:  Ihe  vile  strength  he 

wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  a!l  despise. 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  Ihe  skies. 
And  sendM  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  d  ish^t  him  agiin  to  earth  :  —  there  let  him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 
The  armaments  which  Ihunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 


Their  clay  creator  Ihe  vain  tile  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war  ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  fiake. 
They  nieli  iiito  thy  yest  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  ihe  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Tiafalgar. 

CLXxxn. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Cariliage,  what  are  they  i 
Thy  waters  wasted  thein  while  ihey  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores  obey 
The  St  ranger,  slave,  or  savage  ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts: — not  so  Ihou, 
Unchuigeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  — 
Time  writes  no  wiinkle  on  thine  azure  brow  — 
Such  as  ci cation's  da^vn  beheld,  thou  roUesl  now. 

CLXXXllI. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  Ihe  Almighty's  forja 
Glisses  itself  in  tempeals;  in  all  time. 
Calm  nr  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm. 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  Ihe  torrid  clime 
Dark-heiviDg  ;  —  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime  — 
The  im>ge  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  Ihe  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  ;  thou  goes!  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  aloaa. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wanlon'd  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 't  was  a  pleasing  fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  lo  thy  billows  far  and  near. 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 

CLXXXV. 

My  task  is  done  — my  song  hath  ceased  —  my  them* 
Has  died  in'o  an  echo  ;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  to.ch  shall  be  extinjnish'd  which  halh  lit 
My  midnight  lamp  —  and  what  is  writ,  is  writ,— 
Would  it  were  worthier  I  but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  1  hive  been  — and  my  visions  flit 
Less  palpably  before  me  —  and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt  is  fluttering,  faint,  and  low. 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell !  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hafh  been  — 
A  sound  which  makes  us  linger  ;  —  yet  —  farewell ! 
Ye  ;  who  have  traced  ihe  Pilgiini  lo  Ihe  scene 
Which  is  his  lajt,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon,  and  scallop-shell  ; 
Farewell  I  with  hirti  alone  may  rest  the  pain. 
If  such  there  were— with  you,  the  moral  of  his  slnin. 


beauty,  and  from  the  convent  on  the  highest  point,  which 
hoH  Buci  filled  tu  Ihe  temple  nf  the  Latian  Jupiter,  Ihe  pros- 
peel  embraces  all  Ihe  objects  alluded  lo  iu  Itiis  stanza;  Ihe 
MedilerraDpau;  the  whole  sreue  of  the  latter  halt  of  Ihe 
Eueid,  and  the  coast  from  beyond  llie  mouth  of  the  Tiber 


APPENDIX. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  11. 

i  No;e  [A].— REMOVAL  OF  THE  WORKS  OF  ART 

FROM  ATHENS. 

*'  To  rive  what  Go(h,  and  Turk,  and  Time  hath 

spared.'^ — Stanza  xii.  line  2. 
At  this  moment  (January  3,  1810),  besides  what  has 
been  already  deposied  in  London,  an  Hydriot  vessel  is 
in  thePyraeus  to  receive  every  portable  relic.  Thus, 
as  I  heard  a  young  Greek  observe,  in  common  with 
many  of  his  counlrvmen  —  for,  lost  as  they  are,  they 
yet  feel  on  this  occasion—  thus  may  Lord  Elgin  boast 
of  having  ruined  Athens.    An  Italian  painter  of  ihe 


448 


APPENDIX  TO  CIIILDE   HAROLD, 


6rs[  emirence,  n:<med  Lusieri,  is  Ihe  agent  of  devas'a- 
tioii;  and  like  Ihe  Greek //irftr  cif  Verres  in  Sicily, 
who  t'olliiwed  Ihe  same  j.mfes^ioi.,  he  has  proved  ll'ie 
able  jnstrumeiil  of  piu;  der.  BcUveeii  this  artisi  and 
the  French  Consul  Fauvel.  who  wi-hes  lo  rescue  the 
remains  for  liis  own  »  nernnient,  there  Is  now  a  vio- 
lent dispu'e  coiiceniin?  a  car  employed  in  heir  con- 
veyance, Ihe  \i  heel  of  which  —  1  wUh  they  weie  bnlh 
broken  Ufmn  it  I  —  has  been  locked  up  by  Ihe  Consul, 
and  Lusieri  haf;  laid  his  complaint  before  Ihe  Way- 
wode.  Loid  Eljiii  has  been  extieniel)  happy  in  his 
choi"e  of  Si'iior  Luieri.  During  a  residence  of  ten 
years  in  Athens,  he  never  had  the  curiosity  lo  proceed 
as  far  as  Suniuni  (no"  C'pe  Coloiina),  till  he  accom- 
panied us  ill  our  second  es;cur>ion.  However,  his 
vvoik>,  as  far  as  they  go,  are  most  be;\u'ifol  :  but  they 
are  almost  ail  unfiiiished.  While  he  and  his  patrons 
confine  tiiem- elves  In  lasting  medals,  appreciating  ca- 
meos, sketchin:  columns,  and  chea|)eiiins  gems,  their 
little  absurdities  are  as  harmless  as  in-ecl  or  fox-hunt- 
ing, maiden  specchifyins.  barouche-driving,  or  any 
such  pastime  ;  but  when  they  carry  away  three  or  four 
shiploads  of  the  most  valuable  and  massy  relics  that 
time  and  haibarism  hive  left  lo  the  niost  injured  and 
mo-l  celebrated  of  cities;  when  Ihey  destroy,  in  a  vaiti 
allempt  to  tear  down,  those  works  which  have  been 
Ihe  admiration  of  a«e-,  I  know  no  motive  which  can 
excuse,  no  name  which  cm  designate.  Ihe  perpetraors 
of  this  dastardly  dev  station.  It  was  not  the  least  of 
Ihe  crimes  laid  lo  the  charge  of  Verres,  that  he  had 
jilundered  Sicily,  in  Ihe  manner  since  imi  a!cd  at 
A'hens.  The  iikkI  unt)lushing  impudence  could  hardly 
go  farther  than  to  affix  the  name  of  its  plunderer  to 
the  walls  of  the  Acropolis;  uhile  the  wanton  and 
useless deficenient  of  the  "hole  range  of  the  basso 
relievos,  in  one  compartment  of  the  temple,  wil.  never 
permit  that  name  to  be  pronounced  by  an  observer 
wi'hout  execration.  | 

On  this  occasion  I  speak  impartially  :  I  am  not  a 
collector  or  admirer  of  collections,  cnnsequemly  no  i 
rival;  but  I  hive  some  early  prepossession  in  favour] 
of  Greece,  and  do  not  think  the  honour  of  England  , 
adva..ced  by  plunder,  whether  of  India  or  Allica.  | 

Another  noble  J^rd  has  done  belter,  because  he  has 
done  less :  but  some  others,  more  or  less  noble,  yet 
'•all  honourable  men,"  have  d^ne  Lest,  because,  after 
a  deal  of  excavation  and  execration,  bribery  to  Ihe 
Waywode,  mining  and  counterminiig,  Ihey  have  doi  e 
nothing  at  all.  We  had  such  ink-shed,  and  wine-sh»l,  : 
which  almost  ended  in  bloodshed  1     Lord  E.'s  "  pris" 

—  see  Jon-ilhan  Wild  for  the  definition  of  "  prigsism"  1 

—  quarrelled  with  another,  Giopius  i  by  name  (a  very 
good  name  too  for  his  business),  and  muttered  some-  \ 
•hing  about  satisf  .clion,  in  a  verbal  answer  to  a  note  of 
the  poor  Prussian  :  this  was  staled  at  table  to  Gropius,  1 
who  lauahed,  but  could  eat  no  dinner  afterwards.  The 
rivals  were  not  reconciled  when  I  left  Greece.  I  have 
reason  lo  remember  their  squabble,  for  Ihey  wanted  lo 
make  me  their  arbitrator. 


Note  [B].  — ALBANIA  AND  THE  ALBANIANS. 

"Land  of  Alhania  !  let  ine  bend  mive  eyes 

On  Ihee,  thou  niggtd  mtrse  of  savge  men  '.  " 

Sanza  xxxvii.  lines  5  and  6. 

Albania  comprises  part  of  Macedonia,  lllyria.  Chao- 

nia,  and  Epirus.     Iskander   is   the  Turkish  word  for 


1  Thi«  8r,  Grrpins  wan  employnl  by  a  nnble  Lnnl  for  tlie 
sole  purpose  of  sketching,  in  wliiih  he  excfls;  hnl  I  am 
»orry  to  say,  that  he  has,  throuch  Ihe  abweil  aaiiition  nf 
that  most  respectable  came,  been  treading  fit  humble  Ois- 
lanve  in  Ihe  slepH  of  8r.  I.usieri. —  A  Fhipful  of  his  tr*>- 
phies  was  delainrd,  ami  I  believe  ronlisiaird,  at  Con-slan- 
tiniiple,  in  IMO.  I  am  mr«l  happy  to  be  now  enabled  to 
BiBte,  that  "this  was  n.  I  in  his  b<.n<l;"  that  he  was  em- 
ployed nnlely  as  a  painter,  and  that  his  noble  patron  disa- 
vows all  enunexioD  with  him.  except  as  an  artist.  If  the 
error  in  the  first  and  secniid  edition  of  this  pnem  has 
giren  Ihe  nnb;*  Lurd  a  mnmenfs  paio,  I  am  very  sorry  fur 
I  it:  8r. Gropius  has  assumed   fur  years    Ihe   name  of  his 


Alexander;  and  Ihe  celebrated  Scanderbeg  (Lord  Alex- 
andei)  is  alluded  lo  in  the  third  and  lourth  lines  of  the 
thiily -eighth  stanza.  I  do  not  know  wlie:her  1  am  cor- 
rect in  making  Scanderbeg  the  countryman  of  Alexan- 
der, who  wa>  born  at  Pclla  in  Maced'on,  but  Air.  Gib- 
bon terms  him  so,  and  adds  Pyrrhus  to  the  list,  in 
speaking  of  his  exploits. 

or  Albania  Gibbon  remarks  that  a  country  "  within 
sight  if  Italy  is  less  known  than  Ihe  interior  of  Ame- 
rica." Circunislaiices,  of  little  consequence  lo  men- 
tion, led  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  myself  in  o  that  country 
before  we  visited  any  other  pait  of  Ihe  Ottoman  do- 
minions;  and  with  the  exception  of  Major  Leake, 
then  officially  resident  at  Joannina,  no  other  English- 
men have  ever  advanced  beyond  Ihe  capital  into  the 
in  erior,  as  that  gentleman  very  lately  assured  me. 
Ali  Pacha  was  at  that  time  (October,  IS(}9)  carrying  on 
war  against  Ibrahim  Pacha,  whom  he  had  driven  to 
Beral,  a  strortg  fortress,  which  he  was  then  besieging: 
on  our  arrival  at  Joannina  "e  "eie  invited  loTeja- 
leni,  his  highness's  birthplace,  and  favourite  Serai, 
only  one  day's  distance  from  Berat ;  at  this  juncture 
Ihe  Vizier  had  made  it  his  heid-quarters.  Alter  some 
stay  in  Ihe  capital,  we  accoidingly  followed;  but 
though  furni-hed  with  every  accommodation,  and  es- 
coiled  by  01. e  of  the  Vizier's  secietaiies,  we  were 
iiii;e  days  (on  account  of  Ihe  rains)  in  accomplishing  a 
journey  which,  on  our  re  urn,  barely  occupied  four. 
On  our  route  we  passed  two  cities,  Argjrocastro  and 
Libochabn,  apparently  little  inferior  to  Yanina  in  size  ; 
and  no  |  encil  or  pen  can  ever  do  justice  lo  the  scenery 
in  the  vicinity  of  Ziza  and  Delvinachi,  Ihe  frontier 
village  of  Epiius  and  Albania  Proper, 

On  Albania  and  its  inhabitants  I  am  unwilling  to 
descant,  because  his  will  be  done  so  much  belter  by 
nty  fellow-traveller,  in  a  work  which  may  probably 
precede  this  in  publica'ion,  that  1  as  little  wish  lo  fol- 
low as  I  would  lo  ai:licipale  him.  But  some  few  ob- 
set  vaiions  are  necessary  lo  Ihe  text.  'J  he  Arnaouts,  or  I 
Albanese.  struck  me  forcibly  by  their  resemblance  to 
the  Highlanders  of  Scotland,  in  dress,  figure,  and  man- 
ner of  living  Their  very  mountains  seemed  Caledo- 
nian, with  a  kinder  climate  The  kilt,  though  whie ; 
the  spare,  ac  ive  form  ;  their  dialect,  Cellic  in  its 
sound,  and  their  hardy  habits,  all  carried  me  back  lo 
Morven.  No  nation  are  so  detested  and  dreaded  by 
Iheir  neighbours  as  Ihe  Albanese;  ihc  Greeks  hardly 
regard  Iheni  as  Christians,  or  the  Turks  as  Moslems  ; 
and  in  fact  they  are  a  mixture  of  both,  and  sometimes 
neither.  Their  habits  are  predatory  — all  are  armed  ; 
and  the  red-shaw led  Arnaruts.  the  Mouteneerins,  Chi- 
mariots,  and  Gegdes,  are  treacherous  ;  the  others  diU'er 
somewhat  in  garb,  and  essentially  in  character.  As 
far  as  my  own  experience  goes,  I  can  speak  favoura- 
bly, 1  was  attended  by  two,  an  Iniidei  and  a  Mussul- 
m'n,  lo  Constantinople  and  every  other  part  of  Turkey 
which  came  u  itliin  my  observation  ;  and  more  faith- 
ful in  peril,  or  indefatigable  in  service,  are  rarely  lo 
be  f  uiid.  The  Infidel  was  named  B.isilius  Ihe  Mos- 
lem, Dervish  Tahiri ;  the  former  a  man  i  f  middle 
age,  and  Ihe  latter  about  my  ow  n.  Ba-ili  was  strictly 
charged  by  Ali  Pcha  in  person  lo  attend  us  ;  and  Der- 
vish was  one  of  fifiy  who  accompanieil  us  through  Ihe 
forests  of  Acirnani'a  to  Ihe  banks  of  Achelous,  and 
onward  to  Messalonghi  in  ..ttolia.  T  here  I  took  him 
into  my  own  service,  and  never  had  occasion  lo  rejient 
it  till  tiie  moment  of  my  departure. 

When,  in  ISIO,  after  the  deparlureof  my  friend  Mr. 
Hobhouse  for  England,  I  was  seized  with  a  severe 
fever  in  Ihe  Morea,  these  men  saved  my  life  by  fright- 
ening away  my  physician,  whose  throat  they  threat- 
ened lo  cut  if  I  «  as  not  cured  w  ithin  a  given  time. 
To  this  consolatorv  as«nrance  of  posrhumous  retribu- 
tion, and  a  resolute  refusal  of  Dr.  Romanelli's  pre- 
scriptions, I  attributed  niy  recovery.     I  had   left  iiiy 

aRent  ;  and  Ihoneh  I  conimt  much  condemn  myself  for  i 
sharing  in  the  misluke  of  so  many.  I  am  happy  io  being  i 
one  of  the  flfst  l«  be  undeceived.  Indeed,  I  have  aa  much 
pleasure  in  rnntradirling  this  as  I  felt  regret  in  atBCiac  it. 
—  Xute  lo  third  edition. 


APPEJNDIX  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD. 


449 


last  remaining  Eiijlish  servant  at  Alliens  ;  my  drago- 
iiiaii  was  as  ill  as  nivstlf.  aud  my  poor  Arniouts  nursed 
tue  with  an  aUentiot  which  would  have  d  >ne  honour 
to  civilidalion.  They  hid  a  viriery  of  adventures;  for 
lbeMo<leni.  Dervish,  being  a  reiiiaikably  handsome 
man,  was  always  squabbling  with  the  husbands  of 
Athens;  insomuch  thai  four  of  the  priixip  1  Turks 
paid  me  a  vi  it  of  remon^trar.ci^  at  Iht-  Convent,  on  Ihe 
subjecc  of  his  liavin;  taken  a  woman  from  ilie  b  ith  — 
whom  he  had  lawfully  biujli',  hov.ever  —  a  ihing 
quite  C'ln'rary  '.n  etiquette.  Bisi'i  also  was  extremely 
galhnt  amongst  his  own  pertua-ion,  and  had  the 
prearest  venention  for  Ihe  cliurcli,  mixed  with  the 
highest  contempt  of  chmchmu:i.  whom  he  cuffed  upon 
occasion  in  a  most  heterodox  manner.  Yet  he  never 
passed  a  church  wiihout  crc.-sing  hiniself;  and  I 
remember  the  risk  he  ran  in  enlerinf  St.  Sophia,  in 
Stamlxil,  because  i!  had  once  been  a  place  of  his  wor- 
ship. On  remon-tra'ins  with  him  on  his  inconsistent 
proceedings,  he  invariably  answered.  "  Our  church  is 
h  iy,  our  priests  are  thieves;"  and  then  he  crossed 
himself  as  usual,  and  boxed  the  ears  (f  the  first  ''pa- 
pas" who  refused  to  assist  in  any  required  operation, 
as  was  always  found  to  be  necessary  where  a  priest  had 
any  influence  wi  h  tlieCogia  Bashi  of  hi*  village.  In- 
deed, a  more  abindnned  race  of  miscreants  cannot 
exist  than  the  lower  orders  of  ihe  Greek  clergy. 

When  preparations  we.e  made  for  my  return,  my 
Alb  nians  were  summoned  to  receive  their  pay.  }{a- 
sili  tofk  his  with  an  awkward  show  rf  regret  at  my 
intended  departure,  and  ma:ched  away  to  his  quarters 
with  his  bag  of  piasiies.  I  sent  for  Dervish,  but  t  <T 
some  time  he  was  not  to  be  found  ;  at  las'  he  entered, 
just  as  Signor  Logolheti,  fither  to  the  ci-devant  Anglo- 
Consul  of  Athens  ard  some  oiher  of  my  Greek  ac- 
quaintances, paid  me  a  visit.  Dervish  took  Ihe  money, 
but  on  a  sudden  dashed  it  lo  the  ground  ;  and  clasjiing 
his  hands,  which  he  raised  lo  his  foreheid,  rushed  out 
of  Ihe  room  weeping  bitterly.  From  that  moment  to 
the  hour  of  my  embark  ilion,  he  continued  his  lamen- 
la!io;i5,  and  all  our  etJbrts  to  console  him  only  pro- 
duced this  answer,  "  M'orfisivii,"  "He  leaves  me." 
Signor  LogolheJi,  w  ho  never  wept  btfore  for  any  thing 
less  than  Ihe  loss  of  a  para  (ibout  Ihe  fourth  of  a  tir- 
thing),  melted  ;  the  padre  of  the  convent,  my  attend- 
ants,  my  visiters  — ai.d  I  venly  believe  that  even 
S'erne's  •' fooliih  fat  scullion"  would  have  left  her 
"fish-kettle'  to  sympathise  wi:h  the  unatiected  and 
unexpec  ed  sorrow  of  this  barbaiian. 

For  my  own  part,  when  I  remem!)ered  that,  a  short 
time  before  my  departure  from  England,  a  nnble  and  j 
most  intimate  associate  had  excused  himself  from 
taking  leave  of  me  because  he  had  to  a  tend  a  relation 
'« to  a  milliner's,"  I  fell  no  less  surprised  than  humili- 
ated by  the  present  occurrence  and  the  past  recollec- 
tion. That  Dervish  would  leave  me  with  some  regret 
was  lo  be  expected  :  when  master  and  man  have  been 
scrambling  over  Ihe  monntaini  of  a  do2en  provinces 
toge-her,  they  are  unw  iliing  to  separate  ;  but  his  pre- 
sent feelings,  contras'ed  wi'h  his  native  ferocity,  im- 
proved my  opinion  of  Ihe  human  heart.  I  believe  this! 
almost  feudal  fidelily  is  frequent  amongst  then.  One 
day,  on  our  journey  over  P.<rnassus,  an  Enslishnian  in 
my  service  gave  him  a  push  in  some  dispute  nbcui  the 
b.Tggage,  which  he  unluckily  mistook  for  a  blow  ;  he 
spoke" not,  but  sal  down  leaning  his  head  upon  bis 
hands.  Foreseeing  tiie  consequences,  we  endeavoured 
to  explain  away  the  aflTront,  which  prrduced  Ihe  fol- 
lowing answer:  —  ''!  Iiave  been  a  robber;  I  am  a 
soldier ;  no  captain  ever  s'ruck  me  ;  ynu  are  my  mas' 
ter,  1  have  euen  your  bread,  but  by  that  bread!  (an 
usual  oath)  had  it  been  otherwise,  I  would  have  stab-' 
bed  the  Jog  your  se  vani,  and  tone  to  the  mountains." 
So  Ihe  affair  ei;dcd,  bu'  from  that  day  forward  he  never 
thorcughly  forgave  'belhoughijess  fellow  who  insulted 
him.  Dervish  excelled  in  the  dance  of  his  country,! 
C'lDJectured  to  be  a  remnanl  of  Ihe  ancient  Pyrihic:; 
be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  manly,  and  requires  wonderful  i 
agility.  It  is  verv  distinct  from  'he  stupid  Romaika, 
Ihe  d'uU  round  a>X)ut  of  the  Greeks,  of  which  ourj 
Atbenia:!  parly  had  so  many  specimens. 


The  Albanians  in  general  (I  do  not  mean  Ihe  culti- 
vators of  the  earth  in  the  provinces,  who  have  also 
that  appellation,  hut  the  mountaineert?)  have  a  fine  cast 
of  countenance  ;  and  the  most  beauliful  women  I  ever 
beheld,  in  stature  and  in  features,  we  saw  lewlling  the 
roarf  broken  down  by  Ihe  torrents  between  Delvinachi 
and  Libnchabo.  Their  maimer  of  walking  is  truly 
theilric;!;  but  this  s'rut  is  probably  Ihe  eti'ecl  of  the 
capote,  or  cloak,  depending  from  one  shoulder.  Their 
long  hair  reminds  you  of  Ihe  Spartans,  and  their  cour- 
age  in  desultory  warfare  is  unquestionable.  Though  j 
they  have  some  cavalry  amongst  the  Gegd'?s,  I  never 
saw'  a  good  Arnaout  horseman  ;  my  own  preferred  the 
English  saddles,  which,  however,  they  could  never 
keep.  But  on  foot  tiiey  are  not  to  be  subdued  by 
fatigue. 


Note  [C].-SPECIMEN  OF  THE  ALBANIAN  OR 
ARNAOUT  DIALECT  OF  THE  ILLYRIC. 
'•  IVhile  thus  in  concert,'^  i^c. —  Stanza  Ixxii. 

As  a  specimen  of  the  Albatiian  orArnanut  dialect  of 
lhelll>ric,  I  here  insert  two  of  Iheir  most  popular 
choral  songs,  u  hich  are  generally  chanted  in  dancing 
by  men  or  women  indijcriminately.  The  first  words 
are  merely  a  kind  of  chorus  without  meaning,  like 
sonie  in  our  own  and  all  other  languages. 

1.  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo.  B.1,  Bo,  1.  Lo,  Lo,  I  come,  I  come ; 
Naciarura,  popuso.  be  ihou  silent. 

2.  Niciarura  na  civin  2.1  come,  I  run  ;  open  the 
Ha  pen  derini  li  hin.  door  that  1  may  enter. 

3.  Ha  pe  uderi  escrolini       3.  Open  Ihe  door  by  halves, 
Ti  vin  li  mar  servetini.  that   I  may  take  my 

tuibau. 

4.  Caliriole  me  surme  4.  Calirioles  •     with     Ihe 
El  ha  pe  psedualive.  dark  eyes,   open   the 

gate  that  I  may  enter. 

5.  Buo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,       5.  I/),  Ln,  I  hear  thee,  my 
Gi  egem  spina  esimiro.  soul, 

6.  Caliriote  vu  Ic  funde        6.  An  Arnaout  girl,  in  co»t- 
Ede  vele  lunde  tunde.  ly  garb,    walks   with 

graceful  pride. 

7.  Caliriote  me  surme  7.  Caliriot  maid  of  Ihe  dark 
Ti  mi  put  e  poi  mi  le.  eyci,  give  me  a  kiss. 

8.  Se  ti  puta  citi  mora         8.  If  I   have  kissed   thee. 
Si  mi  ri  ni  veti  udo  gU.  what  hast  Ihou  gained? 

Mv  soul  is  consumed 
with  tire. 

9.  Va  le  ni  il  che  cadale      9.  Dance     lightly,     mire 
Celo  m.are,  more  celo.  gcnlly, and  gen'Iy  still. 

10.  riu  hari  ti  lirete  10.  Make  not  so  much  dust 

Phi  huron  cai  pra  sell.  to   destroy  your   em- 

broidered hose. 
The  last  stany.a  would  puzrie  a  commentator:  the 
men  have  certainly  buskins  of  Ihe  most  beauliful  tex- 
ture, but  the  ladies  (to  whom  the  above  is  supposed  to 
be  addressed)  have  nothing  under  Iheir  little  yellow- 
boots  and  slippers  but  a  well-turned  and  sometimes 
very  w  hite  ankle.  The  Arn.aout  girls  are  much  hand- 
somer Ih  'n  the  Greeks,  aEd  their  dress  is  far  more  pic- 
turesque. They  preserve  their  shape  much  longer 
also,  from  being  always  in  the  open  air.  It  is  to  be 
observed,  that  the  Arnaout  is  not  a  wrilten  language: 
the  words  of  this  song,  therefore,  as  well  as  the  one 
which  follows,  are  spell  according  lo  their  pronuncia- 
tion. They  are  copied  by  one  who  speaks  and  under- 
stands  Ihe  dialect  perfectly,  and  who  is  a  native  of 
Athens. 

I.  Ndi  sefda  tinde  ulavossa  I.  I  am   wounded   by  thy 
Veitimi  upri  vi  lofsa.  love,  and  have  loved  but  I 

to  scorch  myself. 


1  The  Albanese,  particularly  Ihe  women,  are  freqnenllr 
tcrmtd  "Call rides;"  for  whilKrason  I  inqnircd  ia  Toia. 


39* 


29 


450 


APPENDIX   TO  CHILDE   HAROLD, 


2  Ah  vaisisso  mi  privi  lofse  2.  Thou  hast  consumed  me! 
Ah,  maid  !  Ihou  hast 
struck  me  to  the  heart. 
3.1  have  said  I  wi.<h  no 
dosvry,  bu!  ihiue  ejcs 
and  eyelashes. 

4.  The  accursed  dowry  I 
want  not,  but  thee  only. 

5.  Give  me  Ihy  cliarms,  and 
let  the  poiliou  feed  the 
t.ames. 


Si  mi  lini  mi  la 


4.  Roba  stinori  ssidua 
Qu  mi  sini  vetti  dua. 

5.  Qurmini  dua  civileni 
Roba  ti  siarmi  litdi  eoi. 


ill  be  found  correct  iu  his  descnp- 


6.  Utara  pisa  vaisisso  me  si-  6. 1  have  loved  thee,  maid, 

mi  rill  ti  hapti  xvilji  a  sincere  soul,  but 

£ii  mi  bire  a  piste  si  gui        thou  hast  left  me  like  a 
deudroi  tiltati.  w  itheied  tree. 

7.  Udi   vura  udorini   udiri  7.  If  I  haveplaced  myhind 

cicova  cilti  mora  on    thy   bosniii,    what 

Udorini  lalti  ho:lna  u  ede        have  I  sained?  myhand 
caimoui  mora.  is   withdiawn,  bu;  re- 

tains the  flame. 
I  believe  the  two  last  stanzis,  as  tliey  are  in  a  differ- 
ent measure,  ought  lo  belong  to  anoher  ballad.  An 
idea  something  similar  to  the  thought  in  the  last  lines 
was  expressed  by  Socrates,  whose  arm  having  come  in 
contact  with  one  of  his  "  iff oKoAnrtoi,''  Critobulus  or 
Cleobulus,  the  philosopher,  complained  of  a  shooting  | 
pain  as  far  as  his  shoulder  for  some  days  afier,  aiu' 
therefore  very  properly  resolved  to  leach  his  disciple 
in  future  without  touching  them. 


d  aiiv  body  who  thinks   it   worth   while 
ict  him.     At  Caslii   we  drank  of  lialf-a-  ! 


Note  [D].  — THOUGHTS    ON  THE    PRESENT 
STATE  OF  GREECE. 

"  fair  Greece  !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth ! 
Immortal,  though  uo  more  ;  though  fallen,  great .'" 
Stanza  Ixxiii. 
I. 

Before  I  say  any  thing  about  a  city  of  which  every 
body,  traveller  or  not,  h.is  thought  it  necessary  to  say 
something,  i  will  request  Mi^sOwenson,  when  she 
next  borrows  an  Athenian  heroine  for  her  four  vol- 
umes,  to  have  the  goodness  to  marry  her  lo  somebody 
more  of  a  gentleman  than  a  "  Di-d<'r  Aga'"  (whoby  ih'e 
by  is  not  an  Aga),  the  niost  impolite  of  petty  officers, 
the  greatest  patron  of  larceny  Athens  ever  saw  {ex- 
cept Lord  E.),  and  the  unworihy  occupant  of  the 
Acropolis,  on  a  handsome  annu  il  sUpend  of  150  piistres 
(eight  pounds  sterling),  out  of  which  he  his  only  to 
pay  his  garrison,  the  most  ill-regulated  corps  in  the  ill- 
regulated  Ottoman  Empire.  I  speak  il  tenderly,  see- 
ing I  was  once  ihe  cause  of  the  hu-bind  of  "Ida  of 
Athens"  nearly  suffering  ihe  bastin.ido;  and  because 
the  said  "  Disdar"  is  a  turbulent  husband,  and  beati. 
his  « ife  ;  so  that  I  exhort  and  beseech  Miss  f)wenson 
to  sue  for  a  separate  main'enance  in  behalf  of  "  Ida." 
Having  premised  thus  much,  on  a  matter  of  such  im- 
port lo  the  readeis  nf  romances,  I  may  now  leave  Ida, 
to  mention  her  birthpl  ce 

Selling  aside  the  magic  of  the  name,  and  all  those 
associations  which  it  would  be  pedantic  and  superflu- 
ous lo  recapitulate,  the  very  situation  of  Athens  would 
render  it  the  favourite  of  all  who  have  eyes  for  art  or 
nature.  The  climate,  to  me  at  least,  appeared  a  per- 
petual spring;  during  eight  months  I  never  passed  a 
day  without  being  as  many  hours  on  horseback:  rain 
is  extremely  rare,  snow  never  lies  in  Ihe  plains,  and  a 
cloudy  day  is  an  agreeable  rarity.  In  Spain,  Portugal, 
and  every  prt  of  Ihe  East  which  I  visited,  except 
Ionia  and  Attica,  I  perceived  no  such  superiority  of 
climate  to  our  own  ;  and  at  Constantinople,  where  I 
passed  May,  June,  and  part  of  July  (1810).  you  might 
"dinin  the  climate,  and  complain  of  spleen,''  five 
days  out  of  seven. 

The  air  of  the  Morea  is  heavy  and  unwholesome, 
but  the  moment  you  pass  the  isthmus  in  the  direction 
of  Megara  the  change  is  strikingly  perceptible.    But 


I  fear  Hesiod  will 
tion  of  a  Boeotian 

We  found  at  Livadia  an  "  esprit  foii"  in  a  Greek  j 
bishop,  of  all  freethinkers  1  This  worthy  hypocrite  ; 
rllied  his  own  religion  with  gieai  intrepidity  {but  not  , 
befnie  his  flock),  and  talked  of  a  mass  as  a  ••  coglione-  1 
lia."  It  w.is  impr.ssible  to  ihink  belter  of  him  for 
this;  but,  for  a  Boeotian,  he  was  bri.-k  with  all  his  ab-  ' 
surdity.  This  phenomenon  {wi.h  the  exception  indeed 
(if  Thebes,  the  remains  of  Chaeronea,  the  pi  lin  of  Fla-  ; 
lea,  Uichomeiius,  Livadia,  and  its  nominal  cave  of 
Trnphoiiius)  was  the  only  remarkable  thing  we  saw  : 
before  we  passed  Mount  Ciihaeron.  I 

The  fountain  of  Dirce  turns  a  mill :  at  least  my  ; 
companion  (w  ho,  resolving  to  be  at  once  cleanly  and 
classical,  b.ithed  in  it)  pr  nounced  it  lo  be  Ihe  fountain 
of  Difce,  and  a 
may  conirad 

dozen  streamlets,  some  not  of  Ihe  purest,  before 
("ecided  to  our  siiislnction  which  wrs  Ihe  true  Casta- 
lian,  and  even  thai  had  a  villanous  twang,  probably 
from  Ihe  snow,  llioush  it  did  not  ihrow  us  into  an  epic 
fever,  like  poor  Dr  Chandler. 

From  FoitPhyle,  of  which  l.irse  remains  still  exist, 
the  PI  lin  of  Athens,  Penteiicus.  Hymettus,  thcSIgeau, 
and  'he  Acropolis,  burst  upon  the  eye  at  once  ;  iu  my 
opinion,  a  moie  glorious  prospect  than  even  Cinira  or 
Istambol.  Not  the  view  from  the  Tioad,  with  Ida, 
the  Hellespont,  and  the  nu  re  distant  Mount  Athos,  can 
equal  it,  though  so  superior  in  extent. 

1  heard  much  of  the  beiuty  of  Arcadia,  but  except- 
ing the  view  from  the  monas'ery  of  Magaspelion 
(which  is  inferior  to  Ziiza  in  a  command  of  sountry), 
ind  the  descent  from  Ihe  mountains  on  the  way  from 
Tripolilza  to  Argos,  Aicadia  has  little  to  recommend 
i;  beyond  the  name. 

"  Slernitur,  et  ifulcei  raoriens  reminiscitur  Argos." 

Virgil  could  have  put  this  into  the  mouth  of  none  but 
an  Argive,  and  (wi  h  reverence  be  it  sjioken)  it  does 
iiol  deserve  ihe  epithet.  And  if  the  Polynices  of  Sta- 
tius,  "  In  mediis  audit  duo  litora  campis,"  did  actually 
hear  both  shores  in  crossing  ihe  isthmus  of  Corinth, 
he  hid  better  ears  than  have  ever  been  worn  in  such  a 
journey  since. 

"Athens,"' says  a  celebrated  tnpoerapher,  "is  still 
the  most  polished  ciiy  nf  Greece."  Perhaps  it  may  of 
Greece,  but  not  of  the  Greeks  ;  for  Joannina  in  Epirus 
is  universally  allowed,  amongst  themselves,  to  be  su- 
perior in  the  wealth,  refinement,  learning,  and  dialect 
of  its  inhabitants.  The  Athenians  are  remarkable  for 
their  cunning;  and  Ihe  lower  orders  are  not  impro- 
perly characterised  in  that  proverb,  which  classes  them 
with  "Ihe  Jews  of  Salouica,  and  ihe'J'urks  of  the  Ne- 
gropont." 

Among  the  various  foreigners  resident  in  Athens, 
French,  Italians,  Germans,  Ragusans,  &c.,  there  was 
never  a  difference  of  opinion  in  iheir  estimate  nf  the 
Greek  character,  though  on  all  oiher  topics  they  dis- 
puted with  great  acrimony. 

.M.  Fauvel,  Ihe  Fiench  consul,  who  has  passed  thirty 
years  principally  at  Athens,  and  to  whose  talents  as  an 
artist,  and  manners  as  a  gentleman,  none  w  ho  have 
known  him  can  refuse  their  testimony,  has  frequently 
declared  in  my  hearing,  that  the  Greeks  do  not  deserve 
to  be  emancipated  ;  reasoning  on  the  grounds  of  their 
"  national  and  individual  depravity  !"  while  he  forgot 
that  such  depravity  is  to  be  altribuied  to  causes  which 
can  oniy  he  removed  by  the  measure  he  reprobates. 

M.  Rnque,  a  French  merchant  of  respeciability  long 
settled  in  Athens,  asserted  with  the  most  amusing 
gravity,  "  Sir,  they  are  the  same  canaille  that  existed 
in  the  days  of  Themiitocles  !'  nii  alarming  remark  to 
Ihe  "  Laudator  lempnris  acti."  The  ancients  banished 
Themistncles;  the  moderns  cheat  Monsieur  R.  que: 
Ihu-  great  men  Inve  ever  teen  treated  I 

In  short,  all  the  Franks  who  are  fixtures,  and  most 
of  the  Englishmen,  Germans,  Danes,  &c.  of  passage, 
came  over  by  degrees  lo  their  opinion,  on  much  the 
same  grounds'lhat  a  Turk  in  England  would  coDdemn 
the  nation  by  wholesale,  because  he  was  wrooged 


t 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE   HAROLD. 


451 


by  his  lacquey,  and   overcharged  by  his  watherwo- 
Dian. 

Certainly  it  wns  not  a  lillle  slajzerir^  when  the 
Sieur>  Fiiuvel  and  Lusieri,  the  two  greaie-.t  deniagoznes 
of  the  diy,  » lio  divide  between  tlieni  Ihe  [loWer  of 
Pericles  and  ihe  iinpuUriiy  of  Cleon,  and  puzzle  Ihe 
poor  Wavw"de  with  perpetual  ditierences.  agreed  in 
the  ul'tr'  conJenma  ion,  ••  i.ulla  vir  u'e  redeni))  um," 
of  the  Greeks  in  geneial,  and  of  Ihe  Athenians  in  par- 
ticular. 

For  my  own  humble  opinion,  I  am  lolh  to  hazird  i', 
knowing' as  I  do,  thil  there  be  now  in  MS.  no  less 
than  five  lours  of  the  first  nnjnitude  and  of  ihe  most 
threatening  abpecl,  all  in  lypogiapliical  array,  by  per- 
sons of  wit,  and  honour,  and  reguUr  commonplace 
books:  but,  if  I  may  say  this  without  offence,  it  ^eenis 
to  me  ralher  hard  to  declare  so  positively  and  periina- 
ciously,  as  almost  every  body  has  dechred,  that  the 
Greeks,  because  they  are  very  bad,  will  never  be 
bet'er. 

Eton  and  S^nnini  have  led  us  astray  by  their  pane- 
gyrics and  projects  ;  but,  on  ihe  niher  hand,  Ue  Pauw 
aiid  Thornton  have  debased  the  Greeks  beyond  their 
demeiits. 

The  Greeks  will  never  be  independent ;  they  will 
never  be  -overeigns  as  heretofore,  and  God  foibid  they 
ever  should  !  but  ihey  may  be  snlijec's  wiihoui  being 
slaves.  Our  colonies  are  not  independent,  but  tlie\  aie 
free  and  industrious,  and  such  may  Greece  be  iiere- 
after. 

At  present,  like  Ihe  Catholics  of  Ireland  and  Ihe 
Jews  throughout  the  world,  and  such  other  cudgelled 
and  heterodox  people,  they  suffer  all  the  moral  and 
physical  ills  thai  can  afllic:  humanity.  'I  heir  life  is  a 
struggle  against  truth;  Ihey  are  vicious  iu  ilieir  own 
defence.  They  are  so  unused  to  kindness,  that  when 
they  occasionahy  meet  with  it  they  lo;k  upon  it  with 
suspicion,  as  a  dog  idlen  beaten  snaps  at  your  fingers  if 
you  attempt  to  caress  him.  "They  are  ungrateful, 
noloriously,  abominably  ungra'eful  !'" —  this  is  the  gene- 
ral cry.  iVow,  in  the  "i  ame  of  Neniesi<  I  for  what  are 
they  to  be  grateful  ?  Wheie  is  Ihe  human  being  that 
ever  conferred  a  benefit  on  Greek  orGietks?  They 
are  to  be  grateful  to  the  Tuiks  for  their  feiiers.  and  to 
the  Franks  fnr  iheir  broken  promises  and  lyin;  cmn- 
sels.  They  are  to  be  grateful  to  the  arti-t  who  en- 
graves their  ruins,  and  to  the  antiquary  who  carries 
them  away  ;  to  Ihe  traveller  whose  jani>sary  flogs 
them,  and  to  Ihe  sTibbler  whose  journal  abuses  them  ! 
This  is  the  amouut  of  their  nbliga  ions  to  foreigners. 
II. 
Franciscan  Convent,  Athens,  Jan.  23,  1811. 

Amongst  the  remnants  of  the  barbarous  policy  of 
Ihe  earlier  ages,  are  the  tr.ices  of  bondage  which  yet 
exist  in  diflerent  counlrits  ;  whose  inhabitants,  howe- 
ver divided  in  religion  and  manners,  almost  all  agree 
in  oppression. 

The  Eiigli->h  have  at  last  compassi-nated  their  ne- 
groes, and  under  a  less  bigoted  goveriiment,  may  pro- 
bably one  diy  release  their  Catholic  bielhten  :  but  the 
interposition  of  foreigners  alone  can  emancipate  the 
Greeks,  who,  oiherwise,  appear  to  have  as  small  a 
chance  of  redemption  from  IheTuiks,  as  the  Jews 
have  from  mankind  in  general. 

Of  Ihe  ancient  Greeks  we  know  more  than  enough ; 
at  least  the  younger  men  of  Europe  devote  much  of 
Iheir  time  to  the  study  of  the  Greek  wriiers  and  his 
tory,  which  would  be  more  usefully  spent  in  mastering 
their  own.  Of  the  moderns,  we  are  perhaps  more 
neglectful  than  they  deserve:  and  while  every  man 
of  any  pretensions  to  learning  is  tiring  out  his  youth, 
and  often  his  age.  in  the  study  of  Ihe  language  and  of 
the  harangues  of  the  Athenian  demagogues  in  favour 
of  freedom,  the  real  or  supp'.sed  descendants  of  these 
sturdy  lepublicans  are  lefi  to  Ihe  ac  ual  tvranny  of 
their  mas'ers,  although  a  very  slight  eflfort  is  required 
to  strike  olT  Iheir  chains. 

To  talk,  as  Ihe  Greeks  themselves  do,  of  their  rising 
again  to  Iheir  pristine  superiority,  would  be  ridiculous  : 
ai  the  rest  of  Ihe  world  must'resume  its  baibarism, 


One  very  iiigen 
Hies    of  English 


af  er  reasserting  Ihe  sovereignty  of  Greece  :  but  there 
seems  to  be  no  veiy  great  obsacle,  except  in  ihe  apa- 
thy of  the  Franks,  io  Iheir  becoming  an  useful  depend- 
encv,  or  even  a  free  stale  wi  h  a  pioper guarantee;  — 
under  co  reciioi',  however,  be  it  spoken,  for  many  and 
well-informed  men  doubt  the  practicability  even  of 
this. 

'1  he  Greeks  have  r;ever  lost  heir  hope,  though  the;- 
are  now  more  divided  in  opi'iion  on  the  subjt-ci  rf 
their  prnb.Tble  deliverers.  Religion  recommei.ds  the 
Russians;  hut  they  have  twice  been  deceived  and 
abandoned  by  that  power,  and  Ihe  die.idl'ul  lesson  Ihey 
received  afier  Ihe  Muscovite  desertion  in  the  Aloiea 
has  never  been  forgolien.  The  French  they  dislike  ; 
although  the  subjugation  of  Ihe  resi  of  Europe  will,  | 
probably,  be  attended  by  Ihe  deliverance  of  continental 
Greece.  The  i^landers  look  Io  Ihe  English  for  suc- 
cour, as  Ihey  hue  very  lately  possessed  Iheniselves  of 
the  loniaii  republic,  Corfu  excepted.  But  whoever 
ajipear  wih  anus  in  their  hands  will  be  welcome ; 
and  when  that  day  arrives,  Heueii  have  mercy  on  the 
Oltnmans,  Ihey  cam  ot  expect  it  ficm  Ihe  Giaours. 

Rul  ins'ead  of  co:  sidering  what  Ihey  have  been,  and 
speculating  on  what  Ihey  may  be,  let  us  look  at  them 
as  Ihey  are. 

And  here  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  the  contrariety 
of  opinions:  some,  particularly  the  merchanis,  decry- 
ing Ihe  Greeks  in  Ihe  strongest  language;  oihers,  ge- 
neVally  tiavellers.  turning  periods  in  Iheir  eulogy,  and 
publishing  very  curious  speculations  graf'ed  on  their 
former  stale,  which  can  have  no  moie  efi'ect  on  their 
present  lot,  tha u  Ihe  existence  of  the  Jncas  on  the 
future  fortunes  of  F'eiu. 

igenious  person  terms  them  Ihe  "  natural 
; "  another,  no  less  ingenious, 
will  not  allow  ihem  to  be  the  allies  of  injbody,  and 
denies  Iheir  veiv  descent  from  thearcients;  a  third, 
more  ingenious  than  either,  builds  a  Gieek  empire  on 
a  Russian  fonndalion,  and  real!  es  (on  paper)  all  the 
chimeras  of  Caharine  II.  As  to  the  que  lion  of  their 
descent,  what  can  it  iniporl  whether  the  Mainn  e.>  are 
the  lineal  Laconiaiis  or  not?  or  Ihe  present  Aihenians 
as  indigenous  as  the  bees  of  Hynieltus,  or  as  the  grass- 
hoppers, to  which  Ihev  once  likened  themselves? 
What  Englishman  cires'if  he  be  of  a  Danish,  Saxon, 
Norman,  or  Trojan  blood  .'  or  who,  except  a  Welsh- 
man, is  affliced  w  i:h  a  desire  of  being  descended  from 
Car  ctacus? 

The  poor  Greeks  do  not  so  much  abound  in  the  good 
things  of  this  world,  as  to  render  even  their  claims  to 
antiquily  an  objec  tif  envy  ;  it  is  very  cruel,  then,  in 
Mr.  I  hornton  Io  disturb  them  in  Ihe  possession  of  all 
that  time  his  left  them  ;  viz.  heir  pedigree,  of  which 
they  are  Ihe  more  tenacious,  as  il  is  all  ihey  can  call 
Iheir  own.  It  would  be  worth  while  to  publish  toge- 
ther, and  compare,  the  works  of  Messrs.  Thornton  and 
De  Pauw,  Eton  and  Sonnini  ;  paradox  on  one  side,  and 
prejudice  on  Ihe  other.  Mr.  Thornton  conceives  him- 
self Ic  have  claims  to  public  confidence  from  a  four- 
teen years'  residence  at  Pera  ;  perhaps  he  may  on  the 
subject  of  Ihe  Turks,  b'  t  Ihis  can  give  him  no  more 
j  insight  into  Ihe  real  s'a'e  of  Greece  and  her  inhabit- 
1  ants,  than  as  many  years  spent  in  VVapping  into  that  of 
[  the  Western  Highlands. 

The  Greeks  of  Constantinople  live  in  Fanal ;  and  if 
I  Mr.  1  hornton  did  not  oftener  cross  Ihe  Golden  Horo 
^  than  his  brother  nierchan's  are  accustomed  to  Io,  I 
I  should  place  no  great  reliance  on  his  information.  I 
actually  he.ird  one  of  these  gentlemen  boast  of  their 
little  general  intercourse  with  the  city,  and  a.ssert  uf 
himself,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  that  he  ''^d  been  but 
four  times  at  Constantinople  in  as  manv  vears. 

As  to  Mr.  Thornton's  vovages  in  the  Black  Sea  with 
Greek  vessels,  they  gave  him  the  same  idea  of  Greece 
as  a  cruise  to  Berwick  in  a  Scotch  smack  would  of 
Johnny  Grot's  house.  Upon  whit  grounds  then  does 
he  arrogate  Ihe  right  of  condemning  by  wholesale 
b'dy  of  men,  of  whom  he  can  know  litile.'  It  i 
rather  a  curious  circumstance  that  Mr.  Thornton,  who 
so  lavishly  dispraises  Pouqueville  on  every  occasion  of 
mentioning  the  Turks,  has  vet  recourse  to  him 
■  "  ■  ■     , !i 


452 


APPEJSDIX  TO   CIIILDE   HAROLD. 


authority  on  the  Greeks,  and  terms  him  an  imparli  1 
observer.  Now,  Dr.  Poiiqueville  is  as  little  entitled 
to  that  appellation,  as  Mr.  Thorulou  to  confer  it  on 
bini. 

The  fnc:  is,  we  are  deplnrably  in  want  of  infcirma- 
tion  on  the  subject  of  ihc  Greeks,  and  in  particular 
their  iittratuje  ;  nor  is  there  any  probaliilily  of  our 
being  betier  acquainted,  lill  our  iniercour?e  becomes 
more  intimate,  or  their  independence  conhrmed  :  the 
relations  of  passing  travellers  are  as  II  tie  to  be  de- 
pended on  as  the  invectives  of  angry  factors;  hut  till 
Bomethins  more  can  be  attained,  we  must  be  content 
wi'h  the  little  to  be  acquired  from  similar  snuices.i 

However  defeciive  tliese  may  be,  they  are  prefera- 
ble to  the  parad  ixes  of  men  who  have  lead  superfi- 
cially of  the  ancients,  and  seen  nothing  of  the  nio- 
Jerns,  such  as  DeP.iuw;  who,  when  he  asseits  that 
the  British  breed  of  horses  is  ruii  ed  by  Newmarket, 
and  that  the  Spartans  were  cowarJs  in  the  field,  be- 
trays an  equal  knowledge  of  Ens^lish  horses  and  Spar- 
tan men.  His  "philosophical  ob-ervations"  have  a 
much  betier  claim  to  the  title  of  "  p'letical."  Il  could 
not  bo  expected  thit  he  who  so  liberally  condemns 
some  of  the  most  celebrated  in-titutions  of  the  ancient, 
should  have  mercy  on  the  modern  Greeks  ;  and  it  for- 
tunately happens,  that  the  absurdity  of  his  hypothesis 
ou  their  forefa:hers  refutes  his  sentence  on  theniseKe% 

Let  us  trust,  then,  that,  in  spile  of  the  prophecies  of 
De  Pauw,  and  the  doubts  of  Mr.  Thornton,  there  is  a 
reasonable  hope  of  the  redempli;in  of  a  race  of  men, 
who,  whate\er  may  be  the  errors  of  'heir  religion  ai.d 
policy,  have  been  amply  punished  by  three  centuries 
and  a  half  of  captivitj. 

III. 

Athens,  Franciscan  Convent,  March  17,  1811. 
•I  must  have  some  talk  with  this  learned  Thcban." 
Some  lime  af  er  my  return  f  om  Cf^nslanlinrple  to 
this  cily,  1  received  the  thirty-first  number  of  ihe  Edin- 
burgh Review  as  a  great  favour,  and  certiinly  at  this 
distance  an  acceptable  one,  from  the  ci|)iain  of  an 
English  frig-ile  crt'  Salamis.  In  that  number.  Art.  3., 
containing  the  review  of  a  French  tran^la  inn  of  Stiabo, 
there  are  introduced  some  remarks  on  Ihe  modern 
Greeks  and  their  literature,  wiih  a  short  account  of 
Coray,  a  co  translator  in  the  French  version.  On  those 
remarks  I  mean  to  ground  a  few  observi  ions  ;  and  the 
spot  where  I  now  write  «ill,  I  h"pe.  be  sufficient  ex- 
cuse for  introducing  them  in  a  w-.ik  in  some  degree 
cotinected   with   the  subject.    Coray,  the  most  celc- 


1  A  wnrdi  en  patsant,  with  Mr.  Thornton  and  Dr. 
Pouqueville,  whcihave  bet n  ijuilly  between  them  of  sadly 
clipping  tlie  SiillanS  Tuilii^h. 

Dr.  Pftuquevillf;  telln  a  long  stnry  nf  a  Moglem  who 
swallowpd  lorrnsive  sublimate  in  snrh  qiianliiies  that  he 
acquired  Ihp  name  of  '•  Sulej/man  Yryert,"  i.  e.  qu.Ili  Ihe 
Dortnr,  "  SuUyman.  the  eater  of  corrosive  sulilimate." 
"Aha,"  thinks  Mr.  Thnrntt.n.  (angry  with  Ihe  Doctor  fur 
the  fiftieth  time.)  •' have  I  laught  yuu?"— Then,  in  a 
note  twice  the  thickness  of  th.-  Donor's  anecdote,  he 
questions  the  Doctor's  proflciemy  in  the  Tuikish  tongue, 
and  his  veracity  in  his  own.—"  Fur,"  ohserves  Mr.  Thorn- 
ton (after  inflict. ng  onus  Ihe  tough  participle  of  a  Turkish 
verb),  "it  means  liothingm  ire  than. Su/fymnn, /fieealer," 
and  quite  cashiers  the  supplementary  •'  sublimate. "  Now 
both  are  right,  and  both  are  wrong.  If  Mr.  Thomton, 
when  he  next  resides  "  fourteen  years  in  the  fai'toiy," 
will  consult  his  Turkish  dictionary,  or  ask  any  of  his 
Siamboline  aiq.iaintance,  he  wilt  discover  that  "Su/fv- 
ma'n  yeycn."  put  Irgether  discreetly,  mean  Ihe  "  Swal- 
lower  of  su'ilimate."  without  anv  •' Suhyman"  ia  the 
case:  "SuUyma"  signifying  •■corrosive  sublimate,"  and 
not  being  a  proper  name  on  this  occasion,  allhough  it  be 

I  an  nrlh'idox  name  enough  with  the  addition  of  n.  After 
Mr.  Thcirutou's  frequent  hints  -f  profound  Orientalism, 
he  might  have  found  this  out  before  he  sang  such  peaus 
over  Dr.  P.mqueville. 

I       After   this.  I  think  "Travellers  versus  Factors"  shall 

1,  though    the   at>ove  Mr.  Thornton    has  -.on- 

demned  "hoc  genunomne,"  for  mistake  and  ini«repre9eut- 

"    Sitor  ultracrepidnm."  ••  No  merchant  beyond 

his  bales."     K  .  B.  For  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Thornlou.  "8u- 

not  a  propel  name. 


IS 


braled  of  living  Greeks,  at  least  among  the  Fianks  | 
was  born  ai  Scio  (in  the  Review,  Smyrna  is  saied,  1 
have  reason  to  think  incorrectly),  and  besides  the 
tiaii'lation  of  Beccaua  and  other  wiiiks  mentioned  by 
the  Rcviener,  has  published  a  lexicon  In  Ronwic  and 
French,  if  1  may  trust  the  a-surai.ce  of  .-ome  D  lush 
travellers  lately  arriied  from  Paiis  ;  bu'  the  la  est  we 
have  seen  here  in  Fiencli  and  Greek  is  ihal  of  Giegory 
Zolikogloou.2  Coray  has  receiiil>  been  invrdved  in  au 
unpleasant  conlioveisy  with  M.  Gail,3  a  Paiisian  coai- 
men  atoi  and  editor  of  some  t^an^latiolls  from  the 
Greek  poets,  in  consequence  of  the  Institute  having 
awarded  him  the  prize  for  his  version  of  Hippocrates 
'•Il£pi  {)(5aTov,"  &c  to  the  di  paragement,  and  con- 
sequen'ly  displeasure,  of  the  said  Gail.  To  his  exer- 
tions, literary  and  patriotic,  great  praise  is  undoubtedly  j 
due;  but  a  pan  of  ih^t  praise  ought  not  to  be  with-  | 
held  from  thetwo  brotheisZo  imado  (meichanis  settled  i 
in  Leghorn),  who  sent  him  to  Paiis,  and  main  ained 
him,  for  the  express  purpose  of  eluciditing  Ihe  ancient, 
and  adding  to  the  modern,  leseaiches  of  his  country- 
men. Cony,  however,  is  not  considered  by  his  coun- 
trymen equal  to  sr.me  who  lived  in  ihe  two  last  cenlu- 
ries  ;  more  particularly  Dorotheiis  of  iMitylerie,  whose  [ 
Hellenic  wriiings  are  so  much  es  eemed  bv  theGreeks, 
that  .Meleiius  leimshim  '^  Msra  t'ov  BovKvliir^v  koX 
'S.evotf'i'ivTa  a(iia'Toi;  ' EXXijVuiv."  (P.  224.  £cclesia3-  : 
tical  History,  vol.  iv.)  1 

Panagioles  Kodrikas.  the  translator  of  Fontenelle,  I 
and  Kimarases.  who  translated  Ocellus  Lucanus  on  . 
the  Universe  into  French  Christod oulus,  and  more  : 
par:icularly  Fsalidi,  whom  1  have  conversed  with  in  j 
Joannina,  are  al  o  in  high  repute  among  iheir  li  erati.  ' 
The  |is"-menlioned  has  published  in  Romaicand  Lalin 
a  work  on  '•  True  H.ippioess,"  dedicated  to  Catherine 
11.  But  Polyzois,  who  is  stated  by  the  Reviewer  to  be 
the  only  modern  except  Coray  who  has  distinguihed  i 
himself  by  a  knowledge  of  Hellenic,  if  he  be  the  Po-  j 
lyz'ii»  Lampanilziotes  of  Yanina,  w  ho  has  publishixl  a  I 
number  of  editions  in  Romaic,  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  an  itinerant  vender  of  books;  wi'h  Ihe  con- 
tents of  w  hicli  he  had  no  concern  beyond  his  name  ou 
the  tille  page,  placed  there  to  secure  his  properly  in 
Ihe  public ition  ;  and  lie  was,  moreover,  a  man  utterly 
destitute  i  {  scholastic  acquirements.  As  the  name, 
however,  is  not  uncomm'n,  some  oilier  Polyzois  may 
have  edied  Ihe  Epistles  of  Ari^taenetus. 

It  is  to  be  legie' ed  ih  t  the  sysem  of  continental 
blockade  his  closed  the  few  channels  through  which 
theGreeks  received  their  publications,  particularly 
Venice  and  Triese.  Even  the  common  grammar^  for 
children  are  becone  ti  o  dear  for  the  lower  orders. 
Amongst  their  original  wmks  the  Gergraphy  of  Me- 
letius,'Archbishrip  of  Athens,  and  a  muliitude'of  Iheo- 
loiic.il  qiiarosaiid  poeticil  pMiiphleis,  are  to  be  met 
»i  h  ;  their  grammars  and  lexicons  of  two,  three,  and 
f.  ur  lai  guages  are  numerous  and  excellent.  Their 
poetrv  is  in  rhyme.  '1  he  nios'  singular  piece  I  have 
lately  seen  is  a'sTire  in  diilogue  between  a  Russi;  n. 
English,  and  Frei  ch  traveller,  and  ihe  Waywode  of 
VVallichii  (or  Biack-bev,  as  thev  term  him),  an  arch- 
bishop, a  merchant,  and  Cogia  B  ichi  (or  primate),  in 
succession  ;  to  all  of  whom  under  the  Turks  tlie  writer 
attributes  their  present  degeneracy.  Their  songs  are 
some'ime«  preltv  and  pa  hetic.  but  their  tunes  geoe- 
rally  unpleasing'lo  Ihe  ear  of  a  Frank  ;  the  best  is  the 
famous  "  Ah'ite  naXits  TtHv  ' KXXijvujv,'  by  Ihe  un- 
forlunatf  Riga.     But  from  a  catalogue  of  more  than 

2  I  have  in  my  possession  an  excellent  lexicon  '•  rpty- 
XuiCrtrov  "  which  1  received  in  exchange  from  S.  O — , 
Ksq.  for  a  small  gem  :  my  antiquarian  friends  have  nevor 
fo%'otteo  it,  or  forgiven  me. 

a  In  Gail's  pamphlet  against  Coray,  he  talks  of  "  throw- 
ing Ih"  insnlenl  Hellenist  nut  of  the  windows."  On  ihi.s 
i  a  Fo  nch  criiic  exclaims,  "  Ah,  my  Gr«l  1  throw  an  Hel- 
lenist n:il  of  the  window  I  what  sairilese  '.  "  It  certainly 
would  lie  a  eeiious  business  for  those  authors  who  dwell 
in  the  attics:  but  I  have  quoted  the  pas.-age  merely  to 
prove  the  similarity  of  style  among  the  cnnlrnveraiaiist* 
if  all  polished  countries;  London  or  I^iinburch  ruuU 
hbrdly  parallel  this  PurisitD  ebullition. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD. 


453 


silly  authors,  now  before  me,  only  fifteen  can  be  I 
found  who  have  touched  on  any  theme  except  theo- 
logy. I 

1  am  intrusted  with  a  commission  by  a  Greek  of 
Athens  numed  Marniarotoijri  ?o  make  anangenieiits,  | 
if  possible,  for  printing  in  London  a  translation  of  Bar-  i 
thelemi's  Anactiarsis  in  Romaic,  as  he  has  no  other 
opportnnity,  unless  he  despatches  the  MS.  to  Vienna 
by  the  Black  Sea  and  Danube. 

The  Revieiver  mentions  a  s-chool  esiablished  at  He- 
catonesi,  and  suppressed  at  the  inslia;aiio;i  of  Sebas- 
timi :  he  means  Cidonies,  or,  in  Tuikish,  Haivali  ;  a 
town  on  the  continent,  where  that  institution  for  a 
hundred  students  md  three  professors  still  exists.  It  is 
true  that  this  es'ablisjaiieiit  was  distuibed  by  the  Porte, 
under  the  ridiculous  pretext  that  the  Greeks  werecin- 
sfructing  a  fortress  instead  of  a  college;  but  on  inves- 
tigation, and  the  payn.ent  of  some  purses  to  the  Divan, 
it  has  been  permitted  to  continue.  The  principal  pro- 
fess ir,  named  Ueniamin  (i.  e.  Bi-njamin),  is  sated  to 
be  a  man  of  talent,  but  a  free'hinker.  He  was  born  in 
Lesbos,  studied  in  Italy,  and  is  master  of  Hellenic, 
Latin,  and  some  Frank  languages ;  besides  a  smatter- 
ing of  the  sciences. 

Though  it  is  not  my  inention  to  enter  farther  on  this  i 
topic  than  may  allude  to  the  article  in  question,  I  can-  1 
not  but  observe  that  the  Reviewer's  lamentalinn  over  j 
the  fill  of  the  Greeks  apjiears  singular,  when  he  closes 
it  with  these  words :  '•  The  cnaage  is  to  it  altriluted 
to  Ihtir  nnsfortunes  rather  than  tu  any  '  physical  de- 
gindatioii.^"  It  niay  be  true  that  the  Greeks  are  not 
phy-ically  degenerated,  and  that  Constantinople  con- 
tained on  the  diy  when  it  changed  masters  as  nnny 
men  of  six  feet  and  upwards  as  in  the  hnur  of  pros- 
perity ;  but  ancient  history  and  modern  politics  instruct 
us  that  something  more  than  phisicil  perfection  is  ne- 
cessiry  to  preserve  a  state  in  vigour  and  independence  ; 
and  the  Greeks,  in  particular,  are  a  melancholy  ex- 
ample of  !he  near  connexion  between  moral  degrada- 
tion and  nitinnal  decay. 

The  Reviewer  men' ions  a  plan  "  we  b<l  eve''  by  Po- 
lemkin  fnr  the  puriticaiion  of  ihe  Romaic  ;  and  I  hve 
endeavoured  in  v  'in  to  procure  iny  tidings  or  frees  of 
its  exis'ence  There  was  an  academy  in  St.  Pt-lers- 
burgfor  the  Greeks;  but  it  was  suppi'e  sed  by  Paul, 
and  has  not  been  revived  l)y  his  successor. 

There  is  a  slip  of  the  pen,  and  i'  can  onlv  be  a  slip 
of  the  pen,  in  jj.  58.  No  31.  of  the  Edinbu  gh  Review,  ' 
where  these  words  occur  :  — "  We  :ire  to  d  that  whvn 
the  capital  of  the  East  \  ielded  to  Sn/yman^'—  I  ii.ay 
be  presumed  that  ihi-  list  word  will",  in  a  fiituie  edi- 
tion, be  ilteredio  Mahomet  II. i  The  "  ladies  of  Con- 1 
slantinnple."  it  seems,  at  thit  period  spoke  a  dialect,  I 
"  w  hich  would  not  hive  disgraced  llie  Irps  of  an  Athe- ! 
nian."  I  do  not  know  how  that  migh'  be.  but  am  sorry  j 
to  say  the  ladies  in  gener.il,  and  ilie  Athenians  in  par- 
ticular, are  much  altered  ;  beiirg  fir  from  choice  either 
in  their  dialect  or  expressions,  as  the  whole  Attic  race 
arc  barbarous  to  a  proverb  :  —  | 


1  111  a  fiirmer  number  of  the  Edinhiirgh  Review,  ItOfI, 
it  is  ()l'»erveU  :  '•  L'ird  Byrnu  passed  some  nfliis  early  : 
years  in  Scnlland,  where  lie  mitslit  have  learned  Ihal  pi-  i 
broch  cues  not  mean  a  bagiipe, any  more  Ili.in  dvet  means  ' 
afiddh."  ftiiery.— Was  it  in  S<Mil„i,d  that  the  ynurg  j 
vv  learne'l  that  S'ly 
than  criticism  means 


lemen  ot  the  Kdi 

iBun  means  Matiiimtt  II.  ; 

injall>bililt)7  —  bvf  thus 

"Cedimus  inque  viiei 
The 


ebemus  c 


!  saeittis.' 


istake  seemed  set  completely  a  tapie  <if  Ihe  pen  (from 
me  grear  siCT(7.jrii_v  •>(  Ihe  twn  wmdn,  and  Ihe  tutal  ab- 
se-ce  of  error  fnim  the  fnrmer  raees  u(  ihe  liter.iy  livi- 
olhaii)  that  I  shiuid  have  passed  it  over  as  in  iht  text 
had  i  nnl  perceived  in  the  Edinbnreh  Review  mu>h  l.ace- 
fii)i.s  exultation  on  all  sueh  delerlions,  partunlar'"  a 
recent  one.  where  wnids  and  syllahles  aie  sutije.  Is  of  dis- 
quiMtioii,  and  traiispo-sitiou ;  mid  the  above-mpnIi^ned 
Iiaialicl  passage  iu  my  own  ease  irrtaistiby  propelled  me 
to  hint  how  much  easier  it  is  to  be  critical  than  correct. 
The  sentlemerx,  hai-iiig  enjoyed  ->>auy  a  triumph  on  such 
Tictorieo,  will  hardly  begruijge  me  aiJlight  ovation  for  the 
present. 


"  Q.  ASijva,  iTpoTTi  X'upOi 

Ti  yatdapoirs  Tgt(lius  ruipo." 

In  Gibbon,  vol.  x.  p.  161.  is  the  f<illowing  sentence: — 
'■  'Ihe  vulgar  diilec:  of  the  city  was  gross  and  barba- 
rous, Ihough  the  compositioi.s  of  the  church  and  pal- 
ace someiimes  affected  to  copy  the  purity  of  the  At;it 
models."  Whateier  may  be  assened  on  ihe  subject, 
It  is  difficult  to  c  nceive  th  it  the  "  ladies  of  Coiist.ini- 
nople,"  in  the  reign  of  the  last  Cjesar,  spoke  a  purer 
diilect  rhan  Anna  Comnena  wro^e  ihree  cen  uries  be- 
fore :  and  those  royal  piges  are  not  esieemed  the  best 
models  of  composition,  although  the  pi  i i. cess  yXairrav 
uxtv  AKPlBaZ  ATTiKi^ovaav.  In  the  fanal, 
and  in  Yanirn,  Ihe  best  Greek  is  spoken  :  in  tlie  latter 
there  is  a  flourishing  school  under  the  diiection  of 
Psalrda. 

There  is  now  in  Athens  a  pupil  of  Psalida's,  who 
is  making  a  tour  of  observation  through  Greece:  he  is 
intelligent,  and  better  educated  than  a  fellow-com- 
moner iif  most  colleges.  I  mention  this  as  a  proof  lhal 
the  spirit  of  inquiryis  not  dorninnr  among  the  Greeks. 

'Ihe  Reviewer  mentions  Mr.  Wright,  the  author  of 
the  beautitui  p  em  '•  Hor«  lonicae,"  asqu  ilitied  to  give 
details  of  these  nominal  Romans  and  degenerate 
Greeks  ;  and  al  o  of  their  language  :  but  Mr.  \Vright, 
though  a  good  poet  and  an  able  man,  has  niade  a  niis- 
take  where  he  s^a'es  the  Albanian  dialect  of  Ihe  Ro- 
maic to  approximate  neaiest  tn  the  Hellenic;  for  the 
Albanians  >peak  a  Romaic  as  notoriously  corrupt  as 
the  Scotch  of  Aberdeenshire,  or  the  lalian  of  Naples. 
Yanim,  (where,  nex:  to  Ihe  Fanal, 'heGreek  ispuiest,) 
although  the  capital  of  Ali  P.icha's  dominions,  is  not 
in  Albania  bu'  Epirus;  and  beyond  Delvinachi  in  Al- 
bania Proper  up  to  Argyrocaslroand  Tepaleen  (beyond 
which  1  did  not  advance)  ihey  speak  vvoise  Greek 
than  even  the  Athenians.  1  was  attended  for  a  year 
and  a  half  by  two  of  these  singular  monniaineers, 
whose  mother  tongue  is  lUyric,  and  1  never  heard 
them  or  their  countrymen  (whom  I  have  seen,  not  only 
at  home,  hut  to  Ihe  amount  of  twenty  thousand  in  the 
army  of  Vely  Pacha)  praised  for  thLii  Gieek,  but  often 
laughed  at  for  their  provincial  birbarisnis. 

1  have  in  my  possession  abtut  iwenty-five  letters, 
amongst  which  some  from  Ihe  Bey  of  Corinth,  written 
to  me  by  Nofaras,  the  Cogia  B  chi,  and  others  by  the 
dragoni  in  of  the  Caimaeain  of  the  Morea  (which  last 
governs  in  Vely  Pacha's  ab  ence),  are  said  to  be  favour- 
able specimens  of  their  epistlary  slyle.  I  also  received 
some  al  Conslantinojle  from  private  persons,  written 
in  a  most  hypeibolical  slyle,  but  in  the  true  antique 
charac  er. 

The  Reviewer  proceeds,  after  some  remarks  on  Ihe 
tongue  in  its  past  and  present  state,  to  a  paradox  (page 
59.)  on  Ihe  great  mischief  Ihe  knowledge  of  his  own 
liiigunge  has  done  to  Ctnay,  w  ho,  it  seems,  is  less 
likely  to  unde  stand  the  ancient  G  eek.  because  he  is 
perfect  master  of  the  modern  !  This  observi'ion  fol- 
1  iws  a  par;igraph.  reconmrending,  in  explicit  teims, 
the  s'udy  of  the  Romaic,  as  "a  powerful  auxiliiry," 
not  only  to  tie  traveller  and  foreign  meichani,  but  also 
to  the  classical  scholar;  in  short  to  every  body  except 
the  only  person  who  cm  be  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  its  uses ;  and  by  a  parity  of  reasoning,  our  old 
hngu  ge  is  conjectured  to  be  probably  more  attainable 
by  "  foreigners"  I h  in  by  ourselves  !  Now,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think,  ih  I  a  Du  ch  Tyro  in  our  tongue  (albeit 
hiiii.-elf  of  Sax  n  blond)  would  be  sadly  perple.xeo 
wi  h  '  Sir  Tiisireni, '  or  any  o'her  given  "Auchin- 
leek  MS."  wiih  or  wi  houl  a  eranmiar  or  gl  ssary  ; 
and  to  most  apprehe'isions  it  seems  evident,  that  none 
hut  a  nativ;  cm  acquire  a  competent,  far  less  complete, 
knowledge  of  .u'  "b-olete  idioms.  We  miy  give  the 
critic  credit  fir  his  ingenui'y.  but  no  more  believe  hii.i 
thin  we  do  Sni  llett's'L  sm'aliago.  who  m  liiilains  thut 
the  purest  E;  glish  is  spo|<en  in  Edinburgh.  That  Co- 
raj  may  err  is  very  pos-ible;  bu:  if  he  does,  'he  fault 
is  ill  Ihe  nun  la  her  than  in  his  mother  tongue,  which 
Is,  as  it  ought  to  be.  of  the  greatest  aid  I  Ihe  naiive 
student.— Here  the  Reviewer  proceeds  to  business  on 
Strabo's  translators,  and  here  I  close  ray  remarks. 


454 


APPENDIX  TO  CillLDE   HAROLD. 


Sir  W.  Drummond,  Mr.  Hamil'nn,  Lord  Aberdeen, 
Dr.  Clarke,  Cp  aia  Leake,  Mr.  Gall,  Mr.  Walpole, 
and  ni.iny  otheis  now  In  EiieUiid,  have  all  Ihe  requi- 
sites to  furnish  deiails  of  this  fillen  people.  The  few 
observations  I  have  offered  1  should  have  left'  where  I 
nude  them,  had  not  Ihe  article  in  questimi,  ai.d  atjove 
all  the  spot  where  I  lead  it,  induced  me  lo  advert  to 
those  piges,  which  the  advantage  of  my  pre  ent  situa- 
tion enabled  me  to  cluar,  or  ai  least  to  make  the  at- 
tempt. 

I  have  endeivourej  to  waive  ihe  personal  feelings 
which  ri~e  in  despi  e  of  me  in  touching  upon  any  part 
of  the  Edinbuigh  Review  ;  not  from  a  «  i-h  to  conci- 
liate the  f  ivour  of  its  writers,  or  to  cancel  the  remem- 
brance of  a  syllable  I  have  formerly  published,  but 
simply  from  a  bense  of  the  impropriety  of  mixing  up 
private  resentment-i  with  a  di  qui-i  ion  of  Ihe  pre  ent 
kind,  and  more  particularly  ai  this  dis.ance  ot  time 
and  place. 


I    ' 


Note  [E].  — ON    THE    PRESENT   STATE    OF 
TURKEY   AND  THE  TURKS- 

The  diflBcutlies  of  travelling  in  Turkey  have  been 
much  exaggerated,  or  rather  have  considciably  dimin- 
ished, of  late  years.  The  Mussulmans  have  been 
beaten  into  a  kind  of  sullen  civilily,  very  comfortable 
to  voyagers. 

it  is  hazardous  to  say  much  on  Ihe  subject  of  Turks 
and  Turkey  ;  since  it  ii  possible  (j  live  amongsi  them 
twenty  years  without  acquiiing  information,  at  least 
from  Ihe'mselves.  As  far  as  my  own  sliiht  experience 
cirried  me,  I  have  no  complaint  to  make  ;  but  am  i  - 
debted  foi  many  civilities  (I  might  almost  say  for, 
frieudhip),  and  much  hospitality,  to  Ali  Pacha,  his  s  n 
Veil  Pacha  of  the  Moiea,  and  several  o  heis  of  high 
rank  in  the  province-!.  Suleyman  Aga.  la  e  Governor 
of  Athens,  and  now  of  Thebes,  was  a  hon  want,  and 
as  social  a  being  as  ever  sa!  cross-legged  at  a  iray  or  a 
table.  Du'iiig  the  carnival,  vvhen  our  Engli-h 'paity 
were  nnsqneradlng.  bo:h  himself  and  his  successor 
were  more  hijpy  o  "receive  ma-ks"  ihan  any  dow- 
ei  ill  G'Osveiior-square. 

On  one  occasion  of  his  supping  at  the  convent,  his 
friend  and  vi-ite-,  iheC'di  of  Ttiebe^,  was  carried 
from  table  perfec  ly  qualified  for  any  club  in  Chns'en- 
dom  ;  while  the  worlliy  VVaywode  himself  triumphed 
in  his  fall. 

In  all  money  transactions  with  the  Moslems,  F  ever 
found  Ihe  slr'ic'e  t  h  imur.  the  highest  di~interes:ed- 
ness.  In  transacting  business  with  them,  there  are 
none  of  tho-e  diit>  peculations,  under  ihe  name  of  in- 
fere-t,  difference  of  exchange,  c  'iiimis  ion,  &c.  &c. 
uniformly  f 'Und  in  applying  lo  a  Greek  consul  to  cash 
bills,  even  on  the  fir-t  Ii'mi  es  in  Peia. 

With  regard  to  piesents,  an  established  custom  in 
the  East  you  will  raiely  hnd  yourself  a  loser;  a->  one 
woith  acceptance  is  ge  erally  re  uri.ed  by  aiiolher  of 
similar  v.lue — a  hor-e,  or  a  >h  iwl. 

In  the  capital  and  at  court  the  ci  izei  s  at;d  courtiers 
are  formed  in  Ihe  S'.me  scho  >l  "i  h  hose  of  Clhris- 
fiinity;  but  there  dies  not  exi-t  a  more  honounble, 
friendly,  and  hiih-spirited  chancier  Hi  in  Ihe  tnie 
Turki-h  provincial  Aia,  or  Mo. km  country  gentle- 
man. It  is  not  meant  here  lo  desigiaie  the  govenors 
of  towns,  but  those  Agas  who,  by  a  kind  of  feuJil 
tenure,  p  ssess  lands  and  houses,  of  m  ne  or  less  ex- 
tent, in  Gieece  and  Asia  Miimr. 

The  lower  oideis  are  ill  as  t  le  able  discipline  as  the 
rablileiiic  u  trie  with  greiter  p  e  ensio  is  to  civilisa- 
linn.  A  M'.slt-m,  in  »alkiiig  he  streets  of  our  coun- 
|iy-tnwns,  wou  d  be  more  incommoded  in  EneUiid 
than  a  Frank  in  a  MOiil  >r  si  nati  .n  in  Turkey.  Regi 
mentilsare  the  best  truelliiig  d'ess. 

The  best  jco  nn  s  of  'he  n  Iniioii  and  different  seels 
of  Mmiism.  maybe  found  in  U'Ohs^OiS  French,  '^f 
their  manners,  &c  peihaps  in  Thornii  n"s  English. 
The  Oltomans,  wi'h  all  their  defects,  aie  noi  a  people 
to  he  despised.  Equal,  at  least,  lo  Ihe  Spaniards,  they 
are  superior  to  the  Portuguese.    If  it  be  difficult  to 


they  are  net :  they  are  Jiot  treicherous,  they  Jre  no, 
cowardly,  they  do  not  burn  heietics,  Ihey  are  not  as- 
sassins, nor  has  an  enemy  .idvai.ced  lo  (Aeir  capital. 
They  are  faithful  lo  their  sultan  till  he  bee  imes  unfit 
to  govern,  and  devoul  to  their  God  without  an  inqui- 
sition. U'eie  they  diiven  fn>m  St.  Sophia  o-moriow, 
and  the  Fret. ch  or  Russians  enlhroned  in  their  s:ead, 
it  wouid  become  a  question  whe  her  Eniojie  would 
giiii  by  the  exchange?  England  would  ccitainly  be 
the  loser. 

Wi:h  regard  to  that  ignorance  of  which  Ihey  are  so 
generally,  and  sometimes  jusily  accused,  it  may  be 
doubted,  always  excepting  France  and  England,  in 
what  useful  poin's  of  knowledge  Ihey  are  excelled  by 
other  nitions.  Is  it  in  the  common  arts  of  life?  In 
their  manufactuies?  Is  a  Turkish  sabre  inferior  to  a 
Toledo  ?  or  is  a  Turk  worse  clothed  or  lodged,  or  fed 
and  Mught.  than  a  Sp<ni;ir,l  ?  Are  their  Pachas  worse 
educitt-'d  'hail  a  Grai.dee?  oranEtfe.  di  than  a  Knight 
ofSI.Jago?    1  think  not. 

I  lemeniber  Mahmout,  the  grandson  of  Ali  Pacha, 
asking  wheiher  my  fellow-traveller  and  myself  were 
in  the  upper  or  lower  House  of  Parliameiit.  Now, 
this  question  from  a  boy  of  ten  years  old  proved  that 
his  education  had  not  been  i.eg  ecled.  It  may  be 
doubted  if  an  English  boy  at  that  age  knows  theditfer- 
ence  of  the  Divan  from  a  College  of  Dervises  ;  but  I 
am  very  suie  a  Spaniaid  does  not.  How  little  Mah- 
mout, surrounded,  as  he  had  been,  entirely  by  his 
Tuiki-h  ulors.  had  learned  th  it  there  w- s  such  a  hing 
as  a  Pailiameni,  it  «ere  useless  to  conjecture,  unless 
we  suppose  that  his  inslruc  ors  did  not  conhne  his  stu- 
dies to  Ihe  Ko  an. 

Ill  all  the  mosques  there  are  schools  established, 
which  are  very  regulnly  attended  ;  and  the  poor  are 
taught  without  Ihe  church  of  I  urkey  being  put  into 
peril.  I  believe  the  sys'em  is  not  yet'  ptinted  (though 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  Turkish  press,  and  books 
piii.ted  on  the  late  nnlitarv  instiiu  ion  of  the  Ni7am 
Gedidd) ;  nor  have  I  heard  whe  her  Ihe  Mufii  and  the 
Mollas  have  sub-ciibed,  or  Ihe  Cainiacam  and  the 
Tefteidar  taken  the  alarm,  for  fear  the  ingeuuous  youth 
of  the  turban  should  be  taught  not  to  '■  pray  to  God 
their  wav ."  The  Greeks  also— a  kind  of  Eastern  Irish 
papists— have  a  college  of  their  own  at  Maynoolh, — 
no,  at  Haivali  ;  where  ihe  heterodox  receive  much  Ihe 
same  kind  of  coun  enai.ce  ftoni  the  0:toman  as  Ihe 
Catholic  colle/e  Ironi  he  En?lish  legi-la  uie.  Who 
shall  then  affirm  that  heluiks  are  ignoi-an-  I.isols, 
when  they  thus  evince  the  exict  pro|  orioii  of  Chi  is- 
tian  chari'lv  which  is  lolrraled  in  the  most  prosperous 
and  orthodox  of  all  possible  kingdoms?  But  thoush 
Ihey  allo>v  all  this,  they  will  not  suffer  the  Greeks  to 
participate  in  their  privilege-:  no,  lel  iliem  fillit  their 
ba'lles,  and  pay  their  ha'atch  (taxes),  be  drubbed  in 
this  woilJ.  and  d;in.ned  in  the  i.ext.  And  shall  we 
then  emancipue  "ur  lii-h  Helo's?  Mahomet  fo  bid  ! 
We  should  then  be  bad  Mussulmans,  and  worse  Chiis- 
tiins:  at  pie-ent  we  ui  iie  Ihe  best  of  both— Jesuitical 
faith,  and  somelhing  not  much  inferior  to  Turkish 
toleration. 


NOTES  TO  CANTO  III. 

No-e  [F]. 
"  A'ot  v'linly  did  tht  early  Persian  make 
His  iillni  the  high  placti.-  and  the  piah 
Of  eartU-u'agaziiig  iiiouiitaii-s,  i,-c  ■' 
Stanz;i  xci. 
It  is  to  be  recollected,  that   the  most  be  ulifil  ai  d 
inipiessive  doctrines  of  ihe  divine  Founder  of  Chris- 
tiani'v  were  delive  ed.  not  in  the  Tmipe.  but  "o    i.e 
Mount.     To  waive  Ihe  ques  ion  i>f  devotion,  ai  ■)  lu-ii 
lo  hunrin  elixiuence  —  the  ni'st  effectual  and  -plei  ilid 
specimens  were  not  pronounced    within  walls.     l)e- 
ni-'s:henes  addressed   the   public  and    popular  assem- 
blies.   Cicero  spoke  ia  the  forum.    That  tbU  added  to 


r; 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD. 


455 


I  Iheir  effect  on  the  mind  of  both  orator  and  hearer: 
;  may  be  conceived  from  the  dirt'erence  between  wh; 
we  read  of  the  emotions  then  and  there  produced,  and 


condensed,  but  not  less  manifested  ;  and  of  which, 
though  knowing  our-elves  a  part,  «e  lose  our  indi- 
viduality, and  mingle  in  the  beauty  of  the  whole.— If 
those  we  ourselves  experience  in  the  perusal  in  ihe  Rous-eau  had  never  wrifen,  nor  lived,  the  same  asso- 
clo^et.  It  is  one  thing  lo  reid  Ihe  Iliad  at  Sigaeuni  cialions  would  not  less  have  belonged  to  such  scenes, 
an-.l  on  the  tumuli,  or  by  ihe  springs  with  Mount  Ida  He  h  .s  added  to  the  interest  of  his  works  by  :heir 
above,  and  Ihe  plain  and  rivers  and  Archipelago  around  i  adopiion  ;  he  has  shown  his  sense  of  their  beauty  by 
you  ;  and  uiother  to  trim  your  taper  over  it  in  a  snug  Ihe  ^eleclion  ;  but  they  have  done  Ihil  for  him  which 
Iibr;)ry — this  I  know.  Were  ihe  early  and  rapid  pro-  j  no  human  being  could  do  for  Ihem. — I  had  the  fortune 
gress  of  what  is  called  N'.eihndism  lo  be  allribuled  lo  j  (good  or  evil  as  it  might  be)  to  sail  from  Meillerie 
any  cause  beyond  the  eniliusiaim  excited  by  its  vehe-  (where  we  landed  for  some  lime)  to  St.  Gingo  during 
ment  faith  and  doctrines  (the  trulh  or  error  of  which  I  a  lake  storm,  which  added  lo  Ihe  magc:jicei;ce  of  all 
presume  neither  lo  canvass  nor  lo  question).  I  should  around,  although  occasionally  accompanied  by  danger 
rcn'uie  to  ascribe  il  to  :he  prac'ice  of  preiching  in  the  to  Ihe  boat,  which  was  .-mall  and  overlorded.  It  was 
fields,  and  the  unstudied  and  extemporaneous  etiusions  over  this  very  part  of  Ihe  lake  that  Rousseau  has 
of  its  teachers. —  The  Mussulmms,  whose  erroneous  driven  Ihe  boat  of  St.  Fieux  and  Madame  VVolmar  to 
devotion  (al  least  in  the  low  er  orders)  is  most  sincere,  Meillerie  for  shel;er  during  a  tempest.  Ongiininglhe 
and  therefore  impie<sive,  are  accnslomed  to  repeat  shore  at  St.  Gingo,  I  found  that  the  wind  had  been  suf- 
their  presciibed  orisims  aisd  prayers,  wherever  Ihey  ticienlly  strong  lo  blow  down  some  fine  old  chestnut 
may  be,,  al  the  stated  hours— -of  course,  frequently  in  trees  on  the  lower  part  of  Ihe  mountains.  On  Ihe  op- 
the  op«  1  air.  kneeling  ujioo  a  light  mat  (which  Ihey  posile  height  of  Clarens  is  a  chateau.  The  hills  are 
carry  frj  the  purpose  of  a  bed  or  cushion  as  required) ;  covered  with  vineyards,  and  interspersed  with  some 
theceiemony  lists  some  nuuu'es,  during  which  they  small  but  beautiful  woods;  one  of  Ihe-e  was  named 
are  to:ally  absorbed,  and  only  living  in  Ihei  supplica-  the  "  Bo  quel  de  Julie  ;"  and  it  is  remarkable  that, 
tion  :  nothing  can  disturb  Ihem.  On  me  Ihe  siinple  I  though  long  ago  cut  down  by  the  brutal  selfishness  of 
and  entire  sincerity  of  these  men.  and  Ihe  spirit  w  hich  '  Ibe  monks  of  St.  Bernard  (to  w  hom  the  land  apper- 
appeared  lo  be  within  and  upon  Ihem,  made  a  far  j  tained),  that  Ihe  ground  might  be  enclosed  into  a  vine- 
greater  impression  than  any  geiieral  rile  which  was  !  yaid  for  Ihe  mierable  droiies  of  an  execrable  siiper- 
ever  performed  in  places  of  worship,  of  which  I  have  siition,  the  inhabitants  of  Clarens  still  point  out  the 
seen  those  of  almost  every  persu  ision  under  Ihe  sun  ;  spot  where  its  trees  stood,  calling  it  by  the  name  which 
including  most  of  our  own  sectaries,  and  the  Greek,  consecrated  and  survived  Ihem.  Roussenu  has  not 
the  Catholic,  the  Armenian,  the  Lutheran,  Ihe  Je>\  ish,  been  particularly  fortunate  in  the  preservation  of  Ihe 
and  the  Mahometan.  Many  of  the  negroes,  of  whom  i  '■  local  habitations"  he  has  given  to  "  airy  nothings." 
there  are  numbers  in  the  Turkish  empire,  are  idolaters,  The  Prior  of  Great  St.  Bernard  has  cut  down  some  of 
and  have  free  exercise  of  their  belief  and  its  ri  es:  [  his  woods  for  Ihe  sake  of  a  few  casks  of  wine,  and 
some  of  these  I  bi>d  a  distant  view  of  at  Patras ;  and,  :  Buonaparte  h.as  levelled  part  of  the  rocks  of  Meillerie 
from  what  I  could  make  out  of  them,  Ihey  appeared  to  {  in  improving  the  road  lo  Ihe  Simplon.  The  road  is 
be  of  a  truly  Pagan  description,  and  not  very  agreeable  ,  an  excellent  one  ;  but  I  cannot  quite  agree  with  Ihe 
to  a  spectator.  reniark   which   1   heard   made,  that  '-La  route   vaut 

mieux  que  les  souvenirs." 

No!e  [G]. 

"  '''arens  !  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod, — 
ITndying  Love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  whicn  the  steps  are  mountains  ;  where  the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  and  light,"  ^-c—  Stanza  c. 

Rousseau's  Heloise,  Letire  I",  part  4,  note.  "  Ces 
moulagnes  soni  si  haules  qu'uue  demi-heure  apres  le 
soleil  couche,  leurs  sommets  sont  eclaires  de  ses  lay- 
ons ;  doiil  le  rouge  forme  sur  ces  cimes  blanches  une 
belle  couUur  de  rose,  qu'on  apercoit  de  fort  Imn.  '— 
This  applies  more  particulaily  to  the  heights  over  Meil- 
lerie.— -'J'allai  a  Vevay  loger  a  la  Clef,  et  pendant  , 
deux  jours  que  j'y  restai  sans  voir  personne,  je  pris 
pour  cette  ville  un  amour  qui  m'a  suivi  dans  tons  mes 
voyages,  et  qui  m"y  a  fait  elablir  entin  les  heros  de  mon 
roman.  Je  dirais  voloutiers  a  ceux  qui  ont  du  gout  et 
qui  sont  sensibles :  AUez  a  Vevay— visitez  le  pays,  ex- 
aniinez  les  sites,  promeiiez-vous  sur  le  lac,  et  dites  si  la 
Nature  n'a  pas  fait  ce  beau  pays  pour  une  Julie,  pour  i 
une  Claire,  et  pour  un  SI.  Preux  ;  niais  ne  Ips  y  cher- 
chez  pas."— /ie«  Confessions,  livre  iv.  p.  306.  Lyon 
ed.  1796 — In  July,  1816,  I  made  a  voyage  round  the 
Lake  of  Geneva  ;  and,  as  far  as  my  own  observations 
have  led  me  in  a  not  uninterested  nor  imllenive  sur- 
vey of  all  the  scene,  most  celebrated  by  Rousseau  in 
his  "Heloise,'  1  can  safely  say,  'hit  in  this  there  is  no 
exaggeration.  Il  would  'be  diflBcult  t)  see  Clarens 
(with  the  scenes  around  it,  Vevay,  Chillon.  Boveiet, 
fit.  Gingo,  Meillerie,  Eivan,  and  Ihe  entrances  of  Ihe 
Rhone)  without  being  f-rcibly  struck  with  its  peculiar 
adaptation  to  Ihe  persons  and  events  with  which  it  has 
been  peopled.  But  this  is  not  all :  Ihe  feeling  wi  h 
which  all  amund  Clarens.  and  the  opposite  rocks  of 
Meillerie,  is  invested,  is  of  a  still  higher  and  more  ' 
comprehensive  order  thin  Ihe  mere  s\  mpalliy  with  in-  I 
dividual  passion  ;  it  is  a  sense  of  Ihe  exi->  enc'e  of  love 
in  ils  most  extended  and  sublime  capicity,  and  of  our  j 
own  pailicipalion  of  ils  good  and  of  ils  glory  :  it  is  the 
great  principle  of  Ihe  universe,  which  is  'there  more 


HISTORICAL  NOTES  TO  CANTO  IV. 

No  I.—  STATE  DUNGEONS  OF  VENICE. 

"  [stood  ill  Venice,  rm  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  /land."— Stanza  1. 

The  communication  between  Ihe  ducal  palace  and 
Ihe  prisons  of  Venice  is  by  a  gloomy  bridge,  or  covered 
eallery,  high  above  the  water,  and  divided  by  a  stone 
wall  into  a  passage  and  a  cell.  The  state  dungeons, 
called  pozzi,  or  wells,  were  sunk  in  Ihe  thick  walls  of 
the  iialace ;  and  the  prisoner  when  laken  out  to  die 
was  conducted  across  the  gallery  lo  the  other  side,  and 
being  then  led  tack  into  the  other  compartment,  or 
cell,  upon  the  bridge,  was  there  strangled.  The  low 
portal  through  which  Ihe  criminal  was  laken  into  this 
cell  is  now 'walled  up;  but  the  passage  is  still  open, 
and  is  still  known  by  Ihe  name  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs. 
The  poz  i  are  under  Ihe  flooring  of  the  chamber  at  Ihe 
fofjt  of  Ihe  bridge.  They  were  formerly  twelve  ;  but 
on  the  first  arrival  of  Ihe  French,  the  Venetians  hastily 
blocked  or  broke  up  the  deeper  of  these  dungeons. 
You  may  stiil,  however,  descend  by  a  trap-door,  and 
crawl  down  through  holes,  half  choked  by  rubbish,  to 
the  depth  of  two  stories  below  Ihe  first  range.  If  you 
are  in  want  of  consolation  for  Ihe  exinction  of  patri- 
cian power,  perhaps  you  may  find  it  there  ;  scarcely  a 
ray  of  light  glimmers  into  Ihe  narrow  gallery  which 
leads  to  the  cells,  and  Ihe  places  of  confinement  them- 
selves are  totally  dark.  A  small  hole  in  the  wall  ad- 
mitted Ihe  damp  air  of  the  passages,  and  served  for  the 
introduction  of  the  prisoner's  food.  A  wooden  pallet, 
raised  a  fool  from  Ihe  ground,  was  the  only  furniture. 
The  conduc'ors  tell  you  that  a  light  was  not  allowed. 
The  cells  are  about  five  paces  in  length,  two  and  a  half 
in  w  idih,  and  seven  feet  in  height.  They  are  directly 
beneath  oct  another,  and  respiration  is  somewhat  i'-iu- 


456 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE   HAROLD. 


cult  ia  ti.e  lower  holes.  Only  one  prisoner  was  found 
when  the  republicins  descended  inio  these  hideous 
recesses,  and  he  is  said  lo  have  Leen  confined  sixteen 
ye>rs.  Bui  the  inmates  of  the  dungeons  beneath  hid 
left  traces  of  their  ie|ientance,  or  "of  their  despair, 
which  are  still  visible,  and  may,  perhaps,  owe  some- 
thing ID  recent  ingenui  y.  Some  of  the  defined  ap- 
pear to  have  offended  against,  and  others  lo  have  be- 
llowed lo,  the  sacred  body,  not  only  f'om  their  signa- 
tures, but  from  the  cliur'clies  and  belfries  which  they 
have  scratched  upon  the  wnlls.  The  reader  may  not 
object  to  see  a  specimen  of  the  lecoids  prompted  by  so 
lerrihc  a  solitude.  As  neirly  as  they  could  be  copied 
bv  more  than  one  pencil,  Ihiee  of  them  are  as  fol- 
lows:— 

1.  NON  TI  FIDAR  AD  ALCUNO  PENSA  6  TACI 
SE  FUGIR  VCOI  DE  SPIONI  INSIDIE  e  LACCI 
IL  PENTIRTI   PENTlKTt   NULLA  GIOVA 
MA  BEN  ni  VALOR  Ten  LA  VERA  PROVA 

1C07.       ADI  2.  GENARO.  FUl  RE- 
TENTO  P'  LA  BESTiE.MJlA  P'  AVER  DATO 
DA  MANZaR   a  UN  MORTO 

lACOMO  .  GRITTI  .  SCRISSE. 

2.  UN  parlar  pocho  et 

NEGARE  PRONTO  et 

ON  PENSAR   AL  FINE  PCD  DARE  LA  VITA. 

A  NOI  ALTRl  MESCHINI 

1(305. 
EGO  lOHN  BAPTISTA  AD 
ECCLESIAM  CORTELLARIDS. 

3.  DE  CHI  MI  FIDO  GUARDA.MI  DIG 

DE  CHI  NON  MI  FIDO  MI  GL'ARDARO  10 
A  TA         H         A         NA 

V  .  LA  S  .  C  .  K  .  R  . 
The  copyist  has  followed,  no'  correc'ed,  the  sole- 
cisms; sonie  of  which  are,  however,  not  quite  so  de- 
cided, since  the  letters  were  evidently  scratched  in  the 
dark.  It  only  need  be  observed,  tha't  besUmmia  and 
ntangiar  may  be  read  in  the  firsi  inscripiion.  which 
was  probably  written  by  a  prisoner  confined  for  some 
act  of  impiety  commitied  at  a  funeral  ;  that  Cortetla- 
Tius  is  the  nn'me  of  a  parish  on  terra  firma,  near  Ihe 
sea;  and  that  the  last  initials  evidently  are  put  for 
yiva  la  iaiua  ChUsa  Kattolica  Romano. 


No.  II.— SONGS  OF  THE  GONDOLIERS. 
"  In  ytnke  Tasso's  echoes  arc  no  more.'"—  Stanza  iii. 
The  well-known  sop?  of  the  ^oDd^Iier5.  of  alter- 
nate stanzas  from  Ta  so"s  Jerusalem,  h^s  died  with  Ihe 
independence  of  Venice.     Editions  of  the  poem,  with 
the  original    in  one  column,  and  the  Veiietim  varia- 
tions on  the  other,  as  sung  by  the  bnaimen,  were  once 
common,  and  are  still  to  bs  found.     The  follow  ing  ex- 
tract will  serve  to  show  the  difference  belween"  the 
Tuscan  epic  and  Ihe  "Canta  alia  Barcriola." 
ORIGINAL. 
Can'o  I'arme  piet^e,  e  '1  capilmo 

Che  'I  gran  Sepo^cro  libero  d.  Cristo. 
Moltri  egli  opro  col  set  no,  e  con  la  niano 

Molto  soffri  nel  glorioso  acquisto  ; 
E  in  van  I'  IiifernJ  a  hii  s' oppose,  e  in  vano 
S'armo  d' Asia,  e  di  L  bia  il  popol  misto, 
Che  il  Ciel  gli  die  favore,  e  solto  a  i  Sanii 
Segni  ridusse  i  suoi  compagni  erranti, 

VENETIAN. 
L'  arme  pie'ose  de  cantar  gho  vogia, 

E  de  Goffredo  la  iumorlal  braura 
Che  a]  fin  r  ha  libera  co  sirassia,  e  dogia 

Del  Dostro  buon  Gesu  la  Sepoltura 


De  mezo  mondo  unilo.  e  de  quel  Bogia 

Missier  I'luton  nou  I'  ha  bu  mai  paura  ; 
Dio  1'  ha  agiuta,  e  i  compagni  sparpagnai 
Tutii  '1  gb'  i  ha  messi  insieme  i  dl  del  Dai. 

Some  of  the  elder  gondoliers  will,  however,  lake  up 
and  continue  a  stanza  of  their  once  f.imiiiar  bard. 

1      On  the  7ih  of  last  January,  the  author  of  Childe  j 
Harold,  and  another  Englishman,  the  writer  of  this 
notice,  iov»ed  to  the  I.ido    wiih   two   singers,  one  of 
w  hoai  was   a  CTrpei.tcr,  and  the  other  a  gondolier. 

j  The  former  placed  himself  at  the  prow,  the  litter  at 
llie  slern  of  i|,e  b  at.  A  little  after  leaving  the  quiy 
of  the  Piazzeita,  ihey  began    lo   sing,  and   continued 

j  their  exercise  until  we  arrived  at  the  island.  They 
gave  u<,  amongst  other  es»ays,  the  death  of  Clorinda, 
aiid  the  pal.ice  of  Ainiida  ;  and  did  not  sing  the  Vene- 
tian, but  the  Tuscan  verses.  The  carpenter,  however, 
who  was  the  cleverer  of  the  l«o,  ai.d  was  frequently 
obliged  lo  prompt  his  companion,  lold  u-.  Ih  ii  he  could 
Iranslale  the  original.  He  added,  that  he  could  sing 
almost  ihiee  hundred  stanzas,  bn!  had  not  spirits  (mor- 
bin  was  the  woid  he  used)  lo  learn  ai;y  more,  or  lo 
sing  what  he  already  knew  :  a  man  must  have  idle 
time  on  his  hands  lo  acquire,  or  to  repeal,  and,  said  the 
poor  fellow,  "look  at  my  clothe»  and  at  me;  i  am 
starving.'"  'I  his  speech  was  moie  affecting  than  his 
performance,  which  hibit  alone  can  make  altntctive. 
The  recitative  was  shrill,  screaming,  ai.d  monotonous ; 
and  Ihe  gondolier  behind  assisted  his  voice  by  holding 
his  hand  to  one  side  of  his  mouth.  1  he  carpenler 
used  a  quiet  action,  which  he  evidently  endeavoured 
lo  restrain  ;  but  was  loo  much  in cested  in  liis  suljecl 
altogether  to  repress  From  hese  men  we  learnt  that 
singing  is  not  conhned  to  the  gondoliers,  and  Iha', 
although  Ihe  chant  is  seldom,  if  ever,  voluntary,  there 
aie  still  several  amongst  the  lower  classes  vvho  are 
acquainted  v»ilh  a  few  stanza-. 

It  does  not  aj  pear  thai  it  is  usual  for  the  performers 
lo  row  and  sing  at  the  same  lime.  Although  the  verses 
of  the  Jerusalem  are  no  lonser  casually  heird,  there  is 
yet  much  music  upon  Ihe  Venetian  ci'nals;  and  upon 
holydavs,  those  strangers  who  are  not  ner  or  informed 

!  enough  to  distinguish  the  words,  may  fancy  that  many 

.  of  the  gondolas  s  ill  resound  with  Ihe  strains  of  Tasso. 

i  The  wri'er  of  son.e  lemarks  which  appealed  in  the 

j  "  Curiosities  r  f  Lite-ra'ure'"  must  excuse  his  being  twice 
quoted;  for.  with  the  exceptioit  of  some  phrases  a 
little  loo  ambitious  and  extiavagant,  he  has  furnished 
a  very  exact,  as  well  as  agreeable,  de  cription  :  — 

"  In  Venice  the  gondoliers  know  by  heirt  long  pas- 
sages from  Ario,to  and  Tasso,  and  of  en  chant  ihem 
with  a  peculiar  melody.  But  this  talent  seems  al  pre- 
sent on  the  decline:  —  at  least,  afer  taking  some  pams, 
I  could  find  no  more  than  two  persons  vvho  delivered 
to  me  in  this  way  a  passage  from  Tasso.  I  must  add, 
that  the  la  e  Mr.  Berry  once  chanted  to  me  a  passage 
in  I'asso  in  the  manner,  ms  he  as:>ured  me,  of  the  gon- 
d  liers. 

••  There  are  always  two  concerned,  who  alternately 
sing  Ihe  strophe-.  We  know  Ihe  melody  eventually 
liy  Roi.s-e>u,  to  whose  songs  it  is  |  rinled  :  it  has  pro- 
perly no  melodious  movemen',  and  is  a  sort  of  medium 
between  Ihe  cinto  ferinn  and  Ihe  canto  figui;jto ;  it 
approiches  to  the  former  by  recilalivical  decl.<niation, 
and  to  the  la|;er  by  passages  and  c>\irse,  by  which  one 
syllable  is  detained  and  embellished. 

'•I  ente'ej  a  gondola  by  moonlight;  one  sinjer 
placed  himself  forwards  and  Ihe  other  aft,  and  thus 
proceeded  to  St.  Georgio.  One  bezan  Ihe  soiig  :  when 
he  h  id  en  led  his  strrplie,  theo'her  look  u  .  Ihe  lay, 
and  so  contii.ufd  ilie  song  alternately.  Throughout 
the  whole  .f  it,  the  same  note>  invariably  returned  ; 
I  but,  acc'rdiig  to  Ihe  subject  matter  of  tie  strophe, 
they  laid  a  greater  or  a  snialler  stress,  sometimes  ou 
one,  and  'ome  imes  on  rnoher  note,  and  indeed 
ichinged  the  ennuciaion  of  the  whole  strophe  as  the 
j  object  of  Ihe  poem  altered. 

"On  Ihe  whi  le.  however,  the  sounds  were  hoareo 
land  screaming:  Ihey  seemed,  in  Ihe  manner  of  . ill 
i  rude  uncivili  ed  nien,  to  mike  Ihe  excellency  of  their 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD. 


m 


457 


■^ 


safinf  in  UiR  fnrce  of  their  voice :  one  seemed  desi- 
raos  of  conquenriif  liie  o  ber  by  the  3tren»ih  of  hn 
lungs;  and  so  far  from  receiving:  deJishl  frniii  -liisi 
scene  (sbut  up  as  I  was  in  ll.e  box  of  ihe  gondola),  I  j 
found  myself  in  a  very  unpleisaut  silualioK. 

"My  coni|  anion,  to  whom  I  comnmnica'ed  this  cir- 
cumslaiice,  beiuK  very  desirous  to  kerp  up  ihe  credit 
of  his  countrymen,  assured  me  thai  this  siiiginz  wns 
very  del ighful  when  he^rd  at  ^  distance.  Accoid-, 
ingiy  we  ei  t  out  upon  Ihe  -hire,  le.win;  one  of  the' 
sii'gers  io  Ihe  gordoh,  ivliile  the  oiher  went  to  Ihe  dis- 
tance of  some  hundred  paces.  They  now  beg^n  to 
sing  against  one  another,  and  I  kept  walking  up  and 
down  between  them  both,  so  as  always  to  leave  him 
who  was  Id  beg:n  his  part.  1  frequently  stood  s'ill 
and  hearkened  lo  the  one  md  to  ihe  other.'  j 

"  Here  the  scene  was  properly  ii.troduced.  The 
strong  declamatory,  and,  as  it  wete,  ■•hriekiiig  sound,  ■ 
met  the  ear  from  fir,  and  called  forth  the  aileiition  ;  [ 
the  quickly  succeeding  transitions,  which  necessarily 
required  to  be  suns  in  a  lower  tone,  seemed  l.ke  plain- 
tive strains  succeeding  the  v  .ciferali  ns  of  emotion  or 
of  piin.  The  other,  who  lisiened  at'eniiveiy.  imme- 
diately began  where  tl.e  former  left  off,  answering 
hini  in  milder  or  more  vehement  notes,  according  as 
the  pur|>ort  of  the  strophe  required.  The  sleepy  ca- 
nals, Ihe  lofiy  bui  dings,  the  splendour  cf  the  moon, 
the  deep  shadows  of  the  few  gond  >las  that  moved  like 
spirits  hither  and  thither,  increased  the  striking  pecu- 
liarity of  the  scene;  anJ,  amidst  all  these  circum- 
stances, it  was  easy  to  coi.fess  the  character  cf  this 
wonderful  harmony. 

"  It  suits  perfec'ly  well  wi'.h  an  idle  solitary  mari- 
.ler,  lying  at  length'in  his  vessel  nt  rest  on  one  of  these 
C'nals,  wailing  for  his  compiny,  or  for  a  fjre,  Ihe  tire-! 
sorneness  of  Avhich  situation  i-  somewhat  alleviated  by  ' 
the  songs  and  poetical  stories  he  his  in  memory.  He 
often  raises  his  voice  as  loud  as  he  can.  which  extends 
itself  to  a  vast  distance  over  the  tranquil  mirror  ;  and 
as  all  is  still  aronnd,  he  i^:,  as  it  were,  in  a  solitude  in 
the  midst  of  a  I  trge  and  populous  town.  Here  is  no  1 
rattling  of  carriages,  no  noise  of  foot  passengers;  a 
silent  gondola  elides  now  and  then  by  him.  of  which  I 
the  splashings  of  the  oars  arc  scarcely' to  be  heard.         ! 

••  At  a  distance  he  hears  another,  perhai  s  utterly  un- 1 
known  to  him.  Melody  and  verse  immediately  attach 
the  two  strangers  ;  he  becomes  the  responsive  echo  to 
the  former,  and  exerts  himself  to  be  heard  as  he  had 
heard  the  other.  By  a  tacit  convention  they  alternate  | 
verse  for  ve  se  ;  tho'ugh  the  song  should  last  the  whole  ' 
night  IhrouKh.  they  entertain  themselves  without 
fatigue :  the  hearers,  who  are  passing  between  the  two,  | 
take  part  in  the  arou-enient.  I 

"This  vocal  |)erformance  sounds  best  at  a  great  dis- 
tance, and  is  then  inexpressibly  charming,  as  it  only  I 
fulfils  its  design  in  the  sentiment  of  remo-eness.  It  is 
plaintive,  hut"  not  dismal  in  its  sound,  and  at  times  it 
is  scarcely  possible  to  refrain  from  tears.  My  com- ; 
panion.  who  otherwise  was  not  a  very  delicately  or- 
ganised person,  said  quite  unexpectedly :  —  E  singolare  ' 
cme  quel  canto  intenerisce,  e  molto  piu  quando  lo 
cantano  meslio.  | 

"  I  was  told  that  the  women  of  Lib),  the  long  row 
of  islands  that  divides  the  Adriatic  from  he  I,agoons.l 
particularly  the  women  of  the  extreme  distric  s  of  Ma- 
lamocco  aiid  Palestrina,  sing  in  like  manner  the  works  i 
of  lasso  lo  these  and  similar  tunes.  | 

"They  have  the  cu-tom.  w  he  i  their  husbands  are' 
fishing otjt  at  sea,  to  sit  along  the  shore  in  the  eveninss  i 
and  vociferate  these  songs,  and  continue  lo  do  so  «  iih  I 
great  violence,  till  each  of  ihem  can  di-tinuuiah  Ihe 
responses  of  her  own  Im-band  at  a  distance  "2  I 

'i  he  love  of  music  and  of  poetry  distineui-hes  all 
classes  of  Venetians,  even  aiiniigst  the  tunefi.l  sons  of 
Italy.  The  city  itself  can  occasionally  fiirni  h  respec- 
able  audiences  br  two  and  even  three  opera-houses  at 
I 

1  The  wriit-r  meant  LiVo,  which  is  not  a  long  row  or| 
idaii'Js,  but  a  long  island :  littm,  the  ehorr. 

2Curin>itit-8  of  I  iteralure,  vol.  ii.  p.  13G.  edit.  1807; 
and  Appendix  xxix.  In  Black'n  Lii'e  of  Tasau. 


a  time ;  and  there  are  few  events  in  private  life  that 
do  not  C'll  lortha  piinted  and  circulated  sonnet.  Does 
a  i)li\>iciaii  or  a  laivjer  take  his  degree,  or  a  clergy- 
man pieach  his  maiden  sermon,  has  a  .surgeon  |ier- 
formed  an  opeiati m,  would  a  harlequin  anno,  nee  his 
departure  or  his  benefit,  are  you  tote  congratulated  on 
a  inarriaze,  or  a  birth,  or  a  lawsuit,  the  Mues  are  in- 
voked :o"lurnish  the  same  number  of  s)  llables,  and  the 
itidividual  ttiumphs  blaze  abroad  in  virgin  white  or 
pariy-colouied  [ilacirds  on  half  ihe  coiners  of  Ihe 
capital.  'Ihe  last  cuitsy  of  a  favouiite  "  piima  don- 
i:a"  biings  down  a  shower  of  these  poetical  iribules 
from  Ihose  upper  legi  ns,  from  which,  in  our  theatres, 
nothing  but  cupids  and  siiow-storins  ate  accustomed  to 
descend.  ']  here  is  a  poetry  in  the  veiy  life  r,f  a  Vene- 
tian, which,  in  its  common  course,  is  v.aried  w  ith  those 
surprises  and  changes  so  iecommend?ble  in  fiction,  but 
so  different  from  the  sober  moi.olony  of  northern  ex- 
istence ;  amusements  are  raised  into  duties,  du  ies  are 
sof  eued  into  amusement-,  and  every  object  being  con- 
sidered as  equally  making  a  part  of  the  business  of  life, 
is  announced  and  peifornied  with  the  same  earnest 
indiflerence  and  gay  assiduity.  The  Venetian  gize'ta 
constantly  closes  its  coluoius  with  Ihe  fullowicg  triple 
adveilisemeiil :  — 

Charade. 


Exposition  of  the  most  Holy  Sacrament  in  the  church 
of  St. 


Theatru. 
St.  Moses,  opera. 

St.  Kenedict,  a  comedy  of  characters. 

St.  Luke,  repose. 

When  it  i-  recolleced  what  Ihe  Catholics  believe 

their  consecrated  water  to  be,  we  may  perhaps  think 

it  wonhy  of  a  more  respectable  niche  than  between 

poetry  aud  the  playhouse. 


No    HI. -THE    LION    AND    HORSES    OF    ST. 

MARK-S. 

"  St.  Mark  yet  s  es  his  lion  where  he  stood 

Stand," Stanza  xi. 

The  Lion  has  lost  nothing  by  his  journey  !o  the  lo- 
valides,  but  the  gospel  which  supported  the  paw  that 
is  now  on  a  level  with  the  other  foot.  'Ihe  Horses 
also  are  relumed  lo  Ihe  ill-chosen  spot  whence  they 
set  out.  and  are,  as  before,  half  hidden,  uider  the  porch 
window  of  Si  Mark's  church.  'I  heir  history,  after  a 
desperate  struggle,  has  been  satisfactorilv  explored. 
The  decisions  and  doubts  of  Erizzo  and  Zinetii,  and 
lastly,  of  the  Count  Leopold  Cic  gnaia,  would  have 
given  them  a  Roman  extraction,  md  a  pedigree  not 
more  ancient  than  the  reign  of  Nero.  But  M.  de 
Schlegel  stepped  in  to  teach  'he  Venetians  the  value  of 
their  own  treasures,  and  a  Greek  vindicated,  at  last  and 
for  ever,  the  pietension  nf  his  couiitiyinen  to  this  noble 
production. 3  M.  Mustoxidi  has  not'been  left  without 
a  reply;  but.  as  \et,  he  has  received  no  answer.  It 
should  seem  that  the  horses  are  irrevocably  Chian.and 
wee  transferred  to  Constantinople  by  Theodosius. 
Lapidary  w  riling  is  a  favourite  play  of  Ihe  Italians, 
and  ha>  confer,  ed  reputation  on  more  thm  one  of  their 
literary  chaiaclers.  One  of  the  be.^:  sjiecinicns  nf  Bo- 
doni's  'ypography  is  a  respectable  volume  of  ii  scrip- 
tionj,  all  writien  ly  his  friend  P'Cciaudi.  Several 
were  prepared  for  the  recovered  lioises.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  the  best  was  not  selected,  when  the  following 
wouls  were  ranged  in  gold  letters  above  the  cathedral 
porch :  — 

qil.VTUOR  •  EQUORI.'M  *  SIGNA  *  A  •  VENE- 
TIS   •    BYZANTIO  •   CAPTA  *  AD  *   TEMP  •  D  * 


I      3  Siii  qiiltro  c«Ta'.li  delU  Basilica  di  8.  Marco  in  Vene- 
i  zia.    Lett  :ra  di  Audrea  Mustoxidi  Corcirete-    r3dui.iei6. 


39 


458 


APPENDIX   TO  CIIILDE   HAROLD. 


MAR  •  \  •  R  •  S  •  MCCIV  •  POSITA  *  QV/E  *  j 
HOSTILIS  •  Cni'IDlTAS  •  A  *  MDCCUIC  '  AB-  | 
STI'LERaT  •  FRANC  '  I  •  IMP  '  PACIS  '  ORBI  '  I 
DATAE  •  TROPHAEUM  •  A  •  MDCLCXV  •  VIC- 
TOR •  RFDUXIT. 

Nothing  shall  be  said  of  the  Latin,  but  it  may  be 
permit  ed  lo  nbserve,  tlial  the  injustice  (if  llie  Vene- 
tians in  trarisponins;  the  horses  liiim  Consiantiiiople 
was  at  leijt  equal  I'o  that  of  the  French  in  ciriyuig 
them  to  Piris,  and  thai  it  would  have  been  wore  pru- 
dent lo  liave  avoided  all  allusions  lo  either  nbbery. 
An  apostolic  piince  should,  perhaps,  have  objected  io 
affixin;  over  the  princi|)al  entrance  of  a  metiopolitan 
church  an  in^Cliptinn  havinga  reference  to  any  other 
triumphs  than  those  of  relision.  Nothing  le^s  than 
the  paciticatiou  of  the  world  can  excuse  such  a  sole- 


No.  IV.— SUBMISSION    OF    BARBAROSSA  TO 
POPE  ALEXANDER  III, 

'  The  Sunbian  sued,  and  nnio  the  Jlmlnan  reigns  — 
An  Emperor  tramples  voheie  an  Emperur  kudt." 

Stanza  xii. 
After  many  vain  efforts  on  the  pa't  of  the  Italians 
eiitiiely  to  throw  oif  the  yoke  of  Fiederic  Barbarossa, 
and  ns  fruitless  attempts  of  the  Emperor  to  make  him- 
self absolute  master  throughout  the  whole  of  his  Cis- 
alpine doniinions,  the  bloody  s  ruggles  of  four  and 
twenty  >ears  were  happily  brought  tn  a  close  in  the 
city  of  Venice.  The  ailicles  of  a  treaty  )iad  been  pre- 
viously agreed  upon  between  Pope  Alexander  111.  and 
Barbaiossa  ;  and  the  former  having  received  a  safe- 
condnct,  had  already  arrived  at  Venice  from  Ferrara, 
in  company  wi:h  the  amb  s^adors  of  ihe  King  of  Sicily  I 
and  the  consuls  of  the  Lombard  league.  1  here  still  ' 
remained,  however,  many  points  to  adjust,  and  for 
several  days  the  peace  was  believed  to  be  impractica- 
ble. At  this  juncture  it  was  suddenly  leported  that 
Ihe  Emperor  had  arrived  at  Cliioza,  a  town  tifleen 
miles  from  the  capital.  The  Venetians  ro-e  tumul;u- 
ously,  and  insisted  upon  immediately  conducting  him 
to  the  city.  The  Lombards  took  the  alarm,  and  de- 
parted towards  Treviso.  The  P"pe  himself  wasajpre- 
hensive  of  some  di-aster  if  Fred'inc  should  suddenly 
advance  upon  him,  but  wis  rea-sured  by  the  prudence 
and  addiess  of  Sebastian  Ziaiii,  the  Do?e.  Several  em- 
bassies passed  between  Chioza  and  the  capil  il,  until, 
at  last,  Ihe  Emperor,  relaxing  somewhat  of  his  pie  en- 
sions,  "  laid  aside  his  leonine  ferocity,  and  put  on  the 
mildnes'  of  the  hmb.'' i 

On  Sa-uiday  the  23d  of  July,  in  the  year  1177,  six 
Venetiin  gilleys  transferred  Frederic,  in  ireat  pomp, 
from  Chioza  to  the  island  of  Lido,  a  mile  from  Venice. 
Early  the  next  morning  the  Pope,  accompanied  by  the 
Sicilian  ambassadors,  and  by  the  envoys  of  Lombaidv, 
whom  he  had  recalled  from  the  main  land,  together 
with  a  great  concourse  of  people,  repaired  from  the 
patriarchal  palace  to  S'.  Mark's  church,  and  solemnly 
absolved  the  Emperor  and  iiis  partisans  from  ilie  ex- 
communication pronounced  against  him.  The  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Empire,  on  the  part  of  his  master,  re- 
nounced the  a  ni  popes  and  their  schismatic  adherents, 
immediately  the  Doge,  with  a  great  suite  both  of  the 
clergy  and  laity,  got  on  boird  he  galleys,  and  waiing 
on  Fiederic,  rowed  him  in  mighty  ^la  e  fr  m  the  Lido 
to  the  capilal.  The  Emperor  descended  from  the  gal- 
ley at  the  quay  of  ilie  Piazzelta.  The  Doge,  the  patri- 
arch, his  bishops  and  clergy,  and  the  people  of  Venice 
with  their  crosses  and  their  standards,  marched  in 
solemn  proce-ssion  before  liim  to  the  church  of  St. 
Mark.     Alexander  was  sailed  before  the  vestibule  of 

IxQiiibus  audills,  imperator,  opirante  e.i,  qui  corda 
principuin  sicut  vult  et  qnando  vult  humilili-r  iucltnat, 
leonina  (erilate  dt-posila,  nvinam  mansueiudinem  iriduit.'* 
—  Romualdi  Saleroilaui  Cbronicon,  apud  Script.  Rrr.  Hal. 
torn.  vii.  p.  7J9. 


Ihe  basilica,  attended  by  his  bishops  and  cardinals,  by 
the  patriarch  of  Aquileja,  by  the  archbishops  and 
bishops  of  Lombardy,  all  of  them  in  slate,  and  clothed 
in  theirchuich  lobes.  Frederic  approached — "  nioved 
by  Ihe  H.)ly  t^fiirii,  venera  ing  the  Alr.iighly  in  tlie  per- 
son of  Alexander,  laying  aside  his  impe  lal  dignity, 
and  ihiOM  ing  off  his  man  le,  he  proslraled  himself  at 
full  length  at  the  feet  of  the  Pope.  Alex-inder,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  raised  him  benigijantly  from  Ihe 
ground,  kissed  him,  blessed  him  ;  and  iinmedialely  Ihe 
Germans  of  the  train  sang,  with  a  loud  voice,  '  We 
piai-e  ihee.  O  Lord.'  The  Emperor  then  taking  the 
Pope  by  the  right  hand,  led  him  to  the  church,  and 
having  received  his  benediction,  re'iirned  to  the  ducal 
palace."  2  The  ceremony  of  humilialion  was  repealed 
the  next  diy.  The  P.^pe  himself,  at  ihe  request  of 
Fredeiic,  Slid  mass  at  S.  Mark's.  The  Emperor  again 
laid  aside  his  imreiial  man  le.  and,  taking  a  wand  iu 
his  hand,  ofCci  ited  as  vcrgtr,  driving  ihe  laity  from  the 
choir,  and  preceding  the  poniiti'  to  the  altar.'  Alexan- 
de',  afier  reciting  the  gospel,  preached  to  the  people. 
The  Emperor  put  himself  close  lo  ihe  pulpit  in  the 
attitude  of  listening;  and  the  pontiff,  touched  by  this 
maik  of  his  at  ention  (or  he  knew  that  Frederic  did 
not  understand  a  word  he  said),  coniminded  the  patri- 
arch of  Aquileja  to  translae  the  La  in  discouise  into 
(he  German  tongue.  The  creed  was  then  chanted. 
Frederic  made  his  i  blation,  and  kissed  the  Pope's  feet, 
und,  mass  being  over,  led  him  by  the  hand  to  his  white 
horse.  He  held  the  stirrup,  and  would  have  led  the 
horse's  rein  lo  the  water  side,  had  not  the  Pope  .'C- 
cepted  of  the  inclination  for  the  performance,  and 
affec  innately  dismissed  him  with  his  benedic'ion. 
Such  is  'he  substance  of  the  account  left  by  the  arch- 
bishop of  Salerno,  \i  ho  was  present  at  the  ceremony, 
and  whose  s  ory  is  confirmed  by  every  subsequent  n  ir- 
ralion.  It  would  be  not  worlh  so  minuie  a  record, 
were  it  not  the  triumph  of  liber'y  as  well  as  of  snper- 
s'ition.  The  states  of  Lombardy  o»ed  to  it  the  con- 
firmation of  their  privileges;  and  Alexander  had  rea- 
son to  thank  the  Almighty,  who  had  enabled  an  infirm, 
unarmed  oid  man  to  subdue  a  terrible  and  potect  sove- 
reign.3 


No.  v.— HENRY  DANDOLO. 

"  Ok,  for  07ie  hour  of  blind  old  Dandiio  '. 

Th'  vdogenarian  chief,  Byzantiuui's  Cimquering 
foe.''' — Stanza  xii. 

The  reader  will  recollect  the  exclamation  of  the 
highlandei.  Oil  fur  one  hour  of  Dundee!  Henry 
Dandolo,  when  elected  Doge,  in  1192,  uas  eighiy-fiv'e 
years  of  age.  When  he  crimmanded  the  Venetians  at 
the  taking  of  Constantinople,  he  was  consequently 
nine'v-seven  years  old.  At  this  age  he  annexed  the 
four  h  and  a  half  of  the  whole  empire  of  Romania,* 
for  so  the  Roman  empire  «as  then  called,  to  the  title 
and  to  the  leni  ories  of  the  Venetian  Doge.  The  thiee 
eighths  of  this  empire  were  pieseivcd  in  the  diplomat 
until  ihe  dukedom  of  Giovanni  Dolfino.  who  made  use 
of  the  above  designation  in  the  year  13i7.5 


2  Rer.  Hal.  torn.  vii.  p.  231. 

3  Sfe  the  abnve-cited  Romuald  of  Salerno,  In  a  secrind 
sermon  which  Alrxaudt-r  preached,  or.  the  firal  day  of 
Aiiqusl,  before  Ihe  Kmperor,  he  lomrared  Frederic  Ij  the 
prodigal  son,  and  himself  to  the  fnrgiving  father. 

4  Mr.  Gibbon  has  omitted  the  important  aet  au  I  has 
written  Romani  instead  of  Rnmaniae.  Decline  and  Fait, 
cliap.  Ixi  note  9.  Bui  the  title  acquired  by  Daudolo  runs 
thus  iu  the  chronicle  of  hin  namesake,  the  Doi;e  Andrew 
Dandolo.  "  Ducali  lilulo  nddidit,  '  Quaria  rarlm  et  dirai- 
dia  tiitiug  imperii  Rnmaniae.'"  And.  Dand.  Chrmicnn, 
rail.  ill.  pars  xxxvii.  ap.  Script  Rer.  Hal.  torn.  xii.  peEe 
331.  And  Ihe  Romaniae  is  observ,*d  in  the  subsequent 
actH  of  the  D(i»(es.  Indeed,  the  i-untmeiitul  potjsessious  of 
the  (ireek  empire  in  Kurnpe  were  llien  generally  known 
by  the  name  of  R  >mauia,  and  that  oppellalioa  is  still  seen 
iu  the  mdps  of  Turkey  as  applied  to  Thrace. 

5See  the  continuation  of  Dandoln's  Chronicle,  ib  d.  p* 
49K     Mr.  Gibbon  appears  not  to  include  Dolfino,  ■  ■" 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD. 


459 


Dandolo  led  the  albck  on  Constantinople  in  person  : 
two  shi|  s,  the  Taradise  and  (he  Pilgi  iiii,  were  lied  to- 
gether, and  a  drawbiidgeorl  dder  letdown  from  their 
higher  vaid-  to  the  »afls.  Tlie  Doge  was  one  of  the 
r  tii»t  to  I'ush  iiilii  the  city.  Then  was  conjpleted,  said 
the  Venetians,  ihe  proj.hecy  of  the  Krythrsean  sibjl: 
— -'A  gaiheiiiig  loa;e:her  of  the  poweilul  shall  be 
made  amidst  the  wa'ies  nf  the  Adriaiic,  under  a  blind 
leader;  they  shall  beset  the  soat  —  they  shall  profane 
Byiantium  —  they  shill  blacken  her  buildings  —  her 
sjjoils  shall  be  dispersed  ;  a  new  goal  sliall  bleat  until 
they  hive  inea-ured  out  and  run  over  tifiy-fuur  feet, 
nine  inches,  and  a  half."  »  Dandolo  died  on  the  first 
day  of  June,  1205,  having  reigned  thirieen  years,  six 
mouths,  and  five  days,  and  was  buried  in  the  church 
of  St.  Sophia,  at  Constantinople.  Sirangely  enough  it 
must  sound,  that  the  name  of  the  rebel  apothecary  who 
received  the  Doge's  sword,  and  annihilated  the  ancient 
goverunient,  in  1796-7,  was  Dandolo. 


for  the  inexorable  answer  of  Doria,  wou.d  have  gladly 
reduced  ti.eir  dominion  lo  the  cily  of  Venice.  An  ac- 
count of  iheae  transactions  is  found  in  a  «oik  called 
the  War  of  Chioza,  written  by  D<iniel  Cbiuazzo,  who 
was  in  Venice  at  the  time. 


No.  VI.-  THE  WAR  OF  CHIOZA. 

"But  is  7iot  Dnria's  menace  come  to  pass; 
Are  they  not  bridled  .^"—  Sianza  xiii. 
After  the  loss  of  Ihe  battle  of  Pnia,  and  the  taking 
ti  Chioza  on  ihe  I6lh  of  August,  1379.  by  Ihe  united 
armameni  of  the  Genoese  an{|  Francesco  da  Carrara, 
Signer  of  Padua,  the  Vene  ians  were  reduced  to  the 
utmost  despair.  An  embassy  was  sent  lo  the  conquer 
ors  with  a  blank  >hect  of  paper,  prajing  ihem  to  pre- 
scribe what  terms  they  pleased,  ;\nd'  le  ve  to  Venice 
only  her  independence.  Ttie  Prince  of  Padua  was 
inclined  'o  lisien  lo  these  propnsxls,  but  the  Genoese, 
who,  after  the  victory  at  Piila,  had  shouted,  "To  Ve- 
n'-ce,  to  Venice,  ard  long  live  St.  George  '. "  deiermined 
to  annihilate  their  rival  ;  and  Peter  Dorii,  their  coni- 
nunderin-chief,  reiumed  this  answer  to  the  suppli- 
ants: ''On  God's  faith,  gen  lemen  of  Ve;iice,  ye  shall 
have  no  peace  from  the  .Signor  of  Padua,  nor  from  our 
commune  of  Genoa,  until  we  have  first  put  a  rein 
upon  those  unbridled  horses  of  yours,  that  are  upon  the 
porch  of  ymr  evangelist  ."^t.  ^Iiik,  VVhen  we  have 
bridled  them,  we  shall  keep  you  quiet.  And  this  is 
the  pleasure  of  ui  and  of  our  c  'mniune.  As  for  these 
my  brothers  of  Genoa,  that  you  h  ive  biought  with  you 
to  give  up  to  us.  I  will  not  have  Ihem;  take  them 
back  ;  for.  in  a  few  days  hence,  I  shall  come  and  let 
them  out  of  pri  on  myself,  bo  h  these  and  all  the 
others."  In  f  ct,  the  Genoese  did  advance  as  far  as 
Malamocco,  within  five  miles  rif  the  capital  ;  but  their 
own  danger  and  Ihe  pride  of  Iheir  enemies  give  cour 
asie  to  the  Venetians,  who  made  prodigious  efforts,  and 
many  individual  >aciifice~,  all  of  them  carefully  re- 
corded by  their  historians.  Veltor  Pisani  was  put  at 
the  he.ad'of  thirty-four  galleys.  The  Genoese  broke 
up  from  Malamocco,  and  retired  to  Chioza  in  October  ; 
but  hey  again  threatened  Venice,  which  was  reduced 
lo  extremities,  Al  this  lime,  the  1st  of  January.  1380, 
arrived  Cailo  Zeno,  who  had  been  cruising  on  the  Ge- 
noese coast  with  foureen  galleys.  The  Venetims 
were  now  strong  enough  to  besiege  the  Genoese.  Dn- 
ria  was  killed  on  the  22d  of  Jioiiary,  by  a  stone  bullet 
193  pounds  »  eigtii,  discharged  from  a  bomb.rd  called 
theTievisan.  Chioza  was  then  closely  invested  ;  5000 
,  auxiliaiies,  amongst  whom  were  some  English  condot- 
I  lieri,  commanded  by  one  Captain  Ceccho,  joined  ihe 
Venetians.  The  Genoese,  in  their  turn,  prayed  for 
I  conditions,  but  none  were  granted,  until,  at  last,  tht-y 
surrendered  at  discretion  ;  ;iiid,  on  the  24ih  of  June, 
I  13-0,  the  Doge  Contarini  made  his  triumphal  entry 
into  Chioza.  Four  thousand  prisoners,  nineteen  gal- 
le.v!,  miny  smaller  vessels  and  barks,  with  all  the  am- 
,  munition  and  arms,  and  ou'fit  of  the  expedition,  fell 
I  into  the  hands  of  the  conquerors,  who,  had  it  not  been 


Sanudo,  who  sajrs,  "  it  qiial  titoln  si   uxn  fin  al  Dogt;  Oin- 
vunni  Dolliiio.  "     See  Viii?  de"  Duthidi  Venezia,ap.  Script. 
Eer.  Hal.  torn.  xxii.  530.  «41. 
IChronicon,  ibid,  pars  :^xxiv. 


No.   VII.  — VENICE   UNDER   THE   GOVERN- 
MENT OF  AUSTRIA. 

"  Thin  streets,  and  forfis;n  a^pectt,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  wnat  e)ilfirals." 

Sianza  xv. 
The  population  of  Venice  at  the  end  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  amoun'ed  to  nearly  two  hundred  iliou- 
sand  souls.  At  the  last  cen  us,  taken  two  years  ago,  it 
was  no  more  than  about  one  hundred  and  three  thou- 
sand :  and  it  diminishes  daily.  'Ihe  commerce  and 
the  ofScial  employnients,  w  hich  were  lo  be  Ihe  unex- 
hausted source  of  Venetian  grandeur,  have  both  ex- 
pired. Most  of  the  patrician  mansions  are  deserted, 
and  would  gradually  disappear,  had  not  the  govern- 
ment, alarmed  by  the  demolition  of  sevent>-iwi),  dur- 
ing the  last  two  years,  expressly  forbidden  this  sad 
resource  of  poverty.  Many  remnants  nf  the  Veneiian 
nobility  are  now  scattered,  and  confounded  with  the 
wealihier  Jews  upon  the  banks  of  the  Brenta,  whose 
Palladi m  p  ilaces  have  sunk,  or  are  sinking,  in  the 
generil  decay.  Of  Ihe  "  genlilunmo  Venelo,"  the  name 
is  still  known,  and  that  is  all.  He  is  but  the  shadow 
of  his  former  self,  but  he  is  polite  and  kind.  It  surely 
may  be  pardoned  lo  him  if  he  is  querulous.  What- 
ever may  hue  been  the  vices  of  the  lepublic,  and 
although  the  m  ural  term  of  its  existence  may  be 
ih'iught  by  foreigners  to  have  ai  rived  in  the  due  course 
of  moitality,  only  one  sentiment  can  be  expected  Ironi 
the  Venetians  tliemselves.  Al  no  lime  were  the  sub- 
jects of  the  republic  so  unanimous  in  Iheir  resolution 
to  rally  round  Ihe  standard  of  Si  Mark,  as  when  it 
was  for  Ihe  last  time  unfurled  ;  and  Ihe  cowardice  and 
the  treachery  of  the  few  [lairicians  who  recommended 
the  fatal  neutrality  w  ere  confined  to  the  persons  of  ihe 
traitors  themselves.  'Ihe  present  race  cannot  be 
thought  to  regret  the  loss  of  their  arismcratical  forms, 
and  oo  despotic  government ;  they  think  only  on  their 
vanished  independence.  'I  hey  pine  away  at  the  re- 
membrance, and  on  this  subject  suspend  for  a  moment 
their  gay  good  humour.  Venice  may  be  said,  in  the 
words  of  Ihe  sciiplurc,  "  to  die  daily  ;"  and  so  general 
and  .so  apparent  is  the  decline,  as  lo  become  painful  to 
a  stranger,  not  recciiciled  to  the  sight  of  a  w  hole  nation 
expiring  as  it  were  before  his  eyes.  So  anificial  a 
creation,  having  tost  that  principle  w  hich  called  it  into 
life  and  supporled  its  existence,  must  fall  to  pieces  at 
once,  and  sink  more  rapidly  than  it  rose.  The  abhor 
renc.:  of  slavery  which  drove  the  Venetians  to  the  sea, 
has,  since  their  disaster,  forced  them  to  the  land,  where 
•hey  may  be  al  least  overlooked  amongs!  ihe  crowd  of 
dependants,  and  not  present  the  humiliating  spec'.'cle 
of  a  whole  nation  loaded  with  recent  chains.  Their 
liveliness,  Iheir  aflTabilily,  and  thit  hal)i)y  indifference 
which  constitution  alone  c^n  give  (for  philosophy 
aspires  to  it  in  vain),  have  not  sunk  under  circum- 
s'ances;  but  many  peculiariiies  of  costume  and  man- 
ner have  by  degrees  been  lost,  and  Ihe  nobles,  wiUi  a 
pride  common  lo  all  Italians  w  ho  have  been  mas'ers, 
hue  not  been  persuaded  to  parade  Iheir  insignificance. 
That  splendour  w  hich  was  a  proof  and  a  portion  of 
their  power,  they  would  not  degrade  iiiio  the  trapping? 
of  their  subjeciion.  They  leiired  from  ihe  spree 
which  they  had  occupied  ii'i  the  eye:^  of  their  feliow- 
citizens;  their  con'inimnce  in  which  would  have  been 
a  symptom  of  acquiescence,  and  an  insult  to  those  who 
sufleied  by  the  common  misfortune.  Those  who  re- 
mained in  Ihe  degraded  capital  might  be  said  rather  to 
haunt  Ihe  scenes  of  their  departed  power,  than  to  live 
in  them.  The  reflection,  "  who  and  what  enthnls," 
will  hardly  bear  a  comment  from  one  w  ho  is,  nation- 
ally, Ihe  friend  and  the  ally  of  Ihe  coi.:)ueror.  It  may, 
however,  be  aMowed  to  say  thus  much,  that  lo  those 


460 


APPENDIX  TO  CIIILDE   HAROLD. 


who  »vish  to  recover  Iheir  independence,  any  masters 
Diusl  be  ail  object  of  detest.iiion  ;  :ind  il  iii  ly  be  safely 
foretold  thit  this  unprofitable  :iver>ion  will  i.ol  have 
been  corrected  before  Venice  :hali  have  sunk  into  the 
slime  lit  her  choked  cinals. 


No.  VIII.-  LAURA. 

"  tValerirtg  the  tree  which  bears  his  ladi/s  name 

With  his  inUudiLUS  Uais,  he  gave  hi7nstif  lo  fame." 

S:anzaxxv. 

Thanks  to  the  critical  acumen  of  a  Scotchman,  we 

now  know  as  little  of  Lauri  as  ever. I  1  he  discoveries 
of  the  Abbe  de  Side,  his  lriuni|.lis,  his  sneers,  can  no 
longer  instruct   or  amuse.     We  must  not,  however, 

think  that  these  memoiis  are  as  much  a  romance  as 
Beli^arius  or  ihe  lucas.  although  »e  are  told  so  by  Dr. 
Beiltie,  a  great  name,  but  a  li'tle  authority. ^  His 
"labour"  has  not  been  in  vain,  uotwilhslanding  his 
"  love"  has,  like  most  other  pas  ions,  mide  him  ndicu- 
lous.3  The  hypothesis  which  overix)wered  Ihe  slru^- 
glins;  Italians,  and  cariied  al  n^  less  interested  criics 
in  its  current,  is  run  out.  We  have  ano  her  proof  that 
we  can  be  never  sure  that  Ihe  paradox,  the  most  sin?u- 
lar,  and  Iheiefoie  haviu'  the  most  agreeable  and  au- 
thentic air,  w  ill  not  give  place  lo  the  le-eslablislied  an- 
cient prejudice. 

It  seems,  then,  first,  that  Laura  w  as  born,  lived,  died, 
and  was  buried,  not  in  Avisnon,  but  in  the  country. 
The  fountains  of  the  borga,  the  thickets  of  Cibvieres, 
may  resume  their  pre'ensions,  and  the  exploded  de  la 
Itie  agiiii  be  heard  w  ith  compl  iceiicy.  The  hypo- 
thesis of  the  Abbe  had  no  stronger  p'lops  than  the 
parcbn)ent  sonnet  and  medal  found  on  the  skcle'ou  of 
the  w  ife  of  Hu?o  de  Sade,  and  the  manuscript  note  to 
the  Virsil  of  Petrarch,  now  in  the  Ambrosiaii  library. 
If  ihese  proofs  were  both  iiicon'ertable,  the  poetry  w  as 

iriilen,  the  medal  composed,  c  ist,  and  deposited  within 
the  space  of  twelve  hours  :  and  these  deliberate  duties 
we'e  perf  rmed  round  the  carca'a  of  one  who  died  of 
the  plasue,  and  w.as  hurried  to  Ihe  »rave  on  the  day  of 
her  death.  These  documen's,  therefore,  are  too  dici- 
sive  :  they  prove  not  the  fact,  but  the  fogcry.  Either 
the  sonnet  or  Ihe  Vigilian  note  mus".  be  a  filsificalion. 
The  Abbe  cites  b'llh  a-^  incnn'estably  true;  the  conse- 
quent deduction  is  inevitable— they  are  boili  evidently 
false.* 

Secondly,  Laura  was  never  married,  and  was  a 
haughty  virgin  rather  than  'hat  tender  and  prudent 
wife  who  honoured  Avi»non,  by  makinz  that  town  the 
theatre  of  an  honest  French  [iission,  and  played  i  flF  for 
one  and  twenty  years  her  little  machinery  I'i  aleinale 
favours  and  refusals  5  upon  the  first  poel  of  the  age 
■as.  indeed,  rather  too  unfair  Iha'  a  female  should 
be  made  responsible  f"r  eleven  child'en  upon  the  f<ilh 
of  a  misintcrpre'ed  ibbTevi.ilion,  and  llie  decision  of  a 
librariu..'    It  is,  however,  s>ti»faclory  lo  think  that 


See  An  Historical  anj  Ciiliral  Essay  on  Ihp  Lire  and 
Charai'ter  nf  I'etrar  h;  aiil  a  Disserlalioii  ou  an  Historical 
Hypothesis  of  Ihe  Abbe  de  Sade. 

2  Life  of  Beallie,  by  Sir  W.  Forbes,  vcl.  ii.  p.  106. 

3  .Mr.  Gibbon  railed  his  Memoirs  "a  labour  of  love" 
(gee  Deeliiieaiid  Fall  chap.  Ixx.  n^-:te  1.)  and  f(i|l"wed  him 

ith  coiiflileiue  and  deliphi.     The comriler  of  a  very  v.ilu- 

Gibhoii  ha-s  dene  so,  though  not  as  readily  as  some  other 

4  The  fconnet  had  he'ore  awakened  the  suRpirionsof  Mr. 
Horace  Walpide.     See  his  letter  to  Warion  in  1163. 

5"  Par  ce  petit  manege,  cette  alieinulive  de  f.venrs  et 
de  rieueiirs  tiien  meiiagee.  iiiie  feniinr  lend  re  el  sage  amuse, 
pendant  viiigi  et  uii  aus,  le  plus  griid  p.<ete  de  son  siecle, 
sans  faire  la  moindre  breche  a  sou  hunneur. "  Mein  pour 
la  Vie  de  Peliarque,  Prefsee  nux  Fiamars. 

6  Inadialn°ue  with  SI.  A  upiisiin.  Pi-lrarih  has  described 
Laura  as  having  a  tVKly  exhau^icd  with  repeaii-d  ptuhs. 
The  old  e<litor8  read  and  printed  perrurhntionihun  ;  but 
M.  Capperonier,  librarian  to  the  French  kine  in  1762.  who 
saw  the  MS.  in  the  Paris  library,  made  an  ollestalion  that 
"OB    1  t    et    qu'on  doit  lire,  parlubus    cxhauslum."     De 


Ihe  love  of  Petrarch  was  not  platonic.  The  happiness 
which  he  prayed  to  possess  but  once  and  for  a  moment 
was  surely  not  of  the  mind,''  and  soinetl.iug  so  very 
real  as  a  liiarriige  project,  with  one  who  has  been  idly 
c.illcd  a  shadowy  nymph,  may  be.  peril  >ps.  de  ec  ed  in 
at  leisl  six  places  of  his  own  sonnets.  The  love  of 
Pelraich  was  neither  platonic  nor  poetical :  and  if  in 
one  passage  of  his  woiks  he  calls  it  "amore  veemeii- 
teissinio  ma  unico  ed  oiiesto,'  he  confesses,  in  a  letter 
to  a  friend,  that  it  was  guilty  and  perverse,  that  it 
absorbed  him  quite,  aid  master e^  his  heart. 

In  this  case,  however,  he  was  perhaps  alarmed  for 
Ihe  culpability  of  his  wishes;  for  Ihe  Abbe  de  Sade 
himself,  «  ho  certainly  would  not  have  been  scrupu- 
lously delicate  if  he  could  have  proved  his  descent 
from  Petrarch  as  well  as  Lauia,  is  foiced  into  a  stout 
defence  of  his  virtuous  grandmother.  As  far  :is  relates 
to  Ihe  poel,  "e  hive  no  secuii  y  for  the  ii.nocence,  ex- 
cept perhaps  in  the  constancy  of  his  pur  uil.  He 
assures  us  in  his  epistle  to  posterity,  Iha',  when  ariived 
at  his  fortieth  year,  he  not  only  had  in  horror,  but  hid 
lost  all  recollection  and  imnge  of  any  "  irregularity." 
But  Ihe  birthof  his  natural  daughter  cannot  beasMigned 
earlier  than  his  thirty-ninth  year;  and  either  the  me- 
mory or  the  morality' of  the  p'oet  must  have  f  iled  him, 
w  hen  he  forgo!  or  was  guilts  of  lhis.>ii>  8  The  weak- 
est a  gument  for  Ihe  purity  of  this  love  has  been  drawn 
from  Ihe  permanence  of  itsetfecls,  which  survived  tlie 
object  of  his  passion.  The  reflection  of  M.  de  la  Bas- 
tic,  that  virtue  alone  is  capable  of  making  impressions 
w  hich  death  cannot  efface,  is  one  of  those  w  hich  every 
body  applauds,  and  every  body  finds  not  to  be  true,  the 
moment  he  examines  his  own  breast  or  Ihe  records  of 
human  feeling.?  Such  apophthesms  can  do  nothing 
for  Petraicli  or  for  Ihe  cause  of  morality,  e.xcepi  with 
the  very  weak  and  the  very  young.  He  that  has  made 
even  a  little  progress  bejond  ignorance  and  pupilage 
Cannot  be  edified  w  ith  aiiy  thing  but  truth.  Whal'is 
called  vindiciting  the  honour  of  an  individuil  or  a  na- 
tion, is  the  most  fu  ilc,  tedious,  and  uiiinstructiveof  all 
writing;  al  hough  it  will  alivays  meet  wih  more  ap- 
plause  than  that  sober  critici  m,  which  is  attributed  to 
the  malicious  desire  of  reducing  a  gieal  man  to  Ihe 
common  standard  of  humanity.  It  is,  af  er  all,  not 
unlikely  thai  our  hisorian  was  right  in  relainiiig  his 
fav'uri  e  hypnthe  ic  salvo,  iihich  secures  the  author, 
although  it  scarcely  saves  Ihe  honour  of  the  still  un- 
known mistress  of  Petrarch. i" 


No.  IX— PETRARCH. 
"  They  keep  his  dust  in  Jrqua,  where  he  died." 

StaiiTn  xxxi. 
Petrarch  retired  to  Arqua  immedia'ely  on  his  return 
from  the  unsuccessful  attempt  to  visit  Urban  V.  at 
Rome,  in  the  year  1370,  and,  with  the  exception  of  his 
celebra  ed  visit  lo  Venice  in  company  with  Francesco 
Novello  da  Carrara,  he  appears   to   hive   passed    the 


Sade  joined  the  names  "f  Messrs.  Boodot  and  Bej^t  with 
M.  (.'sppernier.ar.d,  in  the  whole  discusi<ion  ou  this  ptubs, 
showed  himself  a  dnwnrishl  litnrary  p-gue.  See  Riflea- 
sinni.  inc.  p.  267.  Thomas  Aquinas  is  called  io  to  nettle 
whether  Peiiarch's  misliess  was  a  cha$ie  maid  or  a  Cos- 

7        "  Pigmalion,  quanto  lodar  ti  del 

Deti'  imagine  tua,  se  mille  volte 

K'  avrsii  qoel  ch'  i'  sol  una  vnrrei." 

Sni.elio  S8.  luaniio  giunse  .»  Simon  I'alto  con- 
cetto.    Le  Rime,  ice.  par.   i.   pag.  Ic9.  edit. 
Veil.  ]7i6. 
8"  A  questa  coiifessione  cosi    sincera   diede  forse  occa- 
sioue  una  tiuova  caduta  ch.  el  fece.**     Tirabfjschi    Sloria« 
&c.  V.  492. 

9  M.  lie  Bimard,  Baron  de  la  Baslie,  in  Ihe  Memoires  de 
rAc^d.niie  dcs  Insiriplions  el  Bdlen  Lettres  for  HIU  .lOd 
1751.      See  also  Rifle<^ioni,  He.  p.  296. 

10  "And  if  the  virtue  or  prudence  of  I^ura  was  inexo- 
rable, he  eiijoved,  and  might  boast  of  eoioyiug, the  oymph 
of  poetry."  Decline  and  Fall.  chap.  Ixi.  p.  327.  Tol  Xil. 
Uvo.     Peibaps  the  i/  is  here  meant  for  although,  i 


r- 

fbu 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD. 


461 


last  years  of  his  life  between  that  charming  soli- 
tude and  Padua.  For  four  nionlhs  previous  to  liis 
death  he  \v,is  in  a  s'ale  nf  cominuiil  languor,  and  in 
the  iiioniing  of  Ji.ly  ihe   i9lh.  in  the  \e.ir   1374,  "as 

n  found  de.id  in  his  liliraiy  chair  »ith  liis  tiead  reslin? 

'!  upon  a  liook.     The  cliair  is  still  shown  amongst  Ihe 

II  precious   relics  of  Arcjua,  which,  fr  ni    ihe   uninler- 
i  lupled  veneration  that  ha>  been  aliaclied  to  every  iliing 

ll  relaiive  to  this  great  mm  from  Ihe  momeni  of  his 
de  tlh  to  Ihe  present  hour,  have,  it  may  be  hoped,  a  bet- 
ter chance  of  aulheuiici'y  Ihau  the  Shak.-peariaa  me- 
ojorials  of  Slialford  upoiiAvon. 

Arqua  (for  Ihe  last  syllable  is  accen'ed  in  pronuncia- 
tion, aitliough  Itie  anilogy  uf  ihe  English  language  has 
been  observed  in  the  verse)  is  twelve  miles  from  Pa- 
dua, and  about  three  miles  on  ihe  right  of  the  high 
road  to  Rovigo,  in  the  bosom  of  the  Euganein  hilis. 
After  a  walk  of  twenty  minuies  across  a  flit  well- 
wooded  me.idvuv,  you  come  to  a  little  blue  lake,  cle.ir 
bui  fathomless,  and  to  the  fool  of  a  success!  n  of  accli- 
vities and  hills,  clothed  with  vineyards  and  orchards, 
rich  wiih  lir  and  pomegranate  irees,  and  every  sunny 
fruit  shrub.  From  the  banks  of  Ihe  lake  the  road 
winds  into  the  hills,  and  the  church  of  Arqua  i<  soon 
seen  between  a  clef  1  xvhere  two  ridges  sh'pe  towards 
each  otlier,  and  nearly  enclose  the  village.  The 
houses  are  scatered  at  intervals  on  Ihe  leep  sides  of 
these  summits;  and  Ihat  of  Ihe  poet  is  on  Ihe  edge  of 
a  little  knrill  overluoking  'wo  de>cenls,  and  command- ! 
ing  a  view,  nut  only  of  Ihe  glowiig  g.iidens  in  Ihe 
dales  immediately  beneaih,  but  of  (he  wide  plains,! 
above  whoso  low  woods  of  mulberry  and  willow,  I 
thickened  into  a  dirk  mats  by  festoons  of  vines,  tall,  I 
single  cypresses,  and  Ihe  spires  of  towns,  are  seen  in 
the'di  taiice,  which  sirelches  to  the  mouihs  of  the  Po 
and  Ihe  shores  of  the  Adri  itic.  The  climite  of  these, 
volciiiic  hills  is  warmer,  and  Ihe  vintage  begins  a  [ 
week  sooner  than  in  Ihe  plains  of  Fadua.  Pe'raich  is  i 
hid,  for  he  cannot  be  said  to  be  buried,  in  a  sarcopha-' 
gus  of  led  marble,  raised  en  four  piUs;ers  on  an  ele- 
vated b^se,  and  preserved  from  an  association  with 
meaner  tombs.  It  lands  conspicuously  alone,  but  w  ill 
be  soon  overshadiwed  bv  fui  lately  plmtcd  laurels.  [ 
Peira  ch's  Fountai.i.  f.^r  lieie  every  thing  is  Pe!rarcli'.=i, 
springs  and  expands  itself  beneath  an  arliiici.il  aich,  a  i 
litllt  below  the  church,  and  abounds  jilenlifully,  in  the  ' 
driest  season,  with  ihat  soft  water  w  hich  wa-  the  an- 
cient wealth  of  the  Euganean  hills,  ll  would  be  more 
attractive,  were  it  not,  in  some  seasons,  beset  w  ilh  hor- 
nets and  wasps.  No  other  coincidence  could  as^imi- 
lale  Ihe  tombs  of  Petrarch  and  Aichilcluis,  The 
revolutions  of  ceirluiies  have  spired  these  sequestered 
valleys,  -ind  the  only  violence  i\  hich  has  been  offered 
to  Ihe  a^hes  of  Petrarch  wis  prompted,  not  by  hale, 
but  veneraliiin.  An  atieinpl  was  made  to  rob  the  sir- 
cophajus  of  iis  treasure,  and  one  of  the  arms  was  s  olen 
by  a  Floren'inc  through  a  rent  which  is  still  visible. 
The  injury  is  not  forgotten,  but  has  served  lo  identify 
the  poet  with  ihe  country  where  he  was  born,  but 
where  he  would  not  live.'  A  peasant  bov  of  Aiqua 
being  asked  who  Petr.nch  was,  replied,  "  that  Ihe 
people  of  the  parsonage  knew  all  about  him,  but  Ihat  | 
he  only  knew  iha:  he  was  a  Florentine." 

Mr,  Forsyth  '  was  not  qui'e  correct  in  siying  that ' 
Petrarch  never  returned  to  Tuscmy  af  er  he  had  quil- 
led it  when  a  boy.  It  appears  he  did  pass  through 
Fl'irence  on  his  way  from  I'arma  to  Rome,  and  on  his 
return  in  the  year  I3.')0,  and  remained  there  long 
enough  to  form  s mie  acquiintance  wi  h  its  most  dis- 
lingui  bed  inhabitints.  A  Florentine  gentleman, 
ashamed  of  the  aversion  of  the  poet  for  his  native 
country,  w■a^  ea?er  to  point  out  this  trivial  error  in 
our  accomplished  traveller,  whom  he  knew  and  re- 
spected for  an  extraordinary  capaci-y,exte:  sive  erudi- 
tion, and  refined  taste,  joined  to  thai  engaging  simpli- 
city of  inmne  s  which  Ins  been  so  frequently  recog- 
nised as  the  surest,  though  it  i-i  certainly  uo:  an  indis- 
pensable, trail  of  superior  gs  ius. 
Every  footstep  of  Laura's  lover  has  been  anxiously 

1  Brmarks  Sec,  on  Italy,  p.  'Jo.  note,  2d  edit.  I 


traced  and  recorded.  The  house  in  which  he  lodged 
is  shown  in  Venice.  The  inhabitants  of  Arczzo,  ia 
order  lo  decide  Ihe  ancient  controversy  between  their 
city  and  Ihe  neiglibouring  Ancisa,  where  Petrarch  was 
c.iiiied  when  seven  miniihs  old.  and  rtniained  until 
Ills  se.euth  \eir,  have  desigiia:ed  by  a  long  inscription 
the  spol  w  licie  their  great  lellow-ciuzen  was  born.  A 
tablei  has  been  raised  to  t.im  at  Parnia,  in  ihe  chapel 
of  Si.  Agalln,  at  the  cithedral,  because  he  was  arch* 
de.icon  of  that  society, and  was  only  snaiched  Irom  his 
iuleiided  sepuliuie  in  their  cliurch  by  a  fwtign  deaih. 
Anolher  tablet,  with  a  bust,  has  been  ertcied  to  him 
at  Pavia,  on  account  of  his  having  passed  the  autumn 
of  136t5,  in  that  ci'y,  wiih  his  son-in-law  Brossano. 
Ihe  political  condition  which  has  forages  precluded 
Ihe  Italians  from  the  criticism  of  the  living,  lias  con- 
centrated their  attention  to  Ihe  illuslration  ol  the  dead. 


No.  X.— TASSO. 


"  In  face  of  nil  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quin; 
And  Jioiltau,  uifime  rath  envy,''  ^-c. 

Stanza  xxxviii. 
Perhaps  the  couplet  in  which  Boileau  depreciates 
Tasso  nMV  serve  as  well  as  any  olt.er  specinien  to  jus- 
tify  the    opinion   given   of    tiie   harmony  of  Fiencb 
veise :  — 


The  biographer  Serassi,2  out  of  tenderness  to  the 
repiilalion  either  of  the  lialiin  or  Ihe  French  poet,  is 
eager  to  observe  thai  the  satirist  recinied  or  explained 
away  this  censure,  and  subsequently  allow  ed  Ihe  author 
of  the  Jerusr.lem  to  be  a  "genius,  sublinie,  vast,  and 
happily  born  for  the  higher  nights  of  poetry."  To 
this  we  will  add,  Ihat  Ihe  recaniation  is  far  from  satis- 
factory, when  we  examine  Ihe  whole  anecdote  as  re- 
ported by  ljlive'.3  '1  he  sentence  pronnunctd  against 
him  by  Bohours*  is  recorded  only  to  the  confusion  of 
the  critic,  w  hose  jid/iwodia  llie  Italian  makes  no  ettbrt 
to  discover,  and  would  not,  peihaps,  accept.  As  to 
the  opposition  which  Ihe  Jerusalem  encountered  from 
the  Cruscan  ac-idemy,  who  degraded  Tasso  from  all 
competition  » ilh  Ar'insto,  beloW  Bojardo  and  Pulci, 
Ihe  disgrace  of  such  npposi  ion  must  also  in  some  mea- 
sure be  laid  lo  llie  charae  of  Alfonso,  and  the  couri  of 
Fein  a.  For  Lconaid  Salviali,  Ihe  piincipal  and 
nearly  Ihe  sole  oiigin  of  this  at'ack,  was,  there  can  be 
no  doubt. 5  influenced  by  a  h  ipe  to  acquire  the  favour 
of  the  House  of  E»te  :  an  object  w  hich  he  thought 
attainable  by  exalting  the  reputation  of  a  mtive  poet 
at  Ihe  expense  of  a  rival,  then  a  prisoner  of  slate. 
The  hopes  and  efl'rls  of  S.ilvi  iti  must  seive  lo  show 
the  contemporary  opinion  astothe  nature  of  the  p.>et's 
imprisonment;  and  "ill  fill  up  ihe  measure  of  our 
indignation  at  ihe  tyrant  jailer.6  In  fact,  the  anlajo- 
nisi  of  Tasso  was  not  disappointed  in  the  reception 
given    to  his  criticism ;  he  was  called  to  the  court  of 


2  La  Vila  inl  Tasso,  lib.  iii. 

3  Ilistnire  de  I'Academie  Francaise  depuis  16S3  jusqu'a 
17U0,  par  I'ivhbe  d'Olivet.  "Mais,  ensuite,  vroant  a 
I'usa^e  qu*il  a  fait  de  ses  taiens.  J'aurais  mnotre  que  le 
bnn  sens  uVst  pas  toujogrs  re  qui  domint-  chez  lui,"  p. 
](r2.  B'lili-au  said,  he  had  not  chaii?ed  Ilia  opinion.  '-J'en 
bI  tti  peu  change,  dil-il,**  &p.  p.  1«1, 

4  l.a  Maniere  de  bien  Pen-er.  I'hilanlhes  is  for  Tasso, 
and  Hays  in  (lie  outciet,  *' De  tous  les  t)eaux  esfirilN  que 
I'ltalie  a  porles,  le  Tiisse  est  pcul-etre  lelui  qui  fcnse  le 
plu»  noblimnnl."  But  Bohoura  seems  lo  speali  in  En- 
dnxirs,  who  closes  with  Ihe  ab-urd  comparisun ;  •*  Failes 
vainir  le  Tasse  lant  qu'il  Vous  plaira,  je  m'en  liens  pour 


5  La  Vila,  & 
reader  may  »ee 
to  Tasso,  in  Dr. 

6  For  further,  and  -t  ia  tinped  decisive  pr.Mf,  IhatTa^iSO 
was  neither  more  no  lees  thi.n  a  irjsvncr  of  tiett,  the 
render  is  referred  ti> "  Historical  llluslratinna  of  the  IVth 
Caato  of  Ctiilde  Harold," page  6.  and  follow-ng. 


p.  90.  torn.    ii.     The   English 


46:2 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE   HAROLD. 


Ferrara,  where,  hiving  endeavoured  lo  heighten  his 
claims  lo  favour,  by  panejyrics  on  the  family  of  his 
sovereign,!  he  uas  in  lurn  abandoned,  and  expired  in 
neglecied  poveriy.  'Ihe  "pposilion  of  !lie  C'iu>car;3 
was  brought  loa  close  in  six  \ears  afier  the  conunence- 
nient  of  ihe  con  roversy  ;  and  if  the  acideiny  owed  its 
first  renown  to  having  alinosi  opened  w  ilh  such  a  para- 
dox,^ it  is  piobable  Ihai,  on  Itie  oiher  hand,  the  caie 
of  his  repul.iiion  alleviated  rather  than  azjravaled  the 
iniprisonnient  of  Ihe  injured  pne'.  The  delei.'Ce  of  his 
father  and  of  himself,  t>r  both  were  involved  in  the 
censure  of  Salviati,  found  eiiipluyment  for  many  of  his 
soli  aiy  hours,  and  Ihe  cap  ive  could  have  been  but 
little  enibirrissed  to  reply  to  accusation^,  where, 
amongst  other  delinquencies,  he  was  charged  with  invi- 
diously omitting,  in  his  comparison  beiween  Fiance 
and  Italy,  In  niake  any  mention  of  the  cupola  of  St. 
Maria  del  Fiore  at  Florence.3  The  late  biographer  of 
Arioslo  seems  as  if  willing  lo  renew  the  controversy 
by  diubnng  the  ioterprelaiion  of  Tasso's  self-estima- 
tion •>  rela'ed  in  .Serassi's  life  ot  the  poet.  But  Tira- 
boschi  had  before  laid  ihat  rivalry  at  rest,'  by  showing, 
thai  between  Arioslo  and  'lasso  u  is  i.ot  a  queslion  of 
comparison,  but  of  preference. 


a  recent  imcription.  The  Ferrarese  are  more  jealous 
of  their  cliims  since  the  aniinosiy  of  Ueuina,  arising 
from  a  cause  which  their  apolosiis  s  mysteriously  hint  I 
is  not  unknown  to  hem,  venUircd  lodegride  their  soil 
and  cliniaie  lo  a  Bocitian  incapacit.  f t  all  spiritual 
Iiriiduciions.  A  quar  o  volume  h^s  been  ctlled  furih 
by  the  cletraclimi,  and  thi.-.  sij|ipiemen!  lo  Barolti's  Me- 
nioirs  tif  the  illustrious  Ferrarese  hts  been  considered 
a  trininpli.int  leply  to  ihe  "  Quidro  S.orico  Slalislico 
dell'Altaltalii." 


No.  XI.—  ARIOSTO. 

"  The  Ughtning  retit  from  Ariosld's  bust, 
TU  iron  a  own  of  laureVs  numick'd  leaves.'^ 
Sanzaxli. 

Before  Ihe  remains  of  Arioslo  were  removed  from 
the  Benedictine  church  to  Ihe  library  of  Feirara,  his 
bust,  which  surmounted  the  tomb,  was  struck  by  light- 
ning, and  a  crown  of  iron  laurels melied  away.  The 
event  has  been  recorded  by  a  writer  of  the  jasi  cen- 
tury.* The  transfer  of  these  sicred  ashes,  on  Ihe  6th 
of  June,  ISO!,  was  one  of  Ihe  most  brilliant  spectacles 
of  Ihe  short-lived  Italian  Republic;  and  to  consecrate 
the  memory  of  Ihe  ceremony,  the  once  famous  fallen 
Intrcpidi  were  revived  and  reformed  into  Ihe  Arios- 
tean  academy.  The  laige  public  place  through  which 
the  procession  paraded  was  then  lor  the  first  lime 
called  Arioslo  Square.  The  author  of  the  Orlando  is 
jealously  claimed  as  the  Homer,  not  of  Italy,  but  Fer- 
rara.i  The  mother  of  Arios'o  was  of  Reggio,and  Ihe 
house  in  which  he  was  born  is  cart-fully  distinguished 
by  a  lablel  wiih  these  words  :  •'  Qui  nacque  Lud'ivico 
Ariosto  il  ginrno  S.  di  Sellembre  dell'  anno  1474."' 
But  the  Ferratese  nnke  light  of  the  accident  by  which 
their  poet  was  b'rn  abnad,  and  claim  him  exclusively 
fir  their  own.  They  possess  his  bones,  they  show  his 
arm-chair,  and  his  inkstand,  and  his  autographs. 

" Hie  lllitiB  arroa 

Hiccurriis  fuit " 

The  house  where  he  lived,  Ihe  room  where  he  died, 
are  designated  by  his  own  replaced  memorial, 8  and  by 


No.   XII.— ANCIENT    SUPERSTITIONS   RE- 
SPECTING LIGHTNING. 

"  For  llie  true  laurtl-wreath  which  Glcry  toeavtt 
Is  nf  the  tree  no  holt  of  thunder  cleaves." 

Stanza  xli. 

The  eagle,  the  seacilf,  Ihe  laurel,  and  Ihe  white 
vine,  were  amoiigst  the  most  approved  preservatives 
against  liglitnine:  Jupiler  chose  Ihe  first,  Augustus 
Cassar  the  second,  and  Tiberius  never  failed  lo  wear  a 
wreath  of  Ihe  third  when  Ihe  sky  threatened  a  Ihun- 
der-slorm.9  These  superstiii-ins  may  be  received 
without  a  sneer  in  a  cninlry  w  here  the  magical  pro- 
perties i[  the  h-.izel  twig  have  not  lost  all  their  credit ; 
and  perhaps  the  reader  may  not  be  much  surprised  lo 
find  Ihal  a  commenlalnr  on  Suetonius  has  taken  upon 
himself  jravely  to  disprove  Ihe  imputed  vir  ues  of  the 
crown  of  Tioerius,  by  mentioning  that  a  few  years 
before  he  w  rote  a  laurel  was  actually  struck  by  light- 
ning at  Rome.io 


No.  XIII. 


1  Orazioni  funebri  .  .  .  delle  lodi  di  Don  Lnigi,  Cardinal 
d'Este  .  .  .  delle  ndi  di  Donno  Alfonso  d'Este.  See  La 
Vita.  lib.  iii.  p.  117. 

2  It  was  founded  in  1562.  and  the  Cruscsn  answer  to 
Pellpgrino's  Caraffa,  or  epica  poesia,  was  published  in 
1584. 

3"C'ntanlop.ite  sempre  in  lui  ilTelem  Jella  sua  pessima 
volniiia  inijlro  alia  nazion  Fiurenlina."  La  Vita,  lib.  iii. 
pp.  96,  98.  torn.  ii. 

4  La  Vila  di  M.  L.  Ariosto.  scritta  dalP  Abate  Girolamo 
Baruffaldi  Uinniore,  &c.  Ferrara.  1607,  lib.  iii.  p.  262.  See 
"Historical  Illustrations,"  &c. 

5  Stiiria  della  Lett.  &c.  lib.  iii.  torn.  vii.  par.  iii.  p. 
1220.  s«!.  4. 

6  Op.  di  Biancofii,  vol.  iii.  p.  176.  ed.  Milano,  1802;  lel- 
trra  at  Sitcncir  Guido  Savini  Arcilisiocritico,  suit"  indole 
di  un  rulniiue  cadulo  in  Drenda  I'anno  1759 

7  "  Appasnionala  ammiralore  ed  iuviiti  apolopiata  dell' 
Omcra  rerrareac."  The  title  was  lire  given  by  Tasso, 
and  is  quoted  tnihe  ronlusion  ol  Ihe  T'.<si><i,lib.  iii.  pp. 
aea.  aeo.     La  VHa  di  M.  L.  Anoslo,  &C- 

e  "Parva  sed  apla  mihi.sed  nulli  obnnxia.  sed  non 
Snrdida,  parts  meo  sed  lamen  ere  domus." 


"  Know  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  lelow.^ 
Stanza  xli. 

TheCurlian  lake  and  the  Ruminal  fig-tree  in  the 
Forum,  having  been  touched  by  lishlning,  were  held 
sacred,  and  Ihe  memory  of  the  accident  was  preserved 
by  n  puteal,  or  altar  resembling  the  mouth  of  a  well, 
with  a  little  chapel  covering  Ihe  civily  supposed  lo  be 
made  bv  the  Ihunderboll.  Bodies  scathed  and  person* 
struck  deid  were  thought  lo  be  incorruptible  ;  >»  and 
a  stroke  not  fatal  conferred  perpe  uil  dignity  upon  the 
man  so  distinsuished  by  heaven. '3 

Those  killed  by  lightning  were  wrapped  in  a  while 
garment,  and  buried  w  heie  they  fell.  The  superstition 
was  not  confined  to  the  woishi,per,  of  Jupiter  :  the 
Lombards  believed  in  the  omens  furnished  by  lieht- 
ning  ;  and  a  Christian  priest  confesses  Ihal,  by  a  dia- 
bolical skill  in  interpre  ing  thunder,  a  seer  foretold  lo 
Agilulf,  duke  if  Turin,  an  event  which  came  lo  pass, 
and  gave  him  a  queen  and  a  crown.>3  There  was, 
however,  something  equivocal  in  this  sign,  which  the 
ancient  inhabitants  of  Rome  did  not  always  consider 
propitious;  and  as  Ihe  fears  are  likely  to  last  longer 
than  the  cons'ila'ions  of  superstition,  il  is  not  strange 
Ihal  Ihe  Romans  of  the  age  of  Leo  X.  should  have  I 
been  so  much  terrified  at  -ome  misinterpreted  storms  j 
as  to  require  Ihe  exhortations  of  a  scholar,  who  arrayed 
all  the  learning  on  Ihunder  and  lightning  to  prove  the  I 
omen  favourable;  beginning  wi'h  Ihe  flash  which 
struck  the  wills  of  Veliirae,  and  including  Ihal  which 
played  upon  a  gale  at  Florence,  and  foreiold  Ihe  pon- 
tificate of  one  of  its  cilizens.i'> 


9  Plin.  Nat.  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  55.  Columella,  lib.  x. 
Sueton.  io  Vit.  August,  cap.  xc.  et  in  Vit.  Tiberii.  cap. 
lx:x. 

10  Note  2.  p.  409.  edit.  Lugd.  Bat.  1C67, 

11  Vid.  J.  C.  Bullenger,  de  Tcrrae  Motn  et  Fulmiuilh 
lib.  v.  rap.  xi. 

I     12  OiictJj  KtpavvuiBtis  art/idj  ia-Ti.  i'Otv  Kal  eSj 
I  -Stf  J  Ti^arat.  Plut.  Sympos.  vid.  J.  C.  Bulleng.  ut  snp. 

13  Pauli  Diaconi  de  Geetin  Longobard.  lib.  hi.  cap.  Xir, 

14  I.  P.  Valeriati  de  fulminum  significatlonibUH  derla- 
alio,  ap.  Oraev.  Auliq.  R..m.  torn.  V.  p.  693.  The  dC" 
imatioo  is  addressed  lo  Julian  of  Medicis. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD. 


463 


No.  XIV.-  THE  VENUS  OF  MEDICIS. 

*'  There,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone." 

Stanza  xliz. 
The  view  of  the  Venus  nf  Medicis  insiantly  suggests 
the  lines  In  the  Si:aiOns,  and  the  comparison  of  the 
object  with  the  description  proves,  not  only  the  cor- 
rectness of  the  portrait,  but  the  peculiar  turn  of 
thought,  and,  if  the  term  nny  be  u^ed,  the  sexual 
imagination  of  the  descriptive  poet.  The  same  con- 
clusion may  be  deduced  from  another  hint  in  the  same 
episode  of  MuSidora  ;  for  Thomson's  notion  of  the 
privileges  of  favoured  love  must  have  been  either  very 
primitive,  or  rattier  deficient  in  delicacy,  when  he 
made  his  grateful  nymph  inform  her  discreel  Damon 
that  In  some  happier  moment  he  might  perhaps  be  the 
coripanion  of  her  balh  :  — 

"The  lime  may  come  you  need  not  fl/." 
T)ie  reader  will  recollect  the  anecdote  told  in  the 
Life  of  Dr.  Johnson.  We  will  not  leave  the  Floren-  , 
tine  gallery  without  a  word  on  the  IVfielter.  Ii  seems  ' 
strange  thit  the  character  of  thai  disputed  sta'ue  should 
not  be  entirely  decided,  at  leist  in  the  mind  of  any  one 
who  has  seen  a  sarcophagus  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Ba- 
silica of  St.  Paul  wiihout  the  walls,  at  Rome,  where 
the  whole  group  of  the  fable  of  Marsyas  is  seen  in  tole- 
rable preservation  ;  and  the  Scythian  slave  whetting 
the  knife  is  represented  exactly  in  the  same  position  as 
this  celebrated  masterpiece.  The  slave  is  not  naked  ; 
hut  it  is  easier  to  get  rid  of  this  difficulty  than  to  sup- 
pose the  knife  in  the  hand  of  the  Florentine  statue  an 
j  instrument  for  shaving,  which  it  must  be,  if,  as  Lanzi 
I  supposes,  the  man  is  no  other  than  the  baiber  of  Julius 
Caesar.  Winkelmann,  illustrating  a  bas-relief  of  the 
I  same  subject,  follows  the  opinion  of  Leonard  Agoslini, 
and  his  authority  might  hive  been  thought  conclusive, 
even  if  the  resemblance  did  not  strike  the  most  care- 
less obsei  ver.i  Amongst  the  bronzes  of  the  same 
princely  collection  is  still  to  be  seen  the  inscribed  | 
tablet  copied  and  commented  upon  by  Mr.  Gibbon.'* 
Our  historiin  found  some  difficulties,  but  did  not  desist 
from  his  illustration  :  he  might  be  vexed  lo  hear  that 
his  criticism  has  been  thrown  away  on  an  inscription 
now  generally  recognised  to  be  a  forgery. 


nounce  upon  her  various  productions  ;  and  the  longer 
the  vista  thiough  which  they  are  seen,  the  more  aciu- 
ralcly  minute  will  be  the  object,  the  more  certain  the 
justice,  of  the  decision.  She  will  enter  into  that  exia- 
teiice  ill  which  the  great  uri  ersof  all  ages  ai;d  nations 
are,  as  It  we: e,  associated  in  a  world  of  their  own, 
and,  from  that  superior  spheie,  shed  their  eternal  influ- 
ence i'uT  the  control  and  consolation  of  mankind.  But 
the  individual  will  gradually  disappeiras  theau'.hor  is 
more  dislinc'ly  seen  :  some  one,  thereP're,  of  all  those 
whom  the  charms  nf  involunlary  «il,  and  of  easy  hos 
pitaliiy,  attracted  within  Ihefiiendly  ciicles  of  Ci'ppet, 
should  rescue  from  oblivion  thuse  virtues  whicJi,  al- 
though Ihty  are  said  lo  love  the  shade,  are,  in  fici, 
more  fiequently  chilled  than  excited  by  ihe  domestic 
cares  of  private  life.  Some  one  should  be  found  to 
portray  Ihe  unaflecled  graces  wi;h  which  she  adorned 
those  dearer  relationships,  the  perforniancf;  of  whose 
duties  is  rather  discovered  amongst  Ihe  in  erior  secrets, 
than  seen  in  the  outward  management,  of  family  in- 
tercourse;  and  which,  indeed,  it  itquiies  llie  delicacy 
of  genuine  aUeclion  lo  qualify  for  the  eye  of  an  indif- 
ferent spectator.  Some  one  should  be  found,  not  lo 
celebrate,  but  to  describe,  the  amiable  mistress  of  an 
open  mansion,  the  centre  of  a  society,  ever  varied,  an  1 
always  pleased,  the  crejtor  of  which,  divested  of  the 
ambition  and  the  arts  of  public  rivalry,  shone  foith  only 
to  give  fresh  aninntion  lo  those  around  her.  The  mo- 
ther tenderly  attec  innate  and  tenderly  beloved,  Ihe 
friend  unboundedly  generous,  but  still  esteemed,  the 
chai  liable  patroness  of  all  distress,  cannot  be  forgo'ten 
by  those  w  hom  she  cherished,  and  protected,  and  fed. 
Her  loss  will  be  mourned  the  most  where  she  was 
known  the  best;  and,  lo  the  sorrows  of  very  many 
friends,  and  more  dependants,  may  be  otfered  the  dis- 
interested regie:  of  a  stranger,  who,  amidst  thesublimer 
scenes  of  the  Leman  lake,  received  his  chief  satisfac- 
tion from  contemplating  the  engaging  qualities  of  the 
incomparable  Corinna. 


No.  XV.—  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 
"  In  Sa7ita  Croceh  holy  prechuls  lie.'"—  Stanza  liv. 
This  name  will  recall  the  memory,  not  only  of  those 
whose  tombs  have  raised  the  Santa  Croce  into  the 
centre  of  pilgrimage,  Ihe  Mecca  of  Italy,  but  of  her 
whose  eloquence  was  prured  over  the  illvisirious  ashes, 
and  whose  voice  is  now  as  mu'e  as  those  she  sung. 
Corinna  is  no  more;  and  with  her  should  expire  the 
fear,  Ihe  flaltery,  and  the  envy,  which  threw  too 
dazzling  or  loo  dark  a  cloud  around  Ihe  march  of  ge- 
nius, and  foibad  the  steady  g,aze  of  disinterested  criti- 
cism. VVe  have  her  picture  embellished  or  distorted, 
as  friendship  or  detraction  has  held  the  pencil :  the  im- 
partial portrait  was  hardly  lo  be  expected  from  a  con- 
temporary. The  immediate  voice  of  her  survivors 
will.  It  is  probible,  be  far  from  atfirding  a  just  esti- 
mate of  her  singular  capacity.  The  gnllanlry,  the 
love  of  wonder,  and  the  hope  of  as-ociated  fame, 
which  blunted  the  edge  of  censue,  mus'  cea-e'o  exist. 
— The  dead  have  no  sex  ;  they  can  surprise  by  no  new 
miracles;  they  can  confer  no  privilege:  Corinna  has 
ceased  lo  be  a  woman— she  is  only  an  author:  and  it 
miy  be  foreseen  that  many  w  ill  repay  themselves  for 
former  complaisance,  by  a'severity  ;o  which  the  extra- 
vagance of  previous  praises  may  perhaps  give  Ihe  co- 
lour of  truth.  The  latest  posterity,  for  to  Ihe  litest 
posterity  they  will  assuredly  descend,  w  ill  have  to  pro- 

1  See  MoDim.  Ant.  Ined.  par.  i.  cop.  xvii.  n.  xlil.  pag. 
SO.;  and  Siuria  dull'  Arii,  tic.  lib.  xi.  cap.  i.  turn.  ii.  psg. 
314.  oot.  B. 

2  Nomina  gente«]ue  Antiqua  Italia,  p.  20).  edit.  oct. 


No.  XVL—  ALFIERL 

"  Here  repose 
Angela''!,  Mfieri's  bones."—  Stanza  liv, 
Alfieri  is  the  great  name  of  this  age.  The  Italians, 
without  waiting  for  Ihe  hundred  years,  consider  him 
as  "a  poet  good  in  law." — His  memory  is  the  more 
dear  lo  them  because  he  is  Ihe  baid  of  fieedom  ;  and 
because,  as  such,  his  tragedies  cm  receive  no  counte- 
nance f:om  any  f;f  their  sovereigns.  They  are  but 
very  seldi  in,  and  but  very  few  of  them,  allowed  to  be 
acted.  It  was  observed  by  Cicero,  that  nowhere  were 
the  true  opinions  and  feelings  of  the  Romans  so  cleaily 
shown  as  at  the  theatie.s  "In  the  autumn  of  1816,  a 
celebrated  improvisatore  exhibited  his  talents  at  the 
Open-house  of  Milan.  The  reading  of  the  theses 
handed  in  for  the  subjects  of  his  poetry  was  received 
by  a  very  numerous  audience,  for  the  most  part  in 
silence,  or  vvi'h  Inughter;  but  when  Ihe  assistant,  un- 
folding one  of  the  papers,  exclaimed,  Tfie  apotheosis 
of  Victor  Alfieri,  the  whole  theatre  burst  into  a  shout, 
and  Ihe  applause  was  continued  for  some  moments. 
The  lot  did  not  fall  on  AlHeri  ;  and  the  Signor  Sgricci 
had  lo  pour  forth  his  extemporary  commonplaces  on 
Ihe  bombirdineni  of  Algiers,     'ihe  choice,  indeed,  is 


3  The  free  exprei^sion  of  their  hrnest    sentiments  sur- 
viveil  their  libertiee.     Titius,  the  friend  iif  Aiitcny   pre- 
sented them  with  games  in  the  theatre  of  Pompey.  They 
did  ml  suffer  the  brilliamy  of  llie  spectarle  to  eflare  from 
ttieir  memory  Ihal  the  man  who  furnished  Ihem  with  Ihe 
eiilerlaiiimeiil    had    murdeied    the  son   of  Pompey :  they 
drove  him  fromttie  theatre  with  raises.  The  moral  sense 
of  a    populare,  spontaneously  expressed,  is  never  wrong. 
Even  the  soMiers  of  Ihe  triumvirs  joined  in  Ihe  execration 
of  the  citizens,  by  shouting  round  the  chariots  of  Lepidus 
and  PlancuK,  who  had  proscribed  their  bnilhers.  De  Ger»    . 
TO.iniJ  Tion  rfe  Oallis  duo  triumphant  Consules  ;  a  raying    | 
worth  a  record,  were  it  nolhiiig  but  a  good  pun.  [C.  Veil.     | 
Paterculi  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  Ixxix.  pag.  78.  edit.  ElteTlf.    [ 
1  1639.     Ibid.  lib.  ii.  cap.  Ixwii.]  j 


464 


APPENDIX  TO  CIllLDE   HAROLD, 


rot  left  to  accident  quite  so  much  as  mighl  be  thought 
from  a  first  view  <yf  ilie  ceremony  j  and  the  police  not 
only  takes  caie  lo  look  at  llie  pipers  befneliaiid,  but, 
in  case  if  any  pruden  ial  af  er-lhou»ht,  steps  in  lo  cor- 
rect t:.e  blii  dness  nf  chr.nce.  '1  he  pr  iposai  {i>r  deify- 
in;  Altieri  was  received  with  immediate  enthusiasm, 
the  laiher  because  it  w,is  conjectured  there  would  be 
£0  opportuuily  of  carrying  it  into  eti'ecl. 


No.  XVII.— MACHIAVELLI. 


The  affectation  of  simplici'y  in  sepulchral  inscrip- 
tions, which  so  often  leaves  us  uncertain  w he  her  the 
structure  befo  e  us  is  an  actual  depository,  or  a  ceno- 
taph, or  a  simple  uiemoiial  not  of  deiih  but  life,  has 
given  lo  the  tomb  of  Machiivelli  n  i  information  as  lo 
the  place  or  Ijnie  of  the  birih  or  death,  the  age  or  pa- 
rentage, of  the  histoiian. 

TANTO  NO.MINI  NVLLVM  PAR  FLOGIVM 

NICCOLAVS    MACHIAVELLI. 

There  seems  at  least  no  reason  why  the  name  should 

not  hive  been  put  above  Ihe  sentence  which  alludes 

toil. 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  Ihe  prejudice,  which 
have  pa>sed  the  name  of  M  chi.ivelli  into  :iii  epi  liel 
proverbial  of  in  quity  exist  no  loi.ger  at  Florence. 
His  memory  v\as  persecuted,  as  hi-  lite  hnd  been,  fir 
an  allachmeii!  lo  liberty  iiiconipaible  with  the  new- 
system  of  despotism  which  succeeded  Ihe  fill  of  the 
fiee  gove  nnient,  of  ll.ily.  He  w:is  put  lo  llie  torture 
for  being  a  "  libertine."  lh.it  is,  for  v\  ishing  to  restore 
Ihe  republic  of  Florence;  aDd  such  .ire  the  undying 
efforts  of  those  who  .ire  inteie^^ted  in  Ihe  perversion, 
no!  only  of  the  nature  of  aclion>,  but  the  meaning  of 
words,  that  »  hat  wa-  oi.ce  /jaltintism,  has  by  degiees 
come  to  signify  debauch.  We  hive  ourselves  o.. Hived 
the  old  meaning  of  ••  liberality, '  w  hich  is  iiOiv  an  Iher 
word  for  treisoii  in  one  counliy  a;  d  fir  infUuaiion  in 
all.  Il  seems  to  have  been  a  strange  mistake  lo  accuse 
the  author  of ''Ihe  Prince."  as  being  a  pander  lo 
tyranny  ;  and  lo  think  that  the  Inquisi  ion  would  con- 
demn his  work  for  such  a  dclii.qucncy.  The  fict  is, 
that  Michiuelli,  as  is  u^ual  with  those  against  whom 
no  crime  can  be  proved,  was  su  peeled  of  and  charged 
wilhalllei^m  ;  and  the  first  and  list  most  violent  op 
posers  of  "The  Prii.ce  '  were  boh  Jesuits,  o.ie  of 
whom  persuaded  the  Inquisition  "  bcnche  fise  lardi," 
to  prohibit  the  lreati:.e,  ,ind  Ihe  other  .jualified  Ihe 
secre:ary  of  Ihe  Florentine  lepublic  as  no  be  ter  han 
a  fool.  The  father  Possevin  w.is  proved  never  to  have 
read  the  book,  and  Ihe  filher  Lucchesini  not  to  have 
unders.ond  it.  II  is  clear,  however,  that  such  critics 
must  have  objected  not  lo  (he  slavery  of  the  doctrines, 
but  to  the  tU|.po.-ed  leiideiic>  of  a  le=snn  which  shows 
how  distinct  are  Ihe  inieresis  (fa  monirch  from  Ihe 
happiness  of  mankind.  The  Je  uits  a  e  re-es'abli.hed 
in  Italy,  and  the  last  chapter  of  -'The  Prince"  may 
again  call  forth  a  parlicniir  refutation  from  those  who 
are  employed  once  mort.  in  moulding  the  minds  of  the 
rising  generation,  so  as  to  leceive  Ihe  impres-ions  of 
despotism.  The  chapter  bears  for  title,  "  E^orlazione 
a  Iiberare  la  Italia  dai  Biibari,"  and  concludes  with  a 
libe>ti7ie  exci'emcnt  lo  the  future  redemption  of  Il.ily. 
"  Non  si  deve  adunque  lasciar  passare  questa  occa- 
sione,  acciocche  la  Italia  ve^ga  dopo  tanto  tempo  ap- 
parire  iin  s  .o  redentore.  Ne  possoesprimereconqual 
aniore  ei  fusse  ricevu  o  in  lute  quelle  provincie,  che 
hanno  patilo  per  qnesle  illiivioni  esleine,  cnnqual  sele 
di  vendetta,  con  che  ostinaia  fede,  con  che  Incrime. 
Quali  porle  so  li  serrerebei.o  .>  Quali  popoli  li  iieshe- 
rebbono  la  obbedienza  ?  Qiale  Italiano  li  negherebbe 
I'ossenuio?  ad  uguuno  puzza  queslo  barbaro  dotm- 
Mio."t 


No.  XVni.-  DANTE.  ] 

"  Ungrateful  Flm  tnce.  1  DarUt  .leeps  afar.' 
S  ania  Ivii. 
Dmte  was  born  in  Florence,  in  Ihe  year  I26I.  He 
fough'  in  two  batlles,  was  fouiteen  limes  anibassador, 
and  once  pri'r  of  the  republic.  When  the  paity  of 
Charles  of  Anjou  triumi  bed  over  Ihe  Bianchi,  he  was 
absent  on  an  embassy  to  Pope  Boniface  Vlii.,  and  was 
condemned  to  two  yeirs'  banishment,  and  lo  a  fine  of 
80v0  lire;  on  Ihe  iicn  pajuient  of  which  Lc  was  fur- 
ther punished  by  Ihe  tequestialion  of  all  his  property. 
The  lepubiie,  however,  was  no'  content  with  this  satis- 
faction, for  in  1772  was  discovered  in  the  archives  at 
Floience  a  sentence  in  which  Diiile  is  the  eleventh  of 
a  list  c  f  fifeeii  condemned  in  1302  lo  be  burnt  alive; 
Tahs  pervenieits  igne  curnLuratur  sic  quod  morialur. 
The  pretext  for  this  judgment  was  a  proof  of  unfair 
bariei,  ex  o  lions,  and  illicit  gains.  Barncterinrum 
tniquarum,  exlorsionum.  el  tUicitoriim  luavjuni,^ 
and  w  ilh  such  an  accusa  ion  it  is  not  ttrange  that  Dante 
shc'uld  have  always  protested  his  innocence,  and  the 
injustice  of  his  felloH-ci  izens.  His  appeal  lo  Flor- 
ence was  accompanied  by  another  lo  tlie  Emperor 
Henry  ;  and  Ihe  deah  of  thai  sovereign  in  1313  was 
the  signal  for  a  sentence  of  irrevocable  banishment. 
He  hid  before  lingered  near  Tucany  with  hopes  of 
lecall;  then  travelled  iiro  the  norlh'of  Italy,  where 

I  Verona  hid  to  boist  of  his  lonsest  residence  ;  and  he 

I  finally  se  tied  at  Ravenna  which  was  his  oidiniry  but 
not  conslai.t  abode  until  his  death.  The  refusal  of  the 
Venetians  to  grant  him  a  public  audience,  on  'he  pari 

'  of  Guido  Novello  da  Polenta,  his  protector,  is  said  lo 
have  Ijeeii  the  principal  cause  of  this  event,  which 
happened  in  1321.  He  was  buried  ('  in  sacra  miiio- 
rnm  sede")  at  Ravenna,  in  a  handsome  t.omb,  w  hich 
was  erected  by  Guido,  restored  by  Bernardo  Bembo  in 
1463,  piKlor  ibr  that  republic  which  had  refused  lo 
hear  liim,  again  res  ored  by  Cardinal  Corsi,  in  1692, 
and  replaced  bv  a  inoie  magnificent  sepulchre,  con- 
s'ruc'ed  in  1780  at  Ihe  expense  of  the  Cirdinal  Luigi 
Valenii  Gonzaga.  The  oljei  ce  or  misfoitune  of  Danle 
was  an  at  achment  to  a  defeated  parly,  and,  as  his 
least  favourable  biographers  allege  against  him,  too 
great  a  freedom  of  speech  and  haughtiness  of  manner. 

:  But  ;he  next  age  piid  honours  almost  divine  to  the 
e.xile.     The  Florentines,  havirg  in  vain  and  frequently 

i  iliemiited  lo  recover  his  body,  crowned  his  image  in  a 
church  3  and  his  picture  is  still  one  of  Ihe  idols  of  their 

!  cailiedral.  They  struck  medals,  they  raised  statues  lo 
him.  The  cities  of  1  aly,  not  being  able  to  dispute 
'bout  his  own  birth  co'ntended  for  that  of  his  great 
poem,  and  the  Florentines  thought  il  for  their  honour 
lo  prove  that  he  had  finished  Ihe  seventh  Canto  before 
they  drove  him  from  his  native  city.  Fifty-one  years 
after  his  death,  they  endowed  a  pi'ofessoriil  chair  for 
the  expounding  of  his  verses,  and  Boccaccio  was  ap- 
pointed to  this  patriotic  employment.  The  example 
was  imi'atcd  by  Bologna  and  Pisa,  and  the  commenta- 
tors, if  Ihev  perfirmed  but  little  service  to  literature, 
augmented  the  veneration  which  beheld  a  sacred  or 
nmral  allegory  in  all  Ihe  images  of  his  mystic  muse. 
His  birth  and  his  infancy  were  discovered  lo  hive  been 
distinguished  above  those  of  oidinary  men  :  the  au'hor 
'  f  the  Decameron,  his  earliest  biographer,  relates  that 
his  mother  w  is  warned  in  a  dream  of  the  importance 
of  her  pregnancy  :  and  it  was  found,  by  others,  that  at 
ten  years  of  age  he  had  manifested  his  precocious  pas- 
sion for  that  wisdom  or  theology,  which,  under  the 
name  of  Beatrice,  had  been  mistaken  for  a  substantial 
mistress.  When  Ihe  Divine  Comedy  had  been  recog- 
nised as  a  mere  mortal  production,  and  at  the  distancs 
of  two  centuries,  when  criticism  and  competilioD  hal 


Houssaye  e  1'  esame  e  confutazione  dell'  opera  .  .  .  Co«- 
mniioli,  1769. 

2Sloria  detlk  I.»tt.  Ttal.  torn.  v.  lib.  iii.  par.  1  p.  448. 
Tirnbiicchi  if<  iiirorrect ;  the  dates  o(  Die  tliree  decree* 
ngainat  Donle  are  A.  U.  ISO'i,  1314,  and  1316. 

3  Sn  relates  Firiiio,  but  nome  think  hix  coronaUoa  oaly 
an  allegory.     See  Slorio.&c.  ut  sup.  p.  4SS. 


[F=^-- 


APPENDIX  To  CHILDE  HAROLD. 


465  ' 


tobereil  the  judgment  of  the  Italians,  Dante  was  seri- 
ously declared  superior  to  Hnnier ;  i  and  Ihoush  the 
preference  appeared  to  some  casuists  "an  heretical 
blasphemy  wnrlhy  of  the  tianies."  the  conle*t  was 
vigorously  maintai'iied  for  neiily  tifty  years.  In  later 
times  it  was  made  a  question  which  of  the  Lotds  of 
Verona  could  boas!  of  having  patronised  him.'J  and  'he 
jealous  scepticism  of  one  writer  would  not  allow  Ra- 
venna the  ur}doub'ed  possession  of  his  bones.  Even 
the  critical  Tiraboschi  was  inclined  to  believe  that  the 
poet  had  foreseen  and  foretold  one  of  the  discoveries  of 
Galileo. —  L,ike  the  great  originals  of  other  nations,  his 
popularity  has  not  always  maintained  the  same  level. 
The  last  age  Seemed  inclined  to  undervalue  him  as  a 
model  and  a  s  udy :  and  Beltinelli  one  day  rebuked 
his  pupil  Monti,  for  poring  over  the  harsh  and  obso- 
lete extravagances  of  the  Cnmmedia.  The  present 
geireialion  having  lecovered  from  the  Gallic  idolatries 
of  Cesaroiti,  has  returned  to  the  ancient  worship,  and 
the  Danleggiare  of  the  northern  Italians  is  thought 
even  indiscreet  by  the  more  moderate  Tuscans. 

There  is  still  much  curious  information  relative  to 
the  life  and  writings  of  this  great  poet,  which  has  not 
as  yet  been  collected  even  by  the  Italians  ;  but  the 
celebrated  Ugo  Foscolo  ineditale-;  to  supply  this  defect, 
and  it  is  not  to  be  regre  ted  that  this  national  work  has 
been  reserved  for  ooe  so  devoted  to  his  country  and  the 
cause  of  truth. 


No.  XIX.  — TOMB  OF  THE  SCIPIOS. 

"  Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore; 
Thy  factions,  itt  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed,"  ^c. —  Stanza  Ivii. 
The  elder  Scipio  Africanu?  had  a  tomb  if  he  was  not 
buried  at  Liternum,  whiiher  he  had  re:ired  to  volun- 
tary banishment.     This  tomb  was  near  the  sea  shore, 
and  the  story  of  an  inscription  upon  it,  Ingrnta  Pa- 
tria,  havine  given  a  name  to  a  modern  tower,  is,  if  not 
true,  an  agree^.hle  fic'ion.    If  he  was  not  buried,  he 
certainly  lived  there.3 

lu  cnsl  antjiista  e  solitaria  villa 
Era  M  giand'  unmo  rhe  d'  Africa  s'  sppella 
Perclie  prima  col  ferro  al  vivo  aprilla.4 
Ingratitude  is  generally  supposed  the  vice  peculiar  to 
republics ;  and  it  seems  to  be  forgotten  that  for  one 
instance  of  popular  inconstancy,  we  have  a  hundred 
examples  of  the  fall  of  cour'ly  favourites.     Besides,  a 
people  have  often  repented  —  a  monarch  seldom   or 
1  ever.     Leaving  apart  many  fimiliir   proofs  of  this 
fact,  a  short  sloiy  mav  show  the  dffereuce  between 
even  an  arisocracy  and  the  multilude. 

Vettor  Pisaui,  having  been  defeated  in  1354  at  Por- 
tolongo,  and  many  years  afterwards  in  the  more  deci- 
sive action  of  Pola,  by  the  Genoese,  was  recalled  by 
the  Venetian  government,  and  thrown  into  chains. 
The  Avvogadori  proposed  to  behead  him,  but  the  su- 
preme tribunal  was  content  w  i  h  the  sen'ence  of  im- 
prisonment. Whilst  Pisani  was  suffering  this  unmer- 
I'ed  di.-grace,  Chioza,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  capital, 5 
was,  by  the  assistance  of  the  Signor  of  Padua,  deli- 
vered into  the  hands  of  Pieiro  Dt.ria.  At  the  intelli- 
gence of  that  disaster,  the  great  bell  of  St.  Mark's 
tower  tolled  to  arms,  and  the  people  and  the  soldiery 
of  the  galleys  were  summoned  to  the  repulse  of  the 
ipproaching  enemy ;  but  they  protested  they  w  ould 
not  move  step,  unless  Pisani  were  liberated  and 
!  placed  at  their  heid.  1  he  great  council  was  instantly 
I  assembled :  the  prisoner  was  called  befoie  them,  and 


1  By  Varclii,  in  his  Eroolano.    The 

in  jed  from  1670  lb  1616,  See  Sloria,  &c.  torn.  vii.  lib.  iii. 

lar.  iii.  p.  1280. 
!j      2  Gio.  Jacopo  Dionisi    Cannnico  di    Verona.     Se''e   di 
i  I  Aueddoti,  n.  2    See  Storia,  inc.  torn.  v.  lib.  i.  par.  i.  p.  24. 

II  8  Vitam  Literni  egit  sine  desiderio  urbic.  See  T.  Liv. 
I  Hist.  lib.  xxxviii.  Livy  reports  that  some  said  he  was 
buried  at  Liternum.  others  at  Rnme.     Ibid.  rap.  Iv, 

1  rionfo  della  Castita.         6  See  Note  VI.  page  458. 


|L 


the  Doge,  Andrea  Contarini,  informed  him  of  the  de- 
mands of  the  people  and  the  necessities  of  the  slate, 
whose  only  hope  of  safety  was  reposed  in  his  efforts, 
and  who  implored  him  !o  torgel  the  indignities  he  had 
enduied  in  her  service.  "  I  have  submitted,"  replied 
the  magnaniinous  republican,  "I  have  submitted  to 
your  deliberations  without  complaint;  1  have  sup- 
ported patiently  the  pains  of  imprisonment,  for  they 
were  inHicted  at  jour  command:  this  is  no  time  to 
inquire  whether  I  deserved  them  —  the  good  of  the 
republic  may  hive  seemed  to  requite  it,  and  that  which 
the  republic'  resolves  is  alw)\s  resolved  wisely.  Be 
hold  uie  ready  to  lay  down  my  life  for  the  preservation 
of  my  counliy."  I'isani  was  appoin'ed  generalissimo, 
and  by  his  exertions,  in  conjunction  with  those  of 
Carlo  Zeno,  the  Veneti.ins  so  m  recovered  the  ascend- 
ency over  their  maritime  rivals. 

1  he  Kalian  communities  were  no  less  unjust  to  their 
citizens  than  the  Greek  republics.  Liber.y,  both  with 
the  one  and  the  o:her,  seems  to  have  been  a  national, 
not  an  individual  object:  and,  notw  iihslauding  the 
boasted  equality  before  the  laws,  w  hich  an  ancient 
Greek  writers  considered  the  great  distinctive  mark 
between  his  countrymen  and  'he  baibarians,  the  mutual 
rights  of  fellow-citizens  seem  never  to  have  been  the 
principal  scope  of  the  old  democracies.  The  world 
may  have  not  yet  seen  an  essay  by  the  author  of  the 
Italian  Republics,  in  which  the  distinction  between  the 
liberty  of  former  sta'es,  and  the  signification  attached 
to  that  word  by  the  happier  constitution  of  England,  is 
ingeniously  developed.  The  Italians,  however,  when 
they  had  eeised  to  be  free,  still  looked  back  with  a 
sigh  upon  those  times  of  turbulence,  when  every  citi- 
zen might  rise  to  a  share  of  sovereign  power,  and  have 
never  been  taught  fully  to  appreciate  the  repose  of  a 
monarchy.  Sperone  Speroni,  when  Francis  Maria  II. 
Duke  ( f  Rove  e  proposed  the  question,  "  which  was 
preferable,  the  republic  or  the  principality  —  the  per- 
fect and  not  durable,  or  the  less  perfect  and  not  so  liable 
to  change,"  replied,  "  that  our  happiness  is  to  be  mea- 
suied  by  its  quality,  not  by  its  duration;  and  that  he 
preferred  to  live  for  one  day  like  a  man,  than  for  a 
hundred  years  like  a  brute,  a  stock,  or  a  stone."  This 
was  thought,  and  oiled,  a  magnificent  answer,  down 
to  the  last  days  of  Italian  servitude." 


No.  XX.-PETRARCirS  CROWN. 
^' And  the  crown 
Which  Petrarch's  laureate  broiu  supremely  wore 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown.'' 

Stanza  Ivii. 
The  Florentines  did  not  take  the  opporluni'y  of  Pe- 
trarch's short  visit  to  their  city  in  1330  to  revoke  the 
decree  which   confiscated  the  properly  of  his  father, 
who   had   been   banished  shortly   after  the   exile  of 
Dante.     His  crown  did  not  dazzle  them  ;  but  when  in 
the  next  year  they  were  in  want  of  his  assistance  in 
the  formation  of  their  university,  they  repented  of  their 
injustice,  and  Bocc  ccin  was  sent  to  Padua  to  entreat 
the  laureate  to  conclude  his  wanderings  in  the  bosom 
of  his  native  country,  where  he  might  finish  his  im- 
mortal  Africa,  and   enjoy,  with  his   recrvered  pos-   , 
sessions,  the  es  eem  of  all  classes  of  his  fellow-citizens.    1 
They  save  him  the  option  of  the  hoi  k  and  the  science  1 1 
he  might  condescend  to  expound  :  they  called  him  the    | 
glory  of  his  country,  who  was  dear,  and  who  would 
be  dearer  to  them  ;'and  they  added,  that  if  there  was    | 
any  thing  unpleasing  in  their  letter,  he  ought  to  return    i 
amongst   them,  were   it   only  to  correct  their  style.8 


6  The  Greek  boasted  that  he  was  Icrovfl/tos.  See  the 
last  chapter  of  the  first  book  of  Dinnysiusof  HaliiarnaB»us. 

1  •' E  intorno  alia  magnifica  rispoita,"  &c.  Serassi, 
Vila  del  Tasso,  lib.  iii.  pag.  149.  torn.  ii.  edit.  £..  Bergamo. 

8  '•  Accinpiti  innnlire,  se  ci  e  lecito  ancnr  1'  esortarii,  ■ 
compile  I'  immortal  tua  Africa  .  .  .  Se  ti  avviene  d'  in- 
tontrare  nel  nostro  stile  cosa  che  ti  dispiaccia,  rio  debb' 
esBere  un  altro  motivn  ad  esandire  i  desijerj  della  lua  fi- 
tria. "    Storia  della  Lett.  Ital.  torn.  v.  par.i.  lib.  i.  pa|.  78. 


30 


466 


APPENDIX  TO  CIIILDE   HAROLD. 


Petrarch  seemed  at  first  to  listen  to  the  fla'tery  and  to 
the  entrealies  of  his  friend,  but  he  did  not  return  to 
Florence,  and  preferred  ■\  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of 
Laura  and  the  shades  of  Vaucluse. 


No.  XXI.  — BOCCACCIO.  | 

"  Boccaccio  to  his  parent  eart/t  bequealh'd 
H'Sdust." — Stanza  Iviii.  | 

Boccaccio  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael 
and  S:.  James,  at  Certaldo,  a  small  town  in  tlie  Val- 
delsa,  which  was  by  some  supposed  the  place  oi  his 
birth.  There  he  passed  the  latier  pari  of  his  life  in  a 
course  of  laborious  study,  which  shortened  his  exis- 
tence ;  and  there  might  his  ashes  have  been  secure,  if 
not  of  honour,  at  least  iif  repose.  But  the  '•  hyena 
bigots"  of  Certaldo  tore  up  the  lonjbstone  of  Bocc.iccio, 
and  ejected  it  from  the  holy  precincts  of  St.  Michael 
and  St.  James.  The  occasKin,  and,  ii  may  be  hoped, 
the  excuse,  of  this  ejectment  was  the  making  of  a  new 
floor  for  the  church;  but  the  fact  is,  that  the  tomb- 
stone  WIS  taken  up  and  thrown  aside  at  the  bottom  of 
the  building.  Ignorance  may  share  ihe  sin  with  big- 
otry. 11  would  be  piiufui  to  relate  such  an  exception 
to  Ihe  devotion  of  the  Italians  for  their  great  names, 
could  it  not  be  acconipanied  by  a  trait  more  honourably 
conformable  tn  the  general  character  of  the  nation. 
The  principal  jierson  of  the  district,  the  last  branch  of 
the  house  of  Medicis,  aflbrded  that  proiection  to  the 
memory  of  the  insulted  dead  which  her  best  ancestors 
had  dispensed  upon  all  con  eniporary  merit.  The 
Marchioness  Lenzoni  rescued  Ihe  tombstone  of  Boc- 
caccio from  Ihe  neglect  in  which  it  had  some  lime 
lain,  and  found  for  it  an  honou'atle  elevation  in  her 
own  mansion.  She  has  done  more :  the  house  in 
which  the  poet  lived  has  been  as  liltle  respected  as 
his  tomb,  and  is  falling  to  ruin  over  the  head  of  one 
indifferent  to  the  name  of  its  former  tenant.  It  con- 
sists ot  two  or  three  liltle  chambers,  and  a  low  tower, 
on  which  Cosn)0  II.  affixed  an  inscription.  This 
house  she  has  taken  measures  to  pui chase,  and  pro- 
poses to  devote  to  it  thit  care  and  consideration  which 
are  attached  to  the  cradle  and  to  the  roof  of  genius. 

This  is  not  Ihe  place  to  undertake  Ihe  defence  of 
Bocc.ccio;  bui  the  man  who  exhausted  his  little  pUri- 
moiiy  in  the  acquirement  of  learning,  who  was  amongst 
the  first,  if  not  ihe  first,  to  allure  ihe  science  and  Ihe 
poetry  of  Greece  In  the  bosom  of  Iialy  ;  —  "ho  not 
only  invented  a  new  style,  but  founded,  or  certainly 
fixed,  a  new  language ;  who,  besides  the  esteem  of 
every  polite  court  of  Europe,  »as  tiinught  worthy  of 
employment  by  Ihe  predomin  ml  republic  of  his  own 
country,  and,  what  is  more,  of  Ihe  friendship  of  Pe- 
trarch, who  lived  Ihe  life  of  a  philosopher  and  a  free- 
man, and  who  died  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge, — 
such  a  man  might  have  found  more  consideration  than 
he  has  met  wiih  from  the  priest  of  Certaldo,  and  fiom 
a  b'e  English  traveller,  who  strikes  oti  his  portrait  as 
a",  odious,  contemptible,  licentious  writer,  whose  im- 
fiure  remains  should  be  suffered  to  rot  without  a  re- 
cord.i  Thil  English  traveller,  unforiiinately  f.ir  those 
who  have  to  deplore  Ihe  loss  of  a  very  amiable  person, 
is  beyond  all  criticism;  but  the  mortality  which  did 

1  Classical  Tour,  .hap.  ix.  vol.  ii,  p.  355.  edit.  SU.  "Of 
Boccaci-io.  the  nindfrii  Pclroiiius,  we  say  nothing;  the 
abuse  of  genius  is  more  odious  and  more  i  oiilemplible  than 
il8  ab'^ence  ;  and  it  imports  liltle  where  ihe  impure  re- 
mains of  a  licentious  a'lthor  are  conHigiied  to  llieir  kin- 
dred dust.  For  tlie  srime  restion  the  tiaveller  may  pass 
unnotiied  the  tr.mb  of  the  malignant  Aretino. "  This 
dubious  phrase  is  hardly  enoush  to  save  the  tourist  from 
the  suBpifion  of  another  bluiid-r  respecting  Ihe  borial- 
place  of  Aretioe,  whose  tomb  was  in  the  church  i;f  SI. 
Luke  at  Venice,  and  gave  rise  to  Ihe  famous  ci'ntroversy 
of  which  some  notice  is  taken  in  Bayte.  Now  the  words 
of  Mr.  Eustace  would  lead  us  to  think  the  tomb  was  at 
Florence,  or  at  least  was  to  be  somewhere  recognised. 
Whether  the  inscription  so  much  disputed  was  ever  wril- 
(ec  on  the  tomb  cannot  now  be  decided,  for  alt  memorial  I 
o(  this  author  has  disappeared  from  the  church  of  St.  Luke.  | 


not  protect  Boccaccio  from  Mr.  Eustace,  must  net  do* 
fend  Mr.  Eu-tice  from  the  impariial  judgment  of  his 
successors.  Djiih  may  cinoiiise  his  virtues,  not  his 
errors;  and  it  may  be  modestly  pronounced  that  he 
transgressed,  not  only  as  an  aushor,  but  as  a  man,  when 
he  evoked  the  shade  of  Boccaccio  in  compmy  with 
that  of  Areiiiie,  amidst  the  sepulchres  of  S.tula  Croce, 
merely  to  dismiss  it  with  indignity.  As  far  as  respecis 
'•  11  flagello  de'  Principi, 
II  divio  Pietro  Aielino," 

it  is  rf  lit  le  import  what  censure  is  pnsjed  upon  a 
coxcomb  who  owes  his  pre  ent  exiilence  to  Ihe  above 
burlesque  character  given  to  hint  by  Ihe  poet,  whose 
amber  has  presened  many  other  grub-i  and  worms: 
but  to  classify  Boccaccio  » ilh  such  a  person,  and  to 
excommuiiicaie  his  very  ashes,  must  of  itself  make  us 
doubt  of  the  qualification  of  Ihe  classical  tourist  f(>r 
wriiing  upon  Italian,  or,  indeed,  upon  any  other  lite 
ralure  ;  for  ignorance  on  one  point  may  incapacitate 
an  auihor  merely  for  that  particular  topic,  but  subjec- 
tion to  a  professional  prejudice  must  render  him  an 
unsafe  dircc'or  on  all  occasions.  Any  perversion  and 
inju-tice  may  be  made  whit  is  vulgarly  called  "a  case 
of  conscience,"  and  this  poor  excuse  is  all  that  can  be 
offered  for  Ihe  priest  of  Certaldo,  or  the  author  of  the 
Classical  Tour.  11  would  have  answered  Ihe  purpose 
to  confine  the  censure  to  the  novels  of  Boccaccio  ;  and 
gratiiude  to  that  souice  which  supplied  the  muse  of 
Uryden  with  her  last  and  most  harmonious  numbers 
might,  perhaps,  have  resiricted  that  censuie  to  ihe  ob- 
jeciioii.ible  quilities  of  ihe  hundred  tales.  Ai  any  rate 
ihe  repentance  of  Boccaccio  might  have  arrested  his 
exhumation,  and  it  should  have  been  recollected  and 
told,  that  in  his  old  age  he  wrote  a  letter  entreating  his 
friend  to  discourage  the  reading  of  Ihe  Decameron,  for 
Ihe  sake  of  modesly,  and  for  Ihe  sake  of  Ihe  author, 
who  would  not  have  an  apologist  always  at  hand  to 
stale  in  his  excuse  that  he  wrote  it  when  young,  and 
at  Ihe  c  nimand  of  his  superiors  2  It  is  iieilher  Ihe 
licentiousness  of  the  writer,  nor  Ihe  evil  propensities 
of  the  reader,  which  have  given  to  Ihe  Decnieron 
alone,  of  all  Ihe  works  of  Boccaccio,  a  perpetual  popu- 
larity. The  establishment  of  a  new  and  delightful  dia- 
lect conferred  an  immortality  on  the  works  in  which 
il  was  hist  fixed.  The  sonnets  of  Petrarch  were,  for 
the  same  reason,  fated  to  survive  his  self-.idmired  Africa, 
the  "  favourite  of  kings."  The  invariable  trails  of  na- 
ture and  feeling  with  which  the  novels,  as  well  as  Ihe 
verses,  abound,  have  doubtle  s  l.een  the  chief  source  of 
the  foreign  celebri'y  of  both  authors;  bu:  Boccaccio, 
as  a  man,  is  no  more  to  be  estimated  by  thit  work,  than 
Petrarch  is  to  be  regirded  in  no  other  light  than  as  the 
lover  of  L'ura.  Even,  however,  had  Ihe  father  of 
Ihe  Tuscan  prose  been  known  only  as  the  auth -r  of 
Ihe  Decimeron,  a  coi.siderate  writer  would  have  been 
caut  ous  to  pronounce  a  sentence  ineconcilable  with 
the  unerring  voice  of  many  ages  and  nations.  An 
irrevocable  value  has  never  been  stamped  ujion  any 
work  solely  recommended  by  impurity. 

The  true  source  of  ihe  outcry  against  Boccaccio, 
w  hich  began  at  a  veiy  early  period,  was  Ihe  choice  of 
his  scand  ilous  person;)  ges  in  Ihe  cloisters  as  well  as  Ihe 
courts  ;  but  Ihe  princes  only  laughed  at  the  gallant  ad- 
i  ven'ures  so  unjus'Iy  charged  upon  queen  Theodelinda, 
i  «  hilst  Ihe  priesthood  cried  shame  upon  Ihe  debauches 
drawn  from  Ihe  convent  and  the  hermi'age  ;  and  most 
probably  for  Ihe  opposite  reason,  namely,  thai  Ihe  jiic- 
ture  was  faithful  to  Ihe  life.  Two  of  the  novels  are 
allowed  to  be  ficts  u>efully  luri.ed  into  tales  to  deride 
thp  ranonisilion  of  rogues'and  laymen.  Ser  Ci  'ppel- 
letto  and  MarcellinusTire  cited  with  applause  even  by 
Ihe  decent  Mnra  ori.3  The  great  Arnaud,  as  he  is 
quoted   in   Bayle,  states,  that  "a   new  edition   of  Ihe 


2"Non  enim  ubique  est,  qui  in  excusationem  mcam 
onsurgei.s  dii  at.  juvenis  scripsit,  et  majnris  coaclus  im- 
erio."  The  letter  was  nddiessed  to  Maghiuard  rf  Caval 
ami,  marshal  of  the  kingdom  of  Sicily.  See  Titabcscbi, 
tioria.  kScc.  torn.  v.  par.  il.  lib.  iii. 

i  snpra  le  Aoticbita  Ilaliue,  DIM   IviU. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE   HAROLD. 


467 


novels  wnv.  proposed,  of  ^^hich  the  expurgvion  con- 
sisted in  (iniiii  iig  llie  words  "  iiioiib"  and  "  nun,  '  and 
tacking  ilie  imnioriliiies  tool  her  name-.  The  lite- ary 
history  of  ll.ily  particulap«es  no  such  edilion  ;  but  it 
was  not  long  before  (he  whole  of  Europe  had  but  one 
opinion  "f  Ihc  Decmieron  ;  and  the  abst  luiion  of  ihe 
author  seems  to  have  been  a  point  s5t:led  at  least  a  hwn- 
d  ed  yejrs  ago  :  "  On  se  feioii  sillier  >i  I'on  pretendoil 
convaincte  Boccace  de  n'avoir  pase  e  honiieie  h»mnie, 
puis  qu'il  a  fait  le  Decameron  ''  So  said  one  of  the 
best  men,  and  perhaps  the  best  critic,  that  ever  lived — 
tiie  very  nmr'yr  to  impaiti  ility.t  But  as  Ibis  informa- 
tion, that  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century  one 
would  have  been  hooted  at  for  pie  ending  that  Bciccac- 
cio  was  not  a  good  man,  m  »y  >eem  to  coiiiC  from  one 
of  those  enemies  who  are  to  be  suspec  ed,  even  when 
they  make  us  a  pre-ent  of  truth,  a  more  accep  able 
ciintia*!  with  the  proscription  <  f  the  bf>dy,  soul,  and 
muse  of  B"ccacci  >  may  be  found  In  a  few  words  frnni 
the  virtuous,  tlie  patrlo  ic  coniemporary,  who  thought 
one  if  Ihe  tales  of  this  impure  writer  worthy  a  Litin 
ve  sion  from  his  own  pen".  "I  have  lemarked  else- 
where," -says  Pelrirch,  wiiiingtoB  ccccio,  "that  the 
book  itself  has  t)een  worried  by  certain  dogs,  but 
stoutly  defended  by  your  staff  and  voice.  Nor  was  I 
astonished,  f  r  I  have  had  proof  of  Ihe  vigour  of  your 
mind,  and  I  know  you  have  f'llen  on  that  unaccom 
modating  incapable  race  of  mortals,  who,  wliaiever 
ihey  either  like  not,  or  know  no',  or  cannot  do,  are 
sure  to  rep  ehend  in  others;  and  on  those  occasion^ 
only  put  oil  a  show  of  learning  and  eloquence,  but 
otherwise  aie  entirety  dumb."  2 

It  is  siti-factory  lo  find  hat  all  the  priesthood  do  not 
resemble  those  of  Cerlaldo,  and  that  one  of  them  who 
did  not  possess  the  bones  of  Boccaccio  uould  not  loe 
the  opporluni'y  of  iai<ing  a  cesioMph  to  his  memory. 
Bevius.  canon  (.[  Padua,  at  the  beginning  of  the  six- 
teenh  century,  erec  ed  at  Arqna,  opposi'e  to  the  tomb 
of  the  Laureite,  a  tablet,  in  which  he  associated  B'lC- 
caccio  t.i  Ibe  equal  honours  of  D.inte  and  of  Petrarch. 


No.  XXII.- THE  iMEDICI. 

"  IVhat  is  Iter  pyramid  of  precious  stones .?" 
Stanza  Iz. 
Our  venera'ion  for  the  Medici  begins  with  Cosmo 
and  expires  wi.h  his  grandson  ;  that  stream  is  pure 
only  at  the  source;  and  it  is  in  search  of  some  memo- 
rial of  the  viriuous  republicans  of  the  f 'Oiily  that  »e 
visit  Ihe  church  of  St.  Lorenzo  at  Florence.  The 
tawdry,  glaring,  unhuisbed  chipel  in  that  church,  de- 
signed for  the  mausoleum  of  Ihe  Dukes  of  Tuscany, 
(•et  roiind  wi.h  crowns  and  coffins,  gives  bir:h  to  no 
emoiions  but  those  of  contempt  for  the  lavish  vani  y 
of  a  race  i>f  de-po.s,  whilst  the  pavement  slab,  simply 
inscribed  lo  the  Falbei  of  his  Country,  lecoucilcs  us 
10  Ihe  name  of  Medici. 3  It  was  very'  natural  for  Co- 
rinna<  to  supfmse  iha'  the  statue  rai  ed  lo  the  Duke  of 
Urbino  In  the  captlta  cW  dc/  Oiili  was  intended  for  his  { 
great  n.me-ake;  l.ut  the  magiificent  Loitnzo  is  only 
Ihe  shaier  of  a  c  ffin  half  hidden  in  a  niche  of  the 
sacris  y.  The  ilecay  of  Tu>cany  dales  from  the  sove- 
reign'y  of  ihe  Medici.  Of  the  sepnlcbr  I  peice  which 
succeeded  to  the  establishment  of  ihe  reigning  fimilies 
in  Italy,  our  oh  n  Sidi.ey  Ins  given  us  a  glowing,  but  a 
fai  t'ful  picture.  "  Notwiihstindii  g  all  the  seditions 
of  Florence,  and  other  cities  of  Tuscuiy,  the  horrid 
factions  of  Guelphs  nd  Ghibelins,  Neri  and  Bianchi, 
nobles  and  cnninioi.s,  they  con  mued  populou-^,  strong, 
and  exceeding  rich  ;  Im:  in  Ihe  -p  ce  of  less  than  a 
hundre'l  ajid  fif  y  years,  lie  peaceable  reign  of  the 
Medices  is  thought  lo  have  de5iioyed  ni^  e  part-  in  leii 
of  the  people  of  that  pmvince.    Amingsl  oilier  things. 


it  is  remarkable,  that  «  hen  Philip  II.  of  Spain  gave 
Sienna  to  the  Duke  of  Florence,  his  ambassador  then 
at  Rome  sent  him  woid,  that  be  had  given  awav  more 
hail  650  OOO  subjects;  and  it  is  not  believed  there  are 
now  iO.OCO  ;Oub  inhabiting  Ihit  cil>  a;  d  :e.ritory. 
Pisa,  Pi^toia.  Aitzzo,  Corioiia,  and  other  tnwi.s,  that 
were  then  good  and  populous,  are  in  the  like  propor- 
tion diminished,  and  Florence  more  than  niiy.  When 
that  city  h  d  been  long  lioubled  with  seditions,  tu- 
mults, aid  wars,  for  the  most  pit  unprosperous,  Ihey 
sill  leained  such  sireng  h,  ilial  when  Chailes  VIII.  of 
France,  being  admitted  as  a  friend  with  his  whole 
army,  which  soon  alter  coi  quered  the  kingdom  of 
Naples,  th:'Ught  lo  master  them,  the  people,  taking 
arms,  struck  such  a  tenor  into  him,  that  he  was  glad 
lo  depart  upon  such  coi.diliuns  as  they  thought  fi  to 
impose.  M  ichiavel  reports,  that  in  that  time'Fl  irence 
alone,  with  ihe  Val  d'Arno.  a  small  territory  belonging 
lo  that  city,  c  uld,  in  a  few  houis,  by  the  sound  of  a 
bel  ,  bring  together  I3j,000  well-aimed  men  ;  whereas 
now  that  city,  with  ^'11  the  others  in  that  province,  are 
brought  lo  such  de  picable  weakness,  emptiness,  po- 
verty, and  bareness,  that  they  can  i.eilher  resist  the  op- 
pressions cf  their  own  prince,  nor  defend  him  or 
themselves  if  Ihey  were  as-  ulled  by  a  foreign  enemy. 
The  people  aie  dispersed  or  destroyed,  and  the  best 
families  sent  to  seek  habilalioiis  in  Venice,  Genoa, 
Rome,  N  ip'es,  and  Lucca.  This  is  not  Ihe  elject  of 
war  or  pestilence :  Ihey  enjoy  a  perfect  pe  ce.  and  suf- 
fer no  other  plague  than  Ihe  gcvernment  they  are  un- 
der.''s  Fiom  Ihe  u-urper  Cosmo  down  to  the  inibe- 
cile  Gaston,  we  look  in  vain  for  any  of  those  unmixed 
qu  ililles  which  should  raise  a  pariot  lo  the  command 
of  his  fellow-citizens.  The  Grand  Dukes,  and  par- 
ticularly the  third  Cosmo,  had  operated  so  entire  a 
change  in  lhe'lusc.<n  character,  th  t  the  candid  Flo- 
rentines, in  excuse  for  some  impel  lections  in  the  phi- 
lanthropic system  of  Le  pold,  are  obliged  lo  confess 
that  'he  sovereign  was  Ihe  only  liberal  man  in  his  do- 
minions. Vet  Ihal  excellent'  prince  himself  had  no 
other  notion  of  a  national  assembly,  than  of  a  body  to 
represent  the  wants  and  wishes,  not  the  will,  of  tbe 
people. 


1  Eelaircissemfnl,  Ac.  &.-.  p.  63?.  edit.  B*ile,  1741. 
thr  Siipp  einrul  to  Baylr'a  Diclioiiary. 
aOpp.  torn.  i.  p.  640.  edit.  Basil. 
3  C'nemus  Mediceu,  Decreto  Publico,  Pater  Patriae. 
4CurinDe,  liT.  xviii.  ihap.  iii.  vol.  iii.  page  2)8. 


No.  XXIII.— BATTLE  OF  THRASIMENE. 
"A}\  earthquake  rtel'd  unhecdedly  away." 

Stanza  Iziii. 

"And  such  was  their  mutual  aninvsi'y,  so  intent 
were  they  upon  the  battle,  that  the  eaiihquake,  which 
overthrew  in  gieat  pirt  many  of  Ihe  cities  of  I'aly, 
which  turned  he  course  of  rapid  streams,  (oured  back 
Ihe  sea  upon  Ihe  rivers,  and  tore  down  the  very  moun- 
tains, was  not  felt  by  one  of  the  combitants.'"  6  Such 
is  the  desciipiion  nf  Livv.  It  may  be  d'Ubted  whe- 
ther modern  tacics  would  admit  of  such  an  abstiaclion. 

Tbe  site  ff  Hie  butle  of  Thrasimei  e  is  not  lo  be 
mistaken  The  travel  er  fr  m  'he  village  under  Cor- 
lona  lo  Casa  di  Piano,  the  next  stage  on  the  way  to 
Rome  has  for  the  first  wo  i.r  three  miles,  around  him, 
but  more  particularly  to  the  right,  ibat  flat  |a,  d  u  hich 
Hannibal  laid  waste  in  order  lo  ii  duce  tltcCni'Sul  Fla- 
minius  to  move  fioni  Arezzi^.  On  his  left,  :ind  in  front 
of  him,  is  a  ridge  of  hills  bending  dnw  n  lowaids  the 
lake  of  Thra^iniene,  cilled  by  Livy  •' monies  Corto- 
nenses,"aiid  now  named  the  Gualai  dra.  Thee  hills 
he  approaches  at  OsS.ija,a  village  which  Ihe  itineiaries 
pretend  lo  have  been  so  denominated  from  the  bones 
found  there:  but  Ihere  have  been  lo  bones  found 
there,  and  the  battle  was  f 'Ugh'  on  the  othe  side  of 
the  hill.  From  Oss.aja  tie  road  begins  to  rise  a  litlle, 
but  dies  not  pass  into  tbe  roots  of  the  mountains  until 
Ihe  six'\ -.seventh  mile-s'oiie  fioni  Floresice.  The  as- 
cent thence  is  not  seep  but  perpetual,  and  c  mtinues 
I  for  twenty  minutes.     The  lake  is  soon  seen  below  on 

I      5  Oo  Onvernmrnt,  rhap.  ii.  tect.  xxvi.  pae-  SOS.  edit. 
1731.     Siilury  ic,  toeeiher  with  Uxke  and  HaotUey,  ooa 
j  of  Mr.  Hume'd  **de«picablt 
I      6  Tit.  Liv.  lib.  xxii.  cap. 


1 


468 


APPENDIX   TO  CHILDE   HAROLD. 


the  right,  with  Borgheflo,  a  round  tower,  close  upon 
the  water:  and  the  undula'ins  iiilh  partially  covered 
with  Wind,  ainoii<;st  winch  itie  ro;id  winds,  sink  by 
de^iees  inio  the  marshes  near  to  this  tower.  Lower 
than  the  load.  down  lo  the  right  amidst  Ihe^e  uoudy 
hilh>ck>,  Hannibal  placed  his  horse,'  in  ihe  jaws  rf, 
or  rather  above  the  piss,  which  was  between  the  1  ike 
and  Ihe  present  road,  and  most  probably  clo-e  to  Bor- 
ghe^tn,  just  under  Ihe  loivesi  of  Ihe  "  tumuli.'' "2  On 
a  sumnii'  to  Ihe  left,  r.bove  the  road,  is  an  old  ciiCuUr 
ruin,  which  the  peasants  call  "  the  tower  of  Hannibal 
the  Carlhasinian."  Arrived  at  Ihe  hishesi  point  of 
the  road,  the  traveller  h.as  a  partial  view  of  the  fatal 
I  plain,  ««hich  opens  fully  upon  him  as  he  descends  Ihe 
Gualaiidr.i.  He  soon  finds  himself  in  a  vale  enclosed 
to  Ihe  left,  and  in  fioni,  and  behind  him  by  'heGua- 
landi^  hills,  bending  round  in  a  segment  larger  than  a 
semiciicle,  and  running  down  at  e^ich  end  lo  Ihe  lake, 
which  f  cliques  lo  ihe  r1»til  and  forms  Ihe  chord  of  this 
mounltin  arc.  The  position  cannoi  be  guessed  at  from 
the  plains  of  Corlona,  nor  appears  lo  be  so  comple'ely 
enclosed  unless  to  one  who  is  f:iirly  within  Ihe  hills. 
It  then,  indeed,  appears  "  a  place  made  as  it  \\  ere  on 
purpose  for  a  snare,"  locus  iiisidiis  natus.  "  Bor- 
ghello  is  then  found  lo  stand  in  a  narrow  maishy  piss 
close  lo  Ihe  hill,  and  to  the  lake,  whilst  theie  is  no 
other  out'el  at  the  opposi'e  turn  of  the  mountains  than 
through  Ihe  little  town  of  Passignano,  which  is  pushed 
into  Ihe  water  by  the  fool  of  a'high  rocky  acclivity." 
There  is  a  woody  eminence  bnnching  down  from  the 
mouri'ains  in'o  ihe  upi>er  end  of  ihe  plain  nearer  lo 
the  side  of  Passignano,  and  on  this  stands  a  white  vil- 
l.ige  C'lled  Tone  Poljbius  seems  to  allude  to  this 
eminence  as  the  one  on  which  Hannibal  encamped, 
and  drew  oui  his  heavy-armed  Africans  and  Spania  ds 
in  a  conspicuous  posiiion.ii  From  this  spot  he  de- 
upairb^i  his  Balearic  and  light-armed  troops  round 
lhrO!>;;h  IheGualandra  heights  lo  Ihe  right,  so  as  to 
arrive  onseen  and  foi  ni  an  ambush  among  t  Ihe  broken 
accliyilies  which  the  roid  now  passes,  and  to  be  ready 
to  Hc!  upon  the  left  Hank  and  abnve  Ihe  enemy,  whilst 
the  horse  shut  up  the  piss  behind.  Flaminius  came  to 
the  lake  near  BoTghel'io  at  sunset  ;  and,  without  send- 
ing any  spies  before  him.  m.irched  through  the  piss 
the  next  morning  before  the  day  had  qiilte  broken,  so 
thit  he  peiceived  nothing  of  the  horse  and  iisht  iroops 
above  and  about  him,  and  saw  only  Ihe  heavy-armed 
Cariha:inians  in  fioiil  on  Ihe  hill  of  Torre.  The  con- 
sul began  to  dnw  out  his  irmy  in  the  lial.  and  in  ihe 
mean  lime  the  horse  in  ambush  occupied  the  jiass  be- 
hind him  at  Boghello.  Thus  the  Romans  were  com- 
pletely enclned,  having  U.e  lake  (.n  Ihe  ri»hl,  the 
main  armv  on  ihe  hill  of  Torre  in  front,  Ihe  Gi.alan- 
dra  hills  h'lled  with  the  light-armed  - >n  their  left  Hank, ! 
and  being  prevented  fiom  receding  by  Ihe  civalr)', 
who,  the  farther  they  advanced,  slopped  up  all  he 
ouileis  in  the  leir.  A  fog  rising  from  the  lake  now 
spreid  itself  over  Ihe  army  of  the  consul,  but  ihe  hish 
linds  were  in  the  soiisliine,  and  all  the  diilerent  corps 
in  ambiish  looked  toward  Ihe  hill  of  Torre  for  the 
order  of  ailack.  Han  ibal  jive  'he  signal,  and  moved 
down  f'oiii  his  post  on  Ihe  heislit.  Al  the  same  mo- 
ment all  his  'ronps  on  Ihe  eminences  behind  and  in 
the  Hank  of  Fl.iniiiius  rushed  forwards  as  it  were 
with  ore  accord  into  the  plain.  The  Romans,  «  ho 
were  frrming  llieir  army  in  ihe  niisl.  suddenly  heard 
Ihe  sl.ouls  of  ihe  enemy  anioigs'  them,  on  every  side, 
and  hef 're  Ihey  could  fall  iiilo  Iheir  ranks,  or' draw 
their  s\\nrds,  or  see  by  whom  Ihey  were  attacked,  fell 
a'  once  Ihal  ihey  «  ere  surrounded'  and  lost. 

There  are  iwn  linle  rivule's  which  run  from  the 
Gualai.dra  into  Ihe  lake.  The  tra\eller  crosses  Ihe 
first  of  hese  at  abou!  •  mile  afler  he  conies  inio  ihe 
plain,  and  this  divides  the  Tuscan  from  the  Papal  ler- 

1  Til.  Liv.  lib.  xxii.  cap.  iv.  2  Ibid. 

S  Hisl.  lib.  iri.  rap.  bS.  The  a.vouDt  iu  I'olybius  is  not 
•o  ear>ilv  reroucilalili-  with  prt-.4ciit  api-varsarfu  as  ihal  in 
Li»y;  he  lalka  of  hilli.  lo  Iht  right  and  It-fi  of  Ihe  pass 
aud  valley  ;  but  wheu  Flarainiua  eoleied  lie  had  Ihe  lake 
at  the  right  of  both. 


rilories.     The  second,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  fur- 
ther on,  is  called  '•  Ihe  bloody  rivulet ;"  and  Ihe  peas- 
ants pr<iiii  out  an  open  spot'  lo  Ihe  lefi  between  the 
'•  >anguinelto"  and  the  hills,  which,  Ihey  say,  was  Ihe  I 
principal  scene  of  slaughter.     The  other  pirt  of  the 
plain    is   coveied    wi'h    thick-set   oli\e-'rees   in   corn  | 
grounds,  and  is  nowhere  quite  level  except  near  the  i 
ed'e  of  the  lake.     It  is,  indeed,  most  probable  iha'  the  ! 
battle  «as  fousht  near  this  end  of  the  valley,  for  the  ; 
six    thousand  Romans,  who,  at    ihe    beginning  of  Ihe  ' 
ac'ion,  broke  through  Ihe  enemy,  escaped  lo  Ihe  sum-  i 
mil  of  an  eminence  which   must   ha^c   been   in  this  j 
quarter,  otherwise  Ihey  would  haveh.id  to  tiaverse  Ihe  i| 
w  hole  plain,  aid  to  pierce  through  Ihe  maiu  arDiy  of    > 
Hannibal.  |  : 

The  Romans  fought  desperately  for  three  hours;  but  i  [ 
Ihe  death  of  Flaminius  was  'he  signal  for  a  general 
disi)ersion.  The  Carthaginian  horse  then  burst  in 
U|Min  the  fugitives,  and  ihe  lake,  Ihe  marsh  about  Bor- 
ghelio,  bui  chiefly  the  plain  of  Ihe  Sanguinetfo  and  the 
passes  of  the  Gualandra,  were  sirewed  wiih  dead. 
Near  some  old  walls  on  a  bleak  ridge  lo  the  lefi  above 
the  rivulet,  many  human  bones  have  been  lepeaedly 
found,  and  this  iias  confirmed  the  pre'ensiuus  aud  the 
name  of  the  ■■  stream  of  blood."'  | 

Every  dis  rict  of  Italy  has   its  hero.     In  Ihe  north  j 
some  painter  is  Ihe  usual  genius  of  the  place,  and  the  i 
foreign  Julio  Romano  more  than  divides  Maiilua  \i  ilh  | 
her  native  Virgil  *    To  ihe  south  we  hear  of  Roman  i 
names.     Near  Thrasimene  tradition  i<  still  faithful  to  I 
Ihe  fame  of  an  enemy,  and  Hannibal  the  Garth  ginian  I 
is  Ihe  only  ancient  name  reiiienibered  on  Ihe  tanks  of  i 
the  Perugian  lake.     Flaminius  is  unknown;  but  Ihe 
postilions  on  ihat  road  ha\e  been  taugbl  to  show  the 
very  s[>o-  wher  e  //  Cojun'e  Romano  was  slain.     Of  all  i 
who  fought  and  fell  in  Ihe  baMe  of  Thr.isimene,  the 
historian  himself  has,  besides  the  generals  and  Mahar- 
bal,  preserved  indeed  only  a  single  name.     You  over- 
take the  Carthaginian  agiin  on  ihe  same  road  to  Rome.  | 
1  he  antiquary,  that  is,  the  hos  ler  of  the  posthouse  at 
Spoleto,  tells  you  that  his  town  repulsed  Ihe  victorious 
enemy,  and  shows  you  Ihe  gate  still  called  Porta  di 
.innitale.     II  is  hardly  worth  while  to  reniaik  that  a  I 
French  travel-writer,  well  known  by  the  name  of  the  ; 
President  Dupny,  saw  Thrasimene  in  the  lake  of  Bol-  I 
sena,  which  lay  conveniently  on  his  "av  fmm  sisnm  1 
to  Rome. 


vay  from  Sienna 


No.  XXrV.—  STATt'E  OF  POMPEY. 

"  And  thou,  dread  statue  !  stdl  existent  ■>» 
The  aiistt^rist  form  of  naked  mojesty.'" 

Stanza  Ixxxvii. 
The  projected  division  of  the  Spada  Pnnipey  has 
alreadv  been  recorded  tv  'he  historian  of  the  Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  Mr  Gibbon  f  .und  it 
in  Ihe  memoiials  of  Fl  miniusVacca;  and  it  may  be 
added  to  his  mention  of  ii,  that  Pope  Juliu-  III.  g.ve 
the  contending  owners  five  hundred  crowns  for  the 
sta'ue.  aid  piesented  it  toCardiml  Cajiodi  Feiro,  who 
hnd  preveirled  ihe  judgment  of  Solomon  from  being 
execu'ed  upon  Ihe  image.  In  a  morecivili-ed  age  this 
statue  was  exp'^'sed  to  an  actuil  operaiion:  for  the 
French,  who  acted  the  Brutus  of  Voltaiie  in  the  Coli- 
seum, resolved  lhat  their  Caesar  should  fall  al  the  base  j 
of  that  I'ompey,  which  was  supposed  to  have  been  | 
sprinkled  w  iih' 'he  blood  of  the  original  dictator.  The  ! 
nine-foot  hero  was  therefore  removed  to  the  arena  of 
Ihe  amphitheatre,  and,  lo  facilitate  its  transport,  snf-  ; 
fered  Ihe  temporary  amputation  of  its  right  arm.  The 
republican  tragedians  had  lo  plead  that  tire  arnr  va«  a 
restoration  :  bu'  their  accusers  d  ■  not  believe  that  the 
inlegri'y  of  the  stane  w  uld  have  proected  it.  The 
love  "f  finding  every  coincidence  has  discovered  the 
true  Caesari.in  ichor  in  a  s  ain  near  Ihe  right  knee  ;  but  ; 


4  About  the  mU 


the  tweinh  reDlury  the  coiiu  nf 
•  the  image  and  figure  of  Virgil. 
Zecca  d'  Italia,  r'-  xvii.  i.  6.     Voyaije  datis  le  Miluaia, 
Stc.  par.  A.  Z.  Millin,  torn.  ii.  pag.  3»t.  Farii,  1617. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD. 


469  {{ 


colder  criticism  Pias  rejected  not  only  the  biood,  but  the 
porlniit,  and  assigned  the  globe  of  power  rather  to  the 
firs'  of  the  einpetors  than  to  the  last  of  the  republicin 
in:isters  of  Rome.  Wiukelmann  I  is  loth  lo  allow  an 
heroic  statue  of  a  Ronian  citizen,  but  the  GrinianI 
Agi  ippa,  a  conlenipoiar}-  almost,  is  heroic  ;  ai.d  naked 
Roman  figures  were  only  very  rare,  not  absolutely  for- 
bidden. 'I'he  fice  accords  much  better  with  the  "  ho- 
minem  integrum  et  ca>luni  et  gravem,"  2  than  with 
any  of  the  busts  of  Augustus,  and  is  too  stern  for  him 
who  was  beautiful,  says  Sue'onius,  a:  all  periods  of  his 
li:e.  The  pretended  likeness  lo  Alexander  the  Great 
cai.nol  be  discerned,  but  the  traits  resemble  the  medal 
of  Pompey.3  J  he  objectionable  gl  be  miy  not  have 
been  an  ill  applied  flitery  lo  hiniWho  found  Asia  Mi- 
nor the  boundary,  and  left  it  the  centre  of  the  Roman 
en)pire.  It  seems  thit  Winkelmmn  has  made  a  mis- 
take in  thinking  .'hat  no  proof  of  the  identity  of  this 
statue  with  th^t  which  received  the  bloody  saciifice 
can  be  derived  from  the  spot  »  here  ii  was  discovered. ■> 
Flaniiiiius  V  icca  says  sullo  una  cantina,  and  this  can- 
tina  is  known  to  have  been  in  the  Vicolo  de"  Leutari, 
near  the  Cancellaria  ;  a  position  coiresponding  exactly 
to  ihat  of  the  Janus  before  the  basilica  of  Ponipey's 
Iht'aire,  lo  which  Augustus  transferred  the  statue  afier 
the  curia  was  either  burnt  or  taken  down. 5  Fart  nf 
the  Ponipeian  shade,  the  portico,  existed  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  XVih  century,  and  the  alrium  was  still 
CiUed  Satrri'/n.  So  says  Blondus.  At  all  events,  so 
imposing  is  "he  slern  majesty  of  the  statue,  and  so  me- 
morable is  the  story,  that  the  play  of  Hie  imagination 
leaves  no  room  for  the  exercise  of  the  judgment,  and 
Ihe  fiction,  if  a  fiction  it  is,  operates  on  the  spectator 
with  an  eflect  not  less  powerful  than  tru  h.  i 


No.  XXV.— THE  BRONZE  WOLF. 

"And  thou,  the  thwidcr-itrichen  nurse  of  Rome .'" 
Stanza  Ixxxviii, 
Arcient  Rome,  like  modern  Sienna,  abounded  most 
prob'bly  with  im.iges  nf  ihe  f  .ster-mother  of  her 
founder  ;  but  there  were  two  she-wolves  of  whom  his- 
tory makes  parliculir  mention.  One  of  these,  of  Inass 
in  nndtul  work,  was  seen  by  Dionysius  6  :it  the  lenipje 
of  Romulus,  under  the  Palatine,  and  is  universally  be- 
lieved lo  be  that  mentioned  by  the  La'in  hi>torian,  as 
having  been  made  from  he  money  col  lee  ed  by  i  fine 
on  usurers,  aiida~  standing  underthe  Ruminal  fis-lree.i 
The  other  was  that  which  CiceioS  has  celebrated  both 
in  prose  and  verse,  and  which  the  historian  Dion  also 
records  as  having  suffered  ihe  same  accident  as  is  al- 
luded to  by  the  orator  3  The  question  agitated  by  Ihe 
antiquaries  is,  whether  the  wolf  now  in  the  Conserva- 
tor's Palice  is  th  It  of  Livy  and  Dionysius,  or  that  of 
Cicero,  or  whether  it  is  rieither  one  nor  the  other. 
The  earlier  writers  differ  as  much  as  the  moderns: 


2  Cirer.  Epist.  ad.  .Vtticum,  xi.  6. 

3  PnbliKhrd  by  Causeus,  in  his  Museum  Roraanum. 

4  Sloriadelle  Arli.  iLC.  I.  ix.  c.  i. 

6  Suetnn.  in  vit.  August,  cap.  31.  and  in  vlt.  C.  J.  Ce- 
•  tr.  rap.  Ktj.    App'au  s.ys  it  was  burnt  down.     See  a  nule 
or  PitiHcua  tn  SnelnDius,  pag.  221. 
6  Antiq.  Rom.  lib.  1.  7  Liv.  Hist.  lib.  x.  cap.  Ixix. 

a'Tiim  Kiatua  Naitae,  turn  simularia  De^rum,  Romu- 
lOFque  d  Ri-miis  cum  allrire  belliiavi  fulmiuis  ictis  con^  i- 
drrunt."  De  Divinat.  ii.  20.  ••  Tactus  p»t  ille  eiiam  qui 
banc  urbem  I'ondidit  Rnmulue.  quern  inauialum  inCapiio- 
lio  parvura  aique  laotautem,  uberibim  lupiDie  iuhiantem 
fiiisae  nicrainiiitis."     In  Catilin.  iii.  8. 

'•  Hie  silveslria  erat  Romani  nominia  a'trix 
Mania,  quae  parv'w  Mavr;riis  semine  natoa 
TJberibuH  gravidia  vilali  rore  rtgebat 
Que  turn  cum  pueiis  flamniatn  fulmioia  irtu 
CuD^idii,  alqut;  avul-^a  pedum  Te«lit!la  liquet." 

De  Coiisulatu,  lib.  ii.  (lib.  i.  de  Divinat,  cap.  ii.) 
9  DioD.  Hist.  lib.  xxxvii.  p.  37.  edit.  Rob.  Stcph.  1648. 


Lucius  Faunus  -O  says,  that  it  is  the  one  alluded  to  by  [ 
bo  h,  which  is  imposaible,  and  alsi  by  Virgil,  which  !l 
m:iy  be.  Fulvius  UisinusH  calls  it  tlie  wolf  of  Dio-  j  i 
n>sius,  and  Marlianu»>*  talks  of  it  as  the  one  men- 
tioned by  Cicero.  To  him  Rycquius  tiernttingly  as-  j  | 
sents.i3  Nardini  is  inclined  to  suppose  it  may  be  one 
of  the  many  wolves  pieserved  in  ancient  Rome  ;  but 
of  Ihe  iwo  rather  bends  to  the  Ciceionian  stalue.J* 
Monlfaucoii IS  mentions  it  as  a  pi^int  without  doubt. 
Of  ihe  latter  writers  Ihe  decisive  VVinkelniaiin  '6  pro- 
claims  it  as  having  been  found  at  the  church  of  S.tint 
'iheodore,  where,  or  near  where,  was  the  temple  of 
Romulus,  and  contequeiitly  makes  it  Ihe  wolf  of  Dio- 
nysius. His  aulhoiity  is  Lucius  Faunus,  who,  howe- 
ver, o:.ly  says  that  it  wat  paced,  not  found,  at  Ihe 
Ficus  Ruminalis,  by  the  Coinilium,  by  which  he  does 
no!  seem  to  allude  to  the  chuich  of  S;iint  'iheodme. 
Rycquius  was  the  first  to  in  ike  the  mistake,  and  Win- 
kelniann  followed  Rycquius. 

Flan.iiiius  Vacca  iells  quite  a  difTerent  story,  and 
says  he  had  hea  d  Ihe  wolf  »  ith  Ihe  i  win,  was  found  ^^  | 
near  the  arch  of  Seplimiiis  Severus.  The  commenta- 
tor on  U'inkeimann  is  of  the  same  0|.inion  with  Ihat 
learned  person,  and  is  incensed  at  Nardini  for  not  hav- 
ing remarked  that  Cicero,  in  speaking  of  the  wolf 
struck  w  ilh  lightning  in  Ihe  Capiiol,  makes  use  of  ihe 
pat  ien>e.  But,  wilh  the  Abate's  leave,  Nardini  does 
not  positively  assert  the  slaiue  to  be  that  mentioned  by 
Cicero,  and.  if  he  had,  the  assumption  would  not  per- 
haps have  been  so  exceedingly  indiscreei.  The  Abate 
himself  is  obliged  lo  own  that  there  are  marks  very 
like  the  scathing  of  lightning  in  the  hinder  legs  of  ihe 
present  wolf;  and,  to  get  rid  of  this,  adds,  that  the 
wolf  seen  by  Dionysius  might  have  been  also  struck  by 
lightning,  or  otherwise  injured. 

Lei  us  examine  the  subject  by  a  reference  to  the 
woidsof  Cicero.  The  orator  in  two  places  seems  to 
particularise  Ihe  Romulus  and  the  Remus,  e-pecially 
the  hrsi,  w  hich  his  audience  remenibeied  to  have  tten 
in  the  Capitol,  us  being  struck  w  i;h  lightning.  In  his 
verses  he  records  that  ihe  twins  and  wolf  both  fell,  and 
Ihat  the  latter  left  behii.d  Ihe  marks  of  her  feet.  Ci- 
cero does  not  say  thai  the  wolf  was  consumed:  and 
Dion  only  mentions  that  it  fell  down,  wilhout  alluding, 
as  Ihe  Abate  has  made  him.  lo  the  force  of  Ihe  blow, 
or  Ihe  firmness  with  which  it  had  been  fixed.  The 
whole  strength,  therefore,  of  Ihe  Abates  argument 
hangs  upon  the  past  tense ;  which,  how  ever,  may  be 
somewhat  dilnini^hed  by  remarking  Ihat  Ihe  phrase 
only  slious  Ihat  the  statue  was  not  then  standing  in  its 
former  position.  VViiikelmann  has  observed  tint  the 
present  twins  are  modern ;  and  it  is  equally  clear  Ihat 
there  are  maiks  of  gilding  on  the  wolf,  which  might 
therefore  be  supposed  to  make  pari  of  the  ancient 
group.  It  is  known  Ihat  Ihe  sacred  images  of  the  Ca- 
pitol were  i  ol  destroyed  when  injured  by  lime  or  acci- 
dent, but  were  put  into  ceitain  ui.der-ground  depotilo- 
ries  called  favissx  »8  It  may  be  thought  possible  Ihat 
Ihe  wolf  had  been  so  deposited,  and  had  been  replaced 
in  some  conspicuous  siiuation  when  the  Capitol  was 
rtbiiil  by  Vespasian.  Rycquius,  without  mentioning 
his  authority,  tells  that  it  wns  transferred  from  Ihe  Co- 
mitium  to  Ihe  Laleran,  and  thence  biought  lo  Ihe  Capi- 
tol.    If  it  was  found  near  the  arch  of  Severus,  it  may 

10  Luc.  Fauni  de  Aniiq.  Urb.  Rom.  lib.  ii.  cap.  vii.  ap. 
Sallcugre.  torn.  i.  p.  217. 

11  Ap.  Nardini.  Roma  Vetua,  I.  v.  c.  iv. 

12  Marliani  Urb.  Rom.  Topograph,  lib.  ii.  cap.  iN. 

13  Just.  Rycquii  de  Capit.  Roman,  t'omm.  cap.  xxiT. 
pag.  260.  edit.  Lugd.  Bat.  1636. 

14  Nardini,  Roma  Vetus,  lib.  v.  cap.  iv. 

15  Diariura  Italic,  tc.m.  i.  p.  174. 

leSloria  delle  Arli,  <kc.  liti.  iii.  cap.  iii.  «.  ii.  note  10. 
Winkelmana  has  made  a  strange  blunder  in  t)ie  note,  by 
eayini;  the  Ciceronian  wolf  waa  not  in  the  Capitol,  and 
(hat  Dion  was  wrong  in  saying  so. 

17  Flam.  Vacca,  Memorie,  num.  iii.  pan.  i.  ap.  Mentha- 
con,  Diar.  Ital.  torn.  i. 

18  Luc.  Faun.  ibid. 


40 


470 


APPENDIX   TO  CIIILDE   HAROLD. 


•'Geminns  huic  libera  circum 
Ludere  peiidenles  pueios,  et  laoibere  niatrem 
Impavid  >e  :  illam  lereli  rervice  rcflcxam 
MLlcere  allernos,  et  corpora  fliigere  lingua." 7 


have  been  one  of  the  ima»es  which  Orosius  »  says  was  I  cient  cily.s  and  is  certiinly  the  figure,  if  not  the  very 

thrown  down  in  the  Forum  by  lightning  wheiiAlaric  |  animal  to  which  Virgil  allude,  in  his  beautiful  verses:— 

took  ihe  city.     That  it  is  of  very  high  aitiquily  the 

worknnnship  is  a  decisive  proof;  and  that  circum- 
I  stance  induced  Winkelmann  In  believe  il  the  «olf  of 
I  Dionysius.  The  Capi'oline  wolf,  however,  nny  have 
I  been  of  ihe  same  early  date  as  thit  at  ihe  'enipie  of 
I  Romulus.  Lactanlius'i  asseits  hat  in  his  time  llie  Ro- 
mans worshipped  a  wolf;  and  i    is  known    'hat    the 

Lupercalia  held  out  to  a  very  late  (leriod  3  afler  every 

o  her  observance  of  ihe  ancient  soperbtilion  hid  totally 

expired.     Tliis  may  account  for  Ihe  preservation  of  ilie 

ancient  image  longer  Ihau  ihe  other  early  symbols  of 

Paganism, 


No  XXV  I.— JULIUS  CJESAR. 


m 


"  For  the  Koman'a  mivd 
modeWd  in  a  teii  teircstrtai  mould.'" 

Slanza  \c. 
possible  to  be  a  very  great  man  and  to  be  still 

";, -■  ""n'" -■'  ;'","r"r"'.i"."Ti!'"'"'  "u-  "'\  \  *'^'y  '"ferlnr  10  Julius  CsBiar,  the  most  comple  e  clia- 

wo  f  was  a  Roman  symbol  but  that  the  worship  of  ^J  ^^  ^ord  Bncou  thought,  of  all  a.t,.,Jily.  Na- 
L;  i  r  Thl'  f'^'^'AT,  7 ^Jr  L'/l?  lo^'tl  '"'^  ^^^"'^  ""^M'able  of  such  e^lraordniarv  combina- 
nft^H'in^h^  ^?    W    >  I  >i^',   .     ,^\r.,^  ,h^"""^  ""^  composed  his  ,e,saul8  capac.lv,  i^hich  was 

tru.led  .n  the  charges  w!„ch  Ihey  make  ag.mst  the  ,  .^g  ^ondereien  of  the  Romans  themselves.  Ihe  first 
Pag.ns.     Eusebius  accu  _ed  the  Rmmnsto  ^'e.r  face^  |  ^^,,^^31  -  ihe  only  Irmmphant  poliiician  -  inferior  to 

comparable  to  any  in  the  altain- 


of  worshipping  Simon  M.igiis,  and  raising  a  slalue  lo 
him  in  the  island  of  Ihe  Tyber.  The  Romins  had 
probably  never  heard  of  such  a  person  before,  who 
came,  however,  to  play  a  considerable,  though  scanda- 
lous part  In  the  church  history,  and  has  left  several 
tokens  of  hisaerial  combat  «iih  Si.  Pcler  at  Rome; 
noiwiihsianding  'hit  an  inscription  f  nind  in  this  very 
island  of  the  Tvber  showed  the  Simon  ftlagus  of  Eu- 
sebius  to  be  a  certain  indigenal  godc.illed  SemoSangus 
or  Fidius.* 

Even  when  the  worship  of  Ihe  founder  of  Rome 
had  been  abindoned,  il  was  thought  expedient  to  hu- 
mour the  h:ibiis  'f  the  good  mi'roi.s  of  the  city,  by 
sending  Iheni  with  iheir  sick  infan's  to  the  church  of 
Saint  Theodore,  as  they  had  before  carrieil  them  to  'he 
temple  of  Romulus.*  The  practice  is  continued  lo 
this  diy  ;  and  the  site  of  the  i.bove church  seem  to  be 
thereby  idenufied  with  ihit  of  Hie  temple;  so  thai  if 
the  wolf  hid  been  really  found  there,  as  Winkeliiiann 
says,  there  would  tie  no'doubi  of  the  present  staiue  be- 
ing that  seen  by  Uionvsiu's.  Rui  Fmnu-.  in  saying 
that  it  was  at  the  Ficus  Ruminalis  by  the  Comiiium", 
is  only  talking  of  its  ancient  position  as  recorded  by 
Pliny ;  and  even  if  he  had  been  remarking  where  i't 
was  found,  would  not  have  alluded  lo  Ihe  church  of 
Saint  Theodore,  but  to  a  very  different  place,  near 
which  it  was  then  thought  the  Ficus  Ruminaiis  had 
been,  and  also  ihe  Comitinni ;  thai  is,  the  ihree  columns 
by  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  I.iheratrice,  at  the  cor- 
ner of  Ihe  palatine  looking  on  Ihe  Forum. 

It  is,  ill  fact,  n  mere  conjecture  where  the  image 
was  actually  dug  up;  and  [lerhnps,  on  'he  whole,  the 
milks  of  tlie  gliding,  and  of  he  lishnin»,  are  a  be  ter 
nrsument  in  favour  of  its  litiiig  Ihe  Ciceroniin  wolf 
than  any  that  can  be  adduced  for  the  contrary  opinion. 
At  any  rate,  il  is  reasonably  selected  in  Ihe  text  of  Ihe 
poem  as  one  of  the  most  interesting  relics  of  Ihe  an- 


1  See  note   to  stanza  Ixxx. 


•Historical    Illustra- 


2'*  Rnmuli  nulrix  Ltipa  honoribus  pst  affpcta  divinis,  el 
ffrrem,  si  animal  ipaum  fui.«set,  cujus  fignrara  s-frit." 
Lartaot.  de  Falsa  Religions,  lib.  i.  cap.  xx.  pag.  101.  edit. 
Tari.ir.  IMO  ;  that  is  tn  say,  hi-  would  rather  adore  »  wolf 
than  a  proB'iluie.  His  commenlator  has  observed  that 
the  opinion  of  Li vy  concerning  Laurentia  beics  15?ured  in 
this  wolf  was  n  .t  universal.  Stn.bo  ihoi.i;ht  so.  Kyc- 
qnius  is  wn  ng  in  Kaying  that  Laclautius  mentions  Ibe 
wolf  was  ill  Ihe  Capilol. 

3  To  .*.  n.  496.  "Quis  credere  possit,"  says  Baronins 
[Ann.  EccleB.  Irm.  viii.  p.  602.  in  an.  496.],  ■'  vi^uisse 
adhuc  Roma  ad  Gelasii  tempora,  qua  fuere  ante  exordia 
urbis  allala  in  llaliam  Liiperialia  7"  Gela«iiis  wrnie  a  let- 
I  ler,  which  occupies  four  folio  pages,  to  Andromachus  Ibe 
j  •enalor,  and  others,  lo  show  Ihat  the  litcs  should  be 
pveo  up. 

i  Eciles.  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  xiii.  p.  40.  Justin  Martyr 
bad  told  tlie  siory  before;  but  Baronius  himself  was 
ob.iged  to  detect  this  fable,  i-ee  Nardini,  Koma  Vet.  lib. 
vli.  cap.  xii. 
I  5  Rione  xii.  Ripa,  acciirata  e  sucrincla  Descriiione.&c 
di  Eoma  Mc^erna,  dell'  Ab.  Rid.lf.  Vcnuti,  1766. 


ments  of  » i-dom,  in  an  age  made  up  of  Ihe  greatest 
c onimmders,  slaiesmen,  orators,  and  philosophers  ihat 
ever  appeared  in  Ihe  world — au  aulhor  who  composed 
a  peifcci  s|  ecimen  of  military  annals  in  his  Iravelling 
carriane  —  at  one  time  iu  a  controversy  with  Calo,  at 
another  w  riling  a  treatise  on  punning,  and  collecting  a 
set  of  good  sayings  — fighting  and  making  love  at  the 
same  moment,  and  wi.lmg  to  abandon  bo  h  his  empire 
and  hi3  mi-tres>  for  a  sight  of  Ihe  Fountains  oi  ibe 
Nile.  Such  did  Julius  Caesar  appear  to  his  contempo- 
raries and  lo  those  of  ihe  subsequent  ages  who  were 
Ihe  mosi  inclined  lo  deploie  and  execrate  his  fatal 
genius. 

But  we  must  not  be  so  much  dayzled  wilh  his  sur- 
passing glory,  or  with  his  mignminious,  his  amiable 
qnaliiie-,  as  to  forget  the  derision  of  his  impartial 
country  men :  — 

HE  WAS  JUSTLY  SLAIN.' 


Ko.  XXVII.—  EGERIA, 

"  Fgeria .'  sweet  creation  of  tome  heart 
Which  fuind  710  mortal  resting  place  mo  fair 
Ai  thine  ideal  breast.'^--  Slai.z-a  cxv. 

The  lespectable  authority  of  Flaminius  Vacca  tvould 
incline  us  to  believe  in  Ihe'clainis  of  Ihe  Eserim  grot- 
to.9  He  assures  us  that  he  saw  an  insciip  ion  in  Ihe 
1  aveiiient,  staling  that  'he  fountain  was  ih<t  of  Ejeria, 
dedic  ted  to  'he  nymphs.  The  inscription  i*  not  ihere 
at  this  day;  but  Monllaufon  quotes  two  lines  lu  if 
Ovid  from  a  sloiie  in  the  Villa  Giusiiniani,  «  liich  he 
seems  to  think  had  been  brought  from  the  same  giotio 

This  grotto  and  valley  were  formerly  frequented  in 
summer,  and  particularly  the  lirst  Sundiy  in  May,  by 


6  Donatus,  lib  xi.  cap.  18.  gives  a  medal  representing 
on  iine  s  de  the  wolf  in  Ihe  same  position  as  that  iu  Ihe 
Copilot;  and  in  the  reverse  the  wolf  with  the  head  not 
reverted.     It  is  of  the  time  of  Antoninus  Pius. 

7  En.  viii.  631.  See  Dr.  Middleton,  in  his  letter  from 
Rome,  who  inilines  to  ihe  Ciceronian  woir,  but  without 
examining  the  subject. 

8"  Jure  cesus  existimetur."  says  Suetonius,  after  a  fair 
estimate  of  his  iharacter,  and  making  use  of  a  phrase 
which  was  a  formula  in  Livy's  time.  "Melium  jure  cae- 
sum  prnnuniiavil,  eliam  si  regni  crimine  iusnns  fueiil:" 
[lib.  iv.  cap.  48.]  and  Kbi.h  was  continued  io  Ihe  legal 
judKmenIs  pronounced  in  jusiiliable  homicides,  such  as 
killing  housebreakers.  See  Suelon.  in  Vii.  C.  J.  Cesar, 
wilh  Ihe  commentary  of  PiliscDs,  p.  1E4. 

9  Memorie,  &c.  ap.  Nardini,  pag.  13.  He  does  not  give 
the  inscription. 

10  ■■  In  villa  Jnstiniana  extat  ingens  lapis  qnadrattis  lO- 

'  Egetia  est  quae  praebet  aquas  dea  grata  Camenis 
Ilia  Numae  ccnjuiix  consiliumque  fuil.' 
Qui   lapis  videtur    eodem  Eceria  fonte,  aut   ejus  viclBla 
ibihuc  cumpuitatus."     Diarium  Italic,  p.  163. 


APPENDIX  TO  CHILDE  HAROLD. 


471 


the  moJi^rn Roinnns,  «ho  attached  a  salubrious  quality 
to  ihe  fountain  which  trickles  lioiii  an  oritice  at  the 
j  bo  t..ni  of  Ihe  vault,  and,  oveifloniiig  Ihe  htile  pools, 
creeps  down  llie  milled  grass  into  the  brook  below. 
The  brook  is  Ihe  Ovidian  Alnio.  whose  name  and  quali- 
ties are  lost  in  Ihe  modern  Aqualaccio.  The  valley 
ilself  is  called  Valle  di  Catfirelli,  from  the  dukes  of 
that  name  who  made  over  their  fountain  to  Ihe  Palla- 
vicini,  with  sixly  rubbia  of  adjoining  land. 

There  can  be  liille  doubt  that  this  long  dell  is  Ihe 
Egeriaii  valley  of  Juvenal,  and  the  pausing  pince  of 
Uiiibrilius,  nol  withstanding  Ihe  gejreralily  of  his  com- 
menlators  have  supposed  Ihe  descent  of  the  satiist 
and  his  friend  to  liave  been  into  iheArician  grove, 
where  ihe  nymph  met  Hi^jpolilu-,  and  where  she  was 
more  peculiaily  worshipped. 

The  step  from  the  Porta  Capena  to  Ihe  Albin  hill, 
fifteen  miles  di^lanl,  would  be  loo  considerable,  unless 
we  were  to  believe  in  Ihe  wild  conjeciurc  of  Vossius, 
who  makes  that  gale  travel  fioni  iis  present  station, 
where  he  pretends  it  was  during  Ihe  leign  of  Ihe 
Kings,  as  far  as  the  Arician  giove,"and  then  makes  it 
recede  to  its  old  site  with  Ihe  shrinking  city.'  The 
tufo,  or  pumice,  which  Ihe  poet  prefers  to  marble,  is 
Ihe  substance  composing  the  bank  in  which  Ihe  grotto 
is  sunk. 

The  modern  topographers  ^  find  in  the  grotto  the 
stalueof  Ihe  nymph,  and  nine  niches  for  Ihe  Muses; 
and  a  late  travellers  has  discovered  that  the  cave  is 
restored  to  that  simplicity  which  Ihe  poet  regretted 
had  been  exchanged  for  injudicious  ornament.  But 
the  headless  st.Uue  is  palpably  rather  a  male  than  a 
nymph,  and  has  none  of  Ihe  attributes  ascribed  to  it  at 
present  usible.  The  nine  Muses  could  hardly  have 
stood  in  six  niches;  and  Juvenal  certainly  does  not 
allude  to  any  individual  cave.<  Nothing  can  be  col- 
lected  from  the  saiirist  but  that  sorneu  here  near  the 
Porta  Capena  was  a  spot  in  which  it  was  supposed 
NuDM  held  nightly  consultations  with  his  nymph,  and 
where  there  was  a  grove  and  a  sacred  fountain,  and 
fanes  once  consecrated  to  the  Muses ;  and  that  from 
this  spot  there  was  a  descent  into  Ihe  valley  of  Egeria, 
where  were  several  artificial  caves.  It  is  clear  thrit 
Ihe  statues  of  Ihe  Muses  made  no  part  of  the  decora- 
tion which  the  satirist  thought  misplaced  in  these 
caves;  for  he  expressly  assigns  other  fanes  (delubra) 
to  these  divinities  above  the  valley,  and  moreover  tells 
us  that  they  had  been  ejected  to  make  room  for  Ihe 
Jews.  In  fact,  the  little  temple,  now  called  that  of 
Bacchus,  was  formerly  thought  to  belong  to  ihe  Muses, 
and  Nardini  6  places  ihem  in  a  poplar  giove,  which 
was  in  bis  time  above  the  valley. 

It  is  probable,  from  the  inscriplion  and  position, 
that  Ihe  cave  now  shown  may  be  one  of  the  "  artificial 
caverns,"  of  which,  indeed.'  there  is  another  a  little 
way  higher  up  Ihe  valley,  under  a  tuft  of  alder  bushes  : 
but  a  tingle  grollo  of  Egeria  is  a  mere  modern  inven- 
tion, grafted  upon  the  application  of  the  epithet  Ege- 
riao  to  these  nymphea  in  general,  and  which  might 
send  us  to  look  for  the  haunts  of  Nuraa  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Thames. 

Our  English  Juvenal  was  not  seduced  into  mistrans- 
lation by  his  acquaintance  with  Pope:  he  carefully 
preserves  the  correct  plural  — 

**Ttience  slowly  windin?  down  Ihe  vale,  we  view 

The  Kgeriau  grots  :  oh,  how  unlike  the  true  '.  " 

The  valley  abounds  with   springs.s  and  over  these 

springs,  which  the  Muses  might  haunt  from  their 


1  De  Magnit.  Vet.  Rom.  ap.  Graev.  AnL  Rem.  torn.  iv. 
p   1807. 

3  Erhinard,  DeBcrizione  di  Roma  e  dfll'  Agro  Romano, 
correlto  *iir  Abate  Venuti,  in  Roma,  1750.  They  believe 
in  tlie  grotto  and  nymph.  "SImulacro  Oi  questo  fonte, 
CMendovi  srulpite  le  arque  a  pie  di  eem." 

5  Classiral  Tour,  chap.  vi.  p.  217.  vol.  11. 

4  Sat.  III. 

6  Lib.  iii.  cnp.  ill. 

6  "  Undique  e  atfja  aquue  ecaturioDt."  Nardini,  lib.  ili. 
eap.  iii. 


neighbouring  groies,  Egeiia  presided  :  hence  she  was 
said  to  su[)ply  them  wi'h  water;  and  she  was  Ihe 
nymph  of  Ihe  grottos  through  which  the  fountains 
«ere  taught  lo  flow. 

The  «  hole  of  the  monuments  in  Ihe  vicinity  of  the 
Egerian  valley  have  received  names  at  will,  which 
lia\e  been  changed  ut  w  ill.  Venuti  i  owns  he  can  see 
no  traces  of  the  tenrp  es  of  Jove,  Saturn,  Juno,  Venus, 
and  Diana,  which  Nardini  found,  or  hoped  to  find. 
The  mulalorium  of  CaraoUa's  circus,  the  tempi  of 
Honour  anil  Virli^e,  the  temple  of  Bacchus,  and, 
above  all,  Ihe  temple  of  Ihe  god  Rediculus,  are  Ihe 
antiquaries'  despair. 

The  circus  of  Caracalla  depends  on  a  med;il  of  that 
emperor  cited  by  FuUius  Ursinus,  of  which  Ihe  re- 
verse shows  a  circus,  supposed,  however,  by  some  to 
represent  Ihe  Circus  Maximus.  It  gives  a  very  good 
idea  of  that  place  of  exercise.  The  soil  has  been  but 
little  raised,  if  we  may  judge  from  Ihe  small  cellular 
slruc:ure  at  the  end  of  the  Spina,  which  was  probably 
the  chapel  of  Ihe  god  Census.  This  cell  is  half  be- 
neath the  soil,  as  it  must  have  been  in  ihe  circus  it- 
self;  forDionysiusS  could  not  be  persuaded  to  believe 
that  this  divinity  was  the  Roman  Neplune,  because 
his  altar  was  under  ground. 


No.  XXVIII.— THE  ROMAN  NEMESIS. 
"  Great  Nemesis ! 

Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long.'" 
Stanza  cxxxii. 

We  read  in  Suetonius,  that  Augustus,  from  a  warn- 
ing received  in  a  dream, 9  counterfeited,  once  a  year, 
the  beggar,  silting  before  the  gate  of  his  palace  with 
his  hand  hollowed  and  stretched  nut  for  charity.  A 
statue  formerly  in  the  villa  Borghese,  and  which 
should  be  now  at  Paris,  represents  the  Emperor  in 
that  posture  of  supplication.  The  object  of  this  self- 
degradation  was  the  app.easement  of  Nemeis,  Ihe  per- 
petual atiendani  on  good  fortune,  of  whose  power  the 
Roman  conquerors  were  also  remiiided  bv  certain 
symbols  attached  to  their  cats  of  triumph.  The  sym- 
bols were  the  whip  and  Ihe  crotalo,  which  were  dis- 
covered in  Ihe  Nemesis  of  the  Vatican.  The  altitude 
of  beggary  made  the  above  statue  pass  for  that  of 
Belisarius:  and  until  Ihe  criticism  of  Winkelmann  >0 
had  rectified  the  mistake,  one  fiction  was  called  in  to 
support  another.  It  was  Ihe  s^me  fear  of  the  sudden 
termination  of  prosperity  that  made  Aniasis  king  of 
E»ypt  warn  his  friend  Polycrates  of  Samos,  that  the 
gods  loved  those  whose  lives  were  chequered  with 
good  and  evil  fortunes.  Nemesis  was  supposed  to  lie 
in  wait  particularly  for  Ihe  prudent ;  that  is,  for  those 
whose  caution  rendered  them  accessible  only  to  mere 
accidents  :  and  her  first  allar  was  raised  on  the  banks 
of  Ihe  Phrygian  ^sepus  by  Adraslus,  probibly  Ihe 
prince  of  that  name  who  killed  the  son  of  Croesus  by 
njistake.     Hence  Ihe  goddess  was  called  Adraslca.ti 

The  Roman  Nemesis  w.is  sacred  and  august :  there 
was  a  temple  to  her  in  the  Palatine  under  Ihe  name 
of  Rliamnusia  :  12  so  great,  indeed,  was  Ihe  propensity 
of  Ihe  ancients  to  trust  to  Ihe  revolution  of  events,  and 

7  Echiaard,  ic.  Cic.  cit.  p.  297,298. 
e  Aniiq.  Rom.  lib.  ii.  cap.  xxxi. 

9  Sueliin.  in  Vit.  Augusti,  rap.  91.  Casaubon,  in  the 
note,  refers  to  hlulari  h'«  Lives  nf  Camillua  and  Emilius 
PauluR,  aod  aNo  to  his  apophlhegms.  for  the  chararter  of 
this  deity.  The  hollowed  hand  wae  reikrned  the  la»t  de- 
gree of  degradolion;  and  wtieu  Ihe  dead  body  of  ihe  pre- 
fect Ruflnus  was  borne  about  in  triumph  by  Ihe  people, 
the  indignity  was  iccrcatieil  by  putting  his  band  in  that 
position. 

10  Stnria  de'.Ie  Am,  tic.  lib.  xii.  rap.  iii.  tom.  ii.  p. 
422.  Vist'onti  rails  Ihe  slalue,  however,  a  Cybeie.  It  in 
given  in  the  Mueeo  Pio  Clement,  tom.  i.  par.  40.  The 
Abate  Fea  (Spiegazione  dei  Rami.  Sloria,  dec  torn.  iii.  p. 
613.)  calls  it  a  Chrisippus. 

11  Diet,  de  Bayle,  article  Adraslea. 

12  11  is  enumerated  by  Ihe  leglnnary  Victor. 


I  472 


APPENDIX  TO  CIIILDE  HAROLD. 


to  believe  in  the  divinity  of  Fortune,  tha'  in  the  same 
Palaiine  there  was  a  temple  in  the  Fortune  of  the 
day.l  Thi-.  is  ihe  last  superstition  which  retains  its 
hold  over  the  human  heait;  and,  from  cuncemralin^ 
in  one  object  ihe  credi.liiy  so  natural  to  man,  his  al- 
nays  a|)peared  strongest  in  tho-e  unenibanassed  by 
other  ar'icles  of  bcliel  'J  he  antiquines  have  sup- 
posed this  goddess  to  be  sj  ii'nynious  >v  i'h  Fortune  and 
with  Fate:  but  it  was  in  her  vindictive  quality  that 
she  was  worshipped  uuder  the  name  of  Nemesis. 


siodorus,8  and  seems  worthy  of  credit  notwithstand- 
ing its  place  in  the  R'>nnn  niartyrology.9  Besides  the 
toireiits  of  blo.d  which  floAed'ai  Ihe  funerals,  in  the 
aniplii  heaires,  the  circus,  the  forums,  and  other  pub- 
lic places,  gladialors  were  in  roduccd  at  feasts,  and 
tore  eich  Cher  tn  pieces  amidst  the  supper  tables,  to 
the  great  delight  and  .Tpplause  of  the  guests.  Yet 
Lip-ius  pernji's  himself  to  suppose  the  loss  of  courage, 
and  the  evident  degeneracy  of  mankind,  to  be  nea;ly 
cnnnected  with  Ihe  abolition  if  these  bloody  spec- 
tacles. 


No.  XXIX.— GLADIATORS. 
"  He,  their  fire, 
Bn/:her'd  to  nahe  a  Ronuin  holdoy. 
atmza  i 


"■litre,  wlieretiie  Roman  ynillion's  blame  or  praise 
H'lii  death  or  lift,  the  playthings  of  a  crvwd.'' 


Standi  cxlii. 


Wlien  one  gladiator  wounded  ano'her,  he  shouted, 
"  he  has  it,"  ••  hoc  habel, '  or  "  habet."     1  he  wound- 
ed c  'iiib.itant  dropped  his  weapon,  and  advancing  Ic 
the  edge  of  Ihe  aiena,  supplici.cd  Ihe  spectators      If 
he  h'd  fought  »ell,  the  people  saved  him  ;  if  olher- 
,  or  as   hey  happened  to  be  inclined,  they  turned 
n    their   thumbs,  and  he  was  slain.     'J'hey  were 
lly  so  savage  that  they  were  impatient  if  a 
slid  longer  thanoidinary  without  wounds  or 
death.     The  emperor's   presence  generally  saved    he 
vanquished  :  and  it  is  lecorded  as  an  instance  of  Cara- 
Severus.     Of  lhe>e  the  most  to  be  pitied  undoubtedly    call  's  lerocity,  that  he  sen:  those  «  ho  supplicated  him 
nd  to  this  species   a    ^'^'f  ' 


Gladiators  were  of  two  kind',  compelled  and  volu 
tary  ;  and  were  supplied  from  several  conditims; 
from  slaves  sold  for  that  purpose  ;  from  culptits ;  from 
barbirian  ciptives  either  taken  in  w.ir,  and,  afer  be- 
ing led  in  triumph,  set  apart  for  the  gimes,  or  those 
seized   and  condemned  as  rebels;  al>o  from  free  cili-    "^ 
zens,  some  figh'ing  fir  hire  [auclorati,)  others  from  a    O""  » 
depraved  ambition;  at  last  even  knights  and  sen, tors    occasi 

were  exhibited,— a  disgrace  of  which  Ihe  first  tyrant    '^" 

was  naturally  the  first  inven  or.3     In  the  end,  dwarfs, 
and  even  women,  fought;  an  enormity  prohibited  by 


were  the  baibariau  captives;  ana  lo  tnis  spec 
Chrisian  writei  3  justly  niiplies  the  epithet  "  inno- 
cent,''  to  dis:inguish  them  from  the  professional  gladia- 
tors. Aurelian  and  Claudius  supplied  great  numljers 
of  these  unfortunate  victims  ;  the  one  after  his  triumph, 
and  the  other  on  the  pretext  of  a  rebellion. ■»  No  war, 
says  Lipsius,5  was  ever  so  destructive  to  the  human 
race  as  these  sports.  In  spite  of  'he  laws  of  Constan- 
tine  and  Constans,  gladiatoiial  shows  survived  the  old    pe^P'e   interfere 


fe,  in  a  spec  acle,  at  Niconiedia,  lo  a-k  the  peo- 
ple, in  other  uoids,  handed  them  over  to  be  slain. 
A  simil  ir  ce  emony  is  observed  at  Ihe  Spanish  bull- 
hgh's.  The  magisr.ile  preside' ;  and  after  Ihe  horse- 
men .ind  piccadores  have  fought  the  bull,  Ihe  matadnre 
steps  forward  and  bows  lo  him  for  permission  to  kill  | 
Ihe  anim-1.  If  Ihe  bull  has  done  his  duty  by  killing 
two  or  Ihiee  horses,  or  a  man,  which  last  is  rare,  the 
h  shouts,  the  ladies  wave  their 
established  religion  more  than  seventy  years  ;  bul  they  handkerchiefs,  and  the  animal  is  ^aved.  The  wour.ds  , 
owed  their  fiml  extinction  to  Ihe  courage  of  a  Chris-  =>'"'  ''«■>"'  °f  'he  horses  aie  accompanied  w  iih  the 
tian.  In  the  year  404,  on  the  kalends  of  January,  '  '""desl  acclamations,  and  many  gestures  ot  delight, 
they  were  exhibiting  Ihe  shows  in  the  Flavian  aniphi-i"peci.l!y  from  Ihe  female  portion  of  the  audience, 
theatre  befoie  the  usual  immense  concourse  of  people.  '  including  those  of  the  gcn:lest  blond.  Every  thing  ] 
Almachius,  or  Telemachus,  an  eastern  monk,  who  had  depends  on  hr.bit.  1  he  author  of  Childe  Harold,  the 
travelled  to  Rome  intent  on  his  holv  purpose,  rushed  j  "'''er  of  this  note,  and  one  or  two  other  Englishmen, 
into  Ihe  midst  of  theaTeDa,nnd  endeavoured  to  separate  j  "ho  have  certainly  in  other  days  b  >rne  the  sight  of  a 
the  combitiiits.  The  pi^tor  Alypius,  a  person  in-  pUched  bittle,  were,  during  the  sumn.er  of  ie09,  in 
credibly  attached  to  the-e  games.6  gave  instant  orders  !  'he  governor's  box  at  the  great  amphnheilre  of  S  .nta 
to  the  gladiators  to  sl.iy  him  ;  and  Telemachus  gained  j  M^ri^r  opposite  lo  Cadiz.  1  he  dealh  of  one  or  two 
the  crown  of  marlvrdom,  and  the  title  of  saint,  which  ^  hoises  completely  satisfied  their  curio-ity.     A  gentle- 


surely  has  never  either  before  or  since  been  awarded 
for  a  more  noble  exploit.  Honorius  immediately 
abolished  the  shows,  which  were  never  afierwaids 
revived.     The  story  is  told  by  Theodoret  i  and  Cas- 


t 


1  Fortanaehujuscediei.  Cicero  mentions  her,  da  L^gib. 
lib.  ii. 

DEAF,  NEMESt 

SIVE  FORTDNAE 

PISIORIVS 

RVGIANVS 

V.  C.  LEGAT. 

LEG.  XIII.  G. 

CORD. 

See  Questinneg  Romanae,  Sec.  ap.  GraeT.  Aniiq.  Roman. 

torn.  r.   p.  942.     See    also    Muratori,  Nov.  TheHSur.  In- 

scrip.  Vet.  trim.  i.  p.  88,  69.,  where  there  are  three  Latin 

and    one    Greek    inscription    to   Nemesis,  and    otherb  to 

Fate. 

2  Julius  Cesar,  who  rose  by  the  fall  of  the  aristocracy, 
brouebt  Furius  Leiilinus  anil  A.  Calenus  upon  the  arena. 

STertulliar,  "certe  quidem  et  innocentes  gladialo/.-R 
ID  ludum  veniiint,  et  vrtluptatis  pnblicae  hostiae  fiav.." 
Just.  Lips.  Saturn.  ISermno.  lib.  li.  cap.  iii. 

4  Vopiscus,  in  vit.  Aurel.  and  in  vit.  Claud,  ibid. 

5  Just.  Lips.  ibid.  lib.  i.  rap.  xii. 

e  Augiisiinuri  (lili.  vi.  confess,  cap.  viii.)  "  .\lypiura 
»uum    iiladiatorii  speclaculi  inhiatu   ia  redibiliter   abrep- 


present,  observing  them  shudder  and  look  pah 
noticed  that  unusual  reception  of  so  delightful  a  s[)ori  j 
to  some  young  ladies,  who  stared  and  smiled,  and  con- 
tinued their  npplause*  as  another  horse  fell  bleeding 
to  Ihe  ground.  One  bull  killed  three  horses  off  his 
own  horns.  He  was  saved  by  acclamations,  which 
were  redoubled  when  it  was  known  he  belonged  lo  a 
priest. 

An  Englishman  who  can  be  much  pleased  with 
seeing  two  men  beat  themselves  to  pieces,  cannot  bear 
to  look  at  a  horse  galloping  round  an  arena  wi  h  his 
bowels  trailing  on  the  ground,  and  turns  from  the 
I  spectacle  and  the  spectators  w  itb  horror  aud  disgust. 


im,"  siribil.  lb.  lib.  i.  rap.  xii. 
7  Hist.  Eccles.  cap.  xxvi.  lib.  T, 


No.  XXXI.— THE  ALBAN  HILL. 

"..Jnrf  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
Tlie  La'.ian  coaft,''  ^-c.  ^-c  Stanza  clxxiv. 

The  whole  declivi'y  of  the  Alban  hill  is  of  unrival- 
led beau'y,  and  from  the  convent  on  the  highest  point, 
which  has  succeeded  to  the  lem|de  of  Ihe  I^lian  Jupi- 
ter, Ihe  prospect  embrace^  all  the  objects  alluded  to  id 

8  Cas^icd.  Tripartita,  I.  x.  c.  xi.     Saluin.  ib.  ib, 

9  Baronius,  ail  anu.  et  in  nntis  ad  Marlyml.  Rom.  I. 
Jan.     Sec  — Marai.goDdelle  memorie  sacre  e  piuraoedcU' 

1  Aufiteatro  Flavio,  p.  25.  edit.  rA6. 


APPENDIX  TOCHILDE  HAROLD. 473 

I  the    cited   s'lnzi ;    the   Medirerranean  ;    the    whole  by  exploring  the  windings  of  the  romantic  valley  in 

I  scene  of  the  latter  hilf  of  ihexEieid,  and  the  coist  search  of  the  Bandusiin  fountain.     It  seems   strange 

'  from  heyond  the  ninulh  of  the  liber  to  the  headland  thai  any  one  fhould  have  thought  Bandiisia  a  fountain 

;f  Circaeum  and  the  Cipe  of  Terracina.  of  the  Uigentia  —  Hoiace  has  not  let  drop  a  word  of 

The  site  of  Cicero's  villa  niiy  be  supposed  either  it ;  and  this  iininorial  spring  has  in  f<ct  been  discover- 

at  the  Grol:o  Ferrala,  or  at  the  Tusculum  of  Prince  cd  in  possession  of  the  holders  of  many  good  tilings  in  ' 

Lucien  Buonapar  e.  Italy,  the  monks.     It  was  attached  to  the  church  of 

I'he  firmer  was  Ihnuzht  some  years  ago  the  actual  St.  Gervais  and    Proiais   near  Venusia,  where  it  was 

site,  as  may  be  seen  from  Myddleton's  Lilt:  of  Cicero,  most  likely  lo  be  found. i     We  shall  not  be  so  lucky 

At  present  it  ha.s  lost   something  of  its  credit,  except  as  a  I  iie  traveller  in  finding  the  occasional  pine  still 

for   the   Uonienichinos.     Nine   minks  of  the  Greek  pendent  on  the  poetic  villa.     There  is  not  a  pine  in 

order  live  there,  and  the  adjoitiing  vilU  i-  a  cardinal's  the  whole  valley,  but  there  are  two  cypresses,  which 

stimiiier-house.     The  other  villa,  cilled  Rufinella,  is  he  evidently  look,  or  mistook,  for  the  t'ree  in  the  ode.'  J 

ou  the  summit  of  the  hill  above  Friscati,  and  nnny  The  truth  is, "(hit   the   pine  is  now,  as  it  was  in  the  ' 

rich  remiins  of  Tusculum  have  been  found  there,  be-  da\s  of  Vi  gil,  a   garden    tree,  and  it  was  not  at  all 

sides  seventy-two  statues  of  ditierent  merit  and  pre-  likely  to  be  found  in  the  crasgv  acclivities  of  the  val-  , 

servttinn,  and  seven  busts.  ley  of  Rustica.     Horace  probably  had  one  of  tliem  in 

From  the  same  eminence  are  seen  the  Sabine  hills,  the  orchard  close  above  his  farm,  immediately  over, 

embosomed  iu  which  lies  the  long  valley  of  Rustica.  shadowing  his  villa,  not  on  the  rocky  heights  al  some  | 

There  are  several  circums'ances  which  lend  to  esiab-  di■l^nce  from  his  abode.     The  tourist  may  have  easily  \ 

lish  the  identity  of  this  valley  with  the  "  Ustica  "  of  supposed  liimse  f  to  have  seen  this  pine  figured  in  the  •■ 

Horace;  and  it  seems  possible  that  the  mosiic  pave-  above   cypresses;    for   the   orange    and    lemon    trees 

meiit  which  the  peasants  uncover  by  throwing  up  the  which  throw  such  a  bloom  over  his  de  cri|ition  of  the 

earth  of  a  vineyard  miy  belong  to  his  villa.    "Rustica  royal  earden.  at  Naples,  unless  they  have  been  since  j 

is  pronounced  short,  not  according  to  our  s'res  upon  displaced,  were  assuredly  only  acacias  and  other  com- 

—  "Uiticat  cubantis." — It  is  more  rational  to  think  men  garden  sbrubs.3 

that  we  are  wrong,  than  that  the  inhibitants  of  this  

secluded  vallev  have  changed  their  tone  in  this  word,  j 

The  addition  6f  the  consonant  prefixed  is  no-hing  ;  yet  jjo.  XXXII.-  EUSTACE'S  CLASSICAL  TOLTl. 
It  IS  necessary  to  be  aware  that  Rustica  may  be  a  v.  o  v  i.  oL..v..aij 
modern  name  which  the  peasants  may  have  caught  The  extreme  disappointment  experienced  by  choos- 
from  the  antiquaries.  ing  the  Classical  Touiist  as  a  guide  in  Italy  must  be 
The  villa,  or  the  mosaic,  is  in  a  vineyard  on  a  knoll  alliwed  lo  (ind  vent  in  a  few  observations,  which,  it 
covered  with  chestnut  tree?.  A  stream  uns  down  the  is  asserted  without  fear  of  contradiction,  will  be  con- 
valley  ;  and  dthough  it  is  n  't  true,  as  said  in  the  guide  firmed  by  every  one  who  has  selected  the  gmie  con- 
books,  that  this  s  ream  is  called  Licenza,  yet  there  is  duclor  thmugh  ihe  same  country.  This  author  is  in 
a  village  on  a  rock  at  the  head  of  the  valley  which  is  fact  one  of  the  most  inaccurate,  unsatisfactory  writers 
so  denominated,  and  which  may  have  taken  its  name  that  hive  in  our  limes  attained  a  temporary  repula- 
from  the  Digenli  I.  Licenza  contains  700  inhabitan's.  lion,  and  is  very  seldom  to  be  trusted  even  when  he 
On  a  peak  a  little  way  beyond  is  Civitella,  containing  speaks  of  objects  which  he  must  be  presumed  to  have 
300.  On  the  bank-  of  the  Anio,  a  little  before  you  seen  His  errors,  from  the  simple  exagseraljon  to 
turn  lip  into  Valle  Rustica,  to  the  left,  about  an  h^ur  the  downright  mis  stitement,  are  >o  frequent  as  to  in- 
from  the  villa,  is  a  town  cilled  Vicovaro,  another  duce  a  su-picion  that  he  had  ei  her  never  visited  the 
favourable  coincidence  with  Ihe  yana  of  :he  poet,  spots  described,  or  hid  trusted  lo  the  fideli'y  of  former 
At  the  end  of  the  valley,  towards  the  Anio,  there  is  a  writers.  Indeed,  the  Classical  Tour  has  every  cha- 
bare  hill,  crowned  with  a  little  town  called  Bardela.  racteristic  of  a  mere  compilation  of  former  notices, 
Al  the  foot  of  this  hill  Ihe  rivulet  of  Licenza  flows,  strung  together  upon  a  very  slender  thread  of  per- 
and  is  almost  absorbed  in  a  wide  sandy  bed  before  it  sonni  observation,  and  swelled  out  by  those  decorations 
reaches  the  Anio.  Nothing  can  be  more  fortunate  for  which  are  so  ea^ily  supplied  by  a  syslennlic  adoption 
the  lines  of  the  poet,  whether  in  a  metaphorical  or  of  all  the  common-places  of  pnise,  applied  to  every 
direct  sense  :  —  ,  thing,  and  therefore  signifying  nolhing. 


■Me  quotiens  fpficit  getidus  Digentia  i 


llll^,    dliu    V|l(^Tc;i,iic  31^1111)  111^    llVlllill.'g. 

The  style  which  one  person  thinks  cloegy  and  < 


Quern  Mandela  bibit  rugosus  frigore  pagiis."  ,  brous,  and  unsuiable,  mav  be  to  the  taste  of  others, 

The  stream  is  cleir  high  up  the  valley,  but  before  if  ^"'^  'V*!''  "!^>'  experience  sonie  salutary  excitement  in 
reaches  the  hill  of  Bafdela  looks  green  and  yellow  Plf>"?f"ng  through  the  periods  ol  the  Classical  Tour. 
like  a  sulphur  rivulet  "  "'"^'  "^  *^"'<  however,  that  polish  and  weight  are 

Rocca  Giovane,  a  ruined  village  in  (he  hills,  half  an  \P'  to  beget  an  expectation  of  value.  It  is  amongst 
hour's  walk  from  Ihe  vineyard" where  Ihe  pavement  I*'^  P^'"'  ',''  '''^  damned  to  t(.il  up  a  climax  wi;h  a 
is  shown,  does  seem  to  be  the  site  of  Ihe  fane  of  Va-    huje  round  so»e.  ... 

cuna,  and  an  inscription  found  there  tells  that  this  ^"^  '""""J",'  '?^''  'he  choice  of  his  words,  but  there 
temple  of  the  Sabine  Vic'orv  was  repaired  by  Ves-  "as  tio  such  latitude  allowed  to  that  of  his  seniimems. 
pisian.  With  thee  helps,  aiid  a  position  correspond-  V'^.  "''^^  "f  "■'""'[  ''"i  "f  liberty  which  must  have  l 
ing  exacllv  to  every  thing  which  the  poet  has  told  us  fiislinguished  the  character,  certainly  adorns  the  pages 
of  his  retfeal,  we  may  feel  tolerably  secure  of  our  °^  Mr.  Eu-^'^ce ;  and  the  gentlemanly  spirit,  so  re- 
,i(e.  commendatory  either  in  an  au  hor  or  his  productions. 

The  hill  which  should  be  Lucretilis  is  called  Cam-  L'  "-'"J  conspicuous  throughout  the  Classical  Tour, 
panile,  and  by  following  up  the  rivulet  lo  the  i.retend-  ^"'  '^^'^  zenerous  qualities  aie  the  folnge  of  such  a 
cd  Bandusia,  you  come  to  the  roots  of  the  higher  Performance,  and  maybe  -pread  about  it  eo  promi- 
aiountain  Gennaro.  Singularly  enough,  the  onlv'spot  I  "•="">■  and  profusely,  as  to  embarras-  those  who  wish 
of  ploughed  land  in  the  v»  hole  valley  is  ou  the 'knoll  I '"  "."  and  find  the  fruit  at  hand.  The  unction  of  the 
where  this  Bandusia  rises.  divine,  and  the  exhortalionsof  the  moralist,  may  have 

,.  ,    ,.  ...  niade  this  work   something  more  and  better  than  a 

Fes^iavomere  lau^r  1^°^  °f  tnveh,  but  they  hive  not  made  it  a  book  of 

Prael>es,  et  pecori  vago." 

The  peasants  show  another  sprine  near  the  mosaic'  1  See  — Historical  Illastrationg  of  the  Fourth  Canto,  p. 
pavement   which   they   call   '•  Oradina,"   and   which    '"' 


tlows  down  the  hills  in'o   a    tank,  or  mill-dam,  aud 
thence  trickles  over  into  the  Digenlia. 
But  we  must  not  hope 
"To  trace  the  Muses  upwards  'a  their  spring." 

40^ 


2  See  — Classical  Tour,  Sic.  chap.  vii.  p.  250.  vol.  ii. 

3  *'  Under  our  windows,  and  bordering  on  Ihe  beach,  is 
the  rnyiil  garden,  laid  out  in  parlcrres.  and  walks  ■haded 
by  rows  of  orange  liees."     Classical  Tour,  8ic.  chap.  xi. 


474 


DO.N   JUAN 


[Canto  i. 


travels;  and  Ihis  observation  applies  more  especially  I 
to  that  enlicin?  method  of  inslrucli  n  conveyed  by 
ihe  perpetual  introduction  of  the  same  Gallic  Helot  to 
reel  aid  blunter  before  the  rising  generation,  and 
letrify  it  into  decency  by  the  display  of  all  Ihe  ex- 
ce>ses  of  the  reioluiion.  An  animosity  'gainst  athe- 
ists and  regicides  in  general,  and  Freiiclinien  speci-  i 
fically,  may  be  honourable,  and  may  be  useful  as  a' 
record  :  but  that  antidote  should  eilher  be  adiiiinisier-! 
ed  in  any  woik  rather  than  a  tour,  or,  at  least,  should 
be  served  u,i  apait,  and  not  so  mixed  with  Ihe  whole 
mass  of  information  and  reflection,  as  to  give  a  bitter- 
ness to  every  page:  for  who  wouid  ch  ose  to  have 
the  an  ipalhies  of  any  man,  however  just,  f.r  his 
travelling  companions?  A  tourist,  unless  he  aspires 
to  the  credit  of  prophecy,  is  not  answerable  f  r  the 
changes  which  may  lake  place  in  Ihe  country  which 
he  describes;  bat  his  reader  may  ve'-y  fiirly  esteem 
all  his  political  por  raits  and  deductions  as  so  much' 
was  e  paper,  the  moment  they  ceise  to  assis',  and 
more  particularly  if  they  obstruct,  his  actual  survey.  ! 
Neither  encoiiiiiim  nor  accusation  of  any  govern- ; 
ment,  or  governors,  is  memt  lo  be  here  offered  ;  but 
it  is  stated  as  an  incontrovertible  fact,  thai  the  change 
opera'ed.  eilher  by  the  address  of  Ihe  late  imperial 
system,  or  by  the  disappointment  of  every  expectation 
by  those  who  h.ve  succeeded  to  the  Italian  thrones, 
has  been  so  considerable,  and  is  so  apparent,  as  not 
only  to  put  Mr.  Eustace's  anli-galiican  philippics  en- 
tirely out  of  date,  but  even  to  throw  some  suspicion 
upon  Ihe  c  mipelency  and  candour  of  the  author  him-| 
self.  A  remark ible  example  may  be  found  in  the! 
instance  of  Bologna,  over  whose  papal  allachments,  j 
and  consequent  desolation,  the  tourist  pours  forth  -uch 
strains  of  condoience  and  revenge,  made  louder  by  j 
the  borrowed  trumpet  of  Mr.  Burke.  Now  Bologna 
is  at  Ihis  moinenl,  and  ha^  been  for  some  years,  notori-! 
ous  amongs'  the  states  of  Italy  for  its  attachment  lo  i 
revolutionary  principles,  and  was  almost  Ihe  only 
city  which  mide  any  demonstr 'lions  in  favour  of  the 
unfortunate  Murat.    This  change  may,  however,  have  I 


been  made  since  Mr.  Eustace  visited  this  country  ;  but 
Ihe  traveller  whom  he  has  thrilled  wi!h  horror  at  the 
projected  stripping  of  the  copper  from  Ihe  cujoia  of 
St.  Petei's,  mus  be  much  relieved  to  (ind  that  sacri- 
lege out  of  the  power  of  ihe  French,  or  any  other 
plunderers,  Ihe  cufiola  being  covered  wi  h  lendA 

If  Ihe  conspiring  voice  of  o  herwise  rival  critics 
had  not  given  considerable  currency  to  the  Classical 
Tour,  it  would  have  been  unnecessary  to  warn  the 
reader,  hal  however  it  may  adorn  his  library,  it  will 
be  of  little  or  no  service  to  him  in  his  carriage;  and 
if  Ihe  judgment  of  those  critics  had  hitherto  been  sus- 
pended, no  attempt  would  have  been  made  to  aulici- 
pale  their  decision.  As  il  is,  those  who  stand  in  the 
relation  of  posterity  lo  Mr.  Eus'ace  may  be  permilled 
lo  appeal  from  co  empoiary  praises,  and  are  perhaps 
more  hkely  to  be  just  in  proportion  as  Ihe  c  uses  of 
love  and  hilred  are  the  farther  removed  This  ap- 
peal had,  in  some  measure,  been  made  before  Ihe 
above  remarks  were  written  ;  for  one  of  the  most  re- 
spectable of  Ihe  Florentine  publishers,  who  had  been 
persuaded  by  the  repeated  inquiries  of  those  on  their 
journey  southwards  lo  reprint  a  cheap  edition  of  Ihe 
Classical  Tour,  wa.s,  by  the  concurring  advice  of  re- 
turning travellers,  induced  to  abandon  his  design,  al- 
though he  had  already  arranged  his  types  and  paper, 
and  had  struck  off  one'or  two  of  the  hist  sheets. 

The  writer  of  these  notes  would  wish  to  part  (like 
Mr.  Gibbon)  on  good  term?  with  Ihe  Pope  and  the 
Cardinds,  but  he  does  not  think  il  necessary  lo  ex- 
tend the  same  discreet  silence  to  Ibeir  bumble  parti- 


1  "  What,  then,  will  be  the  astonishment,  or  rather  Ihe 

horror,    of  my    reader,    when    I    inform    bim t; 

French  C.immittee  turned  its  attention  to  Saint  Peter 
and  employed  a  company  of  Jews  to  estimate  and  purchase 
the  giild,  silver,  aud  bronze  that  adorn  the  inside  of  the 
edifice,  as  well  as  the  copper  that  covers  the  vaults  and 
dome  on  the  outside."  Chap.  iv.  p.  130.  vol.  ii.  The 
story  about  the  Jews  is  positively  denied  at  Rcme. 


DON  JUAN.' 


Difficile  est  proprie  rommunia  dicere.—  HOR. 

Dost  thou   think,  because  thon    art  virtuous,  there    shall  be  nn  mnre  rakes  and  ale?  — Tes.  by  Saint  Anne,  and 
inger  shall  be  hot  i'  the  mouth,  too :  SHAKSPEARES  Twe{fth  Night,  or  What  you  VfUl. 


CANTO   THE    FIRST. 3 


DEDICATION. 

I. 

Bob  Southey  !  You  're  a  poet  —  Poet-laureate, 

And  representative  of  all  Ihe  race, 
Although  'I  is  true  that  you  turn'd  out  a  Tory  at 

Last, —  yours  has  lately  been  a  common  case  — 
And  now,  my  Epic  Renegade  !  what  are  ye  at  ? 

With  all  the  Lakers,  in  and  out  of  place  ? 


a  rragment  on  the  bad  of  the  Poet's  MS.  of  Canto  I. 
I  would  to  heaven  that  1  were  so  much  clay, 

As  I  am  bi  od.  bnne,  marrow,  pas-cinn,  feeling  — 
Because  at  least  Ihe  past  were  passed  away  — 

And  for  the  future  — (but  I  wrile  this  reeling. 
Having  got  drunk  exceedingly  to-day. 

So  that  I  seem  to  stsud  upon  Ihe  ceiling) 
I  say  —  Ihe  future  is  a  serious  matter  — 
And  BO—  for  God's  sake — hixk  aud  soda-water! 
S  Written  at  Venire,  in    Ihe    Istier   part  of  1818;  pub- 
lisk'^d,  with  Canto  Secoi.d,  at  L'^i.d'  n,  in  July,  1619,  wilh- 
oat  '.be  name  of  author  or  bookseller. 


A  nest  of  tuneful  persons,  to  my  eye 

Like  "  four  and  twenty  Blackbirds  in  a  pye  ; 

II. 

"  Which  pye  being  open'd  they  began  to  sing" 
(This  old  song  and  new  simile  holds  good), 

"  A  dainty  dish  lo  set  before  the  King," 
j      Or  Regent,  w  ho  admires  such  kind  of  food  ;  — 
,  And  Coleridge,  too,  has  lately  taken  wing, 
I      But  like  a  liawk  encumber'd  wilh  his  hood, — 

Explaining  metaphysics  lo  the  nation  — 

I  w  ish  he  would  explain  his  Explaaalion.4 

I  in. 

You,  Boh  !  are  rather  insolent,  you  know, 
I      At  being  disappointed  in  your  wish 
I  To  supersede  all  warb'ers  here  below, 
'      And  be  Ihe  only  Blackbird  in  the  dish  ; 
,  And  then  you  overs'rain  yourself,  or  so, 
j      And  tumble  downward  like  Ihe  flying  fish 
Gasping  on  deck,  because  you  soar  too  high,  Bob, 
Aud  fall,  foi  lack  of  moisture  quite  a-dry,  Bob  ! 


Canto  I.] 


DON  JUAN. 


475 


IV. 

And  Wordsworth,  in  a  rather  lone;  "  Excursion" 
U  think  the  quarto  holds  five  hundred  p^ges), 

Has  given  a  sample  from  the  vasty  version 
Of  his  new  system  to  perplex  the  s.iges  ; 

'T  is  poetry  —  at  least  by  his  assertion, 

And  may  appear  so  when  ilie  d  ig-star  rages  — 

And  he  who  ui.dersiands  it  would  be  able 

To  add  a  story  to  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

V. 

you  — Gentlemen  !  by  dint  of  Ion»  seclusion 

From  better  company,  have  kepi  your  own 
At  Keswick, I  and,  through  still  continued  fusion 

Of  one  another's  minds,  at  last  have  grown 
To  deem  as  a  most  logrcal  conclusion, 

Th  it  Poesy  has  wre.ilhs  for  you  alone  : 
There  U  a  narrowness  in  such  a  notion. 
Which  mikes  me  wish  you  'd  change  your  lakes  for 
ocean. 

VI, 
I  would  not  imitate  the  petty  thought, 

Nor  coin  my  self-love  to  so  base  a  vice, 
For  all  the  glory  your  conversion  brought. 

Since  gold  alone  should  not  have  been  its  price. 
You  have  your  salaiy  :  was  'I  for  ll.ai  you  wrought  ? 

And  Wordsworth  his  his  place  in  the  Excise.S 
You  're  shabby  fellows—  true—  but  poets  still, 
And  duly  seated  ou  the  immortal  bill. 

VII. 
Your  bays  may  hide  the  boldness  of  your  brows  — 

Perhaps  some  virtuous  blushes  ;  —  let  them  go  — 
To  yu  1  envy  neither  fruit  nor  boughs  — 

And  for  the  fame  you  would  engross  below, 
The  field  is  universal,  and  allows 

Scope  to  all  such  as  feel  the  inherent  glow : 
Scott,  Roeers.  Cimpbell,  Moore,  and  Crabbe,  will  try 
"Gaiust  you  the  question  with  posterity. 

VIII. 
For  me,  who,  wandering  with  pedestrian  Muses, 

Contend  not  with  you  on  the  winged  steed, 
I  wish  your  fate  may  yield  ye,  when  she  chooses, 

The  fame  you  envy,  md  the  skill  you  need  ; 
And  recollect  i  poel  nothing  loses. 

In  giving  to  his  brethren  their  full  meed 
Of  merit,  and  complaint  of  |)reseiit  days 
Is  not  the  certain  path  to  future  praise. 

IX. 

He  that  reserves  his  laurels  for  posterity 
(VVh  1  d  es  not  often  claim  ihe  briglii'reversion) 

Has  generally  no  jreal  crop  to  spare  it,  he 
Being  only  injured  by  his  own  assertion  ; 

And  al  hough  here  and  there  some  glorious  rari'y 
Arise  like  Titan  from  the  sea's  immersion, 

Themijor  put  of  such  appellants  go 

To  —  God  knows  where  —  for  no  one  else  can  know. 

X. 

If,  fallen  in  evil  days  on  evil  tongues, 
Millon  appeaPd  to  the  Avengei",  'lime. 

If  'lime,  the  Avenger,  execrates  his  wrongs, 
And  makes  the  word  "  Milionic  "  mean  "  suhlime,'' 


1  Mr.  S'lnthey  is  the  ontjr  pnet  nf  the  day  that  ever  re- 
sicted  at  Kf.owii  k.  Mr.  Wi>rilswiirth.  who  lived  at  one 
time  on  (Srasmcre,  has  for  many  yeais  pout  ncrupied 
Mount  Rydal,  near  Ambleside  :  Prnfessor  Wilson  ponses- 
fes  an  elegant  villa  on  Windermere:  Coleridge,  Lamhe, 
LloTd,  and  others  elassed  by  the  Ediiihuri;h  Review,  in 
the  Lake  School,  never,  we  believe,  had  any  conueutinn 
with  that  pari  of  the  ronntry.  —  E. 

3  Wordsworth's  place  may  be  in  the  Customs  — it  is,  I 
think,  in  that  or  ihe  Excise  —  besides  annther  at  L.ird 
Lonsdale's  table,  where  this  pnetiral  (  harlalan  and  politi- 
cal para»ite  li.ks  up  the  crumswith  a  hardened  alacrily; 
Ihe  converted  Jacobin  having  long  subsided  into  the 
clowuiab  sycuptiaut  of  the  wuist  prejudices  of  the  aris- 
tocracy. 


He  deign'd  not  to  belie  his  soul  in  songs, 

Nor  turn  his  very  talent  to  a  ciime ; 
He  did  noi  lualhe  the  Sire  to  laud  the  Son, 
But  closed  the  tyrant-hater  he  begun. 

XI. 

Think'st  thou,  could  he  —  the  blind  Old  Man  —  ariae, 
Like  Samuel  from  the  grave,  to  freeze  once  more 

The  blood  of  nionarchs  with  his  prophecies, 
Or  be  alive  again  —  again  all  boar 

With  time  and  trials,  and  those  helpless  eyes. 
And  heartless  daughters  —  worn  —  and  pale  3  —  and 
poor ; 

Would  he  adore  a  sultan  ?  he  obey 

The  intellectual  eunuch  Castlereagh  ?  > 

XII. 

Cold  blooded,  smooth-faced,  placid  miscreant! 

Dabbling  its  sleek  young  hands  in  Erin's  gore. 
And  Ihus  for  wider  carnage  taught  to  pant, 

Transfer r'd  to  gorge  upon  a  sister  shore. 
The  vulgarest  tool  that  'Jyranny  could  want. 

With  jus'  enough  of  talent,  and  no  more, 
To  leng  hen  fetteis  by  aiiolher  tix'd. 
And  otier  poison  long  already  luix'd. 

XIII. 

An  orator  of  such  set  trash  of  phrase 

Ineffably  —  leojlimately  vile. 
That  even'  its  grossest  flatterers  dare  not  praise, 

Nor  foes  — all  naiions— condescend  to  smile, — 
Not  even  a  sprighily  blunder's  spaik  can  blaze 

From  that  Ixinn  grindstone''  ceaseless  toil, 
That  turns  and  turns  to  give  Ihe  world  a  notion 
Of  endless  torments  and  perpetual  moiiou. 

XIV. 
A  bungler  even  in  its  disgusting  trade, 

And  botching,  pa'ching,  leaving  still  behind 
Something  of  which  its  masters  are  afraid, 

.States  to  be  curb'd,  and  thoughts  to  be  confined, 
Conspiracy  or  Congress  to  be  made  — 

Cobbling  at  manacles  for  all  mankind  — 
A  tinkering  si  (ve-tiiakei,  who  mends  old  chains. 
With  God  and  man's  abhorrence  for  its  gains. 

XV. 

If  we  may  judge  of  matter  by  the  mind, 

Emasculated  to  the  marrow  [t 
Hath  but  two  objecis,  how  to  serve,  and  bind. 

Deeming  the  chain  it  wears  even  nien  may  fit, 
Eulropius  of  its  many  masters,*  —  blind 

To  worth  as  freedom,  wisdom  as  to  wit, 
Fearless  —  because  no  feeling  dwells  in  ice, 
Its  very  coutage  stagnates  to  a  vice. 


3  "Pale,  bnt  not  cadaverous  :  "  —  Milton's  two  elder 
danghters  are  s.iid  to  have  rot>hed  him  of  his  books,  be- 
»id.-s  cheating  and  plaguing  him  in  Ihe  econmny  of  his 
house,  (fcc.  &c.  His  feelings  on  su(  h  an  outrage,  both  as 
a  parent  and  a  scholar,  must  h  ive  been  singnlaily  painful. 
Hayley  crimpares  him  to  Lear.  See  part  thiid,  Life  of 
Milton,  by  W.  Hayley  (or  Hailey,  as  spell  iu  (be  edition 
before  me). 

4  Or,— 

"Would  he  subside  into  a  hackney  Laureate  — 
A  scribbling,  self-sold,  soul  hired,  scoru'd  Iscariot?  " 

I  doubt  if  "Laureate"  and  "Iscariot"  be  good  rhymes, 
but  must  say.  as  Ben  Jonsun  did  to  Sylvester,  who  uhal* 
lenged  him  to  rhyme  with  — 


Jonson  answered, —  "  I,  Ben 
Sylvester  answered,— "Tli 
said  Ben  Jonson ;  "  but  it  i^  r  ue.** 

S  For  the  character  iif  Kutrnpius,  the  eunuch  and  mlnte- 
ter  at  the  court  of  Arcadius,  see  Gibbon. 


[m 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  1. 


XVI. 
Where  shall  I  turn  me  noi  )o  view  i's  bonds, 

For  I  will  never  Jetl  hem  ;  —  It.ily  ! 
Thy  I  ite  reviving  Romxa  soul  desponds 

Beneath  the  lie  this  Slate-ihin^  breiihed  o'er  thee— 
Thy  clanking  chain,  ami  Erin's  yet  green  wounds, 

Have  voices  —  tongues  to  ciy  'loud  for  nie. 
Europe  has  slives  —  allies  —  kings  —  armies  still, 
And  Soulhey  lives  to  sing  them  very  ill. 

XVII. 
Meantime  —  Sir  Liureate  —  I  proceed  to  dedicate, 

In  honest  simple  verse,  this  song  lo  you  ; 
And,  if  in  fiatlering  strains  I  do  not  predicate, 

Mis  that  I  siill  retain  my  "  bufi  and  blue;"> 
My  politics  as  yet  are  all  to  educate  : 

Apostasy  's  so  f  ishionable,  too. 
To  keep  one  creed  's  a  task  grown  quite  Herculean  ; 
Is  it  not  so,  my  Tory,  ultra-Julian  ?  "J 

Veuiie,  September  16,  1618. 


Barmve,i2  Bris'0t,t3  Condnrcet.i*  Mirabeau,>» 
Petion,i6    Clootz.n   Danton.is    Marat.is  La  Fay- 
etle,20  I 

Were  French,  and  famous  people,  as  we  know  ; 

And  there  were  others,  scarce  forgotten  vet, 
Joubert,^!  Hoche,22  Marceau,«  Lannes,^*  Desaix,3S 
Moieau,26 
With  mai.y  of  the  military  set,  i 


I. 

I  want  a  hero:  nn  uncommon  want. 

When  everv  year  and  month  sends  forth  a  new  one. 
Till,  after  cloyiiig  the  gazetes  with  cant, 

The  age  di-covers  he  is  not  ihe  true  one  : 
Of  such  as  these  I  should  not  care  to  vaunt, 

I  'II  therefore  tnke  our  ancient  friend  Don  Juan  — 
We  all  have  seen  him,  in  the  pantomime. 
Sent  to  the  devil  somewhat  ere  his  time. 

II. 
Vernon,3  the  bu'chcr  Cumberland,*  Wolfe,s  Hawke,S 

Prince    Ferdinand, i    Grauby,8    Burgiyne.s    Kep- 
pel.io  Howe," 
Evil  and  good,  have  had  their  tithe  of  talk, 

And  fill'd  their  sign-posts  then,  like  Wellesley  now  ; 
Each  in  their  (urn  like  Banquo's  monarchs  stalk, 

Followers  of  fame,  "  nine  f.irrow  "  of  that  sow  : 

1  Mr.  Fox  and  the  Whig  Club  of  his  time  adopted  an 
unifjrm  of  blue  and  buff:  hence  the  coverings  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review.— E. 

2  I  allude  not  to  our  friend  Landnr's  hero,  the  traitor 
Count  Julian  but  to  Gibbon's  hero,  vulgarly  yclept  "The 

3  General  Vernon,  who  servpd  with  mnsiderable  dis- 
liuctioii  in  the  navy,  particularly  in  the  capture  of  Porto 
Bello,  died  in  1757.  —  E. 

4  Second  son  of  George  II  ,  distinpuished  himsflf  at  the 
battles  (if  Dellinyen  and  Fonteuny,  and  still  more  so  at 
Iliat  of  Cull. iden,  where  he  defeated  the  Chevalier,  in 
1746.  The  Dulse,  however,  ohsiured  his  fame  by  the  cruel 
abuse  which  he  made,  or  suSereil  his  soldiers  to  make,  of 
the  victory.     He  died  in  1765.  —  E. 

5  General  Wolfe,  the  brave  commander  of  the  rxpedi- 
tiin  against  Quebec,  (ermiiiated  his  career  in  the  mo- 
ment of  vittory,  whilst  fighting  against  the  Fieuch  in 
1759.—  E. 

Gin  1759,  Admir  1  Lord  Hawke  totally  defeated  the 
Ftenrh  fleet  equipped  at  Brest  fur  the  invasion  of  England. 
In  1765.  he  was  appointed  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty ; 
and  died,  full  of  hnuouis,  in  1781.  —  E. 

7  Ferdinand,  Duke  of  Brunswick,  who  gained  the  vic- 
tory of  M:nd<n.  In  1762,  he  drove  the  French  out  of 
Hesse.      He  died  in  1792.— E. 

fl  Son  of  the  third  Duke  of  Uutland  — signalised  him- 
self in  1745.  on  the  invasion  by  Prince  Charles;  and  was 
constituted,  in  1769,  commander  of  the  British  forces  in 
Germany.     He  died  in  1770.  —  E. 

9  An  English  general  officer  and  dramatist,  who  distin- 
guished him-elf  in  Ihe  defence  of  Poilugal,  in  1^62, 
agaiiist  the  Spaniards,  and  also  in  America,  by  the  cap- 
ture r>f  Ticouderogn;  hut  was  at  last  obliged  to  surrender, 
with  his  army,  lo  General  Galea.     Died  in  1792.—  E. 

10  Seond  son  of  Ihe  Earl  of  Albemarle.  Placed  at  the 
head  nf  the  channel  fleet,  he  partially  engaged,  in  !778,  Ihe 
French  fleet  olf  U  hant.  which  contrived  to  esi-ape  :  he 
was,  in  consequence,  tried  byn  court  martial,  and  honour- 
ably aoiuittcd.     He  died  in  1766.—  E. 

11  Lord  Howe  distill? uished  himself  on  many  occasions 
during  the  Ameriiau  war.  On  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Fr.nch  war,  he  look  Ihe  command  of  the  English  fleet, 
UHli  bringing  Ihe  enemy  to  an  action  on  the  1st  of  June, 
IViM.  ol>taine^i  a  splendid  victory.     He  died  in  1799.— E. 


12  Barnavp,  one  of  the  most  active  prnmoters  of  the 
French  revolution,  was  in  1791.  appointed  president  of  the 
Conslituent  Assembly.  On  the  flight  of  Ihe  royal  family, 
he  was  sent  lo  conduct  them  to  Paiis.  He  was  guillotin- 
ed. Not.  1793. —E. 

13  Brissot  de  Warville,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  published 
several  tracts,  for  ine  of  which,  he  was,  in  1784,  throwt 
into  the  Bastile.  He  was  one  nf  Ihe  principal  instigators 
of  the  revolt  of  Ihe  Champ  de  Mars,  in  July,  1769.  He 
was  led  to  the  guillotine,  Oct.  1793.  —  E.  1 

14  Cnndorcct  was,  in  1792,  appointed    president  of  Ihe 
Legislative    Assembly.     Having,    in    1793,    attacked   Ibt 
new  constitution,  he  was  denounced.     Bein?  thrown  into  || 
prison,  he  was  on  the  following  morning  found  dead,  ap-  i 
parenllyfrom  poison.     His  works  are  collected  in  twenty- 
one  voluroea.— E.  |' 

I  15  Mirabeau,  so  well  known  as  one  of  the  chief  pro- 
moters of,  and  actor*  in,  the  French  revolution,  died  in 
1791.  — E. 

16  Pction,  mayor  of  p.ris.  in  1791,  look  an  active  part 
in  the  imprisonment  nf  Ihe  king.  Becoming,  in  1793,  an 
object  of  suspicion  lo  Robespierre,  he  Innk  refuge  in  the 
department  of  Ihe  Calvados  ;  where  his  body  was  found  in 
a  field,  half-devoured  by  wnlves.— E. 

I      17  John  Baptiste  (better  known  under  the  appellation  of 

I  Anacharsis)  Cl.iolE.  In  1790.  at  Ihe  bar  of  the  National 
Convention,  he  described  himself  as  •' Iho  orator  of  the 
humnn  race."  Being  suspected  by  Robespierre,  he  was, 
in  1*94,  condemned  lo  death.  On  the  scaffold  he  begged 
lo  be  decapitated  Ihe  last,  as  he  wished  to  make  some  ob- 
servations essential  to  the  establishment  of  certain  | 
ciples,  while  Ihe  heads  of  Ihe  others  were  falling;  a  re- 
quest obligingly  complied  witb.  — E. 

I  18  Danton  played  a  very  important  part  during  the  first 
years  of  ttie  French  revolution.  After  the  tail  rf  the 
king,  he  w.i8  made  Minister  of  Justice.  His  violent  : 
sures  led  to  Ihe  bloody  scenes  of  September,  1792.  Being 
denounced  lo  the  Commillee  of  Safely,  he  ended 
career  on  Ihe  guillotine,  in  1794.— E. 

19  This  wretch  6gured    among    the    artorsofthe  10th 
August,  and  in  the  assasiinations  of  Sep.lember,  1792. 
May,  1793,  he  was  denounced,    and  delivered  over  lo  the 

I  revolutionary  tribunal,  which  acquitted  hirn;  but 
bloodv  career  was  arrested  hy  Ihe  knife  of  au  astassi 
the  person  of  Charlnite  Corde.  —  E. 

20  Of  all  these  '•  famous  people."  Ihe  General  was  Ihe 
last  survivor.     He  died  in  1631.  —  E. 

21  Jouberl  distinguished  himself  at  the  engagements  < 
Laono,  Montenotle,  Millesimo,  Cava,  Monlebello,  Rivol 
and  especially  in  Ihe  Tyrol.  He  was  afierwaids  opposed 
to  Suwarrow,  and  was  killed,  in  3799,  at  Novi.- E. 

22  In  1796,  Hoche  was  appointed  to  the  command  of  the 
expedition  against  Ireland,  and  sailed  in  December,  from 
Brest;  but,  a  storm  dispersing  the  fleet,  the  plan  failed. 
After  his  return,  he  received  the  command  nf  Ihe  army 
of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse;  but  died  suddenly,  in  Septem- 
ber, 1797,  it  was  suppi.sed  of  poison.— E. 

23  General  Marceau  first  distinguished  himself  in  La 
Vendee.  He  was  killed  by  a  nfle-ball,  at  Alterker- 
chen.  — E. 

24  Lannes,  Duke  of  Mcntebello,  distinguished  himself  at 
Millesimo,  Lodi,  Aboukir,  Acre,  Monlebello,  Austerlili, 
Jena.  Pultusk.  Pieuss  Eyiau,  Fiiedland,  Tudela,  Sata- 
gnssa.  Eihmuhl,  and  lastly,  at  Esling;  where,  in  May, 
1M9.  he  was  killed  by  a  cannon-ahot.  —  E. 

25  At  the  taking  of  Malta,  and  at  the  battles  of  Che- 
breis*  and  of  the  Pyramid-",  Desaix  displayed  Ihe  greatest 
bravery.  He  was  mortally  wounded  by  a  cannon-ball,  at 
Marengo,  just  as  victory  declared  for  the  French. —  E. 

26  One  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  republican  gen- 
erals.    In  1613,  on  hearing  of  the  reverses  of  KapoleoD, 

I  in  Russia,  he  joined  the  allied  armie*.  He  was  struck  by 
I  a  cannon-ball,  at  the  battle  of  Dresden,  iB  1613.— K. 


I  Canto  I.J 


DON   JUAN. 


?1 


Exceedingly  remarkable  at  times. 
But  uol  al  aH  ad.ip:ed  to  my  rhymes. 

IV. 
Nelson  was  once  Britannia's  ?od  of  war, 

And  still  should  be  s>,  but  the  tide  is  turn'd ; 
Theie  's  no  more  to  be  said  of  Trafalgar, 

'  i  is  wi  h  our  hero  quieily  inurn'd  ; 
Because  the  army  's  grown  mo;e  popular, 

At  which  the  naval  people  are  concerned  ; 
Besides,  ihe  prince  is  ail  for  ll>e  land  service. 
Forgetting  Duncan,  Nelson,  Howe,  and  Jervis. 


Brave  men  were  living  before  Agimemnon 
And  since,  exceeding  valorous  and  sage, 

A  good  deal  like  him  too,  though  quite  the  same  Done  j 
But    hen  they  shone  not  on  the  poet's  page, 

And  ^o  hive  been  forgotten  :  —  1  condemn  none, 
But  can':  tind  any  in  the  present  age 

Fit  for  my  poem  (that  is,  for  my  new  one) ; 

So,  as  I  said,  1  'II  take  my  friend  Don  Juan. 

VI. 

Most  epic  poefs  plunge  "  in  medias  res  " 
(Horace  makes  this  the  heroic  turnpike  road), 

And  then  your  hero  tells,  whene'er  you  please, 
What  went  before  —  by  way  of  episode. 

While  sealed  after  dinner  at  his  ease, 
Bd«ide  his  misiress  in  some  soft  ab?>Je, 

Palice,  or  garden,  paradise,  or  cavern. 

Which  serves  the  happy  couple  for  a  tavern. 

VII. 
That  is  the  usual  method,  but  no'  mine  — 

My  way  is  to  begin  with  the  beginning; 
The  regularity  of  my  design 

Forbids  all  wandering  as  the  worst  of  sioDing, 
And  therefore  I  shall  open  with  a  line 

(Allhnngh  it  cost  me  half  an  hour  in  spinning) 
Narraiiiig  somewhat  of  Don  Juan's  fdher, 
And  also  of  his  mother,  if  you'd  rather. 

VIII. 
Id  Seville  was  he  bom,  a  pleasant  cilv. 

Famous  for  oranges  and  women  —  he 
Who  has  not  seen  it  will  be  much  to  pity. 

So  says  Ihe  proverb  —  and  1  quite  agree  ; 
Of  all  the  Spani>h  lowns  is  none  more  pretty, 

Cadiz  perhaps  —  but  that  you  soon  may  see  : 
Don  Juan's  parents  lived  beside  the  river, 
A  noble  stream,  and  cjill'd  the  Guadalquivir. 

IX 

His  fa'her's  mme  was  Jose—  Don,  of  course, 

A  true  Hidalgo,  free  from  every  slain 
Of  Moo    or  Hebrew  blood,  he  traced  his  source 

'I'hiDugh  the  most  Gothic  gentlemen  of  Spain; 
A  better  "cavil  ier  ne'er  mounted  horse, 

Or.  being  mounted,  e'er  got  down  again, 
Thati  Jose,  who  beg'if  our  hero,  who 
Begot  —  but  that 's  to  come Well,  to  renew  : 


His  mother  was  a  learned  Indy,  famed 

For  every  branch  of  every  science  known  — 

In  every  Christian  language  ever  named  ; 
With  virtues  cquali'd  by  her  wit  alone. 

She  made  the  cleverest  people  qui'e  ashimed. 
And  even  the  good  wi  h  inward  envy  groan. 

Finding  themselves  so  very  much  exceeded 

In  their  own  way  by  all  the  things  that  she  did. 

XI. 

Her  memory  was  a  mine:  she  knew  by  heart 
All  Caideron  and  greater  pi n  of  Lope, 

So  that  if  any  actor  miss'd  his  part 
She  could  have  served  him  for  the  prompter's  copy  : 


For  her  Feinagle's  were  an  useless  art.i 

And  he  himself  obliged  to  shut  up  shop  -he 
Could  never  make  a  meiiioiy  so  fine  as 
That  which  adoru'd  Ihe  brain  of  Donna  Ii.ei9 

XII. 
Her  favourite  science  was  Ihe  malheina'ical, 

Her  noblest  virtue  was  her  magnaiiimity. 
Her  wit  (she  s  mielimes  tried  at  wii)  was  Attic  all, 

Her  serious  sryings  darken'd  to  sublimity  ; 
In  short,  in  all  things  she  was  fairly  whni  1  call 

A  prodigy  — her  morning  dress  was  dimity. 
Her  evening  silk,  or,  in  the  summer,  muslin. 
And  other  stuffs,  with  which  I  won't  slay  puzzling. 

XIII. 
She  knew  the  La'in  —  that  is,  "  Ihe  Lord's  prayer," 

And  Greek  —  the  alphabet  — I  'm  nearly  sure; 
She  red  some  French  romances  here  aiid'there, 

Although  her  mode  of  speaking  was  not  puie; 
For  native  Spanish  she  had  no  greit  care. 

At  least  her  conversation  was  obscurj  ; 
Her  thoughts  were  theorems,  her  words  a  problem, 
As  if  she  deem'd  that  mystery  would  ennoble  'em. 

XIV. 
She  liked  the  English  and  the  Hebrew  tongue. 

And  said  there  was  analoiiy  between  'em  ; 
She  proved  it  somehow  out  of  sicred  song. 

But  1  must  leave   the  proofs  to  those  who've  seen 
'em, 
But  this  I  heard  her  say,  and  can't  be  wrong. 

And  all  may  think  ivhich  way  their  judgments  lean 
'em, 
"'T  is  strange  — the  Hebrew  noun  which  means  '  I 

am,' 
The  English  always  use  to  govern  d— n." 

XV. 

Some  women  use  their  lonenes  —  she  Zooft'rf  a  lecture, 
Each  eye  a  seniion,  and  her  brow  a  homily. 

An  all-in-all  suflScient  self-director. 

Like  Ihe  lamented  1  ite  Sir  Samuel  Romilly,* 

The  Law's  expounder,  and  Ihe  Slate's  corrector. 
Whose  suicide  was  almost  an  anomaly  — 

One  sad  exmiple  more,  that  "All  is  vanity," — 

(The  jury  brought  their  verdict  in  "luaanily.") 

XVI. 

In  short,  she  was  a  walking  calculation. 

Miss  Edgeworlh's  novels  stepping  from  their  covers. 
Or  Mrs  Trimmer's  books  on  educaiion,-' 

Or  "  Coelebs'  Wife  "  *  set  out  in  quest  of  lovers. 
Morality's  prim  personification. 

In  wliich  not  Envy's  self  a  flaw  discovers; 
To  others'  share  let  "fenrale  errors  fall," 
For  she  had  not  even  one  —  the  worst  of  all. 

XVIL 

Oh  !  she  was  perfect  past  all  panllel  — 
Of  any  modern  female  saint's  comparison  ; 

So  far  above  the  cunning  powers  of  hell. 

Her  guardian  anzel  had  given  up  hi-  garrison ; 

Even  her  minutest  motions  went  as  well 
As  those  (if  the  best  lime-piece  made  by  Harrison  : 


1  Professor  Feinagle,  of  Baden,  who,  in  ISH.  under  tlie 
espeiial  patronage  n(  the  •'  Blues."  delivered  a  course  of 
le<  turcH  al  the  Royal  Irrstitiitrnn  on  Mnemiinicg,  —  E. 

2  "  Lady  Byron  hnd  Bond  ideas,  birt  cnuld  never  exprem 
them;  wrote  poetry  also,  hrit  it  was  only  good  bv  acci- 
dent. Her  letters  were  always  eur!;nialieal,  often  unin- 
telligible. Slie  was  governed  hy  what  she  railed  fixed 
rules  and  primiples  squared  mathematically."  —  Bj/rpB 
Leltert.  —  K. 

3  Sir  Samuel  Rnmilly  lost  his  lady  on  the  29th  ol  Oc- 
tober,  and   committed   suicide   on  the  2d  of  November 

I  leib.  —  E. 

I      4  "Comparative  View  nf  the  New  Plan  oi  Educaiion," 

"Teacher's  Ansislant,"  ic.  &c.  —  E. 
I      5  Hannah  More's  ••  Coelebs  in  S.  arch  cf  i.  A^  ife."  fcc., 

a  eermon-like  novel,  which  had  great  success  at  the  lime, 

and  is  now  forgotteo.  —  E. 


478 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto 


In  vi'tues  nolhiiif  earthly  could  siirpnss  lier, 
Save  thiae  "  iiiconiparuble  oil,"  Macassar  !  i 

XVIII. 
Perfect  she  was,  but  a*  perfection  is 

Insipid  in  this  iiaiighty  world  of  ours, 
Where  our  fi  at  p  rents  never  leiru'd  lo  kiss 

Till  ihey  were  exiled  from  iheir  earlier  bowers, 
Where  ill  w^s  peace,  ;ind  innocence,  and  bliss, 

(I  "onder  ho.v  ihey  got  through  the  twelve  hours) 
Don  Jose,  like  a  li.  eal  son  of  Eve, 
Went  plucking  various  fruit  without  her  leave. 

XIX. 

He  was  a  mortal  of  the  careless  kind, 

Wih  no  great  love  for  learning,  or  the  lejirn'd, 

Who  chose  lo  ^o  where'er  he  had  a  mind, 
■  And  never  dreani'd  his  lady  was  concern'd ; 

The  world,  as'u^ual,  wickedly  inclined 
To  see  a  kingdom  or  a  house  o'erturn'd. 

Whisper'd  he  had  a  niistrers,  some  said  two, 

But  for  domestic  quarrels  one  will  do. 

XX. 

Now  Donna  Inez  had,  with  all  her  merit, 
A  great  opinion  of  her  own  good  qualities; 

Neglect,  indeed,  requires  a  sain   to  bear  it. 
And  such,  indeed,  »he  was  in  her  moralities  ; 

But  then  she  had  a  dovil  of  a  spirit, 
And  sometimes  mix'd  up  fancies  with  realities, 

And  let  few  opportunities  escape 

Of  gelling  her  liege  lord  into  a  scrape. 

XXI. 

This  wns  an  easy  matter  wi'h  a  man 
Oft  in  the  wrong,  and  never  on  his  guard  ; 

And  even  the  wise^t,  do  the  best  they  can. 

Have  moments,  hours,  and  da>s,  so  unprepared, 

That  you  might  "  brain  them  with  their  lady's  fan  ;  " 
And  sometimes  ladie^  hit  exceeding  hard, 

And  fans  turn  into  falchions  in  fair  hands. 

And  why  and  wherefore  no  one  understands. 

XXII. 
'T  is  pity  learned  virgins  ever  wed 

With  persons  of  no  sort  of  education. 
Or  gentlemen,  who,  thou'h  well  born  and  bred, 

Grow  tired  of  scientitic  conversation  : 
I  don't  choose  to  say  much  upon  this  head, 

I  "ni  a  pl.iin  man,  and  in  a  single  station. 
But  —  Oh  !  ye  lords  of  ladies  inielleclnal. 
Inform  us  truly,  have  they  not  heu-peck'd  you  all  ? 

XXIII. 
Don  Jose  and  his  lady  quarrell'd  —  why. 

Not  any  of  the  many  could  divine, 
Though  several  thousand  people  chose  to  try, 

'T  was  surely  no  concern  of  theirs  nor  mine  ; 
I  loathe  that  low  vice —  curiosity  ; 

Rut  if  there  's  any  ^hing  in  which  I  shine, 
'T  i-  in  ariangiiig  all  my  friends' affairs. 
Not  having,  of  my  own,  domestic  cares. 

XXIV. 
And  so  I  interfered,  and  with  the  best 

Intentions,  but  their  treatment  was  not  kind  ; 
I  think  the  foolish  people  were  possessM, 

For  neither  of  them  could  1  ever  find, 
Allhoush  their  porter  aferwards  confess'd  — 

But  that 's  no  matter,  and  the  worst 's  behind, 
For  little  Juan  o'er  me  threw,  down  stairs, 
A  ]iail  of  hou>emaid's  water  unawares. 

XXV. 
A  little  curly-headed,  good-for-nothing. 

And  mischief-nnkins  monkey  from  his  birth; 
His  parents  ne'er  astrred  except'in  doting 

Upon  the  most  unquiet  imp  on  earth  ; 


Instead  of  quarrelling,  had  they  been  but  both  in 

Their  senses,  Ihey  "d  have  seiil  young  master  iorth 
To  school,  or  had  him  soundly  »  hipp'd  ai  home, 
To  teach  him  manners  for  the  lime  lo  come. 

XXVI. 
Don  Jose  and  the  Donna  Inez  led 

For  some  time  an  unhappy  soit  of  life. 
Wishing  each  other,  not  divorced,  but  dead  ; 

They  lived  tespectibly  as  man  and  wife, 
Their  conduct  was  exceedingly  well-bred. 

And  gave  no  outward  signs  of  inward  strife, 
Until  at  lenglh  the  smothei'd  fiie  broke  out. 
And  put  thebusineis  past  all  kind  of  doubt. 

XXVI  I. 
For  Inez  cali'd  some  druggists,  and  physicians. 

And  tried  to  prove  her  loi  ing  loid  was  mad, 
Bi-t  as  be  had  some  lucid  in  eriiiissions, 

She  next  decided  he  »as  oi.ly  bad ; 
Yet  when  ihey  ask'd  her  for  her  depositions, 

No  sort  of  explanation  could  be  had. 
Save  that  her  duty  both  lo  iiirii  and  God 
Required  this  conduct  —  which  seem'd  very  odd. 

XXVI 1 1. 

She  kept  a  journal,  where  his  faults  were  noted, 

And  opeii'd  ceriain  trunks  of  books  and  letters, 
All  which  might,  if  occ-tsion  served,  be  quoted ; 

And  then  she  had  all  Seville  for  abettors, 
Be-ides  her  good  old  grandmother  («  ho  doled); 

The  hearers  of  her  case  became  repeaters, 
Then  advocates,  inquisitors,  and  judges. 
Some  for  amusement,  others  for  old  grudges. 

XXIX. 
And  then  this  best  and  meekest  woman  bore 

With  such  serenity  her  husband's  woes. 
Just  as  the  Spartan  ladies  did  of  yore. 

Who  saw  their  spou-es  kill'd,  and  nobly  chose 
Never  to  say  a  word  about  them  more  — 

Calmly  she  heaid  each  calumny  that  rose. 
And  saw  his  agonies  with  such  snbliniity. 
That  all  the  world  excliim'd,  "  What  magnanimity  !  " 

XXX. 

No  doubt  this  patience,  when  the  world  is  damning  us. 

Is  philosophic  in  our  former  friends, 
'T  is  also  pleasant  to  be  dee:n"d  magn  inimous. 

The  more  so  in  obtaining  our  own  ends  ; 
And  what  Ihe  lawyers  call  a  "  tnalus  animus  " 

Conduct  like  this  by  no  means  comprehends  : 
Revenge  in  person  's  certainly  no  virtue. 
But  then  'I  is  not  my  fault,  if  others  hurl  you. 

XXXI. 

And  if  our  quarrels  should  rip  up  old  stories. 
And  help  them  with  a  lie  or  two  additional, 

I  'm  not  to  blame,  as  you  well  know  —  no  more  i$ 
Any  one  else  —  the>  were  become  traditional ; 

Besides,  their  resurrection  aids  our  glories 

By  contrast,  which  is  what  we  just  Were  wishing  all: 

And  science  profits  by  this  resurrection  — 

Dead  scandals  form  good  subjects  for  dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their  friends  2  had  tried  at  reconciliation. 

Then  their  relations,  who  made  matters  worse, 
('T  were  hard  to  tell  upon  a  like  occasion 

To  whom  it  may  be  best  to  have  recourse^ 
I  can't  siy  much  for  friend  or  yet  relation): 

The  lawyers  did  their  utmost  for  divorce, 
But  scarce  a  fee  was  paid  on  either  side 
Before,  unluckily,  Don  Jose  died. 
I  XXXIII. 

He  died  :  and  most  unluckily,  because. 

According  to  all  hints  1  could  cillect 
From  counsel  learned  in  those  kinds  of  laws, 

(Although  their  talk 's  obscure  and  circumspect) 

I  3  Mr.Rngera,  Mr.  Hobliotise,  Sic.  &c.  — C. 


i  Canto  I.J 


DON   JUAN. 


479 


His  Jealh  contrived  to  spoil  a  charming  cause  j 

A  thousand  pities  also  with  respect 
To  public  leeling,  which  on  this  occasion 
Was  nuuitesSed  in  a  great  sensation. 


XXXIV. 
But  ah  !  he  died  ;  and  buried  with  him  lay 

The  public  feeling  and  the  lawyer's  fees  : 
His  bouse  was  sold,  hi«  servants  sent  away, 

A  Jew  took  one  of  his  two  mislresics, 
A  priest  theoiher  —  at  least  so  they  say  : 

i  ask'd  the  doctors  after  his  diseise  — 
He  died  of  the  slow  fever  call'd  the  tertian, 
Alii  left  his  widow  to  her  own  aversion. 

XXXV. 
Yet  Jose  was  an  honourable  man, 

That  I  must  say,  who  knew  him  very  well ; 
Therefore  his  frailties  1  'II  no  further  scan. 

Indeed  there  were  not  many  more  to  tell : 
And  if  his  passions  now  and  then  outran 

Discretion,  and  were  not  so  peaceable 
As  Numa's  (who  vvas  also  named  Pnuipilius),' 
He  bad  been  ill  brought  up,  and  was  born  bilious. 

XXXVl. 

«Yhate'er  might  be  his  worthlessness  or  worth. 
Poor  fellow  !  he  had  many  things  to  wound  him, 

Let 's  own  —  since  it  can  do  no  good  on  earth  — 
It  was  a  trying  moment  that  which  found  him 

Standins  alone  beside  his  desolate  hearth. 

Where  all  his  household   gods   lay  shiver'd  round 
him ! 

No  choice  was  left  his  feelings  or  his  pride. 

Save  death  or  Doctors'  Commons  —  so  he  died. 

XXXVII. 
Dying  inleslate,  Juan  was  sole  heir 

To  a  chancery  suit,  and  messuages,  and  lands, 
Which,  with  a  long  minority  and  care. 

Promised  to  turn  out  well  in  proper  hands: 
Inez  beaime  sole  guardian,  which  was  fair. 

And  answered  but  to  nature's  just  demands; 
An  only  son  left  with  an  only  mother 
U  brought  up  much  more  wisely  than  another. 

XXXVIII. 
Sagest  of  women,  even  of  widows,  she 

Resolved  that  Juan  should  be  quite  a  paragon, 
And  worthy  of  the  noblest  pedigree  : 

(His  sire  was  of  Castile,  his  dam  from  Aragon.) 
Then  for  accomplishments  of  chivalry, 

In  case  our  lord  the  king  should  go  to  war  again, 
He  learn'd  the  arts  of  riding,  fencing,  gunnery, 
And  how  to  scale  a  fortress  —  or  a  nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But  that  which  Donna  Inez  most  desired. 
And  saw  into  herself  each  day  before  all 

The  learned  tutors  whom  for  him  she  hired, 
Was,  that  his  breedins  should  be  strictly  moral : 

Much  in'o  all  liis  studies  she  inquired, 
And  so  they  were  submitted  lirst  to  her,  all. 

Arts,  sciences,  no  branch  was  made  a  mystery 

To  Juans  eyes,  except  in  natural  history. 

XL. 
The  languages,  especiaHy  the  dead. 

The  science*,  and  mo-t  of  all  the  abstruse. 
The  arts,  at  least  all  such  as  could  be  said 

To  be  the  most  remote  from  common  use, 
In  all  these  he  was  much  and  deeply  read  ; 

But  not  a  page  of  any  thine  'hat  's  loose, 
Or  hints  continiation  of  the  species, 
W«  ever  sufler'd,  lest  he  should  giow  vicious. 


jui  legibus  urbem 
irvin  el  paupert-  terra 
magnum."  — VIRG. 


,  XLI. 

I  His  classic  studies  made  a  little  Duzzle, 

I      Because  of  filthy  loves  of  gods  and  goddesaea, 

Who  in  the  earlier  ages  raised  ?  bus  le, 
I      But  never  put  on  pantaloons  or  bodices  ; 
i  His  reverend  tuors  had  at  limes  a  tussle, 
j      And  for  their  ^neids.  III  ids,  and  Udysseys, 
I  Were  forced  to  make  an  odd  sort  of  apology, 
!  For  Donna  Inez  dreaded  the  Mythology. 

j  XLII. 

i  Ovid's  a  rake,  as  half  his  verses  show  him, 

I      Anacreon's  morals  are  a  still  worse  sample, 

I  Catullus  scarcely  has  a  decent  pneni, 

I      I  don't  think  Sappho's  Ude  a  good  example, 

I  Although  Longim.s  a  tells  us  there  is  no  hymn 

I      Where  the  sublime  so  irs  forth  on  wings  more  ample; 

I  But  Virgil's  songs  are  pure,  except  that'horrid  one 

I  Beginning  with  "  Formosum  Pastor  Corydon." 

j  XLIII. 

I  Lucretius'  irreligion  is  too  strong 

For  eaily  stomachs,  to  prove  wholesome  food  ; 
I  can't  help  thinking  Juvenal  was  wrong. 

Although  no  doubt  his  real  intent  was  good. 
For  speaking  out  so  plainly  in  his  song. 

So  much  indeed  as  to  be  downright  rude  ; 
And  then  what  proper  peison  can  be  partial 
To  all  those  nauseous  epigrams  of  Martial  ? 

XLIV. 
Juan  was  taught  from  nut  the  best  edition. 
Expurgated  by  learned  men,  who  place, 
Judiciiiusfy,  from  out  the  schoolboy's  vi>ioD, 

The  grosser  parts  ;  but,  fearful  to  deface 
Too  much  their  modest  bard  by  this  omission. 

And  pilyins  sore  his  mutilated  case. 
They  only  add  ihem  all  in  an  appendix, 3 
Which  saves,  in  fact,  the  trouble  of  an  index; 

XLV. 
For  there  we  have  Ihein  all  "  at  one  fell  swoop," 

Instead  of  being  scalter'd  through  the  pages; 
They  stand  forth  marshali'd  in  a  handsome  troop, 

1  o  meet  the  ingenuous  youth  of  future  ages, 
Till  some  less  rigid  editor  shall  s^oop 

To  call  them  bick  into  their  separate  cages. 
Instead  of  standing  staring  altogether. 
Like  garden  gods  —  and  not  so  deceat  either. 

XLVL 
The  Missal  too  (it  was  the  family  Missal) 

Was  ornamented  in  a  sort  of  way 
Which  ancient  mass-books  offen  are,  and  this  all 
Kinds  of  grotesques  illumined  ;  and  how  they. 
Who  saw  those  figures  on  the  margin  kiss  all, 
Could  turn  their  optics  to  the  text  and  pray, 
Is  more  than  I  know  —  But  Don  Juan's  mother 
Kept  this  herself,  and  gave  her  son  anolber. 

XLVII. 
Sermons  he  read,  and  lecures  he  endured. 
And  homilies,  and  lives  of  all  the  saints; 
To  Jerome  and  to  Chrysoslom  inured, 

He  did  not  take  such  studies  for  restraints  ; 
But  ho-.v  faith  is  acquired,  and  then  ensured. 

So  well  not  one  of  the  aforesaid  paints 
As  Saint  Augustine  in  his  fine  Confessions, 
Which  make  the  reader  envy  his  transgressions.* 


2  See  Loneinus.  Section  10.,  "  IVa  flfj  CV  Tt  Ittfi 
ainifV  rrddo^  (paivqrai,  naOuiv  (i  aivoios" 

3  Fait ;  Ttit-re  is,  nr  was,  eurh  an  ediiinn,  with  all  the 
obnoiioiiS  epigrang  of  Martial  placed  by  Ibemselvei  at  the 
euj. 

4  See  hi»  CoDfessionp,  1.  i.  c.  ix.  By  the  representa- 
tion which  Saint  Aneustine  giveg  (if  himself  in  hi.  youih, 
it  !•  easy  to  gee  that  he  was  what  we  nhiuilri  tall  a  rake. 
He  BVDi'iled  the  whool  as  the  plaffue  ;  he  loved  nothing 
but  gaming  and  public  shows;  he  robbed  his  fatLer  ot 
every  thing  he  could  find:  he  invented  a  Ihc/usaDd  He*  to 

I  escape  Ihe  rwl,  which  ihey  were  obliged  to  make  <ue  of  to 
.  punish  bis  irregularities. 


480 


DON  JUAjN 


[Canto  I. 


XLVIII. 

This,  fcx),  was  a  senl'd  book  to  litlle  Juan  — 
I  '•ao't  but  ixy  Ibal  liis  mamnia  "ms  light, 

If  such  an  eJuCiIioii  »a»  the  trL.e  one. 
She  scarfelv  trusted  hini  from  out  her  si;ht  ; 

Her  maids  "ere  old,  ai.d  if  she  look  a  ne«  oue, 
Y"U  nii^hl  be  sure  she  was  a  perfect  fright. 

She  did  this  during  even  her  hubb<ud's  life  — 

I  recomineud  as  much  to  every  wife. 

xnx. 

Young  Juan  wax'd  in  goodliness  and  grace ; 

At  six  a  charnirns  ciiild,  and  at  eleven 
Wi  h  all  the  prnniise  cif  as  fine  a  face 

A-  e'er  lo  man'»  nia'urer  growth  was  given  : 
He  studied  -leadilv,  ^nd  grew  apace, 

And  seeni'd,  at  least,  in  the  right  road  to  heaven, 
For  half  his  d  .ys  were  pass'd  at  church,  the  other 
Between  his  tutors,  coufessor,  aiid  mother. 

L. 
At  six,  I  said,  he  was  a  charming  child, 

Ai  twelve  he  was  a  fine,  but  quiet  boy  ; 
Although  ill  infancy  a  liiile  wild, 

They  tamed  him  down  amongst  them  :  to  destroy 
His  nitunl  spirit  not  in  vain  they  toii'd, 

At  leist  it  seem'd  so  ;  and  his  'mother's  joy 
Was  to  declare  how  sage,  and  still,  :ind  steady, 
Her  young  philosopher  was  grown  already. 

LI. 

I  had  my  doubts,  perhaps  I  have  them  still. 
But  what  I  >ay  is  neither  here  nur  there : 

I  knew  his  father  well,  and  have  some  skill 
In  character  — but  it  would  not  be  fair 

From  sire  to  son  to  augur  good  or  ill  : 
He  and  his  wife  were  an  ill-sorted  pair  — 

But  scandal  's  my  aversion  —  I  protest 

Against  all  evil  speaking,  even  in  Jest. 

LII. 
For  my  part  I  say  nothing  — nothing  — but 

Tli't  I  w  ill  say  —  my  reasons  are  my  own  — 
Thit  if  I  had  an  only  son  to  put 

To  school  (as  God  be  praised  that  I  have  none), 
'T  is  not  with  Donna  Inez  1  would  shut 

Him  up  10  learn  his  catechism  alone. 
No  —  no  —  I'd  send  him  out  betimes  to  coUese, 
For  there  it  was  I  pick'd  up  my  own  knowledge. 

UII. 
For  there  one  learns  —  't  is  not  for  me  to  baist, 

Though  I  acquired  —  but  I  pa-s  over  t/iaf, 
As  well  as  all  the  Greek  I  since  hive  lost : 

I  s<y  that  there's  the  jilace-  but  "  f^erhum  ioX,'" 
I  think  I  pick'd  up  too.  ns  well  as  most, 

Know  ledge  of  matters  —  but  no  matter  what  — 
I  never  married  —  bjt,  I  think,  I  know 
That  sous  should  not  be  educated  so. 

LIV. 
Young  Juan  now  was  sixteen  years  of  age. 

Tall,  handsome,  slender,  but  well  knit ;  he  ««in'd 
Active,  though  not  so  sprightly,  as  a  page  ■ 

And  every'body  but  his  mother  dee»i'd 
Him  almost  man  ;  but  she  tiew  in  <  /age 

And  bit  her  lips  (for  else  she  tiight  have  scream'd) 
If  any  said  so,  for  to  be  precot.ou« 
Was 'in  her  eyes  a  thing  the  most  atrocious. 

LV. 
Amongst  her  numerous  acquaintance,  all 

Selected  for  discretion  and  devotion. 
There  was  the  Donna  Julia,  whom  to  call 

Pretty  were  but  to  give  a  feeble  notion 
O'  many  ch«rms  in  her  as  natur.tl 

As  sweetness  to  the  fini\  er,  or  salt  to  ocean. 
Her  ziiiie  to  Venus,  or  his  bow  to  Cupid, 
Blit  this  last  simile  is  irite  and  stupid). 


LVI. 

The  datkness  of  her  Oriental  eye 
I     Accorded  with  her  Moorish  origin ; 
'  (Hei  bl  .nd  was  not  all  Spanish,  by  the  by; 
I      lo  Spain,  you  know,  this  is  a  sort  of  sin.) 

Wtien  proud' Granada  fell,  and,  fjrced  to  fly, 
i     Boabuil  wept,  of  Dunna  Julia's  km 

Some  went  to  Africa,  sime  stay'd  in  Spain, 

Hi-r  greal-great-graudmamma  chose  lo  remain. 

I  LVH. 

She  married  (I  forget  the  pedigree) 
1      With  an  Hidalgo,  who  iransmitied  down 

His  blood  less  noble  than  such  blood  should  be; 
i      At  such  alliances  his  ^ires  would  frown, 
I  In  that  jioint  sO  precise  in  each  degiee 
I      Th  It  they  bred  in  and  in,  a~  might  be  shown, 
;  Miirying  their  cousins  —  nay,  their  aunts,  and  nieces, 
j  Which  always  spoils  the  breed,  if  it  increases. 

I  Lvni. 

j  This  heathenish  cross  resloied  the  breed  again, 
I     Ruiu'd  its  blood,  but  much  improved  its  flesh  ; 
1  For  from  a  root  the  ugliest  in  Old  Spain 

Sprung  up  a  branch  as  beiutiful  as  fresh  ; 
The  sons  no  more  were  short,  the  daughte  s  plain  : 
Btt  there's  a  rumour  which  I  fain  would  hush, 
■T  is  said  that  Donna  Julia's  giandniamma 
Pixiduced  her  Don  more  heirs  at  love  than  law. 

LIX. 

However  this  might  be,  the  race  went  on 
Improving  still  through  every  generation, 

Until  it  centred  in  an  only  son. 

Who  left  an  only  daughter;  my  namtion 

May  have  suggested  that  this  single  one 
Could  be  but  Julia  (whom  on  this  occasion 

I  shall  have  much  to  speak  about),  and  she 

Was  married,  charming,  chaste,  and  twenty-three. 

LX. 

Her  eye  (I  'm  very  fond  of  handsome  eyes) 

Was  large  and  dirk,  suppressing  half  its  fire 
Until  she  s|«ike,  then  through  its  S"ft  disguise 

Flash'd  an  exj.ress:.^n  more  rf  pride  than  ire, 
And  love  than  either;  and  there  would  arise 

A  something  in  them  which  was  nnt  desire. 
But  would  have  been,  perhaps,  but  for  the  soul 
Which  struggled   through  and   cbas;en'd   down  tte 
whole. 

LXl. 
Her  glossy  hair  was  cluster'd  o'er  a  brow 

Bright  with  intelligence,  and  fair,  and  smooth  • 
Her  eyebrow's  shape  was  like  the  aetial  bow. 

Her  cheek  all  purjOe  with  the  beam  of  youth. 
Mounting,  at  times,  lo  a  transparent  glow, 

As  if  her  veins  ran  lightning ;  she,  in  sooth, 
Po,sess'd  an  air  and  grace  by  no  means  common  : 
Her  stature  tall  —  I  hate  a  dumpy  woman. 

LXII. 
Wedded  she  was  some  years,  and  lo  a  man 

Uf  lifty,  and  such  husbands  are  in  plenty  ; 
And  \el,  I  think,  instead  of  such  a  one 

'j'were  better  to  have  ttooof  five-and-twenty, 
Especially  in  countries  near  the  sun: 

And  now  1  think  on  't,  •'  mi  vieii  in  raente," 
Ladies  even  of  the  most  uneasy  virtue 
Prefer  a  spouse  whose  age  is  short  of  thirty. 

LXIII. 
'T  is  a  sad  thine,  I  cannot  choose  but  say. 

And  all  the  f  .ult  of  that  indecent  snn'. 
Who  cannot  leave  alone  our  helpless  clay, 

But  will  keep  b<king.  bmiling,  burning  on. 
That  howsoever  people  fist  and  pray. 

The  flesh  is  fiail,  and  so  the  soul  undone: 
What  men  call  gallantry,  and  gods  adultery, 
Is  much  moie  common  where  the  climate'* Mtltn. 


Canto  I.] 


DON  JUAN. 


481 


LXIV. 
Happy  the  nations  of  the  moral  North  ! 

Where  all  is  virtue,  and  the  winter  season 
Sends  sin,  with  mt  a  rag  on,  sliiveriug  forth 

('T  was  snow  that  btou'lil  St.  Anthony  >  to  reason) ; 
Where  juries  cast  up  »h>t  a  wife  is  worth, 

By  laying  whate'er  sum,  in  nmlcl,  they  please  on 
The  lover,  who  must  pay  a  handsome  price, 
Because  it  is  a  marketable  vice. 

LXV. 
Alfonso  was  the  name  of  Julia's  lord, 

A  man  well  looking  for  his  years,  and  who 
Was  neither  much  beloved  nor  yet  abhorr'd  : 

They  lived  together  as  most  people  do, 
Suffering  each  other's  foibles  by  accord, 

And  not  exactly  either  uiie  or  two  ; 
Yet  he  was  jealous,  though  he  did  not  show  it, 
For  jealousy  dislikes  the  world  to  know  it. 

LXVI. 
Julia  was  —  yet  I  never  could  see  why  — 

With  Donna  Inez  quite  a  favourite  friend  ; 
Between  their  tastes  there  was  small  sympahy, 

For  not  a  line  had  Julia  ever  penn'd  : 
Some  people  whisper  (but,  no  doubt,  they  lie. 

For  malice  still  imputes  some  private  end) 
Th.it  Inez  hid,  ere  Uon  Alfonso's  marriage. 
Forgot  with  him  her  very  prudent  carriage ; 

LXVII. 

And  that  still  keeping  up  the  old  connection. 

Which  time  had  lately  render'd  much  more  chaste, 

She  took  his  lady  also  in  affection, 
And  certainly  this  course  wns  much  the  best : 

She  flalter'd  Julia  with  her  sage  protection. 
And  complimented  Uon  Alfonso's  tasie  ; 

And  if  she  could  not  (who  can  ?)  silence  scandal, 

At  least  she  left  it  a  more  slender  handle. 

LXVIII. 

I  can't  tell  whether  Julia  saw  the  aff;)ir 
With  other  people's  eyes,  or  if  her  own 

Discoveries  made,  but  none  could  be  aware 
Of  this,  at  least  no  symptom  e'er  was  shown; 

Perhaps  she  did  not  know,  or  did  not  care, 
Indifferent  from  the  first,  or  callous  grown: 

I  'm  really  puzzled  what  to  think  or  say. 

She  kept  lier  counsel  in  so  close  a  way. 

LXIX. 

Juan  she  saw,  and,  as  a  pretty  child, 

Caress'd  him  often  — such  a  thing  might  be 

Quite  innocently  done,  and  harmless  styled. 
When  she  h,id  twenty  venrs,  and  thirteen  he; 

But  I  am  not  so  sure  I  should  have  smiled 
When  he  was  sixteen,  Julia  twenty-three ; 

These  fevy  short  years  make  wondrous  alterations, 

Particularly  amongst  sunburnt  nations. 

LXX. 

Whate'er  the  cause  might  be,  they  had  become 
Changed  ;  for  the  dame  grew  distant,  the  youth  shy, 

Their  looks  cast  down,  their  greetings  almost  dumb, 
And  much  embarr^fsment  in  either  eye; 

There  surely  will  be  little  doubt  with  some 
That  Donna  Julia  knew  tie  reason  why, 

But  as  for  Juan,  he  had  no  more  notion 

Than  he  who  never  saw  the  sea  of  ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet  Julia's  very  coldness  still  was  kind. 
And  tremulo\islv  gentle  her  small  hand 

Withdrew  itself  from  his,  but  left  behind 
A  little  pressure,  thrilling,  and  so  bland 

And  slight,  so  very  slight,  that  to  the  mind 
'T  was  but  a  doubt ;  but  ne'er  magician's  wand 


1  For  the  particolarfi  of  St.  Anthnny'fl  recipe  for  hot 
blood  in  cold  weather,  see  Mr.  Alban  Butlrr's  "Lives  of 
the  Saints." 


Wrought  change  with  all  Armida's  fairy  art 
Like  what  this  light  touch  left  on  Juan's  heart. 

LXXIl. 

And  if  she  met  him,  though  she  smiled  no  more, 
She  look'd  a  sadness  sweeter  than  her  smile. 

As  if  her  heart  had  deeper  thoughts  in  store 
She  must  not  own,  but  cherish'd  more  the  whito 

For  that  compression  in  its  burning  core; 
Even  innocence  itself  has  many  a  wile. 

And  will  not  dare  to  tri.st  itself  with  truth, 

And  love  is  taught  hypocrisy  from  youth. 

LXXIII. 
But  passion  most  dissembles,  yet  betrays 

Even  by  its  darkness  ;  as  the  blackest  sky 
Foretells  the  heaviest  tempest,  it  displays 

Its  workings  through  the  vainly  guarded  eye, 
And  in  whatever  aspect  it  arrays 

Itself,  't  is  still  the  same  hypocrisy ; 
Coldness  or  anger,  even  disdain  or  hate. 
Are  masks  i'  often  wears,  and  still  too  late. 

LXXIV. 
Then  there  were  sighs,  the  deeper  for  suppression, 

And  stolen  glances,  sweeter  for  the  theft, 
And  burning  blushes,  though  for  no  transgression. 

Tremblings  when  met.  and  restlessne.s»  when  left; 
All  these  are  little  preludes  to  possession, 

Of  which  young  passion  cannot  he  bereft. 
And  merely  lend  to  show  how  greatly  love  is 
Embarrass'd  at  first  starling  with  a  novice. 

LXXV. 
Poor  Julia's  heart  was  in  an  awkward  state  ; 

She  felt  it  going,  and  resolved  to  make 
The  noblest  efforts  for  herself  and  male. 

For  honour's,  pride's,  religion's,  virtue's  sake  : 
Her  resolutions  were  most  truly  great, 

And  almost  might  have  made  a  Tarquin  quake: 
She  pray'd  the  Virgin  Mary  for  her  grace, 
As  being  the  best  judge  of  a  lady's  case. 

LXXVI. 
She  vow'd  she  never  would  see  Juan  more, 

And  next  day  paid  a  visit  to  his  mother. 
And  look'd  extremely  at  the  opening  door, 

Which,  by  the  Virgin's  grace,  let  in  another; 
Grateful  she  was,  and  yet  a  lillle  sore  — 

Again  it  opens,  it  can  be  no  other, 
'T  is  surely  Juan  now  —  No  !  I  'm  afraid 
That  night  the  Virgin  was  no  further  pray'd. 

LXXVII. 
She  now  determined  that  a  virtuous  woman 

Should  rather  face  and  overcome  temptation, 
That  flight  was  base  and  dastardly,  and  no  man 

Should  ever  give  her  heart  the  least  sensation  ; 
That  is  to  say,  a  thought  beyond  the  common 

Preference,  that  we  must  feel  upon  occasion. 
For  people  who  are  pleasanter  than  others, 
But  then  they  only  seem  so  many  brothers. 

LXXVIII. 
And  even  if  by  chance  —  and  who  can  tell  ? 

The  devil 's  so  very  sly  —  she  should  discover 
That  all  wiihin  was  not 'so  very  well. 

And,  if  still  free,  that  such  or  such  a  lover 
Might  please  perhaps,  a  virtuous  wife  can  quell 

Such  thoughts,  and  be  the  better  w  hen  they  're  over ; 
And  if  the  riian  snould  ask,  t  is  but  denial : 
I  recommend  young  ladies  to  make  trial. 

LXXIX. 

And  then  there  are  such  things  as  love  divine. 
Bright  and  inmiaculale,  unmix'd  and  pure. 

Such  as  the  angels  think  so  very  fine. 
And  matrons,  who  would  be  no  less  secure, 

Platonic,  perfect,  "just  such  love  as  mine  :  " 
Thus  Julia  said  —  and  thought  so,  to  be  sure; 

And  so  I  'd  have  her  think,  w  ere  I  the  man 

On  whom  her  reveries  ct-lestia!  ran. 


41 


31 


482 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  1^ 


LXXX. 
Such  love  is  innocent,  and  may  exist 

Between  young  persons  wiihout  any  danger: 
A  hand  may  tirsi,  and  then  n  lip  be  kist ; 

For  my  part,  to  such  doings  I  "ui  a  stranger, 
But  hear  these  freedoms  form  llie  uiniost  list 

Of  all  o'er  «  hich  such  love  may  be  a  ranger 
If  people  go  beyond,  'I  is  quite  a  crime, 
But  not  my  fault  — I  leli  them  all  iu  time. 

LXXXI. 

Love,  then,  but  love  within  its  proper  limits, 

Was  Julia's  innocent  delerminaiion 
In  young  Don  Juan's  favour,  and  to  him  its 

Exertion  might  be  useful  on  occasion  ; 
And,  lighted  at  too  pure  a  shrine  ;o  dim  its 

Ethereal  lustre,  with  what  sweet  persuasion, 
He  might  be  taught,  by  love  and  her  lojether  — 
I  really  dou't  know  what,  nor  Julia  either. 

LXXX  11. 

Fraught  with  this  fine  intention,  and  well  fenced 

Id  mail  of  proof — her  purity  of  soul, 
She,  for  the  future  of  her  strength  convinced, 

And  that  her  honour  was  a  rock,  or  mole. 
Exceeding  sagely  from  that  hour  dispensed 

With  any  kind  of  troublesome  control ; 
But  whether  Juiia  to  the  task  was  equal 
Is  that  which  must  be  mentioned  in  the  sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her  plan  she  deem'd  both  innocent  and  feasible. 
And,  surely,  with  a  stripling  of  sixteen 

Not  scandals  fangs  could  fix  on  much  that 's  seizabie. 
Or  if  they  did  so,  satisfied  to  mean 

Nothing  but  what  was  good,  her  breast  was  peaceable : 
A  quiet  conscience  makes  one  so  serene  ! 

Christians  have  burnt  each  other,  quite  persuaded 

That  all  the  Apostles  would  have  done  as  they  did. 

LXXXIV. 

And  if  in  the  mean  time  her  husband  died, 

But  Heaven  forbid  that  such  a  thought  should  cross 

Her  brain,  though  in  a  dream  !  (and  then  she  sigh'd) 
Never  could  she  survive  that  common  loss  ; 

But  just  suppose  that  moment  should  betide, 
I  only  say  suppose  it  —  ui/er  not. 

(This  should  be  entre  nous,  for  Julia  thought 

Id  French,  but  then  the  rhyme  would  go  for  nought.) 

LXXXV. 

I  only  say  suppose  this  suppofilion  : 
Juan  being  then  grown  up  to  mm's  estate 

Would  fully  suit  a  widow  of  condition, 

Even  seven  years  hence  it  would  not  be  too  late; 

And  in  the  interim  (to  pur^ue  this  vision) 
The  mischief,  after  all,  could  not  be  great, 

For  he  would  learn  the  rudiments  of  love, 

I  mean  the  seraph  way  of  those  above. 

LXXXAI. 

So  much  for  Jnlla.     Now  we  '11  turn  to  Juan. 

Po<jr  little  fellow  !  he  had  no  idea 
Of  his  own  case,  and  never  hit  the  true  one  ; 

In  feelings  quick  as  Ovid's  Miss  Medea,' 
He  puzzled  over  what  he  found  a  new  one. 

But  not  as  yet  imagined  it  could  be  a 
Thing  quite  in  course,  and  not  at  :<ll  alarming, 
Which,  with  a  little  patience,  might  grow  charming. 

LXXXVII. 
Silent  and  pensive,  idle,  restless,  slow, 

His  home  deseited  for  the  lonely  wood. 
Tormented  with  a  wound  he  could  not  know, 

His,  like  all  deep  grief,  plunged  in  solitude  : 
I  'm  fond  myself  of  solitude  or  so, 

But  then,  I  beg  it  may  be  understood, 
By  solitude  I  mean  a  Sultan's,  not 
A  hermit's,  with  a  harem  for  a  grot. 


I  LXXXVIII. 

"  Oh  Love  !  in  such  a  wilderness  as  this, 

Where  transport  and  security  entwine. 
Here  is  the  empire  of  thy  perfect  bliss. 

And  here  thou  art  a  gud  indeed  divine." 
The  bard  I  quote  fiom  does  not  sing  amiss,* 

With  the  exception  of  the  second  line, 
For  that  same  twining  "  transpori  and  security  ** 
Are  twisted  to  a  plirase  of  some  obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

The  poet  meant,  no  doubt,  and  thus  appeals 

To  the  good  sense  and  senses  of  mankind. 
The  very  thing  which  every  body  feels, 

As  all  have  found  on  trial,  or  may  find. 
That  no  one  likes  to  be  disturbed  at  meals 

Or  love.—  I  won't  say  more  about  ••  entwined  " 
Or  "transport," as  we  knew  all  that  before, 
ilut  beg  "Security  "  will  bolt  the  door. 

XC. 
Young  Juan  wander'd  by  the  glassy  brooks. 

Thinking  unutterable  things;  he  threw 
Himself  at  length  within  the  leafy  nooks 

Where  the  » ild  branch  if  ihe  cork  forest  grew; 
There  poels  find  materials  for  their  books, 

And  every  now  and  then  we  read  them  through, 
So  thai  their  phn  and  pro>ody  are  eligible, 
Unless,  like  Wordswortli,  they  proveunintelligible. 

XCI. 
He,  Juan,  (and  not  Wordsworth)  so  pursued 

His  self-communion  wiih  his  own  high  soul, 
Until  his  mighty  heart,  in  its  great  mood, 

Had  mitigated  part,  though  not  the  tvbole 
Of  its  disease  ;  he  did  ihe  best  he  could 

With  things  not  very  subject  to  control. 
And  lurn'd,  without  perceiving  his  condition, 
Like  Coleridge,  into  a  metaphysician. 

XCII. 
He  thought  abnut  him?elf,  and  the  whole  earth, 

Of  man  the  woi.derful,  and  nt  the  stars. 
And  how  the  dense  Ihey  ever  could  have  birth  ; 

And  then  he  thought' of  eailhquakes,  and  of  wars, 
How  many  miles  the  moon  might  have  in  girth. 

Of  air-balloons,  and  of  the  many  bars 
To  perfect  knowledge  of  the  boundless  ski^s;  — 
And  then  he  thought  of  Donna  Julia's  eyes. 

XCIIL 
In  tho'jgh's  like  these  true  wisdom  may  discern 

Longings  sublime,  and  aspirations  high, 
Which  some  are  born  with,  but  ihe  most  part  learn 

To  plague  themselves  withal,  they  know  not  why  : 
'T  was  s  range  that  one  so  young  should  thus  concero 

His  brain  about  Ihe  action  of  ihe  sky  ; 
If  ymi  think  't  was  philosophy  that  this  did, 
I  can't  help  thinking  puberty  assisted. 

XCIV. 

He  pored  upon  the  leaves,  and  on  the  flowers. 

And  heard  a  voice  in  all  the  winds;  and  then 
He  thought  of  wood-nymphs  and  immortal  bowers, 

And  how  the  goddesses  came  down  to  men  ; 
He  miss'd  the  palhway,  he  forgot  the  hours, 

And  n  hen  he  look'd  upon  his  watch  again. 
He  found  how  much  old  Time  hid  been  a  winner  — 
He  also  found  that  he  had  lost  his  dinner. 

XCV. 
Sometimes  he  turn'd  to  gaze  upon  his  book, 

Boscan,3  or  Garcilasso  ;  «  —  by  the  wind 


1  See  Ovid. 


Art. 


1.  II. 


2  CamFt>elI'8   Gertrude  or  Wyoming  — (I    think)  — the 
opening  of  Canto  Second  — but  quote  from  memory. 

3  Juan  BoBcan  Almngava,  nf  Barcelona,  died  about    the 
year  1543.     In  concert  with  his  friend  Garribsso,  be  i 
troiluced  the  Italian  style  into  Castilian  p<ieTry,  and  co: 
meuced  hi*  labours  by  writing  Bonnets  in  the  maniier  of 
Petrarch.—  E. 

4  Garcilasso  de   la  Vega,  of  a   noble  family  at   Toleda^ 


Canto  I.] 


DON  JUAN. 


48b 


Even  as  the  page  is  rustled  while  we  look, 

So  by  the  poesy  of  his  own  mind 
Over  the  iii\stic  leaf  iiis  soul  was  sliook, 

As  if  't  were  one  where  m  magicians  bind 
Their  spells,  and  give  them  to  the  passing  gale, 
Accordii.g  to  some  good  old  wumau's  tale. 

XCVI. 

Thus  would  he  while  his  lonely  hours  away 
Dissatisfied,  nor  knowing  what  he  wanted; 

Nor  glowing  reverie,  nor  poefs  liy. 
Could  yield  his  spirit  that  for  which  it  p.inted, 

A  boeom  whereon  he  his  head  might  lay. 
And  bear  the  heart  beat  with  Ihe  love  it  granted, 

With several  other  things,  which  i  forget, 

Or  which,  at  least,  I  need  not  mention  yet. 

XCVII. 

Those  lonely  walks,  and  lengthening  reveries. 
Could  not  escape  ttie  gentle  Julia's  eyes  ; 

She  saw  that  Juan  was  not  at  his  e^se  ; 

But  that  which  chiefly  mny,  and  must  surprise, 

Is,  that  the  Donna  Inez  did  not  tease 
Her  only  son  wiih  question  or  surmise : 

VVbether  it  was  she  did  nol  see,  or  would  not. 

Or,  like  all  very  clever  people,  could  not. 

XCVIII. 
This  may  seem  strange,  but  yet  't  is  very  common  ; 

For  instance  —  gentlemen,  »  hose  ladies  take 
Leave  to  o'erslep  ihe  written  rights  of  woman, 

And  break  the VVhich  comiii.iiidnient  is 't  they 

break  ? 
(I  have  forgot  the  number,  and  think  no  man 

Should  rashly  quote,  for  fear  of  a  mist:ike.) 
I  say,  when  these  same  gentlemen  are  jealous, 
They  make  some  blunder,  which  their  ladies  tell  us. 

XCIX. 
A  real  husband  always  is  suspicious, 

fiut  still  no  less  suspects  in  Ihe  wiong  place, 
Jealous  of  some  one  who  had  no  such  wishes, 

Or  pandering  blindly  to  his  own  disgrace, 
By  harbouring  some  dear  friend  extremely  vicious  ; 

The  last  indeed  's  infallibly  the  case: 
And  when  the  spouse  and  fi  lend  are  gone  oflf  wholly. 
He  wonders  at  their  vice,  and  not  his  folly. 

C. 

Thw  parents  also  are  at  times  short -sighted ; 

Though  watchful  as  the  lynx,  thev  ne'er  discover, 
The  while  the  wicked  world  beholds  delighted. 

Young  Hopeful's  mistress,  or  Miss  Fanny's  lover, 
Till  some  confounded  escapade  has  blighted 

The  plan  of  twenty  years,  and  all  is  over; 
And  then  the  mother  cries,  the  father  swears. 
And  wonders  why  the  devil  he  got  heirs. 

CI. 

But  Inez  was  so  anxious,  and  so  clear 

Of  sight,  that  I  must  think,  on  this  occasion, 

She  had  some  other  motive  much  more  near 
For  leaving  Juan  to  this  new  temptation. 

But  what  that  motive  was,  I  shan't  say  here; 
Perhaps  to  finish  Juan's  education. 

Perhaps  to  open  Don  Alfonso's  eves. 

Id  case  he  tliought  his  wife  too  great  a  prize. 

CII. 
It  was  upon  a  day,  a  summer's  day*;  — 

Summer's  indeed  a  very  dangerous  season. 
And  so  is  spring  about  the  end  of  May ; 

The  sun,  no  doubt,  is  the  prevailing  reason  ; 
But  w  hatsoe'er  Ihe  cause  is,  one  may  say. 

And  stand  convicted  of  more  truth  than  treason, 


B8  wrll  as  a  poet — 

t'lDction  in  tiermaay,  Africa,  anil  Provence, __ -, 

)wn  from  n  tower,  wliich  fell  upon 


In  1636,  by  a  l■^uIle  uirnwu  iroi 

hUbead  as  be  was  leading  on  hi;  battalion 


After  serving  with  dis- 
■  a»  killed, 


I  That   there  are  months  which   nature  grows  more 
1  merry  in,— 

March  has  its  bares,  and  May  must  have  its  Leroine. 

I  cm. 

j'T  was  on  a  summer's  day  —  the  sixth  of  June:  — 
I      I  like  to  be  particular  in  dale.s, 
Nol  only  of  the  age,  and  \ear,  but  moon  ; 

They  are  a  sort  of  post-house,  w  here  the  Fates 
Change  horses,  making  history  change  its  tune, 
Then  spur  away  o'er  empiies  and  <;er  states. 
Leaving  al  la^t  no't  much  besidei  chronology, 
Excepting  the  post-obils  of  theology. 

!  civ. 

T  was  on  the  sixth  of  June,  about  llie  hour 
I     t)f  half-past  six  —  perhaps  siill  nearer  seven  — 
1  When  Julia  sate  within  as  pretty  a  bower 
I     As  e'er  held  houri  in  that  heathenish  heaven 

Described  by  Mahomet,  and  Anacreon  Moore, 
'I  o  whom  Ihe  iyre  and  liurels  have  been  given. 

With  all  Ihe  trophies  of  triumphant  song  — 

He  won  them  well,  and  may  he  wear  them  long  ! 

CV. 

She  sale,  but  not  alone  ;  I  know  nol  well 
How  this  same  interview  had  taken  place. 

And  even  if  1  knew,  1  should  not  tell  — 

People  should  hold  their  tongues  in  any  case; 

No  master  how  or  why  the  thing  befell. 

But  there  were  ^lle  and  Juan,'face  to  face  — 

When  two  such  facesare  so,  'i  would  be  wise, 

But  very  difficult,  to  shut  their  eyes. 

CVI. 
How  beautiful  she  look'd  !  her  conscious  heart 

Glow'd  in  her  cheek,  and  yet  she  felt  no  wrong. 
Oh  Love!  how  pet  feet  is  thy  myotic  art, 

Sirenglhening  the  weak,  and  trampling  on  the  strong, 
H;iw  selfdeteiflul  is  Ihe  sagest  part 

Of  mortals  wh  'ni  thy  lure  ha'h  led  along  — 
The  precipice  she  stood  on  was  immense, 
So  was  her  creed  in  her  own  innocence. 

CVII. 

She  thought  of  her  own  strength,  and  Juan's  youth,       | 

And  of  the  folly  of  all  prudish  fears, 
Victorious  virtue,  and  domestic  truth. 

And  then  of  Don  Alfonso's  fifty  years: 
I  "  ish  these  last  had  not  occurr'd,  in  sooth. 

Because  that  number  rarely  much  endears. 
And  through  all  climes,  the  snowy  and  the  sunny. 
Sounds  ill  in  love,  whate'er  it  may  in  money. 

CVHI. 
When  people  say,  "  I  've  told  you  fifty  times," 

They  mean  to  scold,  and  very  otlen  do  ; 
When  poets  say,  "  I've  wrilten/i/fy  rhymes," 

They  make  yeu  dread  that  they  '11  reciie  them  too  : 
In  gangs  o{  fifty,  thieves  cominit'lheir  crimes; 

A\  fifty  love  I'^ir  love  is  raie,  't  is  true, 
But  then,  no  doubt,  it  equally  as  true  is, 
A  good  deal  may  be  bought  (or fifty  Louis. 

CIX. 

Julia  had  honi^ur,  virtue,  truth,  and  love 

For  Don  Alfonso  ;  and  she  inly  swore, 
By  all  the  vows  below  to  powers  above, 

'She  never  would  disgrace  the  ring  she  wore. 
Nor  leave  a  wish  which  wisdom  might  reprove; 

And  while  she  ponder'd  this,  besides  r-'uch  more, 
One  hand  on  Juan's  carelessly  was  llirown. 
Quite  by  mistake  —  she  thought  it  was  her  own  ; 

ex. 

Unconsciously  she  lean'd  upon  the  other. 

Which  play'd  wihin  the  tangles  of  her  hair; 

And  to  contend  w  ilh  thoughts  she  could  not  smother 
She  seenrd,  by  the  distraction  of  her  air. 

'T  "as  suiely  very  wrong  in  Juan's  mother 
'i'o  leave  together  this  imprudent  pair. 


4S4 


DON   JUAI^ 


[Canto  I. 


She  who  for  maoy  years  had  nitch'd  her  son  so  — 
I  "m  very  certaio  'mint  would  Dot  have  done  so. 

CM. 

The  band  which  still  held  Jusn's,  by  desrees 
Gently,  but  i^alpably  confirm'd  its  ^asp. 

As  if  it  said,  "  Deain  me,  if  you  plose  ;  " 
Tel  there  's  no  doubt  she  only  meant  to  clasp 

His  fio^rs  with  a  pure  Pla'oni'c  squeeze  ; 
She  would  have  shrunk  as  fmm  a  to:id,  or  asp, 

Had  she  ima^ned  such  a  thio:  could  rouse 

A  feeling  dangerous  to  a  prudent  spouse. 

CXH. 

I  cannot  know  what  Juan  thought  of  this. 

But  whst  be  did,  is  much  »  hst  you  would  do  ; 
His  young  lip  thank'd  it  with  a  grateful  kiss, 

Aiid  then,  abasbM  at  its  own  joy.  withdrew 
Id  deep  despair,  lest  he  had  doiie  aiuiss,— 

Love  is  so  very  timid  when  t  is  new  : 
She  blush'd,  and  frown'd  not,  but  she  strove  to  speak. 
And  held  her  tongue,  her  voice  was  grown  so  weak. 

CXIII. 

The  sun  set,  and  op  rose  the  yellow  moon  : 
The  devil  's  in  the  moon  for  mischief;  they 

Who  call'd  her  chaste,  metbinks.  began  loo  soon 
Their  nomenclature;  there  is  not  a  dav, 

The  longest,  not  the  twenty-first  of  June,' 
Sees  half  the  business  in'a  wicked  war, 

On  which  three  sinsle  hours  of  moonshine  smile  — 

And  then  she  looks  "so  modest  all  the  while. 

CXIV. 

There  is  a  dangerous  silence  in  that  hiur, 

A  stillness,  which  leives  room  for  the  full  soul 

To  open  all  it=elf.  without  the  power 
Of  calling  wholly  back  its  self-control  ; 

The  silver  light  which,  hallowing  tree  and  lower, 
Sheds  beauly  and  deep  softness  o'er  tne  whole. 

Breathes  also  to  the  heart,  and  o'er  it  throws 

A  loving  languor,  which  is  not  repose, 

cxv. 

And  Julia  sate  with  Juao,  half  embraced 
And  half  re'iring  from  the  glonins  arm. 

Which  trembled  like  the  bo«om  where  'I  was  placed  ; 
Vet  still  she  must  have  thought  there  was  no  harm, 

Or  else  't  were  easy  to  withdraV  her  wa-st ; 
But  then  the  situation  had  its  charm. 

And  then God  knows  what  next  —  I  cant  eo  on  ; 

1  "m  almost  sorry  that  I  e'er  begun. 

CXVI. 

Ob  Plato  !  Plato  '.  you  have  paved  'he  way. 
With  your  confounded  fau'asies,  to  more 

Immoral  conduct  by  the  fancied  sway 
Your  system  feigns  o"er  the  coutroUess  core 

Of  humiu  he-irts,  than  all  the  long  array 
Of  poets  ajid  romaiicera :  —You  "re  a  bore, 

A  charlatan,  a  coicomb  —  and  have  been, 

At  best,  no  better  than  a  go-between. 

CXYII. 
And  Julia's  voice  was  lost,  except  in  sighs, 

Cotil  too  late  f  T  useful  conversation  ; 
The  tears  were  gushing  from  her  gentle  eyes, 

I  wish,  indeed,  they  h  >d  not  had  occasiuu  ; 
But  who. alas!  can  Inve,  and  then  be  wise? 

Not  thtt  remorse  did  not  oppose  templalion  ; 
A  little  still  she  stmve,  and  much  repented. 
And  whispering  "  1  will  ne'er  consent ''  —  consented. 

CXTIII. 

'T  is  said  that  Xeries  offer'd  a  reward 

To  tlK-se  who  could  invent  him  a  new  pleasare : 

Meihinks,  the  requisition  's  rather  hard. 
And  must  ha\e  cost  bis  majesty  a  treasure-. 

For  mv  fart,  1  'm  a  moderale-minded  bird. 
Fond  of  a  little  love  (which  I  call  leisure) 


I  care  not  for  new  pleasores,  as  the  oW 
Are  quite  enough  for  me,  so  they  but  bold. 

CXIX. 

Oh  Pleasure  !  you  're  indeed  a  pleasant  thing. 

Al'hfueh  one  must  be  damo'd  for  yon,  no  doubt . 
I  make  a  reselution  even-  spnne 

Of  reformation,  ere  the  year  run  out. 
But  somehow,  this  my  vestal  vow  takes  wing; 
I      Yet  still,  I  Irc^t,  it  rnay  be  kept  throughout : 
I  'm  very  sorry,  very  much  ashamed, 
!  And  mean,  next  winter,  to  be  quite  reclaim'd. 

I  cxx. 

I  Here  my  chaste  Muse  a  libertv  must  take  — 
I     Startnot:  still  chaster  leudef  —  she  'II  be  nice  hew 
I  Forward,  and  there  is  no  great  cause  to  quake  ; 
This  liberty  is  a  poetic  license 

Which  some 'irregularity  may  make 
I      In  the  design,  and  as  I  have  a  hish  sense 

Of  Aristotle  aiKl  the  Rules,  1  is  fit 

To  beg  bis  pardon  n  hen  I  err  a  bit. 

I  CXXI. 

I  This  license  is  to  hope  the  reader  will 
I      Suppose  ftp-.m  June  the  six'h  {the  fatal  day, 
;  Without  whose  epoch  my  poetic  skill 
j      For  want  of  f-.cts  would  all  be  thrown  away), 
But  keeping  Julia  and  Don  Juan  s'ill 
I      In  sight,  'hit  several  months  have  pass'd ;  we  11  ajr 
T  WIS  in  November,  but  I  'm  not  so  sure 
About  the  day  —  Ihe  era  's  more  obscare. 

■  CXXII. 

I  We  11  talk  of  that  anon.—  T  is  sweel  to  bear 

I      At  midnight  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep 

The  song  aod  oar  of  Adrin's  gondolier, 
I      By  distance  mellow'd.  o'er"the  waters  sweep  ; 
I 'T  is  sweet  to  see  the  evei.ing  star  appear  ; 
'T  is  siveet  to  listen  as  the  night-winds  creep 

From  leaf  to  leaf:  't  is  sweet  lb  view  on  high 
j  The  rainbow,  based  on  ocean,  span  the  sky. 

i  CXXIII. 

.  T  is  sweet  to  hear  the  watch-dog's  honest  bark 

Bay  deep-mouth'J  welcome  as  we  draw  near  borne  ; 
T  is  sweet  to  know  there  :s  an  eye  will  mark 

Our  coniins,  and  lo.->k  bri'b'cr'when  weeome: 
,  T  IS  >weef  to  be  awaken'd  by  the  lark, 
•      Or  luU'i  bv  falliui  waters  ;  >"eel  the  hum 
Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girU,  the  song  of  birds, 
Tbe  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

CXXIV. 
Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when  tbe  showenng  gnpet 

In  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth, 
!  Purple  and  gushins ;  sweet  are  our  i 
I      From  civic  levelry  to  rural  roirtb ; 
Sweet  to  the  miser  a're  his  glittering  heaps. 

Sweet  to   he  father  is  his  fir,i-born'^  birtb. 
Sweet  is  revenge  —  especially  to  wc^nen, 
Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize  money  to  seamen. 

CXXT, 

Sweet  is  a  legacy,  and  passing  sweet 
The  unex|«cted  death  of  some  old  lady, 

Or  sentlemin  of  seventy  years  com)  lele. 

Who  've  made  "  us  youth  ^  wait  too —  too  long  al- 
ready 

For  an  es'aie,  or  cash,  or  country-seat. 
Still  breaking,  fcut  with  stamina  so  steady, 

That  all  Ibe  Israelites  are  fit  to  mob  ils 

Next  owner  for  their  double-damo'd  }iottoLiti. 

CXXTI, 

T  is  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how.  one's  laurels. 
By  blood  or  ink  :  t  i?  sweel  to  put  an  end 

To  strife  :  't  is  sometimes  rweet  1 1  b.ave  our  quarreli, 
Particularly  with  a  lircsome  friend  : 

Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles,  ale  in  barrels; 
Dear  is  the  helj  less  creature  we  defend 


Canto  I.J 


DON  JUAN. 


485 


Against  the  worid  ;  and  dear  Ihe  schoolboy  spot 
We  ne'er  forget,  though  there  we  are  forgot. 

CXXVII. 

But  sweeter  still  than  this,  than  these,  than  all, 
Is  tir>t  and  passion.ile  liive  —  it  stands  alone, 

Like  Adam's  recollection  of  his  fall  ; 
The   tree  of  knowledge   has   been  pluck'd  —  all's 
known  — 

And  lili  yields  nothing  further  to  recall 
Worthy  of  this  ambrosial  sin,  so  shown, 

No  doubt  in  fable,  as  Ihe  unforgiven 

Fire  whi;h  Prometheus  filch"d  for  us  from  heaven. 

CXXVIH. 
Man's  a  strange  animal,  and  mskes  strange  use 

Of  his  own  nature,  and  the  various  arts, 
And  likes  particularly  to  produce 

Some  new  experiment  to  show  his  parts  ; 
This  is  Ihe  age  of  oddities  let  loose. 

Where  diQ'erent  talents  find  their  ditferent  marts  ; 
You  'd  best  begin  with  truth,  and  when  you  've   lost 

Labour,  there 's  a  sure  market  for  imposture. 

CXXIX. 
What  opposite  discoveries  we  have  seen  ! 

(Signs  of  true  genius,  and  of  empty  pockets.} 
One  makes  new  noses,  one  a  guillotine. 

One  breaks  your  bones,   one  sets  them   in   their 
sockets ; 
But  vaccination  certainly  has  been 

A  kind  antithesis  to  Congreve's  rockets. 
With  which  the  Doctor  paid  off  an  old  pox, 
By  borrowing  a  new  one  from  an  ox. 

CXXX. 
Bread  has  been  made  (indifferent)  from  potatoes ; 

And  galvanism  has  set  some  corpses  grinning, 
But  has  not  answer'd  like  Ihe  apparatus 

Of  the  Humane  Society's  beginning. 
By  which  men  are  unsuffocated  gratis  : 

What  wondrous  new  machines  havt  late  been  spin- 
ning! 
I  said  the  small-pox  has  gone  out  of  late 
Perhaps  it  may  be  follow'd  by  Ihe  great. 

CXXXI. 
"T  is  said  the  great  came  frcm  America  ; 

Perhaps  it  may  set  out  on  its  return, — 
The  population  there  so  spread-,  they  say 

'T  is  grown  high  time  to  thin  it  in' its  turn. 
With  war,  or  plague,  or  famine,  any  way. 

So  that  civilisation  they  may  learn  ; 
And  which  in  ravage  ihe  more  loathsome  evil  is 
Their  real  lues,  or  our  pseudo-syphilis? 

CXXXII. 

This  is  the  patent-age  of  new  inventions 
For  killing  bodies,  and  for  saving  souls. 

All  propagated  with  Ihe  best  intentions ; 

Sir  Humphry  Davy's  lantern,  by  which  coals 

Are  s.afely  mined  for  in  the  mode  he  mentions, 
Tinibnctoo  travels,  voyages  to  the  Poles, 

Ar»  ways  to  benefit  mankind,  as  true. 

Perhaps,  as  shooting  them  at  Wa'erloo. 

cxxxin. 

Man's  a  phenomenon,  one  knows  not  what, 
And  wonderful  beyond  all  wondrous  measure  ; 

'T  is  pity  though,  in  this  sublime  world,  that 

Pleasure's  a  sin,  and  sometimes  sin  's  a  pleasure  ; 

Few  mortals  know  what  end  they  would  be  a'. 
But  whether  glory,  power,  or  love,  or  treasure. 

The  path  is  through  perplexing  ways,  and  when 

The  foal  is  gaiu'd,  we  die,  you  snow  — and  then 

CXXXIV. 

I  What  tnen  ?  —  I  do  not  know,  no  more  lo  you  — 

And  so  good  night. —  Return  we  to  our  story : 
I  1'  was  in  November,  when  fine  days  are  few, 
I      And  the  far  mountains  wax  a  little  hoary, 


And  clap  a  white  cape  on  their  mantles  blue  • 
And  the  sea  dashes  round  the  p.roniontory, 
And  Ihe  loud  breaker  boils  against  the  rock. 
And  sober  suns  must  set  at  five  o'clock. 

cxxxv. 

'T  was,  as  the  watchmen  say,  a  cloudy  night ; 

No  moon,  no  stars,  Ihe  wind  was  lo'w  or  loud 
By  gusts,  and  niai;y  a  sparkling  hearth  was  bright 

VVith  the  piled  wood,  round  which  the  family  crowd; 
There  's  something  cheerful  in  that  sort  of  light, 

Even  as  a  simimer  sky  's  w  ithout  a  cloud  : 
I  'm.fond  of  fire,  and  crickets,  and  all  that, 
A  lobster,  salad,  and  champagne,  and  chat. 

CXXXVI. 

'T  was  midnight  —  Donna  Julia  was  in  bed, 

Sleeping,  most  probably, —  wlien  at  her  door 
Arose  a  clatter  might  awake  the  dead, 

If  they  had  never  been  awoke  before. 
And  that  Ihey  have  been  so  we  all  have  read. 

And  are  lo  be  so,  a'  the  least,  once  more  ;  — 
The  door  was  fasien'd,  but  with  voice  and  fist 
First  knocks  were  heard,  then  "  Madam —  Madaa  — 
hist! 

CXXXVII. 
"  For    God's    sake,    Madam  —  Madam  —  here  'a  my 
master, 

With  more  than  half  the  city  at  his  back  — 
Was  ever  heard  of  such  a  curst  disaster ! 

'T  is  not  my  fault  —  I  kept  good  watch  —  Alack  ! 
Do. pray  undo  the  bolt  a  li  tie  faster  — 

Thev  're  on  the  stair  just  now,  and  in  a  crack 
Will  a'll  be  here  ;  perhaps  he  yet  may  fly  — 
Surely  the  window  's  not  so  very  high  !" 

CXXXVIII. 

By  this  lime  Don  Alfonso  was  arrived. 

With  torches,  friends,  and  servants  in  great  number; 
The  major  part  of  them  had  long  been  "ived. 

And  theefore  paused  not  to  disturb  Ihe  slumber 
Of  any  wicked  woman,  who  con'rived 

By'tealth  her  husband's  temples  to  encuml>er; 
Exa'mp  egof  this  kind  are  so  contagious. 
Were  one  not  punish'd,  all  would  be  outrageous. 

CXXXIX. 
I  can't  tell  how,  or  why,  or  what  suspicion 

Could  enter  into  Don  Alfonso's  head; 
But  for  a  cavalier  of  his  condi'ion 

It  surely  wis  exceedingly  ill-bred, 
Wi  houl  a  word  of  previous  admonition. 

To  hold  a  levee  round  his  lady's  bed. 
And  sumnion  lackeys,  arm'd  wiih  fire  and  sword. 
To  prove  himself  the  thing  he  most  abborr'd. 

CXL. 
Poor  Donna  Julia !  s'artinz  as  from  sleep, 

(Mind  —  that  I  do  not  say  —  she  had  not  slept) 
Began  at  once  to  scream,  and  yawn,  and  weep ; 

Her  maid  Anlonia,  who  was  an  adept, 
Contrived  to  Ain^lie  bed-clothes  in  a  heap. 

As  if  she  had  jnst  now  from  out  them  crept: 
I  can't  tell  why  she  sh<^'uld  t'ike  all  this  trouble 
To  prove  her  mistress  had  been  sleeping  double. 

CXU. 

But  Ju>i  I  mistress,  and  Antonia  maid, 
Appear'd  like  two  poor  harmless  women,  who 

Of  goblins,  but  still  more  of  men  afraid. 

Had  thought  one  man  might  be  deterr'd  by  two. 

And  therefore  side  by  side  were  gently  laid. 
Until  the  hours  of  absence  should  run  throi^h. 

And  truant  husband  should  return,  and  say, 

"  My  dear,  I  was  the  firsl  who  came  away." 

CXLII. 
Now  Julia  found  at  length  a  voice,  and  cried, 

"  In  heaven's  name,  Don  Alfonso,  what  d'ye  mtta  } 
Has  madness  seized  you  ?  would  that  1  had  died 

Ere  guch  a  monster's  victim  I  had  been  ! 


41* 


486 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  I. 


Wha'  may  this  midnight  violence  betide, 
A  sudden  ht  of  drunkenness  or  spleen  ? 
Dare  you  suspect  ine,  whom  (he  thought  would  kill  ? 
Search,  then,  the  room  !  "  —  Alfuuso  said,  "  I  will." 

CXLIII. 
He  searched,  they  search'd,  and  rummaged  every  where, 

Clc)«t  and  clothes-press,  chesi  ;iiid  «  indou  -seat, 
And  found  much  linen,  lace,  and  seveial  pair 

Of  stockings,  slippers,  brushes,  combs,  complete, 
With  other  anicles  of  Indies  fair, 

To  keep  them  beautiful,  or  leave  them  neat : 
Arras  they  prick'd  and  curtiins  with  their  swords, 
And  wounded  severaJ  shutters,  and  some  boards. 

cxuv. 

Under  the  bed  they  search'd,  and  there  they  found  — 
No  matter  wh:»t  — it  was  not  that  they  sought; 

They  open'd  windows,  gazing  if  the  ground 
Had  signs  or  footmarks,  but  the  earth  said  nought; 

And  then  they  stared  each  others'  faces  round  : 
'  r  is  odd,  not  one  of  all  these  seekers  thought, 

And  seems  to  me  almost  a  sort  of  blunder, 

Of  looking  in  the  bed  as  well  as  under. 

CXLV. 

During  this  inquisition,  Julia's  tongue 

Was  not  asleep  —  ••  Ves,  search  and  search,"  she 
cried, 
"  Insult  on  in-ult  heap,  and  wrong  on  wrorg  ! 

It  was  for  this  that  I  became  a  bride  ! 
For  this  i'j  silence  I  have  suli'er'd  long 

A  husband  like  Aifnnsj  at  my  side  ; 
Bu'  now  I'll  bear  no  more,  nor  here  remain, 
If  there  be  law  or  lawyers,  in  all  6paiQ. 

CXLVI, 

"Yes,  Don  Alfonso  I  husband  now  no  more. 

If  ever  you  indeed  deserved  the  name, 
Is't  worthy  of  your  years?  —  you  have  threescore  — 

Fifty,  or  sixty,  it  is  all  the  same  — 
Is't  wise  or  fitting,  causeless  to  explore 

For  fa;:ts against  a  virtLOus  woman's  fame? 
Ungrateful,  perjured,  barbirous  Don  Alfonso, 
How  dare  you  think  your  lady  would  go  on  so  ? 

CXLVII. 
"  Is  it  for  this  I  have  disdain'd  to  hold 

The  common  privileges  of  my  sex  ? 
That  1  have  chosen  a  confessor  so  old 

And  deaf,  that  any  other  it  would  vex, 
And  never  once  he  has  had  cause  to  scold. 

But  found  my  very  innocence  perplex 
So  much,  he  always  doulited  I  was  married  — 
How  sorry  you  will  be  when  I've  miscarried  ! 

CXLVm, 

"  Was  it  for  this  that  no  Cortejo  i  e'er 
I  yet  have  chosen  from  out  the  youth  of  Seville? 

Is  it  for  this  I  scarce  went  any  where. 
Except  to  bull-fizhts,  mass,  play,  rout,  and  revel? 

Is  it  for  this,  whate'er  my  siiitnrs  were, 
I  favoured  none  —  nay,  was  almoj  uncivil  ? 

Is  it  for  this  that  Genef.l  Co.  nt  O'Reilly, 

Who  took  Algiers,*  declares  I  used  him  vilely  ? 

CXLIX. 

"Did  not  the  Italian  Musico  Cizzani 

Sing  .\{  my  heart  six  months  at  least  in  vain  ? 

Did  not  his  conntryman,  C'lunt  Corniani, 
Call  me  the  only  virtuous  wife  in  Spain  ? 

Were  there  not  also  Russians,  Eneli^h,  many? 
The  Count  S  mnffstrojinoff  I  put  in  pain. 

And  Lord  Mount  Cotieehouse,  the  Irish  peer, 

Who  kill  d  himself  for  love  (with  wine)  last  year. 

1  The  SpaEish  "Cnrtcj.i"  \a  much  the  same  as  the 
Italian  "Cavalipr  Serventc." 

S  Donna  Julia  here  made  a  mistake.  Count  O'Reilly 
^hI  not  t»ke  Algiers  — but  Aleiers  very  nearly  lonlt  him  : 
be  and  hia  army  and  fleet  retreated  with  great  losR.  and 
sot  much  rredit,  from  twfore  (hat  city,  in  the  year  1776. 


CL. 
"  Have  I  not  bad  two  bishops  at  my  feel  ? 

The  Duke  of  Ichar,  and  Don  Fernan  Nunez ; 
And  is  It  thus  a  faithful  wife  you  treat  ? 

I  wonder  in  what  quarter  now  the  moon  is: 
I  praise  your  vast  forbearance  not  to  beat 

Me  also,  since  the  time  so  opportune  is  — 
Oh,  valiant  man  :  with  swoid  drawnand  cock'd  trigger. 
Now,  tell  me,  don't  you  cut  a  pretty  ligure  ? 

CLI. 

"  Was  it  for  this  you  took  your  sudden  journey, 
Under  pretence  of  business  indispensable, 

Wi'h  ihat  sublime  of  rascals  your  alloniey, 

Whom  I  see  standing  there,  and  looking  sensible 

Of  having  play'd  the  fool  ?  though  both  1  spurn,  iM 
Deserves  the  worst,  his  conduct  's  le  s  defensible, 

Because,  no  doubt,  't  was  for  his  dirty  fee. 

And  not  fi  3m  any  love  to  you  nor  me. 

CLII. 
"  If  he  comes  here  to  take  a  deposition. 

By  all  means  let  the  gentleman  proceed  ; 
You  've  made  the  apariment  in  a  lit  condition  :  — 

There  's  pen  and  ink  fir  \ou,  sir,  when  you  need  — 
Let  every  thing  be  noted  with  [irecision, 

I  would  not  you  for  nothing  should  be  fee'd  — 
But  as  my  maid  's  undrest,  pray  turn  your  spies  out." 
"  Oh  ; "  sobb'd  Aulonia,  "  J  could  tear  their  eyes  out.' 

CLIII. 

"There  is  the  closet,  the  e  the  toilet,  there 
The  antechamber  — search  ihem  under,  over; 

There  is  the  sofa,  there  the  great  arm-ciiair. 
The  chimney  —  which  would  really  hold  a  lover. 

I  wish  to  sleep,  and  beg  you  will  take'  care 
And  make  no  fuither  noise,  till  you  discover 

The  secret  cavern  of  this  lurking  treasure  — 

And  when  't  is  found,  let  me,  too,  have  that  pleasure. 

CLIV. 

"And  now,  Hidalgo  1  now  that  you  have  thrown 

Doubt  u()on  me,  confusion  over  all. 
Pray  have  the  courtesy  to  make  it  known 

Who  is  the  man  you  search  for?  how  d'ye  call 
Him  ?  what 's  his  lineage  ?  let  him  but  be  shown  — 

I  hope  he's  young  and  handsome  —  is  he  tall  ? 
Tell  me  —  and  be  assured,  that  since  you  stain 
My  honour  thus,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain. 

CLV. 

"  At  leas',  perhaps,  he  has  not  sixty  years. 
At  that  age  he  would  be  too  old  for  slaughter, 

Or  for  so  yonng  a  husband's  jealous  fears  — 
(Antonia  !  let  me  have  a  glass  of  water.) 

I  am  ashamed  of  havine  shed  these  'ears. 
They  are  unworthy  of  my  father's  daughter; 

My  mother  dream'd  "not  in  my  nital  hour. 

That  I  should  fall  into  a  monster's  power. 

CLVI. 

"  Perhaps  't  is  of  Antonia  you  are  jealous. 
You  saw  that  she  was  sleeping  by  my  side, 

When  you  broke  in  upon  us  with  your'fellows  • 
Look    "here   you   please — we've   nothing,  sir,  t( 
hide ; 

Only  another  time,  I  trust,  you  'II  tell  us. 
Or  for  the  sake  of  decency  abide 

A  moment  at  the  door,  that  we  may  be 

Drest  to  receive  so  much  good  comi'aiiy. 

CLVH. 
"And  now,  sir.  I  have  done,  and  say  no  more; 

The  little  I  have  said  may  serve  to  show 
The  guileless  heart  in  silence  m  ly  grieve  o'er 

The  wrongs  to  whose  exposure  it  is  slow  :  — 
I  leave  you  to  your  conscience  as  before, 

'T  will  one  day  ask  you,  why  you  used  me  »o? 
God  grant  you  feel  not'then  the  bitterest  grief!  — 
Antonia  !  where 's  my  pocket-bandkc  chief  ?  " 


Ji 


j  Canto  I.] 


DON  JUAN. 


48? 


CLVIII. 
Slie  ceased,  and  turn'd  upon  her  pillow  ;  pale 

She  lay,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  through  their  tears, 
Like  skies  that  rain  and  lighten;  as  a  veil. 

Waved  and  o'ershading  her  wan  cheek,  appears 
Her  streaming  hair  ;  the  black  curls  strive,  but  fail, 

To  hide  the  glossy  shoulder,  which  uprears 
Its  snow  through  all ;  —  her  soft  lips  lie  apart. 
And  louder  than  her  breathing  beats  her  heart. 

CLIX. 
The  Senhor  Don  Alfonso  stood  confused ; 

Antonia  bustled  round  the  ransack'd  room, 
And,  turning  up  her  nose,  with  looks  abused 

Her  master,  and  his  myrmidons,  of  whom 
Not  one,  except  the  attorney,  was  amused  ; 

He,  like  Achates,  faithful  to  the  tomb. 
So  tlrere  were  quarrels,  cared  not  for  the  cause, 
Enowing  they  must  be  settled  by  the  laws 

CLX. 

With  prying  snub-nose,  and  small  eyes,  he  stood, 
Following  Antonia's  motions  here  and  there, 

With  much  suspicion  in  his  attitude  ; 
For  reputations  he  had  little  care  ; 

So  thai  a  suit  or  action  were  made  good. 
Small  pity  had  he  for  the  young  and  fair. 

And  ne'er  believed  in  negatives,  till  these 

Were  proved  by  competent  false  witnesses. 

CLXI. 

But  Don  Alfonso  stood  with  downcast  looks. 
And,  truth  to  say,  he  made  a  foolish  figure  ; 

When,  after  searching  in  five  hundred  nooks. 
And  treating  a  young  wife  with  so  much  rigour, 

He  gain'd  no  point,  except  some  self-rebukes. 
Added  to  those  his  ludy  with  such  vigour 

Had  pour'd  upon  him  for  the  last  half-hour. 

Quick,  thick,  and  heavy  —  as  a  thunder-shower. 

CLXH. 
At  first  he  tried  to  hammer  an  excuse. 

To  which  the  sole  reply  was  tears,  and  sobs, 
And  indications  of  hysterics,  whose 

Prologue  is  alwayj  certain  throes,  and  throbs, 
Gasps,  and  whatever  else  the  owners  choose: 

Alfonso  saw  his  wife,  and  thought  of  Job's  ; 
He  saw  too,  in  perspective,  her  relations. 
And  then  be  tried  to  muster  all  his  patience. 

CLXni. 

He  stood  in  act  to  speak,  or  rather  stammer, 
But  sage  Antonia  cut  him  short  before 

The  anvil  of  his  speech  received  the  hammer, 
With  "  Pray,  sir,  leave  the  room,  and  say  no  more, 

Or  madam  dies."— Alfonso  mutler'd.  "  D— n  her," 
But  nothing  else,  the  time  of  words  was  o'er  ; 

He  cast  a  rueful  look  or  two,  and  did. 

He  knew  not  wherefore,  thit  which  he  was  bid. 

CLXIV. 
With  him  retired  his  ''posse  conitfoijM," 

The  attorney  last,  who  linger'd  near  the  door 
Reluctantly,  still  taiTying  there  as  late  as 

Antonia  let  him  —  not  a  little  sore 
At  this  most  strange  and  unexplained  "  hiatus" 

In  Don  Alfonso's  facts,  which  just  now  wore 
An  awkward  look  ;  as  he  revolved  the  case, 
The  door  was  fasten'd  in  his  legal  face. 

CLXV. 

No  sooner  was  it  boiled,  than —  Oh  shame ! 

Oh  sin  '.  Oh  sorrow  !  and  Oh  womankind  ! 
How  can  you  do  such  things  and  keep  your  fame, 

Unless  this  world,  and  t'  other  too,  be  blind  ? 
Nothing  so  dear  as  an  unfilch'd  good  name  ! 

But  to  proceed  —  for  there  is  more  behind  : 
With  much  heartfelt  reluctance  be  it  said, 
Voung  Juan  slipp'd,  half-smother'd,  from  the  bed. 


CLXVI. 

He  had  been  hid  —  I  don't  pretend  to  gay 
How,  nor  can  I  indeed  describe  the  where  — 

Young,  slender,  and  pack'd  easily,  he  lay, 
No  doubt,  in  little  compass,  round  or  square ; 

But  pity  him  I  neither  must  nor  may 
His  suttbcaiion  by  that  pretty  pair; 

'T  were  better,  sure,  to  die  so,  than  be  shut 

With  maudlin  Clarence  in  his  Malmsey  butt. 

CLXvn. 

And,  secondly,  1  pity  not,  because 

He  had  no  business  to  commit  a  sin. 
Forbid  by  hearenly,  fined  by  human  laws. 

At  lea^t  't  was  rather  early  to  begin  ; 
But  at  sixteen  the  conscience  rarely  gnaws 

So  much  as  when  we  call  our  old  deb's  in 
At  sixty  years,  and  draw  the  acconipis  of  evil, 
And  find  a  deused  balance  with  the  devil. 

CLXVIII. 
Of  his  position  I  can  give  no  notion: 

'T  is  written  in  the  Hebrew  Chronicle, 
How  the  physicians,  leaving  pill  and  potion, 

Prescribed,  by  way  of  blister,  a  young  belle. 
When  old  King  David's  blood  grew  dull  in  motion. 

And  that  the  medicine  answer'd  very  well ; 
Perhaps  'I  was  in  a  different  way  applied, 
For  David  lived,  but  Juan  nearly  died. 

CLXIX. 

What 's  to  be  done  ?    Alfonso  will  be  back 
The  moment  he  has  sent  his  fools  away. 

Antonia's  skill  was  put  upon  the  rack. 

But  no  device  could  be  brought  into  play  — 

And  how  to  pirry  the  renew'd  attack  ? 
Besides,  it  wanted  but  few  hours  of  day  : 

Antonia  puzzled  ;  Julia  did  not  speak. 

But  press'd  her  bloodless  lip  to  Juan's  cheek. 

CLXX. 

He  turn'd  his  lip  to  hers,  and  with  his  hand 
CalI'd  back  the  tangles  of  her  wandering  hair  ; 

Even  then  their  love  they  could  not  all  command. 
And  half  forgot  their  danger  and  despair: 

Antonia's  pa'ience  now  was  at  a  stand  — 

Come,  come,  't  is  no  time  now  for  fooling  there,' 

She  whisper'd,  in  great  wrath—  "I  must  deposit 

This  pretty  gentleman  within  the  closet : 

CLXXI. 

"  Pray,  keep  your  nonsense  for  some  luckier  night  - 
IVho  can  have  put  my  master  in  this  mood  ? 

What  will  become  on  't  —  I  'ni  in  such  a  fright. 
The  devil  's  in  the  urchin,  and  no  good  — 

Is  this  a  time  for  giggling  ?  this  a  plight  ? 

Why,  don't  you  know  that  it  may  end  in  blood? 

You  'II  lose  your  life,  and  I  shall  lose  my  place. 

My  mistiess  all,  for  that  half-giilish  face. 

CLXxn. 

"  Had  it  but  been  for  a  stout  cavalier 
Of  twenty-five  or  thirty —  (come,  make  haste) 

But  for  a  child,  what  piece  of  work  is  here ! 
I  really,  madam,  wonder  at  your  taste  — 

(Conie,  sir,  get  in)  —  my  master  must  be  near  : 
T  here,  for  the  present',  at  the  leas',  he  's  fast. 

And  if  we  can  but  till  the  morning  keep 

Our  counsel— (Juan,  mind,  you  must  not  sleep.") 

CLXXIII. 

Now,  Don  Alfonso  entering,  but  alone. 
Closed  the  oration  of  the  trusty  maid  : 

She  loiler'd,  and  he  told  her  to  be  gone. 
An  order  somewhat  sullenly  obey'd; 

However,  present  remedy  was  none. 
And  no  great  good  seem'd  answer'd  if  she  ttay'd  : 

Regarding  both  with  slow  and  sidelong  view, 

She  snuft'd  the  candle,  curtsied,  and  withdrew. 


488 


DON   JUAN 


[Canto  I. 


CLXXIV. 

Alfonso  paused  a  minute  —  then  begun 
Some  strange  excuses  for  his  late  pioceeding  ; 

He  would  not  justify  what  he  had  done, 
To  sa^'  the  best,  it  was  extreme  illbreeding  ; 

But  there  were  ample  reasons  for  if,  none 
Of  which  he  specitied  in  this  his  pleading: 

His  speech  was  a  fine  sample,  on  the  whole, 

Of  rhetoric,  which  the  learn'd  call  "  rigmarole.'' 

CLXXV. 
Julia  said  nought ;  though  all  the  while  there  rose 

A  ready  answer,  which  at  once  enables 
A  matron,  who  her  husband's  foible  knosvs, 

By  a  few  timely  words  to  turn  the  tables, 
Which,  if  it  does  not  silence,  still  must  (iose, — 

Even  if  it  should  comprise  a  pack  of  fables; 
'T  is  to  retort  with  Jirmntss,  and  when  he 
Suspects  with  oiie,  do  yoii  reproach  with  three, 

CLXXVI. 

Julia,  in  fact,  had  tolerable  grounds, — 
Alfonso's  loves  with  Inez  were  well  known  ; 

But  whether  't  was  that  one's  own  guilt  confounds  — 
But  that  can't  be,  as  has  been  often  shown, 

A  lady  with  apologies  abounds ;  — 
It  might  be  that  her  silence  sprang  alone 

From  delicacy  to  Don  Juan's  ear. 

To  whom  she  knew  bis  mother's  feme  was  dear. 

GLXXVII. 

There  might  be  one  more  motive,  which  makes  two, 

Alfonso  ne'er  to  Juan  had  alluded, — 
Mention'd  his  jealousy,  but  never  who 

Had  been  the  happy  lover,  he  concluded, 
Conceal'd  amongst  his  premises ;  't  is  true. 

His  mind  the  more  o'er  this  its  mystery  brooded; 
To  speak  of  Inez  now  were,  one  may  say. 
Like  throwing  Juan  in  Alfonso's  way. 

CLXXVIII. 
A  hint,  in  tender  cases,  is  enough  ; 

Silence  is  best,  besides  there  is  a  tad  — 
(That  modern  phrase  appears  to  me  sad  stuff. 

But  it  will  serve  to  keep  my  verse  compact) — 
Which  keeps,  when  push'd  by  questions  rather  rough, 

A  lady  always  distant  from  the  fact : 
The  charming  creatures  lie  with  such  a  grace, 
There's  nothing  so  becoming  to  the  face. 

CLXXIX. 
They  blush,  and  we  believe  them  ;  at  least  I 

Have  always  done  so  ;  't  is  of  no  great  use, 
In  any  case,  attempting  a  reply. 

For  then  their  eloquence  grows  quite  profuse  ; 
And  when  at  length  they  're  out  of  breath,  they  sigh, 

And  cast  their  l.inguid  eyes  down,  and  let  loose 
A  tear  or  two,  and  then  we  make  it  up  ; 
And  then  —  and  then  —  and  then  —  sit  down  and  sup. 

CLXXX. 

Alfonso  closed  his  speech,  and  begged  her  pardon, 
Which  Julia  half  withheld,  and  then  half  granted. 

And  laid  conditions,  he  thought,  very  hard  on, 
Denying  several  little  things  he  wanted  : 

He  stood  like  Adam  lingering  near  his  garden, 
With  useless  penitence  perplex'd  and  hiunted, 

Beseeching  she  no  further  would  refuse, 

When,  lo !  he  stumbled  o"er  a  pair  of  shoes. 

CLXXXI. 
A  pair  of  shoes !  —  what  then  ?  not  much,  if  Ihey 

Are  such  as  fit  with  ladies'  feet,  but  these 
(No  one  can  tell  how  much  I  grieve  to  say) 

Were  masculine  ;  to  see  them,  and  to  seize, 
Was  but  a  monient's  act.— Ah  !  well-a-d.iy  ! 

My  teeth  begin  lo  chatter,  my  veins  freeze  — 
Alfonso  first  examined  well  their  fashion, 
And  then  flew  out  into  another  jassion. 


He  left  the  room  for  his  relinquish'd  sword, 

And  Julia  instant  to  the  closet  flew. 
"  Fly,  Juan,  fly  !  for  heaven's  sake  —  not  a  word  — 

The  door  is  open  —  you  may  yet  slip  through 
The  passage  you  so  ofien  have  explored  — 

Here  is  the  garden-key  —  Fly  —  fly  —  Adieu  ! 
Haste  —  haste  !  1  hear  Alfonso's  huriying  feet  — 
Day  has  not  broke  —  there  's  no  one  in  the  street." 

CLXXXIII. 

None  can  say  that  this  was  not  good  advice, 

The  only  mischief  was,  it  came  too  late; 
Of  all  experience  'I  is  the  usual  price, 

A  sort  of  income-tax  laid  on  by  fate  : 
Juan  had  reach'd  the  room-donr  in  a  Irice, 

And  might  have  done  so  by  the  garden-gate, 
But  ni£t  Alfonso  in  his  dressing-gown. 
Who  threaten'd  death  —  so  Juan  knock'd  him  down. 

CLXXXIV. 
Dire  was  the  scuffle,  and  out  went  the  light ; 

Antonia  cried  out  "  Rape  1  "  and  Julia  "  Fire ! " 
But  not  a  servant  stirr'd  to  aid  the  fight. 

Alfonso,  pommell'd  lo  his  heart's  desire. 
Swore  lustily  he  'd  be  revenged  this  night ; 

And  Juan,  loo,  blasphemed  an  octave  higher; 
His  blood  was  up  :  though  young,  he  was  a  Tartar, 
And  not  at  all  disposed  to  prove  a  martyr. 

CLXXX  V. 
Alfonso's  sword  had  dropp'd  ere  he  could  draw  it, 

And  they  continued  battling  hand  to  hand, 
For  Juan  very  luckily  ne'er  saw  it ; 

His  temper  not  being  under  great  command, 
If  at  that  moment  he  had  chanced  to  claw  it, 

Alfonso's  days  had  not  been  in  the  land 
Much  longer. —  Think  of  husbands',  lovers' lives ! 
And  how  ye  may  be  doubly  widows  —  wives! 

CLXXX VL 

Alfonso  grappled  lo  detain  the  foe. 

And  Juan  throttled  him  to  get  away, 
And  blood  ('I  was  from  the  nose)  began  to  flow ; 

At  last,  as  they  more  faintly  wrestling  lay, 
Juan  contrived  to  give  an  awkward  blow, 

And  then  his  only  garment  quite  gave  way ; 
He  fied,  like  Joseph,  leaving  it ;  but  there, 
I  doubt,  all  likeness  ends  between  the  pair. 

CLXXXVII. 

Lights  came  at  length,  and  men,  and  maids,  who  found 

An  awkward  spectacle  their  eyes  before  ; 
Antonia  in  hysterics,  Julia  swoon'd, 

Alfonso  leaning,  breathless,  by  the  door; 
Some  half-torn  drapery  scatier'd  on  the  ground, 

Some  blood,  and  several  footseps,  but  no  more: 
Juan  the  gale  gain'd,  turn'd  the  key  about. 
And  liking  not  the  inside,  lock'd  tlie  out. 

CLXXXVIIL 
Here  ends  this  canto.—  Need  I  sing,  or  say, 

How  Juan,  naked,  favour'd  by  the  night. 
Who  favours  whit  she  should  not,  found  his  way, 

And  reach'd  his  home  in  an  unseemly  plight? 
The  pleasant  scandal  which  arose  next'day. 

The  nine  days'  wonder  which  was  brought  to  light. 
And  how  Alfonso  sued  for  a  divorce. 
Were  in  the  English  newspapers,  of  course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If  you  would  like  to  see  the  whole  proceedings, 

The  depositions  and  the  cause  at  full. 
The  names  of  all  the  wi'nesses,  the  pleadings 

Of  counsel  lo  nonsuit,  or  to  annul. 
There's  more  than  one  edition,  and  the  readings 

Are  various,  but  they  none  of  them  are  dull ; 
The  best  is  that  in  short-hand  ta'en  by  Gurney.t 
Who  to  Madrid  on  purpose  made  a  journey. 


Canto  I.] 


DON  JUAN. 


4SDI 


cxc. 

But  Donna  Inez,  to  divert  the  Inin 
Of  one  of  the  most  circulating  scandals 

That  had  for  centuries  been  known  in  Spain, 
At  least  since  the  retirement  of  the  Vandals, 

First  vovv"d  (^nd  never  had  she  vow'd  in  vain) 
To  Virgin  Mary  several  pounds  of  candles; 

And  then,  by  the  advice  of  some  old  ladies. 

She  sent  her  son  to  beshipp'd  off  from  Cadiz. 

CXCI. 

She  had  resolved  that  he  should  travel  through 

All  European  climes,  by  land  or  sea, 
To  mend  his  former  mora'is.  and  gel  new, 

Especially  in  France  and  Italy, 
(At  least  this  is  the  thing  most  people  do.) 

Julia  was  sent  into  a  convent :  she 
Grieved,  but,  perhaps,  her  feelings  may  be  better 
Shown  in  the  following  copy  of  her  Letter :  — 

CXCII. 
"They  tell  me  't  is  decided  ;  you  dep'rt: 

"T  is  wise  —  't  is  well,  but  not  the  less  a  pam  ; 
I  have  no  further  claim  on  your  young  heart, 

Mine  is  the  victim,  and  would" be  again  : 
To  love  too  much  has  been  the  only  art 

I  used  ;  —  1  write  in  haste,  and  if  a  stain 
Be  on  this  sheet,  't  is  not  what  it  appears; 
My  eyeballs  burn  and  throb,  but  have  no  tears. 

cxciir. 

"  I  loved,  I  love  you,  for  this  love  have  lost 
State,  station,  heaven,  mankind's,  my  own  esteem, 

And  vet  cannot  regret  what  it  hath  cos't, 
So 'dear  is  still  the  memory  of  that  dream; 

Yet,  if  I  name  my  guilt,  't  is  not  to  bonsf, 

None  can  deem'  liarbhiier  of  me  than  I  deem  : 

I  trace  this  scrawl  because  I  cannot  rest  — 

I  've  nothing  to  reproach,  or  to  request. 

CXCIV. 

"  Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart, 
'T  is  woman's  whole  exi -fence  ;  man  may  range 

The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel,  and  I  he  mart, 
Sword,  gown,  gain,  glory,  offer  in  exchange 

Pride,  fame,  ambition,  to  till  up  his  heart, 
And  few  there  are  whom  these  cannot  estrange ; 

Men  have  all  these  resources,  we  but  one. 

To  love  again,  and  be  again  undone. 

CXCV. 
"  Tou  will  proceed  in  pleasure,  and  in  pride. 

Beloved  and  loving  many  ;  all  is  o'er 
For  me  on  earth,  except  some  years  to  hide 

My  shame  and  sorrow  deep  in  my  heart's  core; 
These  I  could  bear,  but  cinnot  cast  aside 

The  passion  w  hich  still  rages  as  before, — 
And  so  farewell  —  forgive  me,  love  me  —  No, 
That  word  is  idle  now  —but  let  it  go. 

CXCVI. 
"  My  breast  has  been  all  weikness,  is  so  yet ; 

But  still  I  think  I  can  collect  my  mind  ; 
My  blood  still  rushes  where  my  spirit 's  set. 

As  roll  the  waves  before  the  settled  wind ; 
My  heart  is  feminine,  nor  can  forget  — 

To  all,  except  one  image,  madly  blind  : 
So  shakes  the  needle,  and  so  stands  the  pole. 
As  vibrates  my  fond  heart  to  my  fix'd  soul. 

CXCVII. 
"  I  have  no  more  to  say,  but  linger  still, 

And  dare  not  set  my  seal  upon  this  sheet. 
And  yet  1  may  is  well  the  task  fulfil, 

My  misery  can  scarce  be  more  complete: 
I  had  not  lived  till  now,  could  sorrow  kill ; 

Death  shuns  the  wretch  who  fain  the  blow  would 
meet. 
And  I  must  even  survive  this  last  adieu. 
And  bear  with  life,  to  love  and  pray  for  you  ! " 


CXCVIII. 

This  note  was  written  upon  gilt-edged  paper 
VVith  a  neat  little  crow-quill,  slight  and  new; 

Her  small  white  hand  could  hardly  reach  the  taper, 
II  trembled  as  magnetic  needles  do. 

And  yet  she  did  not  let  one  tear  escape  her; 

The  seal  a  sun-tlower  ;  "  Etle  vcnis  auxt  partout,^  » 

The  motto,  cut  upon  a  white  cornelian  ; 

The  wax  was  superfine,  its  hue  vermilion. 

^  CXCIX. 

This  was  Don  Juan's  earliest  scrape  ;  but  whether 

I  shall  proceed  with  his  adventure  is 
Dependent  on  the  public  altogether; 

We'll  see,  however,  what  they  say  to  this, 
Their  favour  in  an  author's  cap  's  a  feather. 

And  no  great  mischief  's  done  by  their  caprice  ; 
And  if  their  approbation  we  experience. 
Perhaps  they'll  have  some  more  about  a  year  hence. 

CC. 

My  poem 's  epic,  and  is  meant  to  be 

Divided  in  twelve  books ;  each  book  con'aining, 
With  love,  and  war,  a  heavy  gale  at  sea, 

A  list  of  ships,  and  captains,  and  kings  reigning, 
New  characters  ;  the  episodes  are  three  : 

A  panoramic  view  of  hell 's  in  training, 
After  the  style  of  Virgil  and  of  Homer, 
So  that  my  name  of  Epic 's  no  misnomer. 

CCI. 
All  these  things  will  be  specified  in  time, 

VVith  strict  regard  to  Aristotle's  rules. 
The  Fade  Mecum  of  the  true  sublime, 

Which  makes  so  many  poets,  and  some  fools: 
Prose  poets  like  blank  verse,  I  'm  fond  of  rhyme, 

Good  workmen  never  quarrel  with  their  tools; 
I  've  got  new  mythological  machinery. 
And  very  handsome  supernatural  scenery, 

ecu. 

There 's  only  one  slight  difference  between 
Me  and  my  epic  brethren  gone  before. 

And  here  the  advantage  is  my  own,  I  ween 
(Not  that  I  have  not  several  merits  more, 

But  this  will  more  peculiarly  be  seen); 
They  so  embellish,  that  'I  is  quite  a  bore 

Their  labyrinth  of  fables  to  thread  through. 

Whereas  this  story  'a  actually  true. 

ccm. 

If  any  person  doubt  it,  I  appeal 

To  history,  tradition,  and  to  ficts. 
To  newspapers,  whose  truth  all  know  and  feel. 

To  pliys  in  five,  and  operas  in  three  acts; 
All  these  confirm  my  statement  a  good  deal, 

But  that  which  more  completely  faith  exact* 
Is,  that  myself,  and  several  now  in  Seville, 
Saw  Juan's  last  elopement  with  the  devil. 

CCIV. 
If  ever  I  should  condescend  to  prose, 

I'll  write  poetical  commandments,  which 
Shall  supersede  beyond  a  doubt  all  those 

That  went  beft^re ;  in  thee  I  shall  enrich 
My  text  with  many  thinss  that  no  one  knows. 

And  carrv  precept  to  the  highest  pitch  : 
I  '11  call  the  work  "  Longinus  o'er  a  Bottle, 
Or,  Every  Poet  his  oton  Aristotle." 

CCV. 
Thou  Shalt  believe  in  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope; 

Thou    Shalt  not    set    up   Wordsworth,   Coleridge, 
Snulhey ; 
Because  the  first  is  crazed  beyond  all  hope. 

The  second  drunk,  the  third  so  quiint  and  mouthy: 
With  Crabbe  it  may  be  difficult  to  cope. 

And  Campbell's  Hippocrene  is  somewhat  droufhy : 
Thou  shall  not  steal  from  Samuel  Rogers,  nor 
Commit  —  flirtation  with  the  muse  of  Moore. 


L  ird  Byron  had  himself  a  seal  bearing  this  motto.—  S. 


490 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  I. 


CCVI. 
Thou  shall  not  ccvet  Mr.  Sotheby's  Muse, 

His  Peg.isus,  nor  any  thing  that 's  his  ; 
Thou  Shalt  not  bear  fjlse  witness  like  •'  the  Blues"- 

(There  's  one,  a'  least,  is  very  fond  of  this) ; 
Thou  shall  not  uri'e,  in  shori,'bul  what  I  choose; 

This  is  true  criticism,  and  you  miy  kiss  — 
Exactly  as  ynu  please,  or  not,  —  the  rod  ; 
But  if  you  don't,  I  '11  lay  it  on,  by  G— d  ! 

CCVII. 
If  any  person  should  presume  to  assert 

This  story  is  not  moral,  fits',  I  pray, 
That  they  will  not  cry  out  before  they  're  hurt, 

Then  that  they  'II  read  it  o'er  again,  and  say 
(But,  doubtless,  nobody  will  be  so  pert,) 

That  this  is  not  a  moral  tale,  though  gay ; 
Besides,  in  Canto  Twelfth,  I  mean  lo  show 
The  very  place  where  wicked  people  go. 

ccvni. 

If,  after  all,  there  should  be  some  so  blind 
To  their  own  good  this  warning  to  despise, 

Led  by  some  tortuosity  of  mind. 

Not  to  believe  my  verse  and  their  own  eyes, 

And  cry  that  they  "  the  moral  cannot  find,'' 
I  tell  him,  if  a  clergyman,  he  lies  ; 

Should  captains  the  remark,  or  critics,  make. 

They  also  lie  too  — under  a  mistake. 

CCIX. 
The  public  approbation  I  expect, 

And  beg  Ihey  '11  take  my  word  about  the  moral, 
Which  I  with  their  amusement  will  connect 

(So  children  cutting  teeth  receive  a  coral) ; 
Meantime  they  'II  doubtless  please  to  recollect 

My  epical  pretensions  to  the  laurel : 
For  fear  some  prudish  readers  should  grow  .'kittish, 
I  've  bribed  my  grandmother's  review  —  the  British. 

ccx. 

I  sent  it  in  a  letter  to  the  Editor, 

V\  ho  thank'd  me  duly  by  reiurn  of  post  — 

I'm  for  a  handsome  article  his  creditor; 
Yet,  if  my  senile  Muse  he  please  to  roa<t, 

And  break  a  promise  after  having  made  it  her, 
Denying  the  receipt  of  what  it  cost, 

And  smear  his  page  with  gall  instead  of  honey, 

All  1  can  say  is  —  that  he  had  the  money. 

CCXI. 
I  think  that  with  this  holy  new  alliance 

I  may  ensure  the  public,  and  defy 
All  other  magazines  of  art  or  science. 

Daily,  or  monthly,  or  three  monthly  ;  I 
Have  not  essay'd  lo  multiply  their  clients. 

Because  they  tell  me  'I  were  in  vain  to  try, 
And  that  the  Edinburgh  Review  and  Quarterly 
Treat  a  dissenting  author  very  niar'yrly. 

CCXII. 

"  Non  eeo  hnc  ferrem  calida  juvcnia 
Cmuule  Planco,"  Horace  said,  and  so 

Say  I  ;  by  which  quoalion  there  is  meant  a 
Hint  that  some  six  or  seven  good  years  ago 

(Long ere  I  dreamt  of  dating  from  the  Bienia) 
I  was  mos-t  ready  to  reiurn  a  biQW, 

And  would  not  brook  at  all  this  sort  of  thing 

In  my  hot  youth—  when  George  the  Third  was  King. 

CCXIU. 

But  now  at  thirtv  years  mv  hair  is  grey  — 
(I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like  al  forty  f 

I  thought  of  a  peruke  the  other  day —  ) 

My  heart  is  not  much  greener ;  and,  in  short,  I 

Have  squander'd  my  whole  summer  w  hile  't  was  May, 
And  feel  no  more  the  spirit  lo  rctorl ;  I 

Have  spent  my  life,  both  interest  and  principal, 
j  And  deem  not,  what  I  detm'd,  my  soul  invincible. 


CCXIV. 
No  more  —  no  more  —  Oh  ;  never  more  on  me 

The  freshness  of  the  heirl  can  fall  like  dew, 
Which  out  of  all  the  lovely  things  we  see 

Extracts  emotions  beautiful  and  new, 
Hived  in  our  bosoms  like  the  bag  o'  the  bee, 

Think'st  thou  the  honey  wiih  ihose  objects  grevr  ? 
Alas  !  't  was  not  in  them,  but  in  thy  power 
To  double  even  the  sweetness  of  a  flower. 

CCXV. 
No  more —  no  more  —  Oh  !  never  more,  my  heart. 

Canst  thou  be  my  sole  world,  my  universe  ! 
Once  all  in  all,  but  now  a  thing  apart, 

Thou  canst  not  be  my  blessing  or  my  curse : 
The  illusion  's  gone  for  ever,  and  thou  art 

Insensible,  I  trust,  but  none  the  worse. 
And  in  thy  stead  I  've  got  a  deal  of  judgment, 
Though  heaven  knows  how  it  ever  found  a  lodgement, 

CCXVI. 

My  days  of  love  are  over  ;  me  no  more 

The  charms  of  maid,  wife,  and  still  less  of  widow, 
Can  make  thj  fool  of  which  they  nude  before,— 

In  short,  I  must  not  lead  the  li'fe  I  did  do; 
The  credulous  hope  of  mutual  minds  is  o'er, 

The  copious  use  of  claret  is  forbid  too. 
So  for  a  good  old-gentlemanly  vice, 
I  thiuk  I  must  take  up  with  avarice. 

CCXVIL 

Ambition  was  my  idol,  w  hich  was  broken 
Before  the  shrines  of  Sorrow,  and  of  Pleasure; 

And  the  two  last  have  left  me  many  a  token 
O'er  which  reflection  may  be  made  at  leisure : 

Now,  like  Friar  Bacon's  brazen  head,  I  've  spoken, 
"Time   is.  Time  was,  Time's   past:  — a  chymic 
treasure 

Is  glittering  youth,  which  I  have  spent  betimes  — 

My  heart  in  passion,  and  my  head  on  rhymes. 

CCXVIII. 
What  is  the  end  of  Fame?  't  is  but  to  fill 

A  certain  portion  of  uncertain  paper  : 
Some  liken  it  to  climbing  up  a  hill. 

Whose  summit,  like  all  hills,  is  lost  in  vapour ; 
For  this  men  write,  speak,  preach,  and  heroes  kill. 

And   bards  burn  what  they  call  their  "  midnight 
taper." 
To  have,  when  the  original  is  dust, 
A  name,  a  wretched  picture,  and  worse  bust. 

CCXIX. 

What  are  the  hopes  of  man  ?    Old  Egypt's  King 

Cheops  erected  the  first  pyramid 
And  largest,  thinking  it  was  just  the  thing 

To  keep  his  memory  whole,  and  mummy  hid  : 
But  somebody  or  other  rummaging. 

Burglariously  broke  his  coffin's  lid  : 
Let  not  a  monument  give  you  or  me  hopes, 
Since  not  a  pinch  of  dust  remains  of  Cheops. 


tut  I  being  fond  of  true  philosophy 
Say  very  often  to  myself,  "  Alas'. 


yself. 
All  things  that  have  been  born  were  born  to  die. 

And  f.esh  (which  Death  mows  down  to  hay)  is  gran; 
You  've  pass'd  your  youth  not  so  unpleasantly, 

And  if  you  had  it  o'er  again  —  'I  would  pass- 
So  thank  your  stars  that  matters  are  no  worse. 
And  read  your  Bible,  sir,  and  mind  your  purse." 

CCXXI. 

But  for  the  present,  gentle  re  ider  I  and 
Still  gentler  purchaser  !  the  bard  —that 's  I  — 

Must,  with  permission,  shake  you  by  the  hand. 
And  so  your  humble  servant,  and  gosdbye! 

We  meet  again,  if  we  should  understand 
Each  other  ;  and  if  not,  I  shall  not  try 

Your  patience  further  than  by  this  short  sample  — 

'T  were  well  if  others  follow''d  my  example. 


.=dJ 


I  Canto  II.] 


DON  JUAN. 


49i 


CCXXII. 

•♦Go,  liltle  book,  from  this  my  solitude  ! 

I  casi  thee  on  the  waters  —  go  thy  ways  ! 
And  if,  as  1  believe,  thy  vein  be  eood. 

The  worjcl  will  find  thee  after  many  days." 
When  Souihey  's  read,  and  Wordsworth  understood, 

I  can't  help  puUing  in  my  claim  to  praise  — 
The  lour  first  rhymes  are  Snuthey's  every  line  : 
For  God's  sake,  reader !  lake  them  not  for  mine  ! 


CANTO  THE  SECOND.t 
I. 

Oh  ye!  who  teach  the  ingenuous  youth  of  nations, 
Holland,  France,  England,  Germany,  or  Spain, 

I  pray  ye  flog  them  upon  all  occasions. 

It  mends  their  morals,  never  mind  the  pain  : 

The  best  of  mothers  and  of  educations 
In  Juan's  case  were  but  eiiiploy'd  in  vain  ; 

Since,  in  a  way  th»t  's  rather  of  the  oddest,  he 

Became  divested  of  his  native  modesty. 

II. 

Had  he  but  been  placed  at  a  public  school, 
In  the  third  form,  or  even  in  the  fourth. 

His  daily  task  had  kept  his  fancy  cool. 

At  least,  had  he  been  nurtured  in  the  north  ; 

Spain  may  prove  an  exception  to  the  rule. 
But  then  exceptions  alwa\s  prove  its  worth  — 

A  lad  of  sixteen  causing  a  divorce 

Puzzled  his  tutors  very  "much,  of  course. 

HI. 
I  can't  say  that  it  puzzles  me  at  all. 

If  all  things  be  consider'd  :  first,  there  was 
His  hdy-mother,  mathematical, 

A never  mind  ;  —  his  tutor,  an  old  ass ; 

A  pretty  wom:in  —  (that 's  quite  natural, 

Or  else  the  thing  had  hardly  come  to  pass) 
A  husband  rather  old,  not  much  in  unity 
With  his  young  wife  —  a  time,  and  opportunity. 

IV. 
Well  —  well ;  the  world  must  turn  upon  its  axis, 

And  all  mankind  turn  with  it.  heads  or  tails. 
And  live  and  die,  make  love  and  pay  our  taxes. 

And  as  the  veering  wind  shifts,  shift  our  sails; 
The  king  commands  us,  and  the  doctor  quacks  us. 

The  priest  instructs,  and  so  our  life  exhales, 
A  liltle  breath,  love,  wine,  ambition,  fame. 
Fighting,  devotion,  dust, —  perhaps  a  name. 

V. 
I  said,  that  Juan  had  been  sent  to  Cadiz  — 

A  pretty  town,  I  recollect  it  well  — 
T  is  there  the  mart  of  the  colonial  trade  is, 

(Or  was,  before  Peru  learn'd  to  rebel,) 
And  such  sweet  girls  —  I  mean,  such  graceful  ladies. 

Their  very  walk  would  make  your  faosom  swell ; 
I  can't  describe  it,  though  so  much  it  strike. 
Nor  liken  it  —  I  never  saw  the  like : 

VI. 
An  Arab  horse,  a  stately  stag,  a  barb 

New  broke,  a  cameleopard,  a  gazelle, 
No  —  none  of  these  w  ill  do  ;  —  and  then  their  garb  ! 

Their  veil  and  petticoat  —  Alas  1  to  dwell 
Upon  fuch  things  would  very  near  absorb 

A  canto  — then  their  feet  'md  ankles, —  well, 
Thank  Heaven  I  've  eot  no  nje^aphor  qui'e  ready, 
(And  so,  my  sober  Muse  —  come,  let 's  be  steady  — 

vn. 

Cbasle  Muse!  —  well,  if  you  must,  you  must)  —  the 
veil 

Thrown  back  a  moment  with  the  glancing  hand, 
While  the  o-erjiowering  eye,  that  turns  you  pale. 

Flashes  into  the  heart :  —  All  sunny  land 


Of  love !  when  I  forget  you,  may  I  fail 

To say    my    prayers  — but    never    was   tberc 

plann'd 
A  dress  through  which  the  eyes  give  such  a  volley, 
Excepting  the  Venetian  Fazzjoli.a 

VIII. 

But  to  our  tale :  the  Donna  Inez  sent 
Her  son  to  Cadiz  only  to  embark  ; 
To  stay  there  hid  not  a'nswer'd  her  intent, 

jt  why  ?  —  we  leave  the  reader  in  the  dark  — 
"T  was  for  a  voyage  that  the  young  man  was  meant. 

As  if  a  Spanish  ship  were  Noah"s  ark. 
To  wean  him  from  the  wickedness  of  earth. 
And  send  him  like  a  dove  of  piomise  forth. 

IX. 

Don  Juan  bade  his  valet  pack  his  things 

According  to  direction,  then  received 
A  lecture  and  some  money  :  for  four  springs 

He  was  to  travel  ;  and  though  Inez  grieved 
(As  every  kind  of  parting  has  its  stings). 

She  hoped  he  would  improve  —  perhaps  believed: 
A  letter,  too,  she  gave  (he  never  read  it) 
Of  good  advice  —  and  two  or  three  of  credit. 


Jl       1  Beeon  at  Venice,  Decemljer  13, 1818,—  finished  Janu- 
ll  uy  »,  1619.—  E. 


In  the  mean  time,  to  pass  her  hours  away, 

Brave  Inez  now  set  up  a  Sunday  scho'jl 
For  naughty  children,  who  would  rather  play 

(Like  truant  rogues)  the  devil,  or  the  fool  ; 
Infants  of  three  years  old  were  taught  that  day, 

Dunces  were  whipt,  or  set  upon  a  stool  : 
The  great  success  of  Juan's  education, 
Spurr'd  her  to  teach  another  generation. 

XI. 

Juan  embark'd  — the  ship  got  under  way. 
The  wind  was  fair,  the  water  passing  rough  ; 

A  devil  of  a  sea  rolls  in  that  bay. 

As  I,  who  've  cross'd  it  oft,  know  well  enough ; 

And,  standing  upon  deck,  the  dashing  spray 

Flies  in  one's  face,  and  makes  it  weather-lough; 

And  there  he  stood  to  take,  and  take  again, 

His  first  —  perhaps  his  last  —  farewell  of  Spain. 

XII. 
I  cant  but  say  it  is  an  awkward  sight 

To  see  one's  native  land  receding  through 
The  growing  waters  ;  it  unmans  one  quite, 

Es(>ecially  when  life  is  rather  new  : 
I  recollect  Great  Britain's  coast  looks  white. 

But  almost  every  other  coun'ry  's  blue. 
When  gazing  on  them,  mystified  by  distance. 
We  enter  on  our  nautical  existence. 

XIII. 

So  Juan  stood,  bewilder'd  on  the  deck  : 

The  wind  sung,  cordage  strain'cl,  and  sailors  swore, 
And  the  ship  creak'd,  the  town  became  a  speck. 

From  which  away  so  fair  and  fast  they  bore. 
The  t)est  of  remedies  is  a  beef-s'eak 

Against  sea-sickne>s  :  try  i',  sir.  before 
You  sneer,  and  1  assure  you  this  is  true. 
For  I  have  found  it  answer  —  so  may  you. 

XIV. 

Don  Juan  «'ood.  and,  gazing  from  the  stem. 

Beheld  his  native  Spain  receding  far: 
First  partings  form  a  lesson  hard  to  learn, 

Even  nations  feel  'his  when  thev  go  to  war ; 
There  is  a  sort  of  unexpresi  concern, 

A  kind  of  shock  that  sets  one's  heart  ajar: 
At  leaving  even  the  most  unpleasmt  people 
And  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  steeple. 

2  Fa»?ioii  — literally,   the    little    homlkerchie&— Ifci 
veils  most  availing  of  SI.  Mark.  I 


492 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  II.  | 


XV. 

But  Juan  had  got  many  things  to  leave. 

His  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  no  w  ife, 
So  that  he  had  much  belter  cause  to  grieve, 

Than  many  persons  more  advanced  in  life; 
And  if  we  now  and  then  a  sish  must  heave 

At  quilting  even  those  we  quit  in  strife. 
No  doubt  we  weep  for  those  the  heart  endears  — 
That  is,  till  deeper  griefs  congeal  our  tears. 

XVI. 

So  Juan  wept,  as  wept  the  captive  Jews 
By  Babel's  waters,  still  remembering  Sinn : 

I  'd  weep, —  but  mine  is  not  a  weeping  Muse, 
And  such  light  griefs  are  not  a  thing  tn  die  on  ; 
I  Young  men  should  travel,  if  but  to  amuse 

Themselves  ;  and  the  next  time  their  servants  f.e  on 

Behind  their  carriages  their  new  ponmanteau, 

Perhaps  it  may  be  lined  with  this  my  canto. 

XVII. 

And  Juan  wept,  and  much  he  sigh'd  and  thought, 
While  his  salt  tears  dropp'd  into  'he  sail  sea, 

"Sweets  to  the  sweet ;  "  {I  like  so  much  to  quote; 
You  must  e.\cuse  this  extract,— 'I  is  wliere  she, 

The  Queen  of  Denmark,  for  Ophelia  brought 
Flowers  to  the  grave;)  and,  sobbing  of;en,  he 

Reflected  on  his  present  siiualion. 

And  seriously  resolved  on  reformation. 

XVIII. 
"  Farewell,  my  Spain  !  a  long  farewell !  "  he  cried, 

'•  Perhaps  I  may  revisit  thee  no  more. 
But  die,  as  many  an  exiled  heart  hath  died, 

Of  its  own  thirst  to  see  again  thy  shire : 
Farewell,  where  Guadalquivir's  waters  glide  ! 

Farewell,  my  mother  !  and,  since  all  is  n'er, 
Farewell,  too,  dearest  Julia  !  —  (here  he  drew 
Her  letter  out  again,  and  read  it  through.) 

XIX. 

"  And  oh  !  if  e'er  I  should  forget,  I  swear 
But  that 's  impossible,  and  cannot  be  — 

Sooner  shall  this  blue  ocean  melt  to  air. 
Sooner  shall  earth  resolve  itself  to'sea. 

Than  I  resign  thine  image,  oh,  my  fair ! 
Or  think  of  any  ihing,  excepting  thee  ; 

A  mind  diseased  no  remedy  can  physic  — 

(Here  the  ship  gave  a  lurch,  and  be  grew  sea-sick.; 

XX. 

"Sooner  shall  heaven  kiss  earth— {here  he  fell  sicker) 
Oh,  Julia  !  what  is  every  other  woe?  — 

(For  God's  sake  let  me  have  a  glass  of  liquor  ; 
Pedro,  Battista,  help  me  down  below.) 

Julia,  my  love  — (you  rascal,  Pedro,  quicker)  — 
Oh,  Julia  !  —  (this  curst  vessel  pitches  so)  — 

Beloved  Julia,  hear  me  still  beseeching  !  " 

(Here  he  grew  inarticulate  with  retching.) 

XXI. 

He  felt  that  chiltins;  heaviness  of  heart. 
Or  rather  stomach,  which,  alas  !  attends. 

Beyond  the  best  apothecary's  ait. 
The  loss  of  love,  the  treichery  of  friends. 

Or  death  of  ihose  we  dote  on,  when  :i  part 
Of  us  dies  with  them  as  each  fond  hope  ends  : 

No  doubt  he  would  have  been  much  more  pathetic, 

But  the  se^  acted  as  a  strong  emetic. 

XXII. 

Love 's  a  capricious  power  :  I  've  knosvn  it  hold 
Out  through  a  fever  caused  by  its  own  heat, 

But  be  much  pu7.7led  by  a  cough  and  cold, 
And  find  a  quinsy  very  hard  to  treat ; 

Against  all  noble  maladies  he  's  bold, 
But  vulgar  illnesses  don't  like  to  meet. 

Nor  that  a  sneeze  should  interrupt  his  sigh, 

Nor  inflammations  redden  his  blind  eye. 


XXIII. 

But  worst  of  all  is  nausea,  or  a  pain 
About  the  lower  region  of  the  bowels ; 

Love,  who  heroically  breathes  a  vein. 
Shrinks  from  the  application  of  hot  towels, 

And  purgatives  are  dangerous  to  his  reign, 

Sea-sickness  death  :  his  love  was  perfect,  how  elie 

Could  Juan's  passion,  while  the  billows  roar, 

Resist  his  stomach,  ne'ei  at  sea  before  } 

XXIV. 

The  ship,  call'd  the  most  holy  "  Trinidada," 
Was  steering  duly  for  the  port  Leghorn  ; 

For  there  the  .Spanish  family  Mnncida 

Were  settled  long  ere  Juan's  sire  w?.s  born  : 

They  were  relations,  aiid  for  them  he  had  a 
Letter  of  introduction,  which  the  morn 

Of  his  departure  had  been  sent  him  by 

His  Spanish  friends  for  those  in  Italy. 

XXV. 

His  suite  consisted  of  three  servants  and 

A  tutor,  the  licentiate  Pedrillo, 
Who  seveml  langii  'ges  did  understand. 

But  now  lay  sick  and  speechless  on  his  pillow. 
And,  rocking  in  liis  hammock,  long'd  for  land, 

His  headach  being  increased  by  every  billow  ; 
And  the  waves  oozing  through  the  port-hole  made 
His  berth  a  little  damp,  aiidliim  afraid. 

XXVI. 

T  was  not  without  some  reason,  for  the  wind 
Increased  at  night,  until  it  blew  a  gile  ; 

And  though  't  was  not  much  to  a  naval  mind. 
Some  landsmen  would  hue  look'd  a  little  pale, 

For  sailors  are,  in  fact,  a  different  kind  : 
At  sunset  they  began  to  take  in  sail. 

For  the  sky  .^how'd  it  would  come  on  to  blew. 

And  carry  away,  perhaps,  a  mast  or  so. 

XXVII. 

At  one  o'clock  the  wind  with  'udden  shift 
Threw  the  ship  risht  into  the  trough  of  the  sea, 

Which  struck  her  aft,  and  made  an  awkward  rift, 
Started  the  stern-post,  also  shalter'd  the 

Whole  of  her  stern-frame,  and,  ere  she  could  lift 
Herself  from  out  her  present  jeopardy, 

The  rudder  tore  away  :  't  was  lime  to  sound 

The  pumps,  and  there  were  four  feet  water  found. 

XXVIIL 

One  gang  of  people  instantly  was  put 

Upon  the  pumps,  and  the  remainder  set 
To  get  up  part  of  the  cargo,  and  what  not ; 

But  they  c  'uld  not  come  at  ihe  leak  as  yet ; 
At  last  ihey  did  get  at  it  really,  but 

Slill  their  salvation  was  an  even  bet  : 
The  water  rush'd  through  in  a  way  quite  puz2ling. 
While    Ihey  thrust    sheets,  shirts,  jackets,  bales  of 
muslin, 

XXIX. 
Into  the  opening;  but  all  such  ingredients 

Would   have" been  vain,  and  they  must  have  gone 

Despite  of  all  their  eflTorts  and  expedients, 

But  for  Ihe  pumps  ;  I  'm  glad  to  make  them  known 

To  all  the  brother  lars  who  inay  have  need  hence, 
For  fifty  tons  of  water  were  uplhfown 

By  them  per  hour,  and  they  had  all  been  undone, 

BiJt  for  the  maker,  Mr.  Mann,  of  London. 

XXX. 

As  day  advanced  the  weather  seem'd  to  abate. 
And  then  Ihe  leak  Ihey  reckoned  to  reduce. 

And  keep  the  ship  afloat,  thoush  Ihice  feet  yet 
Kept  two  hand  and  one  cluiii-pump  still  in  use. 

The  wind  blew  fresh  again  :  as  it  grew  late 
A  squall  came  on,  and  while  some  guns  broke  loose, 

A  gust  —  vrhich  all  descriptive  power  transcends  — 

Laid  with  one  blast  Ihe  ship  on  her  beam-enda. 


Canto  II.l 


DON  JUAN. 


493 


There  she  lay,  motionless,  and  seeni'd  upset ; 

The  water  left  the  hold,  and  wash'd  the  decks, 
And  msde  a  scene  men  do  not  soon  forget ; 

For  they  remember  battles,  fire?,  and  wrecks, 
Or  any  other  thing  that  brines  regret, 

Or  breaks  their  hopes,  or  fieirls,  or  heads,  or  necksj 
Thus  drownings  are  much  talk'd  of  by  the  divers. 
And  swimmers,  who  may  chance  to  be  survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately  the  masts  were  cut  away, 
Both  main  and  mizzen  ;  first  the  mizzen  went, 

The  main-mast  foUow'd  :  but  the  ship  still  lay 
Like  a  mere  log,  and  biffled  our  intent. 

Foremast  and  bowsprit  were  cut  down,  and  they 
Eased  her  at  la5t(althoush  we  never  nie.int 

To  part  with  all  till  every'hope  was  blighted), 

And  then  with  violence  the  old  ship  rigb'ed. 

XXXllI. 

It  may  be  easily  supposed,  while  this 

Was  going  on,  some  people  were  unquiet, 

That  pa^engers  would  find  it  much  amiss 
To  lose  their  lives,  as  well  as  sp)il  iheir  dial ; 

That  eien  Ihe  able  seaman,  deeming  his 
Days  nearly  o'er,  might  lie  disposed  to  riot, 

Ai  upon  such  occasions  tars  will  ask 

For  grog,  and  sometimes  drink  rum  from  the  cask. 

XXXIV. 

There's  nought,  no  doubt,  so  much  the  spirit  calms 
Aa  mm  and  true  religion  :  thus  it  was. 

Some  plunder'd,  some  drank  spirits,  some  sung  psalms, 
The  high  w  ind  made  the  treble,  and  as  bass 

The  hoarse  harsh  waves  kept  lime;  fright  cured  the 
qualms 
Of  all  the  luckless  landsmen's  sea-sick  maws : 

Strange  sounds  of  wailing,  blasphemy,  devotion, 

Clamour'd  in  chorus  to  the  roaring  ocean. 

XXXV. 

Perhaps  more  mischief  had  been  done,  but  for 
Our  Juan,  who,  with  sense  beyond  his  years, 

Got  to  Ihe  spirit-room,  and  stood  before 
It  with  a  pair  of  pistols  ;  and  their  fears. 

As  if  Death  were  more  dreadful  by  his  door 
Of  fire  than  water,  spite  of  oaths  and  tears. 

Kept  still  aloof  the  crew,  who,  ere  they  sunk, 

Thought  it  would  be  becoming  to  die  drunk. 

XXXVI, 

"Give  us  more  grog,"  Ihey  cried,  "  for  it  will  be 
All  oue  an  hour  hence.' '     Juan  answer'd,  "  No  ! 

'T  is  tn:e  that  death  awaits  both  you  and  me. 
But  let  us  die  like  men,  not  sink  below 

Ijke  Drute> :  "  —  and  thus  his  dingerous  post  kept  he, 
And  none  liked  to  anticip.ite  the  blow  ; 

And  even  Pedrillo,  his  most  reverend  tutor, 

Was  for  some  rum  a  disappointed  suitor. 

xxxyii. 

The  good  old  gentleman  was  quite  aghast. 
And  made  a  loud  and  pious  lamentation  ; 

Repented  all  his  sins,  and  made  a  last 
Irrevocable  vow  of  reformation  ; 

Nothing  should  tempt  him  more  (this  peril  past) 
To  quit  his  academic  occupition, 

In  cloisters  of  the  classic  Salamanca, 

To  follow  Juan's  wake,  likeSancho  Panca. 

XXXVIII. 

But  now  there  came  a  flash  of  hope  once  more  ; 

Day  broke,  and  the  wind   lull'd:  the  masts  were 
gone, 
The  leak  -ncreased  ;  shoals  round  her,  but  no  shore, 

The  vessel  swam,  yet  still  she  held  her  own. 
They  tried  Ihe  pumps  again,  and  though  before 

Their  desperate  efforts  seeni'd  all  useless  grown, 
A  glimpse  of  sunshine  set  some  hands  to  bale  — 
The  stronger  pump'd,  the  weaker  thruuim'd  a  sail. 


42 


XXXIX. 

Under  Ihe  vessel's  keel  the  sail  was  past. 
And  for  Ihe  moment  it  had  some  effect; 

But  with  a  leak,  and  not  a  stick  of  mast, 

Nor  rag  of  canvass,  what  could  Ihey  expect? 

But  still  'I  is  best  to  struggle  to  the  last, 
'T  is  never  too  late  to  be  w  holly  wreck'd  : 

And  though  'I  is  true  that  man  can  only  die  once, 

T  is  not  so  pleasant  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons. 

XL. 

There  winds  and  waves  bad  buri'd  them,  and  from 
thence, 

Without  their  will,  they  carried  them  away  ; 
For  they  were  forced  with  steering  to  dispense, 

And  never  liad  as  yet  a  quiet  day 
On  which  they  might  repose,  or  even  commence 

A  jurymast  or  rudder,  or  could  say 
The  ship  would  swim  an  hour,  which,  by  good  luck, 
Still  swam  —  though  not  exactly  like  a  duck. 

XLI. 

The  wind,  in  fact,  perhaps,  was  rather  less. 
But  the  ship  labour'd  so,  they  scarce  could  hope 

To  weather  out  much  longer;  the  distress 
Was  also  gieat  with  which  they  had  to  cope 

For  want  of  water,  and  their  solid  mess 
Was  scant  enough  :  in  vain  the  telescope 

Was  used  —  nor  sail  nor  shore  appear'd  in  sight. 

Nought  but  the  heavy  sea,  and  coming  night. 

XLII. 

Again  the  weather  threaten'd, —  again  blew 

A  gale,  and  in  the  fore  and  af'.<'r  hold 
Water  appear'd  ;  yet,  though  Ihe  people  knew 

Ail  this,  the  most  »ere  patient,  and  some  bold. 
Until  the  chains  and  leathers  were  worn  through 

Of  all  our  pumps  :  —  a  wreck  complete  she  roU'd, 
At  mercy  of  Ihe  waves,  whose  mercies  are 
Like  human  beings  during  civil  war. 

XLIII. 
Then  came  the  carpenter,  at  last,  with  tears 

In  his  rough  eyes,  and  told  Ihe  captain,  he 
Could  do  no'more :  he  was  a  man  in  years, 

And  long  had  voyaged  through  many  a  stormy  sea, 
And  if  he  wept  at  length,  they  were  not  fears 

That  made  his  eyelids  as  a  woman's  be. 
But  he,  poor  fellow,  had  a  wife  and  children. 
Two  thiugs  for  dying  peo|  le  quite  bewildering. 

XLIV, 
The  ship  was  evidently  settling  now 

Fast  by  the  hed;  and,  all  distinction  gone. 
Some  went  to  prayers  again,  aud  made  a  vow 

Of  candles  to  their  saints  —  but  there  were  none 
To  pay  Ihem  with  ;  and  some  look'd  o"er  Ihe  bow  ; 

Some  hoisted  out  the  boats ;  and  there  was  one 
That  begg'd  Pedrillo  for  an  absolution. 
Who  told  him  to  be  damn'd  —  in  his  confusion. 

XLV. 

Some  lash'd  them  in  their  hammocks  ;  some  put  on 
Their  best  clothes,  as  if  goins  to  a  fair  : 

Some  cursed  the  day  on  which  they  saw  Ihe  sun. 
And  gnash'd  their  teeth,  and   howling,  tore  tlieir 
hair; 

And  o'hers  went  on  as  they  had  begun, 
Gettins  the  boats  out,  being  well  aware 

That  a  tight  boat  will  live  in  a  rough  sea. 

Unless  with  breakers  close  beneath  her  lee. 

XLVI. 

The  worst  of  all  was,  that  in  their  condition, 
Havine  t>een  several  days  in  great  distress, 

'T  was  difficult  to  get  out  such  provision 

As  now  might  render  their  long  suffering  le»s  : 

Men,  even  when  dying,  dislike  inanition ; 
Their  stock  was  damaged  by  the  weather's  aire* : 

Two  casks  of  biscuit,  and  a  beg  of  butter. 

Were  all  that  could  be  thrown  into  the  cutter. 


[494 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  II 


XLVII, 
But  in  the  long-boat  they  contrived  to  stow 

Some  pound:<  of  bread,  though  injured  by  the  wet; 
Water,  a  iwenly-gAllon  cask  or  so  ; 

Six  flasks  of  wine  :  and  tliey  contrived  to  get 
A  poriioii  of  their  beef  up  froui  below, 

And  with  a  piece  of  pork,  moreover,  met. 
But  scarce  enough  to  serve  them  for  a  luncheon  — 
Then  there  was  rum,  eight  gallons  in  a  puncheon. 

XLVIII. 
The  other  boats,  the  yawl  and  pinnace,  hid 

Been  slove  in  the  beginning  of  the  gale ; 
And  the  long-boat's  condition  was  but  bad, 

As  there  were  but  two  blankets  for  a  ^ail, 
And  one  oar  for  a  mast,  which  a  joung  lad 

Threw  in  by  good  luck  over  the  ship's  rail  ; 
And  two  boats  could  no'  hold,  far  less  be  stored, 
To  save  one  half  the  people  then  on  board. 

XLIX. 

'T  was  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went  down 
Over  the  wasle  of  waters;  like  a  veil, 

Which,  if  w  ilhdra  wn,  would  but  disclose  the  frown 
Of  one  whose  hate  is  niask'd  but  lo  assail. 

Thus  to  iheir  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shown, 
And  grimly  darkled  o'er  Ihe  faces  pale, 

And  Ihe  dim  desolate  deep  :  twelve  days  had  Fear 

Been  their  familiar,  and  now  De>th  was  here. 


Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a  raft, 

With  little  hope  in  such  a  rolling  sea, 
A  sort  of  thing  at  w  hich  one  would  have  laugh'd, 

If  any  laughter  al  such  times  could  be. 
Unless  with  people  who  Ion  much  have  qualT'd, 

And  have  a  kind  of  wild  and  horrid  glee, 
Half  epileptical,  and  half  hys'ericah  — 
Their  preservation  would  have  been  a  miracle. 

LI. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock,  booms,  hencoops,  spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been  cast  loose 

That  still  could  keep  afloat  Ihe  struggling  tars, 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no  great  use: 

Theie  was  no'light  in  heaven  but  a  few  s'ars. 
The  boats  put  off  o'ercrowded  with  their  crews; 

She  gave  a  heel,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port. 

And,  going  down  head  foremost  —  sunk,  in  short. 

LII. 
Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell  — 

Then  shriek'd  the  timid,  and  stood  slill  the  brave,— 
Then  some  leap'd  overbnnrd  with  dreadful  yell, 

As  eager  to  anticipate  Iheir  grave  ; 
And  Ihe  sea  yawn'd  around  her  like  a  hell, 

And  down  she  suck'd  with  her  Ihe  whirling  wave, 
Like  one  who  grapples  wi  h  his  enemy. 
And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

LIII. 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  nish'd. 
Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 

Of  echoing  Ihiinder  ;  and  Ihen  all  was  liush'd. 
Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 

Of  billows  ;  but  at  intervals  there  gusb'd. 
Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 

A  solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 

Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 

LIV. 

The  boats,  as  staled,  had  got  off  before. 
And  in  them  crowded  several  of  Ihe  crew  ; 

And  yet  their  present  hope  was  hardly  more 
Than  what  It  had  been,  for  so  str->ng  it  blew 

There  was  slight  chance  of  reaching  any  shore  ; 
And  then  they  were  too  many,  though  so  few  — 

Nine  in  the  cutter,  thirty  in  the  boat, 

Were  counted  in  them  when  they  got  afloat. 


LV. 
All  the  rest  perish'd  ;  near  two  hundred  souls 

Had  left  Iheir  bodies  ;  and  what 's  worse,  alaj  ! 
When  over  Catholics  Ihe  ocean  rolls. 

They  must  wait  several  weeks  before  a  mass 
Takes  off  one  peck  ni  purgi;orial  coals. 

Because,  till  people  know  what 's  come  to  pass, 
They  won't  lay  out  their  money  on  the  dead  — 
It  costs  three  francs  for  every  mass  that 's  suid. 

LVL 

Juan  got  into  the  long-boat,  and  there 
Contrived  to  help  PedrJIo  to  a  place  ; 

It  seem'd  as  if  they  had  exchanged  their  care, 
For  Juan  wore  the  magisterial  face 

Which  courage  gives,  while  poor  Pedrillo's  pair 
Of  eyes  were  crying  for  their  owner's  case- 

Battisia,  though  fa'nanie  call'd  shortly  Tital 

Was  lost  by  gelling  al  some  aqua-vita. 

LVII. 

Pedro,  his  valet,  too,  he  tried  to  save, 
But  Ihe  same  cause,  conducive  lo  his  loss, 

Left  him  so  drunk,  he  junip'd  ino  Ihe  wave 
As  o'er  the  cutter's  edge  he  tried  to  cross, 

And  so  he  found  a  wine-and-waiery  grave; 
They  could  not  rescue  hiin  although  so  close, 

Because  the  sea  ran  higher  every  minute. 

And  for  Ihe  boat  —  Ihe  crew  kept  crowding  in  it. 

Lvin. 

A  small  old  spaniel,—  which  had  been  Don  Jose's, 
His  father's,  whom  he  loved,  as  ye  may  think, 

For  on  such  things  the  memory  reposes 

With  tenderness  — stood  bowling  on  the  brink, 

Knowing,  (dogs  have  such  iiilelltciual  noses!) 
No  doubt,  the  vessel  was  about  to  sink  ; 

And  Juan  caught  him  up,  and  ere  he  slepp'd 

Off,  threw  him  in,  then  after  him  he  leap'd. 

LIX. 

He  al«o  sluff'd  his  money  wher-  he  c-uld 

About  his  person,  and  Pedrillo";  loO; 
Who  let  him  do,  in  fact,  whate'er  .•»«  -vculd, 

Not  knowing  what  himself  to  o^/,  or  do, 
As  eveiy  rising  wave  his  dread  renew'd  ; 

Bui  Juan,  trusting  they  might  still  get  through. 
And  deeming  there  were  remedies  for  any  ill. 
Thus  reembark'd  his  tutor  and  his  spaniel 

LX. 

'T  was  a  rough  night,  and  blew  so  stiffly  yet, 
Thai  Ihe  sail  was  becilm'd  between  the  seas. 

Though  on  Ihe  wave's  high  top  too  much  to  set. 
They  dared  not  lake  it  in  for  all  the  breeze  : 

Each  s'ea  cut  I'd  o'er  the  stern,  and  kept  them  wef, 
And  bade  them  bale  without  a  moment's  ease. 

So  that  themselves  as  well  as  hopes  were  damp'd. 

And  the  poor  Utile  culler  quickly  swamp'd. 

LXL 

Nine  souls  more  went  in  her  :  the  longboat  slill 
Kept  above  water,  with  an  oar  for  mast. 

Two  blankets  siilch'd  together,  answering  ill 
Instead  of  sail,  were  lo  the  oar  made  fast : 

Though  every  wave  rolPd  menacing  to  fill, 
And  present  peril  all  before  surpass'd. 

They  grieved  for  those  who  perish'd  with  the  cutter, 

And'also  for  Ihe  biscuit-casks  and  butler. 

LXU. 
The  sun  rose  red  and  fiery,  a  sure  sign 

Of  the  continuance  of  the  gale  :  lo  run 
Before  Ihe  sea  until  it  should  grow  fine. 

Was  all  Ihal  for  Ihe  preseiil  could  be  done : 
A  few  lea-spoonfuls  of  Iheir  rum  and  w  ine 

Were  served  out  lo  Ihe  people,  who  begun 
To  faint,  and  damaged  bread  wet  through  the  btfs, 
And  most  of  them  had  little  clothes  but  rags. 


Canto  II.] 


DON  JUAN. 


495 


They  counted  thirty,  crowded  in  a  space 

Which  left  scarce  room  for  motion  or  exertion ; 

They  did  tlieir  best  to  modify  their  cise, 

One  half  sale  up,  though  nunib'd  with  the  immer- 

While  t'  other  half  were  laid  down  in  their  place, 

At  watch  and  watch  ;  thus,  shivering  like  the  tertian 
Ague  in  its  cold  fit,  they  fill'd  their  boat, 
With  nothing  but  the  sky  for  a  great  coat. 

LXIV. 
'T  15  very  certain  the  desire  of  life 

prolongs  it :  this  is  obvinus  to  physicians. 
When  p  itients,  neither  plagued  v^  ilh  friends  nor  wife. 

Survive  through  v^iry  desperate  conditions, 
Because  they  still  can  hope,  nor  shines  the  knife 

Nor  shears  of  Atropos  before  their  visions: 
Despair  of  all  recovery  spoils  longevity, 
And  makes  men's  miseries  of  alarming  brevity. 

LXV. 

'T  is  said  that  persons  living  on  annuities 

Are  longer  lived  than  others,— God  knows  why, 

Unless  to  plague  the  grantors,—  yet  so  true  it  is, 
That  some,  1  really  Ihiok,  do  never  die  ; 

Of  any  creditors  the  worst  a  Jew  it  is, 
And  that  's  their  mode  of  furnishing  supply 

In  my  young  days  they  lent  me  cash  ihat  wny, 

Which  I  found  very  troublesome  to  pay. 

LXV  I. 

'T  is  thus  with  people  in  an  open  boat, 
Thev  live  upon  the  love  of  life,  and  bear 

More  than  can  be  believed,  or  even  thought. 

And  stand  like  rocks  the  tempest's  wear  and  tear  ; 

And  hardship  still  has  been  the  sailor's  lot. 

Since  Noah's  ark  went  cruising  here  and  there ; 

She  had  a  curious  crew  as  well  as  cargo. 

Like  the  first  old  Greek  privateer,  the  Argo. 

LXVU. 

But  man  is  a  carnivorous  [iroduction, 

And  must  have  meals,  at  least  one  meal  a  day  ; 

He  cannot  live,  like  woodcocks,  upon  suction. 
But,  like  the  shark  and  tiger,  must  have  piey  ; 

Although  his  anatomical  construction 
Bears  vegetables,  in  a  grumbling  way. 

Your  labouring  people  think,  beyond  all  question, 

Beef,  veal,  and  mutton,  better  lor  digestion. 

LXVIIL 
And  thus  it  was  with  this  our  hapless  crew  ; 

For  on  the  third  day  there  came  on  a  calm. 
And  though  at  first  iheir  strength  it  might  renew, 

And  lying  on  iheir  weariness  like  balm, 
LuU'd  them  like  turtles  sleeping  on  the  blue 

Of  ocean,  when  they  woke  they  felt  a  qualm, 
And  fell  all  ravenously  on  their  provision. 
Instead  of  hoarding  it  with  due  precision. 

LXIX. 
The  consequence  was  easily  foreseen  — 

They  ate  up  all  they  had,  and  drank  their  wine, 
In  spite  of  all  remonstrances,  and  then 

On  what,  in  fact,  next  day  were  they  to  dine  ? 
They  hoped  the  wind  would  rise,  these  foolish  men! 

And  carry  them  to  shore  ;  these  hopes  were  fine, 
But  as  they  had  but  one  oar,  and  that  brittle. 
It  would  have  been  more  wise  to  save  their  victual. 

LXX. 

The  fourth  day  came,  but  not  a  breath  of  air. 
And  Ocean  slumber'd  like  an  unwean'd  child  : 

The  fifth  day,  and  their  boat  lay  floating  there. 
The  sea  and  sky  were  blue,  and  clear,  and  mild  — 

With  their  one  oar  (I  wish  they  had  had  a  pair) 
What  could  they  do  ?  and  hunger's  rage  grew  wild 

So  Juan's  spaniel,  spite  of  his  entreating. 

Was  kill'd,  and  porlion'd  out  for  present  eating. 


LXXI. 

On  the  sixth  day  they  fed  upon  his  hide, 
And  Juan,  who  had  still  refused,  because 

The  creature  was  his  father's  dog  that  died. 
Now  feeling  all  the  vulture  in  his  jaws. 

With  some  remorse  received  (though  first  denied] 
As  a  great  favour  one  of  the  fore-paws. 

Which  he  divided  with  Pedrillo,  who 

Devour'd  it,  longing  for  the  other  too. 

LXXII. 

The  seventh  day,  and  no  wind  —  the  burning  sun 
Blister'd  and  scorch'd,  and,  stagnant  on  the  sea, 

They  lay  like  carcases;  and  hope  was  none, 
Save  in  the  breeze  that  came  not ;  savagely 

They  glared  upon  each  olher  —  all  was  done. 
Wider,  and  wine,  and  food,-  and  you  might  see 

The  longings  of  the  cannibal  arise 

(Although  they  spoke  not)  in  their  wolfish  eyes. 

Lxxni. 

Al  length  one  whisper'd  his  companion,  who 
Whis|ier'd  another,  and  thus  it  went  round, 

And  then  into  a  hoarser  murmur  grew, 
An  ominous,  and  wild,  and  desperate  sound  ; 

And  when  his  comrade's  thought  each  sulierer  knew, 
'T  was  but  his  own,  siippress'd  till  now,  he  found  : 

And  out  they  spoke  of  lots  for  flesh  and  blood, 

And  who  should  die  io  be  his  fellow's  food. 

LXXIV. 

But  ere  they  came  to  this,  they  that  day  shared 
Some  leathern  caps,  and  what  remained  of  shoes  j 

And  then  they  Inok'd  around  them,  and  despair'd, 
And  none  to  be  the  sacrifice  would  choose ; 

At  length  the  lots  were  torn  up,  and  prepared, 
But  of  materials  that  niu^t  shock  the  Muse  — 

Having  no  paper,  for  the  want  of  better. 

They  took  by  force  from  Juan  Juli.i's  letter. 

LXXV. 
The  lots  were  made,  and  mark'd,  and  mix'd,  ani 
handed 

In  silent  horror,  and  their  distribution 
LulI'd  even  the  savage  hunger  which  demanded. 

Like  the  Promethean  vulture,  this  pollution  ; 
None  in  particular  had  sought  or  plann'd  it, 

'T  was  nalure  gnaw'd  them  to  this  resolution, 
By  which  none  were  permitted  to  be  neuter- 
And  the  lot  fell  on  Juan's  luckless  tutor. 

LXXVL 

He  but  requested  to  be  bled  to  death  : 
The  surgeon  had  his  insirnmenls,  and  bled 

Pediillo.  and  so  gently  ebb'd  his  breath. 

You  hardly  could  perceive  when  he  was  dead. 

lie  died  as  born,  a  Catholic  in  faith. 
Like  most  in  the  belief  in  which  they  're  bred. 

And  first  a  little  crucifix  he  kiss'd. 

And  then  held  out  his  jugular  and  wrist. 

LXXVII. 

The  surgeon,  as  there  was  no  other  fee, 
Ilad  his  first  choice  of  morsels  for  his  pains  ; 

But  being  thirstiest  at  the  moment,  he 
Preferr'd  a  draught  from  the  fasl-flowing  vein<: 

Part  was  divided,  part  thrown  in  the  sea. 
And  such  things  as  the  entrails  and  the  brains 

Regaled  two  sharks,  who  follow'd  o'er  the  billow  — 

The  sailors  ate  the  rest  of  poor  Pedrillo. 

LXXVIIL 
The  sailors  ate  him,  all  save  three  or  four, 

Who  were  not  quite  so  fond  of  animal  food ; 
To  these  was  added  Juan,  who,  before 

Refusing  his  own  spaniel,  hardly  could 
Feel  now  his  appetite  increased  much  more; 

'T  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should, 
Even  in  extremity  of  their  disaster. 
Dine  with  them  on  his  pastor  and  his  master. 


496 


DON  JUAJN 


[Canto  1L 


LXXIX. 

'T  was  better  that  he  did  Dot ;  for,  in  fact, 
The  consequence  «as  aw  ful  in  the  extreme  ; 

For  Ibey,  who  were  most  ravenous  in  the  act, 

Went  raging  mad  —  Lord  I  how  they  did  blaspheme! 

And  foam,  and  roll,  wiih  strange  convulsions  rack'd, 
Drinking  salt-water  like  a  mountain-stream  ; 

Tearing,  and  grinning,  howling,  ^<:reecbing,  swearing, 

And,  with  hyaena-laughter,  died  despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their  numbers  were  much  Ihinn'd  by  this  infliction, 
And  all  the  rest  were  thin  enough.  Heaven  knows  : 

And  some  of  them  had  lost  their  recollection. 

Happier  than  Ibey  who  still  perceived  their  woes  ; 

But  others  ponder'd  on  a  new  dissection, 
As  if  not  wam'd  sufficienily  by  those 

Who  hid  already  perish'd,  sulfering  madly, 

For  having  used  their  appetites  so  sadly. 

LXXXI. 

And  next  they  thought  upon  the  master's  mate, 
As  fattest ;  "but  he  saved  himself,  because. 

Besides  being  much  averse  from  such  a  file. 
There  were  some  other  reasons  :  the  first  was, 

He  had  been  rrilher  indisposed  of  late; 
And  that  which  chiefiy  proved  his  saving  clause, 

Was  a  small  present  made  to  him  at  Cidiz, 

By  general  subscription  of  Ihe  ladies. 

LXXXII. 
Of  poor  Pedrillo  something  still  remain'd. 

But  was  used  sparingly,— some  were  afraid. 
And  others  still  their  appetites  constrain'd. 

Or  bat  at  limes  a  liille  supper  mide  ; 
AH  except  Juan,  who  throughout  abstain'd, 

Chewing  a  piecs  of  bamboo,  and  some  leid  : 
At  length  they  caught  two  boobies,  and  a  noddy, 
And  then  they  left  off  eating  the  dead  body. 

LXXXIII. 

And  if  Pedrillo's  fate  should  shocking  be. 

Remember  Ugolino  condescends 
To  eat  the  head  of  his  arch-enemy 

The  moment  afier  he  pnlilely  ends 
His  tale:  if  foes  be  food  in  heli,  a'  sea 

'T  is  surely  fair  to  dine  upon  our  friends. 
When  shipwreck's  short  allowance  grows  too  scanty, 
Without  being  much  more  horrible  than  Uauie. 

LXXXIV. 

And  the  same  night  there  fell  a  shower  of  rain. 
For  which  their  mouths  gaped,  like  the  cracks  of 
earth 

When  dried  to  summer  dust;  till  taught  by  pain. 
Men  really  know  not  what  good  water  's  worth  ; 

If  you  hnd  been  in  Turkey  or  in  Spain, 
Or  with  a  famish'd  boat'screw  had  your  berth. 

Or  in  the  desert  heird  the  camel's  bell. 

You  'd  wish  yourself  w  here  Truth  is  —  in  a  well. 

LXXXV, 

U  pour'd  down  torrents,  but  they  were  no  richer. 
Until  they  found  a  ragged  piece  of  sheet. 

Which  served  them  as  assort  of  spongy  pilcher. 
And  when  they  deem'd  its  moisture  was  complete, 

They  wrung  it  out,  and  though  a  thirsty  ditcher 
Might  not  hive  thought  the  scanty  draught  so  sweet 

As  a  full  pot  of  porter,  to  their  thinking 

They  ne'er  till  now  had  known  the  joys  of  drinkiog. 

LXXXVI. 

And  their  baked  lips,  »vi^h  many  a  bloody  crack, 
Suck'd  in  the  moisture,  which  like  nectar  siream'd  ; 

Their  thro  its  were  ovens,  their  swolu  tongues  were 
black 
As  the  rich  man's  in  hell,  who  vainly  scream'd 

To  beg  the  beggar,  who  could  not  rain  back 
A  drop  nf  dew,  when  every  drop  had  seem'd 

To  taste  of  heaven  —  If  thi^  be  true,  indeed, 

Some  Christians  have  a  comfortable  creed. 


Lxxxvn. 

There  were  two  fathers  in  this  ghastly  crew. 

And  w  ith  Iheni  their  two  sons,  of  whom  the  one 
Was  more  robust  and  hardy  to  Ihe  view. 

But  he  died  early  ;  and  when  he  was  gone, 
His  nearest  messmate  told  his  sire,  who  threw 

One  glance  on  him,  and  said,  "  Heaven's  will  be 
done ! 
I  can  do  nothing,"  and  he  saw  him  thrown 
Into  Ihe  deep  without  a  tear  or  groan. 

LXXXVIII. 
The  other  father  had  a  weaklier  child, 

Of  a  soft  cheek,  and  aspect  delicaie; 
But  the  boy  bore  up  long,  and  wiih  a  mild 

And  patient  spirit  ticld  aloof  his  fate; 
Little  he  said,  and  now  and  then  he  smiled. 

As  if  to  win  a  part  from  oti  the  weight 
He  saw  increasing  on  his  father's  heart, 
With  the  deep  deadly  thought,  that  they  must  part. 

LXXXIX. 

And  o'er  him  bent  his  sire,  and  never  nised 
His  eyes  from  off  his  face,  but  wiped  Ihe  foam 

From  his  pale  lips,  and  ever  on  him  gazed, 
And  when  ihe  wish'd-for  shower  at  lengih  was  come, 

And  the  boy's  eyes,  w  hich  Ihe  dull  film  half  glazed, 
Brighlen'd,  and  lor  a  moment  seem'd  to  roim, 

He  squeezed  from  out  a  rag  some  drops  of  rain 

Into  his  dying  child's  mouth —  but  in  vain. 

XC. 

The  boy  expired  — the  father  held  the  clay, 
And  look'd  upon  i(  long,  and  when  at  last 

Death  left  no  doubt,  and  the  deaJ  burthen  1  ly 
Sriif  on  his  liearl,  and  pulse  aird  hope  were  past. 

He  watch'd  it  w  istfully,  until  aw  »y 
'T  was  borne  by  the  rude  wav«  wherein  1  was  cast ; 

Then  he  himself  sunk  down  all  q  'mb  and  shittring, 

And  gave  no  sign  of  life,  save  Lis  .isbs  ouivering. 

XCI, 

Now  overhead  a  rainbow,  bursting  ti  re  igh 
The  scattering  clouds,  shone,  spaiiu  i^  ine  dars  sea, 

Resting  iis  b  ight  base  on  liie  q-jiven  ifi  blue  ; 
And  all  within  its  arch  appear'd  tu'^ 

Clearer  than  that  without,  and  its  wide  hue 
Wax'd  broid  and  waving,  like  a  banner  free. 

Then  changed  like  to  a  bow  that 's  bent,  and  then 

Forsook  the  dim  eyes  of  these  shipwreck'd  men. 

XCH. 
It  changed,  of  course;  a  heavenly  chameleon, 

The  airy  child  of  vapour  and  the  sun. 
Brought  forth  in  purple,  cradled  in  vermilion, 

Baptized  in  molten  gold,  and  swathed  in  dun, 
Glittering  like  crescents  o'er  a  Turk's  pavilion. 

And  blending  every  colour  into  one, 
Just  like  a  black  eye  in  a  recent  scuffle 
(For  sometimes  we  must  box  without  the  mufiSe). 

XCIII. 

Our  shipwreck'd  seaman  thought  it  a  good  omen  — 

II  is  as  well  to  think  so,  now  and  then  ; 
'T  was  an  old  custom  of  the  Greek  and  Roman, 

And  may  become  of  great  advantage  when 
Folks  are  discouraged  ;  and  most  surely  no  men 

Had  greater  need  to  nerve  themselves  again 
Than  Ihese,  and  so  this  rainbow  look'd  like  hope- 
Quite  a  celestial  kaleidoscope. i 
XCIV. 
About  this  lime  a  beautiful  white  bird, 

Webfooted.  not  unlike  a  dove  in  size 
And  plumage  (probably  it  might  have  err'd 

Upon  is  course),  pass'd  oft  before  their  eyes. 


1  An  instrument,  inventeii  by  Sir  David  Brewater, 
whicli  pirascs  Ihe  eye  by  an  ever-varyirif  succession  of 
splendid  tints  and  ^yramelricat  'orms,  am 
great    service   in   suggesting   patterns    to  < 


Canto  II.] 


DON  JUAN 


497 


And  tried  to  perch,  although  it  saw  r>nd  heard 

The  men  within  the  boat,  and  in  this  §uisc 

It  came  and  went,  and  flutter'd  round  them  till 

Night  fell :  —  this  seem'd  a  better  omen  still. 

XCV. 
But  in  this  case  I  also  must  remark, 

>T  was  well  this  bird  of  promise  did  not  perch, 
Because  the  tackle  of  our  shitter'd  bark 

Was  not  so  safe  for  roosliii?  as  a  church  ; 
And  had  it  been  the  dove  from  Noah's  ark. 

Returning  there  from  her  successful  search, 
^Vhich  in  their  way  tliat  moment  chanced  to  fall, 
They  would  have  eat  her,  olive-branch  and  all. 

XCVI. 
With  twilight  it  again  came  on  to  blow, 

But  not  with  violence ;  the  stars  shone  out. 
The  boat  made  wav  ;  yet  now  they  were  so  low, 

They  knew  not  where  nor  what  they  were  about ; 
Some  fancied  they  saw  land,  and  some  said  "  No  !" 

The  frequent  foj-banks  gave  them  cause  to  doubt  - 
Some  swore  that  they  heard  breakers,  others  guus, 
And  all  mistook  about  the  latter  once. 

xcvir. 

As  morning  broke,  the  light  wind  died  away, 

When  he  who  had  the  watch  sung  out  and  swore, 

If  't  was  not  land  that  rose  with  the  suu's  ray. 
He  wish'd  that  land  he  never  might  see  more: 

And  the  rest  rubb'd  their  eyes,  and  siw  a  bay. 
Or  thought  they  saw,  and  shaped  their  course  for 
shore ; 

For  shore  it  was,  and  gradually  grev? 

Distinct,  and  high,  and  palpable  to  view. 

XCVIII. 
And  then  of  these  some  part  burst  into  tears, 

And  others,  looking  wiih  a  stupid  stare, 
Could  not  yel  separate  their  hopes  from  fears, 

And  seem'd  as  if  thev  had  no  further  care  ; 
While  a  few  prav'd  —'(the  first  time  for  some  years) — 

And  at  ihe  bottom  of  the  boat  three  were 
Asleep  :  they  shook  them  by  the  hand  and  head, 
And  tried  to  awaken  them,  but  found  them  dead. 

XCIX. 

The  dav  before,  fast  sleeping  on  the  water. 
They  found  a  turtle  of  the  hawk'sbill  kind. 

And  by  good  fortune,  gliding  softly,  caught  her, 
Which  yielded  a  day's  life,  and  to  their  mind 

Proved  even  still  a  more  nutritious  matter, 
Because  it  left  encouragement  behind  : 

They  thought  that  in  such  perils,  more  than  chance 

Had  sent  them  this  for  their  deliverance. 


The  land  appear'd  a  high  and  rocky  coast. 
And  higher  grew  the  mountains  as  they  drew, 

Set  by  a  current,  toward  it :  they  were  lost 
In  various  conjectures,  for  none  knew 

To  what  part  of  the  earth  they  had  been  tost, 
So  changeable  had  been  the  winds  that  blew  ; 

Some  thought  it  was  Mount  ^'na,  fome  the  hii 

Of  Candia,  Cyprus,  Rhodes,  or  other  islands. 

CI. 

Meantime  the  current,  with  a  rising  gale, 
Still  set  them  onwards  to  the  welcome  shore. 

Like  Charon's  bark  of  spectres,  dull  and  pale : 
Their  living  freight  was  now  reduced  to  four. 

And  three  dead,  whom  their  strength  could  not  avail 
To  heave  into  the  deep  with  those  before, 

Though  the  two  sharks  still  foUow'd  them,  and  dasb'd 

The  spray  into  their  faces  as  they  splasb'd. 

CII. 

Famine,  despair,  cold,  thirst,  and  heat,  had  done 
Their  work  on  them  by  turns,  and  thinn'd  them  to 

Such  things  a  mother  had  not  known  her  son 
Amidst  the  skeletons  of  that  gaunt  crew  ; 


By  night  chill'd,  by  day  scorch 'd,  thus  one  by  one 

Thev  perish-d,  until  wither'd  to  these  few, 
But  ch'ieHy  by  a  species  of  self-slaughter. 
In  washing  down  Pedrillo  with  siilt  water. 

cm. 

As  thev  drew  nigh  the  land,  which  now  was  seen 

Unequal  in  its  aspect  here  and  there. 
They  felt  the  freshness  of  its  growing  green. 

That  waved  in  forest-tops,  and  smoolh'd  the  air. 
And  fell  upon  their  glazed  eyes  like  a  screen 

From  glistening  waves,  and  skies  so  hot  and  bare- 
Lovely  seem'd  any  object  that  should  sweep 
Away  the  vast,  salt,  dread,  eternal  deep. 

CIV. 
The  shore  look'd  wild,  without  a  trace  of  man. 

And  girt  by  formidable  waves;  but  they 
Were  mad  for  land,  and  thus  their  course  they  ran, 

Though  right  ahead  the  roaring  breakers  lay  : 
A  reef  between  them  also  now  began 

To  show  its  boiling  surf  and  bounding  spray. 
But  finding  no  place  for  their  landing  better, 
They  ran  the  boat  for  shore,—  and  overset  her. 

CV. 

But  in  his  native  stream,  the  Guadalquivir, 
Juan  to  lave  his  youthful  limbs  was  wont ; 

And  having  learnt  to  swim  in  that  sweet  river, 
Had  often  turn'd  the  art  to  some  account : 

A  belter  swimmer  you  could  scarce  see  ever. 
He  could,  perhaps,  have  pass'd  the  Hellespont, 

As  once  (a  feat  on  which  ourselves  we  prided) 

Leander,  Mr.  Ekenbead,  and  I  did. 

CVI. 
So  here,  though  faint,  emaciate,  and  stark. 

He  buoy'd  his  boyish  limbs,  and  strove  to  ply 
With  the  quick  wave,  and  gain,  ere  it  was  dark, 

The  beach  which  lay  before  him,  high  and  dry : 
The  greatest  danger  here  was  from  a  shark. 

That  carried  off  his  neighbour  by  the  thigh; 
As  for  the  other  two,  they  could  not  swim, 
So  nobody  arrived  on  shore  but  him. 

CVII. 

Nor  yet  had  he  arrived  but  for  the  oar. 
Which  providentially  for  him.  was  wash'd 

Just  as  his  feeble  arms  could  strike  no  more. 

And  the  hard  wave  o'erwhelm'd  him  as  't  wasdash'd 

Within  his  grasp  ;  he  clung  to  it,  and  sore 
The  waters  beat  while  he  thereto  was  lash'd  ; 

At  last,  with  swimming,  wading,  scrambling,  he 

Roll'd  on  the  beach,  half  senseless,  from  the  sea : 

CVIII. 
There,  breathless,  with  his  digging  nails  he  clung. 

Fast  to  the  fand,  lest  the  re'urning  wave. 
From  whose  reluctant  ro-ir  his  life  he  wrung. 

Should  suck  him  back  to  her  insatiate  grave: 
And  there  he  lay,  full  length,  where  he  was  flung, 

Before  the  entrance  of  a  cliff-worn  cave. 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  feel  its  pain. 
And  deem  that  it  was  saved,  perhaps,  in  vain. 

CIX. 
With  slow  and  staggering  effort  he  arose, 

But  sunk  again  upon  his  bleeding  knee 
And  quivering  hand  ;  and  then  he  look'd  for  those 

Who  long  had  been  his  mates  upon  the  sea  ; 
But  none  of  them  appeir'd  lo  share  his  woes. 

Save  one,  a  corpse,  from  out  the  famish'd  three. 
Who  died  two  dns  before,  and  now  had  found 
An  unknown  barren  beach  for  burial  ground. 

ex. 

And  as  he  gazed,  his  dizzy  brain  spun  fast. 
And  down  he  sunk  ;  aiid  as  he  sunk,  the  sand 

Swam  round  and  round,  and  all  his  senses  pass'd: 
He  fell  upon  his  side,  and  his  strelch'd  hand 


42  • 


32 


498 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  II 


Droop'd  dripping  on  the  oar  (their  jury-mast), 

And,  like  a  wilher'd  lily,  on  the  land 
His  sleuder  frame  and  pallid  aspect  hy, 
As  fair  a  thing  as  e'er  was  form'd  of  clay. 

CXI. 

How  long  in  his  damp  trance  young  Juan  lay 
He  knew  not,  for  the  earth  was  gone  for  him, 

And  1  ime  had  nothing  more  of  night  nor  day 
For  his  congealing  blood,  and  senses  dim  ; 

And  how  this  heavy  faintness  pass'd  away 

He  knew  not,  till  each  painful  pulse  and  limb, 

And  tingling  vein,  seem'd  throbbing  back  to  life. 

For  Death,  though  vanquishM,  still  retired  with  strife. 

CXII. 
His  eyes  he  open'd,  shu',  ajain  unclosed. 

For  all  was  doubt  and  dizziness;  he  thought 
He  still  was  in  the  boat,  and  had  but  dozed, 

And  felt  again  with  his  despair  o'erwrought. 
And  wish'd  it  de<th  in  which  he  had  reposed, 

And  then  once  more  his  feelings  back  were  brought, 
And  slowly  by  his  swimming  eyes  was  seen 
A  lovely  female  face  of  seveule'en. 

cxni. 

T  was  bending  close  o'er  his,  and  the  small  mouth 
Seem'd  almost  prying  into  his  for  breath  ; 

And  chafing  him,  the  soft  warm  hand  of  youth 
RecalI'd  his  answering  spirits  back  from  death; 

And,  bathing  his  chill  temples,  tried  to  sooihe 
Each  pulse  to  animation,  till  beneath 

Its  gentle  touch  and  trembling  care,  a  sigh 

To  these  kind  efforts  made  a  low  reply. 

CXIV. 

Then  was  the  cordial  pour'd,  and  mantle  flung 
Around  his  scarce-clad  limbs;  and  the  fair  arm 

Raised  higher  the  faint  head  which  o'er  it  hung; 
And  her  transparent  cheek,  all  pure  and  warm, 

Piilow'd  his  death-like  forehead  ;  then  she  wrung 
His  dewy  curls,  long  drench  d  by  every  storm  ; 

And  watch'd  with  eagerness  each  Ihrnb  that  drew 

A  sigh  from  his  heaved  bosom  —  and  hers,  too. 

cxv. 

And  lifting  him  with  care  into  the  cave. 
The  gentle  girl,  and  her  attendant,—  one 

Young,  yet  her  elder,  and  of  brow  less  grave, 
And  I'liore  robust  of  figure—  then  begun 

To  kindle  fire,  and  as  the  new  flames  gave 

Light  to  the  rocks  that  roof'd  them,  which  the  sun 

Had  never  seen,  the  maid,  or  whatsoe'er 

She  was,  appear'd  distinct,  and  tall,  and  fair. 

CXVI. 
Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold, 

That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn  of  her  hair, 
Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were  roU'd 

In  braids  behind  ;  and  though  her  stature  were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a  female  mould, 

They  nearly  reach'd  her  heel ;  and  in  her  air 
There  wa-  a  something  which  bespoke  command. 
As  one  who  was  a  lady  in  the  land. 

CXVII. 
Her  hair,  I  said,  was  auburn  ;  but  her  eyes 

Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same  hue, 
Of  downcast  ■length,  in  whose  silk  shadow  lies 

Deepest  attraction  ;  for  when  to  the  view 
Forth  from  its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flies, 

Ne'er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew; 
'T  is  as  the  snake  late  coil'd,  wh-i  pours  his  length. 
And  burU  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strength. 

cxvni. 

Her  brow  was  while  and  low,  her  cheek's  pure  dye 
Like  twilight  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun  : 

Short  upper  lip  —  sweet  lips !  that  make  us  sigh 
Ever  to  have  seen  such  ;  for  she  was  one 


Fit  for  the  model  of  a  statuary, 

(A  race  of  mere  impostors,  when  all 's  done — 
I  've  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real, 
Thau  all  the  nonsense  of  their  sione  ideal). 

CXIX. 

I  '11  tell  you  why  I  say  so,  for  't  is  just 
One  should  not  rail  without  a  decent  cause  : 

There  was  an  Irish  lady,  to  whose  bust 
I  ne'er  saw  justice  done,  and  yet  she  was 

A  frequent  model  ;  and  if  e'er  -he  must 
Yield  to  stern  Time  and  Nature's  wrinkling  law% 

They  will  destroy  a  face  which  mortal  thought 

Ne'er  compass'd,  nor  less  mortal  chisel  wrought. 

cxx. 

And  such  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  cave : 

Her  dress  was  very  difterent  from  the  Spanish, 

Simpler,  and  yet  of  colours  not  so  grave  ; 
For,  as  you'know,  the  Spanish  women  banish 

Bright  hues  when  out  of  doors,  and  yet,  while  ware 
Around  them  (what  I  hope  will  never  vanish) 

The  basquina  and  the  mantilla,  they 

Seem  at  the  same  time  mystical  and  gay. 

CXXL 

But  with  our  damsel  this  was  not  the  case  : 
Her  dress  was  many-colour'd,  finely  spun  ; 

Her  locks  curl'd  negligently  round  her  face. 
But  through  them  gold  and  gems  profusely  shone: 

Her  girdle  sparkled,  and  the  richest  lace 

Flow'd  in  her  veil,  and  many  a  precious  stone 

Flash'd  on  her  little  hand  ;  but,  what  was  shocking. 

Her  small  snow  feet  had  slippers,  but  no  s'ockiog. 

CXXII. 

The  other  female's  dress  was  not  unlike, 

But  of  inferior  materials  :  she  {' 

Had  not  so  many  ornaments  to  strike, 

Her  hair  h  'd  silver  only,  bound  to  be 
Her  dowry  ;  and  her  veil,  in  form  alike. 

Was  coarser  ;  and  her  air,  though  firm,  less  free  ; 
Her  hair  was  thicker,  but  less  long ;  her  eyes 
As  black,  but  quicker,  and  of  smaller  size. 

cxxin. 

And  these  two  fended  him,  and  cheer'd  him  both 
With  food  and  raiment,  and  those  soft  attentions. 

Which  are  —  (as  I  must  own)  —  of  female  growth. 
And  have  ten  thousand  delicate  inventions: 

They  made  a  most  superior  mess  of  broth, 
A  thing  which  poesy  but  seldom  mentions. 

But  the  best  dish  that  e'er  was  cook'd  since  Homer"* 

Achilles  order'd  dinner  for  new  comers. 

CXXIV. 

I'll  tell  you  who  they  were,  this  female  pair. 
Lest  they  should  seem  princesses  in  disguise; 

Besides,  I  hale  all  mystery,  and  that  air 
Of  clap-liap,  which  your  recent  poets  prize; 

And  so,  in  short,  the  girls  they  really  were 
They  shall  appear  before  your  curious  eyes, 

Mistress  and  maid  ;  the  first  was  only  daughter 

Of  an  old  man,  who  lived  upon  the  water. 

CXXV. 

A  fisherman  he  had  been  in  his  youth. 

And  still  a  sort  of  fisherman  was  he ; 
Bui  mher  speculations  were,  in  sooth, 

Added  to  his  connection  with  the  sea, 
Perhaps  not  so  lespeclable,  in  truth  : 

A  little  smuggling,  and  some  piracy, 
Left  him.  at  last,  the  sole  of  many  masters 
Of  an  ill-gotten  million  of  piastres. 

CXXVI. 

A  fisher,  therefore,  was  he,— though  of  men, 
Like  Peter  the  Apostle,—  and  he  fish'd 

For  wandering  merchant-vessels,  now  and  then. 
And  sometimes  caught  as  many  as  he  wishVi ; 


Cantc  II.] 


DON  JUAN. 


499 


n=l 


The  cargoes  he  confiscated,  and  ?ain 

He  sought  in  the  slave-market  too,  and  dish'd 
Full  many  a  morsel  for  that  Turkish  tiade, 
By  which,  no  doubt,  a  good  deal  may  be  made. 

CXXVTI. 
He  was  a  Greek,  and  on  his  isle  had  built 

(One  of  the  wild  and  smaller  Cyclades) 
A  very  handsome  house  from  out  his  guilt. 

And  there  he  lived  exceedingly  at  ease  ; 
Heaven  knows  what  cash  he  got  or  blood  he  spilt, 

A  sad  old  fellow  was  he,  if  you  please; 
But  this  I  know,  it  was  a  spacious  building. 
Full  of  barbaric  carving,  paini,  and  gilding, 

cxxvni. 

He  had  an  only  daughter,  cnll'd  Haidee, 
The  gieatest  heiress  of  the  Eastern  Isles  ; 

Besides,  so  very  beautiful  was  she. 

Her  dowry  was  as  nothing  to  her  smiles  : 

Still  in  her  I'eens,  and  like  a  lovely  tree 
She  grew  to  womanhood,  and  between  whiles 

Rejected  several  suitors,  just  to  learn 

How  to  accept  a  better  in  his  turn. 

CXXIX. 

And  walking  out  upon  the  beach,  below 

The  cliff,  towards  sunset,  on  that  day  she  found, 

Insensible,—  not  dead,  but  nearly  so. — 
Don  Juan,  almost  famish'd,  and  half  drown'd  ; 

But  being  naked,  she  was  shock'd,  you  know, 
Yet  deem'd  herself  in  common  pity  bound, 

As  far  as  in  her  lay,  "  to  lake  him  in, 

A  stranger"  dying,  with  so  while  a  skin. 

CXXX. 

But  taking  him  into  her  father's  house 
J    Was  not  exactly  the  best  way  to  save. 
But  like  conveying  to  the  cat  the  mouse. 

Or  people  in  a  trance  inio  their  grave ; 
Because  the  good  old  man  had  so  much  "  vorj," 

Unlike  the  honest  Arab  thieves  so  brave. 
He  would  have  hospitably  cured  the  stranger, 
And  sold  him  instantly  wbeu  out  of  danger. 

CXXXI. 

And  therefore,  with  her  miid,  she  thought  it  best 

{A  virgin  always  on  her  maid  relies) 
To  place'  him  in  the  cave  for  present  rest : 

And  when,  at  last,  he  open'd  his  black  eyes. 
Their  charily  increased  about  their  guest ; 

And  their  compassion  grew  to  such  a  size. 
It  open'd  half  the  turnpike  ga'es  to  heaven  — 
(St.  Paul  says,  't  is  the  toll  which  must  be  given.) 

CXXXII. 
They  made  a  fire,—  but  such  a  fire  as  they 

Upon  the  moment  could  contrive  with  such 
Materials  as  were  cast  up  round  the  bay, — 

Some  broken  planks,  and  oars,  that  to  the  touch 
Were  nearly  tinder,  since  so  long  they  lay 

A  mast  was  almost  crumbled  to  a  crutch  ; 
But,  by  God's  grace,  here  wrecks  were  in  such  plenty, 
That  there  was  fuel  to  have  furnish 'd  twenty. 

CXXXIII. 

He  had  a  bed  of  furs,  and  a  pelisse. 
For  Haidee  stripp'd  her  sables  off  to  mike 

His  couch  ;  and,  that  he  might  be  more  at  ease. 
And  warm,  in  case  by  chance  he  should  awake, 

They  also  gave  a  petticoat  apiece. 

She  and  her  maid, —  and  promised  by  daybreak 

To  pay  him  a  fresh  visit,  with  a  dish 

For  breakfast,  of  eggs,  coffee,  bread,  and  fish. 

CXXXIV. 
And  thus  they  lefl  him  to  his  lone  repose : 

Juan  slept  like  a  lop,  or  like  the  dead. 
Who  sleep  at  last,  perhaps  (God  only  knows\ 

Just  for  the  present ;  and  in  his  lu'll'd  head 


Not  even  a  vision  of  his  former  woes 
Throbb'd   in  accuised   dreams,   which  sometime! 
spread 
Unwelcome  visions  of  our  former  y<ars. 
Till  the  eye,  cheated,  opens  thick  with  lears^ 

CXXXV. 
Young  Juan  slept  all  dreamless  :  —  but  the  maid, 

Who  smooth  d  his  pillow,  as  she  left  the  den 
Look'd  h.ick  upon  him,  and  a  moment  slay'd. 
And  turii'd,  believing  that  he  call'd  again. 
He  slumber'd  ;  yet  she  thought,  at  least  she  said 

(The  heart  will  slip,  even  as  the  tongue  and  pen), 
He  had  pronounced  her  name  —  but  she  forgot 
hat  at  this  moment  Juan  knew  it  not. 
CXXXVI. 
And  pensive  to  her  father's  house  she  went, 

Enjoining  silence  strict  to  Zoe,  who 
Better  than  her  knew  w  hat,  in  fact,  she  meant. 

She  being  wiser  by  a  ye;ir  or  two  : 
A  year  or  two  's  an  age  when  rightly  spent, 

And  Zoe  spent  hers,  as  most  women  do. 
In  gaining  all  that  useful  sort  of  knowledge 
Which  is  acquired  in  Nature's  good  old  college. 

CXXXVII. 
The  morn  broke,  and  found  Juan  slumbering  still 

Fast  in  his  cave,  and  nothing  clash'd  upon 
His  rest :  the  rushing  of  the  neighbouring  rill, 

And  ihe  vouiig  beams  of  the  excluded  sun. 
Troubled  him  nol,  and  he  might  sleep  his  fill; 

And  need  he  had  of  slumber  jet,  for  none 
Had  suffer'd  more—  his  haidships  were  cnmparatife 
To  those  related  in  my  grand-dad's  "  Narrative."  i 

CXXXVIII. 
Not  so  Haidee  :  she  sadly  loss'd  and  tumbled. 

And  started  from  her  sleep,  and,  turuing  o'er, 
Dream'd  of  a  thousand  wrecks,  o'er  which  she  stum- 
bled. 
And  handsome  corpses  slrew'd  upon  the  shore; 
And  woke  her  maid  so  early  that  she  grumbled, 

And  call'd  her  father's  old  slaves  up,  who  swore 
In  several  oaths  —  Armenian,  Turk,  and  Greek  — 
They  knew  not  what  to  Ihiuk  of  such  a  freak. 

CXXXIX. 
But  up  she  got,  and  np  she  made  them  get, 

Wilh  some  pretence  about  the  sun,  that  makes 
Sweet  skies  just  when  he  rises,  or  is  set ; 

And  't  is,  no  doubt,  a  sight  to  see  when  breaks 
Bright  Phoebus,  while  the  mountains  still  are  wet 

Wih  mis',  and  every  bird  wiih  liim  awakes, 
And  night  is  flung  off  like  a  mourning  suit 
Worn  for  a  husband,— or  some  other  brute. 

CXL. 
I  say,  the  sun  is  a  most  glorious  sight : 

I  've  seen  him  rise  full  oft,  indeed  of  late 
I  have  sit  up  on  purpose  all  the  night, 

Which  hastens,  as  physicians  say,  one's  fate  ; 
And  so  all  ye,  who  would  be  in  the  right 

In  heilih  and  pur-e,  begin  your  day  to  date 
From  daj  break,  and  when  ccffin'd  at  fourscore. 
Engrave  upon  the  plate,  you  rose  at  four. 

CXLl. 
And  Haidee  met  Ihe  morning  face  to  face ; 

Her  own  was  freshest,  though  a  feverish  flush 
Had  dyed  it  wiih  Ihe  headlong  blood,  whose  race 

Frohi  heart  to  cheek  is  ciirb'd  into  a  blush, 
Like  to  a  torrent  which  a  mountain's  base. 

That  overpowers  some  Alpine  river's  rush. 
Checks  lo  a  lake,  w  hose  waves  in  circles  spread  ; 
Or  the  Red  Sea  —  but  the  sea  is  uot  red. 


1  Entitled  "  A  Norrative  of  the  Ilononrabl..'  Jotin  Dy- 
ron,  (Commodore  in  a  late  expedition  round  the  world), 
onolainiug  au  account  of  the  great  dim  rcMcd  Buttered  by 
himxeir  aod  hin  romranirns,  on  Ihe  coast  of  Pat.ignnis, 
from  the  year  1740,  till  their  arrival  in  England,  1746: 
wrillen  by  Himself."  Tliis  narrative,  one  of  the  moet 
intereBtibg  that  ever  apfeand.  wa?  publiBlied  in  1768.  — K 


500 


DON   JUAN 


[Canto  II. 


CXLII. 

And  down  the  cliff  the  island  virgin  came, 

And  near  Ihe  cave  her  quicK  light  foolsleps  drew, 

While  Ihe  sun  smiled  on  her  with  his  first  flame, 
And  yeung  Aurora  kiss'd  her  lips  with  dew, 

Taking  her  for  a  sister  ;  just  the  same 

Mislake  you  would  have  made  on  seeing  the  two, 

Although  the  mortal,  quite  as  fresh  and  fair. 

Had  all  Ihe  advantage,  too,  of  not  being  air. 

CXLII  I. 

And  when  inio  the  cavern  Haidee  stepp'd 

All  timidly,  yet  rapidly,  she  saw 
That  like  an  infant  Juan  sweetly  slept ; 

And  then  she  stopp'd,  and  stood  as  if  in  awe 
(For  sleep  is  awful),  and  on  tiptoe  crept 

And  wrapt  him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw. 
Should  reach  his  blood,  then  o'er  him  still  as  death 
Bent,  with  hush'd  lips,  that  drank  bis  scarce-drawn 
breath. 

CXLIV. 
And  thus  like  to  an  angel  o'er  the  dying 

Who  die  in  righteousness,  she  lean'd  ;  and  there 
All  tranquilly  Ihe  shipwreck'd  boy  was  lying, 

As  o'er  him  lay  the  calm  and  stirless  air: 
But  Zoe  the  meantime  some  eggs  was  frying. 

Since,  after  all,  no  doubt  Ihe  youthful  pair 
Must  breakfast,  and  betimes  —  lest  they  should  ask  it, 
She  drew  out  her  provision  from  the  basket. 

CXLV. 

She  knew  that  the  best  feelings  must  have  victual, 
And  that  a  shipwreck'd  youth  would  hungry  bej 

Besides,  being  less  in  love,  she  yawn'd  a  little. 
And  felt  her  veins  chili'd  by  Ihe  neighbouring  sea  j 

And  so,  she  cook'd  their  breakfast  to  a  little ; 
I  can't  say  that  she  gave  them  anv  tea, 

But  there  were  eggs,  fruit,  cottee,  bread,  fish,  honey. 

With  Scio  wine, —  and  all  for  love,  not  money. 

CXLVI. 

And  Zoe,  when  the  eggs  were  ready,  and 
The  coffee  made,  would  fain  have  waken'd  Juan  ; 

But  Haidee  stopp'd  her  with  her  quick  small  hand. 
And  without  word,  a  sign  her  finger  drew  on 

Her  lip,  which  Zoe  needs  must  nndersland  ; 
And,  Ihe  first  breakfast  spoilt,  prepared  a  new  one, 

Because  her  mistress  would  not  lei  her  break 

That  sleep  which  seem'd  as  it  would  ne'er  awake. 

CXLVII. 
For  still  he  lay,  and  on  his  thin  worn  cheek 

A  purple  hectic  play'd  like  dying  day 
On  Ihe  snow-lops  of  di^lant  hills  ;  the  streak 

Of  sufferance  yet  upon  his  forehead  lay, 
Where  Ihe  blue  veins  lookd  shadowy,  shrunk,  and 
weak; 

And  his  black  curls  were  dewy  with  the  spray. 
Which  weigh'd  upon  them  yet,  all  damp  and  salt, 
Mix'd  with  the  stony  vapours  of  the  vault. 

cxLvin. 

And  she  bent  o'er  him,  and  he  lay  beneath, 
Hush'd  as  the  babe  upon  its  mother's  breast, 

Droop'd  as  the  willow  when  uo  winds  can  breathe, 
LuU'd  like  the  depth  of  ocean  uhen  at  re-.t, 

Fair  as  Ihe  crowning  rose  of  the  whole  wreath, 
Soft  as  the  callow  cygnet  in  its  nest; 

In  short,  he  was  a  verv'pretlv  fellow. 

Although  his  woes  bad  turii'd  him  rather  yellow, 

CXLIX. 
He  woke  and  razed,  and  would  have  slept  again, 

But  Ihe  fair  face  which  met  his  eyes  forbade 
Those  eyes  lo  close,  though  weaiiiiess  and  pain 

Had  further  sleep  a  further  pleasure  made; 
For  woman's  face  was  never  forni'd  in  vain 

For  Juan,  so  that  even  when  he  pray'd 
He  tum'd  from  grisly  saints,  and  martyrs  hairy, 
To  the  sweet  portraits  of  the  Virgin  Mary. 


CL. 

And  thus  upon  his  elbow  he  arose. 
And  look'd  upon  the  lady,  in  whose  cheek 

The  pale  contended  with  the  purple  rose. 
As  with  an  effort  she  began  to  speak ; 

Her  eyes  were  eloquent,  her  words  would  pose. 
Although  she  told  him,  in  good  modern  Greek, 

With  an  Ionian  accent,  low  and  sweet, 

That  he  was  faint,  and  must  not  talk,  but  eat. 

CLI. 
Now  Juan  could  not  understand  a  word, 

Being  no  Grecian  ;  but  he  had  an  ear, 
And  her  voice  was  the  warble  of  a  bird, 

So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  delicately  clear. 
That  finer,  simpler  music  ne'er  was  heard; 

The  son  of  sound  we  echo  with  a  tear. 
Without  knowing  why  —  an  overpowering  tone, 
Whence  Melody  descends  as  from  a  throne. 

CLII. 

And  Juan  gazed  as  one  who  is  awoke 

By  a  distant  organ,  doubting  if  he  be 
Not'yel  a  dreamer,  till  Ihe  spell  is  broke 

By  Ihe  watchman,  or  some  such  reality. 
Or  by  one's  early  valet's  cursed  knock  ; 

At  least  it  is  a  heavy  sound  lo  me. 
Who  like  a  morning  slumber—  for  the  night 
Shows  stars  and  women  in  a  better  light. 

CLIII. 

And  Juan,  too,  was  help'd  out  from  his  dream, 
Or  sleep,  or  whatsoe'er  it  was,  by  feeling 

A  most  prodigious  appetite  ;  the  steam 
Of  Zoe's  cookery  no  doubt  was  stealing 

Upon  his  senses,  and  the  kindling  beam 

Of  the  new  fire,  which  Zoe  kept  up,  kneeling, 

To  stir  her  viands,  made  him  quite  awake 

And  long  for  food,  but  chiefly  a  beefsteak. 

CUV, 
But  beef  Is  rare  within  these  oiless  isles ; 

Goat's  fiesh  there  is,  no  doubt,  and  kid,  and  mutton ; 
And,  when  a  holiday  upon  them  smiles. 

A  joint  upon  their  barbarous  spits  Ihey  put  on  : 
But  this  occurs  but  seldom,  between  whiles. 

For  some  of  these  are  rocks  with  scarce  a  hut  on  ; 
Others  are  fair  and  fertile,  among  which 
This,  though  not  large,  was  one  of  Ihe  most  rich. 

CLV. 

I  say  that  beef  is  rare,  and  can't  help  thinking 

That  the  old  fable  of  the  Minotaur  — 
From  which  our  modern  morals,  rightly  shrinkios. 

Condemn  the  royal  lady's  lasle  who  wore 
A  cow's  shape  for  a  mask  —  was  only  (sinking 

The  allegory)  a  mere  type,  no  more. 
That  Pasiphae  promoted  breeding  cattle. 
To  make  the  Cretans  bloodier  in  battle. 


CLVI. 

For  we  all  know  that  English  people  are 
Fed  upon  beef —  I  won't  say  much  of  beer. 

Because  'I  is  liquor  only,  and  being  far 

From  this  m^-  subject,  has  no  business  here  ; 

We  know,  loo,  they  are  very  fond  of  war, 
A  pleasure  —  like  all  pleasures  —  rather  dear; 

So  were  Ihe  Cretans —  from  which  1  infer 

That  beef  and  battles  both  were  owing  lo  her. 

CLVII. 
But  to  resume.    The  languid  Juan  raised 

His  head  upon  his  elbow,  and  he  saw 
A  sight  on  which  he  had  not  lately  gazed. 

As  all  his  latter  meals  had  been  quite  raw, 
Three  or  four  things,  for  which  Ihe  Lord  he  praitad, 

And,  feeling  still  Ihe  famish'd  vulture  gnaw 
He  fell  upon  whale'er  was  nffer'd,  like 
A  priest,  a  shark,  an  alderman,  or  pike. 


Canto  II.] 


DON  JUAN. 


501 


CLVIII. 
He  ate,  and  he  was  well  supplied  ;  and  she, 

Who  waich'd  him  like  a  mother,  would  have  fed 
Him  past  all  bounds,  because  she  smiled  to  see 

Such  appeiile  in  one  she  had  deem'd  dead  : 
But  Zee,  being  older  than  Haidee, 

Knew  (by  tradition,  for  she  ne'er  hnd  read) 
Thai  faniish'd  jieople  must  be  slowly  nurst. 
And  fed  by  spoonfuls,  else  they  always  burst. 

CLIX. 

And  so  she  Irok  the  liberty  to  stale, 

Rather  bj  deeds  llian  words,  because  the  tise 

Was  urgent   that  the  genlleman,  whose  fate 
Had  liiad  .  her  mistress  quit  her  bed  to  trace 

The  sea-sir,, re  at  this  hour,  must  leave  his  plate, 
Unless  he  wish'd  to  die  upon  the  place  — 

She  snalch'd  il,  and  refused  another  morsel, 

Saying  he  had  gorged  enough  to  make  a  horse  ill. 

CLX. 

Next  they  — he  being  naked,  save  a  f:ilter'd 
Pair  of  soiree  decent  trowsers  —  went  to  work, 

And  in  the  fire  his  recent  rags  they  scatler'd. 
And  dress'd  him,  for  the  present,  like  a  Turk, 

Or  Greek  —  thst  is,  although  it  not  much  malter'd, 
Omitting  turban,  slippers,  pistols,  dirk, — 

They  furnish'd  him,  entire,  except  some  stitches. 

With  a  clean  shirt,  and  very  spacious  breeches. 

CLXI. 

And  then  fair  Haidee  tried  her  tongue  at  speaking, 
But  not  a  word  could  Juan  comprehend. 

Although  he  lislen'd  so  that  the  young  Greek  in 
Her  earnestness  would  ne'er  have  made  an  end  ; 

And,  as  he  inJerrupted  not,  went  eking 
Her  speech  out  to  her  protege  and  friend, 

Till  pausing  at  the  last  her  breath  to  take, 

She  saw  he  did  not  understand  Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And  then  she  had  recourse  to  nods,  and  signs. 
And  sn)iles,  and  sparkles  of  the  speaking  eye. 

And  read  (llie  only  book  she  could)  the  lines 
Of  his  fair  face,  and  found,  by  sympathy, 

The  answer  eloquent,  where  the  soul  shines 
And  darts  in  one  quick  glance  a  long  reply  ; 

And  thus  in  every  look  she  saw  exprest 

A  world  of  words,  and  things  at  which  she  guess'd. 

CLXUI. 

And  now,  by  dint  of  finzers  and  of  eyes. 

And  words  repealed  kfler  her,  he  Inok 
A  lesson  in  her  tongue;  but  by  surmise. 

No  doubt,  less  of  her  hngnage  than  her  look  : 
As  he  who  studies  fervently  the  skies 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book, 
Thus  Juan  learn'd  his  alpha  beta  better 
From  Maidee's  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

CLXIV. 

Tis  pleasing  to  be  school'd  in  a  strange  tongue 
By  female  lips  and  eyes —  that  is,  I  mean, 

When  l>oth  the  teacher  md  the  taught  are  young, 
As  was  the  case,  at  least,  where  I  have  been ; 

They  smile  so  when   one's   right,  and  when  one's 
wrong 
They  smile  still  more,  and  then  there  intervene 

Pressure  of  hands,  perhaps  even  a  chaste  kiss  ;  — 

I  learn'd  the  little  that  I  know  by  this: 

CLXV. 
That  is,  some  words  of  Spanish,  Turk,  and  Greek, 

Italian  not  at  all,  having  no  teachers ; 
Much  English  I  cannot  pretend  to  speak. 

Learning  that  language  chiefly  from  its  preachers, 
Barrow,  South,  Tillotsoli,  whom  every  week 

1  study,  also  Blair,  the  hiehett  reachers 
Of  eloquence  in  piety  and  prose  — 
I  hale  your  poets,  so' read  none  of  those. 


CLXVI. 

As  for.  the  ladies,  I  have  nought  to  say, 
A  wanderer  from  the  British  world  of  fashion, 

Where  1,  like  other  "  dogs,  have  had  my  iiy," 
Like  other  men,  too,  may  have  had  my  f.jsion  — 

But  that,  like  other  things,  has  pa&-,'d  away. 
And  all  her  fools  whom  I  covtd  lay  the  lash  on: 

Foes,  friends,  men,  womet'i,  now  are  nought  to  me 

But  dreams  of  what  has  been,  no  more  to  be. 

CLXVn. 
Re'urn  we  to  Don  Juan.     He  begun 

To  hear  new  words,  and  to  repeat  themj  but 
Some  feelings,  universal  as  the  sun, 

Were  such  as  could  not  in  his  breast  be  shut 
More  than  within  the  bfisom  of  a  nun : 

He  was  in  love,—  as  you  would  be,  no  doubt, 
With  a  young  beneficliess, —  so  was  she, 
Just  in  the  way  we  very  often  see. 

CLXVIIL 

And  every  day  by  daybreak  —  rather  early 
For  Juan,  who  was  somewhat  fond  of  rest  — 

She  came  into  the  cave,  but  it  was  merely 
To  see  her  bird  reposing  in  his  nest ; 

And  she  would  softly  stir  his  locks  so  curly. 
Without  disturbing  her  yet  slumbering  gi:e5t, 

Breathing  all  gently  o'er  his  cheek  and  mouth, 

As  o'er  a  bed  of  roses  the^weet  south. 

CLXIX. 

And  every  morn  his  colour  fleshlier  cime. 
And  every  day  help'd  on  his  convalescence; 

'T  was  well,  because  health  in  the  human  fiame 
Is  pleasant,  besides  being  true  love's  essence. 

For  heil  h  and  idleness  to  passion's  flame 

Are  oil  and  gunpowder  ;  and  some  good  lessons 

Are  also  learnt  from  Ceies  and  from  Bacchus, 

Without  whom  Venus  will  not  long  attack  us. 

CLXX. 

While  Venus  tills  the  heart  (without  heart  really 
Love,  though  gnod  always,  is  not  quite  so  good), 

Ceres  presents  a  plate  of  vermicelli, — 

For  love  must  be  sustain'd  like  flesh  and  blood, — 

While  Bacchus  pours  out  wine,  or  hands  a  jelly : 
Eggs,  oysters,  loo,  are  amatory  food  ; 

But  who  is  their  purveyor  from  above 

Heaven  knows, —  it  may  be  Neptune,  Pan,  or  Jove. 

CLXXL 

When  Juan  woke  he  found  some  good  things  ready, 
A  bath,  a  breakfast,  and  the  finest  eyes 

That  ever  made  a  youthful  heart  less  steady. 
Besides  her  maid's,  as  pretty  for  their  size; 

But  I  have  spoken  of  all  this  already  — 
And  repetition's  tiresome  and  unwise, — 

Well  —  Juan,  after  bathing  in  the  sea. 

Came  always  back  to  coli'ee  and  Haidee. 

CLXXII. 
Both  were  so  young,  and  one  so  innocent. 

That  bathing  pass'd  for  nothing;  Juan  seem'd 
To  her,  as  't  were,  thwkind  of  being  sent, 

Of  whom  these  two  years  she  had  nightly  dream'd, 
A  something  to  be  loved,  a  creature  meant 

To  be  her  happiness,  and  whom  she  deem'd 
To  render  happy  ;  all  who  joy  would  win 
Must  share  it, —  Happiness  was  born  a  twin, 

CLXXIII. 

It  was  such  pleasure  to  behold  him,  such 

Enlargement  of  existence  to  partake 
Nature  with  him,  to  thrill  beneath  his  touch. 

To  wa'ch  him  slumbering,  and  to  see  him  wake; 
To  live  with  him  for  ever  were  too  much  ; 

But  then  the  thought  of  parting  made  her  quake: 
He  was  her  own,  her  ocean-treasure,  cast 
Like  a  rich  wreck  —  her  first  love,  and  her  laat. 


502 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  II. 


CLXXIV. 

And  thus  a  moon  roH'd  on,  and  fair  Haidee 

Paid  daily  visits  to  her  boy,  and  took 
Such  plentiful  precautions,  that  still  he 

Reiiiain'd  unknown  w  ithin  his  craggy  nook  ; 
At  last  her  father's  prows  put  out  to  sea. 

For  certain  niercliantiiieD  upon  the  look, 
Not  as  of  yore  to  carry  oft'  an  lo. 
But  three  ftagusan  vessels,  bound  for  Scio. 

CLXXV. 
Then  came  her  freedom,  for  she  had  do  mother, 

So  that,  her  father  being  at  sea,  she  was 
Free  as  a  married  wonmi,  or  such  olher 

Female,  as  where  she  likes  may  freely  pass, 
Wi  hout  even  the  encumbrance  of  a  brolher. 

The  freest  she  that  ever  gazed  on  glass  ; 
I  speak  of  Christian  lands  in  this  comparison. 
Where  wives,  at  least,  are  seldom  kept  in  garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now  she  prolong'd  her  visits  and  her  tulk 
(For  Ihev  niusl  talk),  and  he  had  learnt  to  say 

So  much  as  to  propose  to  take  a  walk,— 
For  little  had  he  wander"d  since  the  day 

On  which,  like  a  young  flower  snapp'd  from  the  stalk, 
Drooping  and  dewy  on  the  beach  he  lay, — 

And  thus  they  walkd  out  in  the  afternoon, 

And  saw  the  sun  set  op[>osire  the  moon. 

CLXXVII. 
It  was  a  wild  and  breaker-be:iten  coajt. 

With  clitfs  above,  ind  a  broad  sandy  shore. 
Guarded  by  shoals  and  rock*  as  by  an  host, 

With  here  and  there  a  creek,  whose  aspect  wore 
A  better  welcome  to  the  tempest-tost ; 

And  rarely  ceased  the  haugh"y  billows'  roar. 
Save  on  the  dead  long  summer  days,  which  make 
The  outstrelch'd  ocean  glitter  like  a  lake. 

CLXXVIII. 

And  the  small  ripple  split  upon  the  beaeh 

Scarcely  o'erpass'd  the  cream  of  your  champagne, 

When  o'er  the  brim  the  sparkling  bumpers  reach. 
That  spring-dew  of  the  spirit !  the  heart's  rain  1 

Few  things  surpass  old  wine  ;  and  they  may  preach 
Who  please, —  the  more  because  they  preach   in 
vain, — 

Let  us  have  wine  and  women,  mirth  and  laughter, 

Sermons  and  soda-water  the  day  after. 

CLXXIX. 

Man,  he'iDz  reasonable,  must  get  drunk  ; 

The  best  of  life  is  but  intoxica'ion  : 
Glory,  the  erape,  love,  gold,  in  these  are  sunk 

The  hopes  of  all  men^  and  of  every  nation  ; 
Without  their  sap,  how  branchless  were  the  trunk 

Of  life's  strange  tree,  so  fruitful  on  occasion  : 
But  to  return,—  Get  very  drunk  ;  and  w  hen 
you  wake  with  headach,  you  shall  see  what  then. 

CLXXX. 

Ring  for  your  va'et  —  hid  him  quickly  bring 
Some  hock  ind  soda-water.^ien  yo'u  '11  know 

A  pleasure  worthy  Xerxes  the  great  king ; 
For  not  the  blest  sherbet,  sublimed  wiih  snow, 

Nor  the  first  sparkle  of  the  desert  spring, 
Nor  Burgundy  in  all  its  sunset  glow. 

After  long  travel,  ennui,  love,  or  slaughter, 

Vie  w  ilh  that  draught  of  hock  and  soda-water. 

CLXXXI. 
The  coast  —  I  think  it  was  the  coast  that  I 
'       Was  just  describing  —  Yes,  it  was  the  coast  — 
Lay  at  this  period  quiet  as  the  sky, 
"The  sands  untumblcd,  the  blue  waves  untost, 
!  And  all  was  stillness,  save  the  sea-bird's  cry. 
And  dolphin's  leap,  and  little  billow  crost 
I  By  some  low  rock  or  shelve,  that  made  it  fret 
I  Against  the  boundary  it  scarcely  wet. 


CLXXXII. 

And  forth  they  wander'd,  her  sire  being  gone, 

As  I  have  said,  upon  an  expedition  ; 
And  mother,  brother,  guardian,  she  had  none. 

Save  Zoe,  »ho,  although  with  due  precision 
She  wailed  on  her  lady  with  the  sun, 

Thought  daily  service  was  her  only  mission. 
Bringing  warm  water,  wieaihing  her  long  tresses 
And  asking  now  and  ttien  for  cast-off  dresses. 

CLXXXIII. 
If  was  the  cooling  hour,  just  when  the  rounded 

Red  sun  sinks  down  behind  the  azure  hill. 
Which  then  seems  as  if  the  «hple  earth  it  bounded, 

Circling  all  nature,  hush'd,  and  dim,  and  still. 
With  the  far  mountain-crescent  half  surrounded 

On  one  side,  and  the  deep  sea  calm  and  ;hill 
Upon  the  other,  and  the  rosy  sky. 
With  one  star  sparkling  through  it  like  an  eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  thus  they  wander'd  forth,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Over  the  shining  pebbles  and  the  shells. 

Glided  along  the  smooth  and  liarden'd  sand, 
And  in  the  worn  and  wild  receptacles 

Work'd  by  the  stoims,  yet  work'd  as  it  were  plannM, 
In  hollow  halls,  with  sparry  roofs  and  cells. 

They  turn'd  lo  lest ;  and,  each  clasp'd  by  an  arm, 

Yielded  to  the  deep  twilight's  purple  charm. 

CLXXXV. 

They  look'd  up  to  the  sky,  wlio.-.e  floating  glow 
Spread  like  a  rosy  ocean,  vast  and  bright ; 

They  gazed  upon  Iheglitiering  seA  below, 

VVhence  the  broad  moon  rose  circling  into  sight  ; 

They  heard  the  wave's  splash,  and  the  wind  so  low, 
And  siw  each  other's  dark  eyes  darling  light 

Into  each  other  —  and,  beholding  this. 

Their  lips  drew  near,  and  clung  into  a  kiss  ; 

CLXXXVI. 

A  long,  long  kiss,  a  kiss  of  youth,  and  love, 
And  beauty,  all  concentrating  like  rays 

Into  one  focus,  kindled  from  above  ; 
Such  kisses  as  belong  to  early  days. 

Where  heart,  and  soul,  and  sense,  in  concert  move, 
And  the  blood  "s  lava,  and  the  pulse  a  blaze. 

Each  kiss  a  heart-quake, —  for  a  kiss's  strength, 

I  think  it  must  be  reckon'd  by  its  length. 

CLXXXVII. 
By  length  I  mean  duration  ;  theirs  endured 

Heaven   knows   how  long  — no  doubt  they  never 
reckon'd  ; 
And  if  they  had.  they  could  not  have  secured 

The  sum  of  their  sensations  to  a  second  : 
They  had  not  spoken  ;  but  they  felt  allured. 

As  if  their  snuls  and  lips  each  other  beckon'd. 
Which,  being  jnin'd,  like  swarming  bees  they  clung — 
Their   hearts   the   flowers   from    whence  the  honey 
sprung. 

CLXXXVI  II. 
They  were  alone,  but  not  alone  as  they 

Who  shut  in  chambers  think  it  loneliness; 
The  silent  ocean,  and  the  starlight  bay, 

The  twilight  glow,  which  momently  grew  less 
The  voiceless  sands,  and  dropping  caves,  that  lay 

Around  them,  made  them  to  each  other  press, 
As  if  there  were  no  life  beneath  the  sky 
Save  theirs,  and  that  their  life  could  never  die. 

CLXXXIX. 
They  fear'd  no  eves  nor  ears  on  that  lone  beach. 

They  fell  no  terrors  from  the  night,  they  were 
All  ill  all  to  each  olher ;  though  their  speech 

Was  bri  ken  words,  they  thouglU  a  language  there,— 
And  all  the  burning  tongues  Ihe  passions  teach 

Found  in  one  sigh  the  t>est  interpreter 
Of  nature's  oracle  —  first  love,—  that  all 
Which  Eve  has  left  her  daughters  since  her  fall. 


Canto  II.] 


DON  JUAN. 


503 


cxc. 

Haidee  spoke  not  of  scruples,  ask'd  no  vows. 

Nor  offer'd  any  ;  she  liad  never  heard 
Of  plisht  and  promises  lo  be  a  spouse, 

Or  perils  bj  a  lovin;  maid  iiicurr'd  ; 
She  was  all  which  pure  ignorance  allows. 

And  flew  lo  her  young  male  like  a  youne  bird ; 
And  never  havins;  dieami  of  falsehood,  she' 
Had  not  one  word  to  say  of  constancy. 

CXCI. 

She  loved,  and  was  beloved  —  she  adored. 

And  she  was  worshipped  ;  after  nature's  fashion, 

Their  intense  souls,  into  each  other  pour'd, 

If  souls  could  die,  had  perish'd  in  ihat  passion, — 

But  by  decrees  their  senses  were  restored, 
Aerain  to  be  o'ercome,  again  to  dnsh  on  ; 

And^  beating  'gainst  hit  bosom,  Haidee's  heart 

Felt  as  if  never  more  to  beat  apart. 

CXCII. 
Alas !  they- were  so  young,  so  beautiful, 

So  lonely,  loving,  helpless,  and  the  hour 
Was  that  in  which  the  heart  is  always  full  ; 

And,  having  o'er  itself  no  further  power. 
Prompts  deeds  eternity  can  not  annul. 

But  pays  off  moments  in  an  endless  shower 
Of  hell-fire  —  all  prepared  for  people  giving 
Pleasure  or  pain  to  one  another  living. 

CXC  III. 
Alas!  for  Juan  and  Haidee!  they  were 

So  loving  and  so  lovely  —  till  then  never, 
Ezcepling  our  first  parents,  such  a  pair 

Had  run  the  risk  of  being  damn'd  for  ever  : 
And  Haidee,  being  devout  as  well  as  fair. 

Had,  doubtless,  heard  about  the  Stygian  river, 
And  hell  and  purgatory  —  but  forgot 
Just  in  the  very  crisis  she  should  not. 

CXCIV. 
They  look  upon  each  other,  and  their  eyes 

Gleam  in  the  moonlight ;  and  her  white  arm  clasps 
Round  Juan's  head,  and  his  around  her  lies 

Half  buried  in  the  tresses  which  it  grasps; 
She  sits  upon  his  knee,  and  drinks  his  sighs. 

He  hers,  until  they  end  in  broken  sasps ; 
And  thus  they  form  a  group  that's  quite  antique, 
Half  naked,  loving,  natural,  and  Greek. 

CXCV. 
And  when  those  deep  and  burning  moments  piss'd, 

And  Juan  sunk  to  sleep  wiihinher  arms, 
She  slept  not,  but  all  tenderly,  though  fast, 

Sustain'd  his  bead  upon  her  bosom's  charms  ; 
And  now  and  then  her  eye  lo  heaven  is  cast. 

And  then  on  the  pale  cheek  her  breast  now  warms, 
Pillow'd  on  her  o'erflowing  heart,  which  pants 
With  all  it  granted,  and  with  all  it  grants. 

CXCVI. 
An  infant  when  it  gazes  on  a  light, 

A  child  the  moment  when  it  drains  the  breast, 
A  devotee  when  soars  the  Host  in  sight. 

An  Arab  with  a  str.vnger  for  a  guest, 
A  sailor  when  the  pri?e  has  struck  in  tight, 

A  miser  tilling  his  most  hoarded  chest. 
Feel  rapture;  but  not  such  true  joy  are  reaping 
As  they  who  watch  e'er  what  they  love  while  sleeping. 

CXCVII. 
For  there  it  lies  so  tranquil,  so  beloved. 

All  Ihat  it  hath  of  life  with  us  is  living ; 
So  gentle,  stirless  helpless,  and  unmoved. 

And  all  unconscious  of  the  joy  't  is  giving  ; 
All  it  hath  felt,  inflicted,  pass'd,  and  proved, 

Hush'd  into  depths  beyond  the  watcher's  diving  ; 
There  lie*  the  thing  we  love  wr  h  all  its  errors 
And  all  its  charms,  like  death  without  its  terroft. 


CXCVI  1 1. 

The  lady  watch'd  her  lover  —  aLd  that  hour 
Of  Loie's,  and  Nighi's,  and  Ocean's  solitude, 

O'erflow'd  her  soul  with  their  united  power; 
Amidst  the  barren  sand  and  rocks  so  rude 

She  and  her  v»ave-»orn  love  had  made  their  bower. 
Where  nought  upon  their  passion  could  intrude, 

And  all  the  stars  that  crowded  the  blue  space 

Saw  nothing  happier  than  her  glowing  face. 

CXCIX. 

Alas  !  the  love  of  women  !  it  is  known 

To  be  a  lovely  and  a  fearful  thing; 
For  all  of  theirs  upon  thit  die  is  thiown, 

And  if  'I  is  lost,  lite  hath  m  more  to  bring 
To  them  but  mockeries  of  the  past  alone. 

And  their  revenge  is  as  the  tiger's  spring. 
Deadly,  and  quick,  and  crushing;  yet,  as  real 
Torture  is  their^,  what  they  inflict  they  feel. 

CC. 

They  are  right ;  for  man,  to  man  so  oft  unjust, 
Is  always  so  to  women  ;  one  sole  bond 

Awaits  them,  treachery  is  all  their  trust ; 

Taught  to  c  nceal,  their  bursting  hearts  despond 

Over  their  idol,  till  some  wealthier  lust 

Buys  them  in  mani  'ge  —  and  what  rests  beyond ? 

A  thankless  husband,  next  a  faithless  lover. 

Then  dressing,  nursing,  praying,  and  all 's  over, 

CCI. 
Some  lake  a  lover,  some  take  drams  or  prayers, 

Some  mind  their  household,  others  dissipation, 
Some  run  away,  and  but  exchange  their  cares. 

Losing  the  advantage  of  a  virtuous  station  ; 
Few  changes  e'er  can  better  iheir  affairs, 

Theirs  being  an  unnatural  situation. 
From  the  dull  palace  to  the  dirty  hovel : 
Some  play  the  devil,  and  then  write  a  novel. 

ecu. 

Haidee  was  Nature's  bride,  and  knew  not  this : 
Haidee  was  Passion's  child,  born  where  the  sun 

Showers  triple  light,  and  scorches  even  the  kiss 
Of  his  gazelle-eyed  daughters;  she  was  one 

Made  but  to  love,  to  feel  Ihat  she  was  his 

Who  was  her  chosen  :   wh it  was  said  or  done 

Elsewhere  w.is  nothing  —  She  had  nought  lo  fear, 

Hope,  care,  nor  love,  beyond,  her  heart  beat  here. 

CCIII. 
And  oh  !  that  quickening  of  the  heart,  that  beat ! 

How  mu''h  it  cosis  us  I  yet  each  rising  throb 
Is  in  its  cause  as  its  effect  so  sweet. 

That  Wisdom,  ever  on  the  wa'ch  to  rob 
Joy  of  its  alchymy,  and  to  repeat 

Fine  truths  ;  even  Conscience,  too,  has  a  tough  job 
To  make  us  understand  each  goixl  old  maxim. 
So  good  —  I  wonder  Castlereagh  don't  tax  'cm. 

CCIV. 
And  now 't  was  done— on  the  lone  shore  were  plighted 

Their  hearts  ;  the  stops,  their  nuptial  torches,  shed 
Beauty  upon  the  beaJful  they  lighted : 

Ocean  their  witness,  and  the  cave  their  bed, 
By  their  own  feelings  hallow'd  and  united. 

Their  priest  was  Solitude,  and  they  were  wed  : 
And  they  were  happy,  for  to  their  young  eyes 
Each  was  an  angel,  and  earth  paradise. 

CCV. 
Oh,  Love  !  of  whom  great  Caesar  was  the  suitor, 

Titus  the  master,  Antony  the  slave, 
Horace,  Catullus,  scholars,  Ovid  tutor, 

Sappho  the  sage  blue-stocking,  in  whose  grave 
All  those  may  leap  who  rather  would  be  neuter  — 

(Leucadia's  mck  still  overlooks  the  wave)  — 
Oh,  Love!  thou  art  the  verv  god  of  evil. 
For,  after  all,  we  cannot  call  thee  devil. 


IfsoT" 


DON   JUAN 


[Canto  III 


CCVI. 
Thou  Diak'st  the  chiste  connubial  sla'e  precarious, 

And  jeslest  with  the  brows  of  mightiest  men  j 
Csesar  and  Pompey,  Mahomet,  Beiisarius, 

Ha%e  much  employ'd  the  muse  of  history's  pen  : 
Their  lives  and  fortunes  were  extremely  various. 

Such  worthies  lime  will  never  s«e  a^ain  ; 
Yet  to  these  four  in  three  things  the  same  luck  holds. 
They  all  were  heroes,  conquerors,  and  cucUolds, 

CCVII. 
Thou  mak'at  philosophers  ;  there  's  Epicurus 

And  Arisiippus,  a  material  crew  ! 
Who  to  immoral  courses  would  allure  us 

By  theories  quiie  practicable  too  ; 
If  only  from  the  devil  they  would  insure  us, 

How  pleasant  were  the  maxim  (not  quiie  new), 
'■Eaf,  drink,  and  love,  what  can  the  rest  avail  us?" 
So  said  the  royal  sage  Sardanapalus. 

CCVIII. 
But  Juan  !  had  he  quite  forgotten  Julia  ? 

And  should  he  have  forgotten  her  so  soon  ? 
I  can't  but  say  it  seems  to  me  most  truly  a 

Perplexing  question;  but,  no  doubt,  the  moon 
Does  these  things  for  us,  and  whenever  newly  a 

Palpitation  rises,  't  is  her  boon, 
Else  how  the  devil  is  it  that  fresh  features 
Have  such  a  charm  for  us  poor  human  creatures  ? 

CCIX. 
I  hale  inconstancy  —  I  loathe,  detest, 

Abhor,  condemn,  abjure  the  mortal  made 
Of  such  quicksilver  clay  that  in  his  breast 

No  permanent  foundation  can  be  laid  ; 
Love,  constant  love,  has  been  my  constant  guest, 

And  yet  I  ist  night,  being  at  a  masquerade, 
I  saw  the  prettiest  creature,  fresh  from  Milan, 
Which  gave  me  some  sensations  like  a  villain. 

ccx. 

But  soon  Philosophy  came  to  my  aid. 
And  whisper'd,  "  Think  of  every  sacred  lie  !  " 

"  1  will,  my  dear  Philosophy  !  "  I  said, 

"  But  then  her  teeth,  and  then,  oh,  Heaven  !  her  eye  ! 

I'll  just  enquire  if  she  be  wife  or  maid. 
Or  neither  —  out  of  curiosity." 

"  Stop !  "  cried  Philosophy,  with  air  so  Grecian, 

(Though  she  was  masqued  then  as  a  fair  Venetian ;) 

CCXI. 

"  stop  ! "  so  I  stopp'd.—  But  to  return  :  that  which 

Men  call  inconstancy  is  nothing  more 
Than  admiration  due  where  nature's  rich 

Profusion  with  young  beauty  covers  o'er 
Some  favour'd  object  ;  and  as  in  the  niche 

A  lovely  statue  we  almost  adore, 
This  sort  of  adoration  of  the  real 
Is  but  a  heightening  of  the  "  beau  ideal." 

CCXII. 
T  is  the  perception  of  the  beautiful, 

A  fine  extension  of  the  facultfes, 
Platonic,  universal,  wonderful, 

Drawn  from  the  stars,  and  filter'd  through  the  skies, 
Without  which  life  would  Oe  extremely  dull ; 

In  short,  it  is  the  use  of  our  own  eyes, 
With  one  or  two  small  senses  added,  just 
To  hint  that  flesh  is  form'd  of  fiery  dust. 

CCXIII. 
Yet  t  is  a  painful  feeling,  and  unwilling. 

For  surely  if  we  always  could  perceive 
In  the  sime  object  graces  quite  as  killing 

As  wnen  she  rose  upon  us  like  an  Eve, 
•T  would  save  us  many  a  heart-ach,  many  a  shilling, 

(For  we  must  get  them  any  how,  or  grieve,) 
Whereas  if  one  sole  lady  pleased  for  ever, 
How  pleasant  for  the  heart,  as  well  as  liver ! 


CCXIV. 
The  heart  is  like  the  sky,  a  part  of  heaven, 

Bm'  changes  night  and  day,  too,  like  the  sky ; 
Now  o'er  it  clouds  and  thui'ider  must  be  driven, 

Ant  darkness  and  destruction  as  on  high  : 
But  when  it  hath  been  scorch'd,  and  i)ierced,  and  riven, 

Its  storms  expire  in  water-drops;  the  eve 
Pours  forth  at  last  the  heirt's  blood  turn'd'  to  tears, 
Which  make  the  English  climate  of  our  years. 

CCXV. 

The  liver  is  the  laziret  of  bile, 

But  very  rarely  executes  its  function. 
For  the  first  passion  stays  there  such  a  while, 

That  all  the  rest  cieep  in  and  form  a  junction, 
Like  knots  of  vipers  on  a  dunghill's  soil. 

Rage,  fear,  hale,  jealousy,  revenge,  compunction, 
So  thai  all  mischiefs  sprin;  up  from  this  entrail. 
Like  earlhcjuakes  from  the  hidden  fire  call'd  "  cen- 
tral." 

CCXVI. 
In  the  mean  time,  without  proceeding  more 

In  this  anatomy,  I  've  (inish'd  now 
Two  hundred  and  odd  stanzas  as  before. 

That  being  about  the  number  I  'II  allow 
Each  canto  of  the  twelve,  or  twenty-four; 

And,  laying  down  my  pen,  I  make  my  bow. 
Leaving  Don  Juan  and  Haidee  to  plead 
For  them  and  theirs  with  all  who  deign  to  read. 


CANTO  THE   THIRD.* 
I. 

Hail,  Muse  I  et  cetera.— We  left  Juan  sleeping, 
Pillow'd  upon  a  fair  and  hai  py  breast, 

And  walch'd  by  eyes  that  never  yet  knew  weeping. 
And  loved  by  a'young  heart,  too  deeply  blest 

To  feel  the  poison'through  her  spirit  creeping, 
Or  know  who  rested  there,  a  foe  to  rest, 

Had  soil'd  the  current  of  her  sinless  years. 

And  turn'd  her  pure  heart's  purest  blood  to  tears  ! 

IL 

Oh,  Love  !  wliat  is  if  in  this  world  of  ours 
VVhich  makes  it  fital  to  be  loved  ?  Ah  why 

With  cypress  branches  hast  thou  wreathed  thy  bowers, 
And  made  thy  best  interpreter  a  sigh  ? 

As  those  who  dote  on  odours  plnck  the  flowers. 

And  place  them  on  their  breast  —  but  place  to  die — 

Thus  the  frail  beings  we  would  fondly  cherish 

Are  laid  within  our  bosoms  but  to  perish. 

IH. 

In  her  first  passion  woman  loves  her  lover, 

In  all  the  others  all  she  loves  is  love. 
Which  grows  a  habit  she  can  ne'er  get  over. 

And  fits  her  loosely—  like  an  easy  glove, 
As  you  may  find,  whene'er  you  like  to  prove  her: 

One  man  alone  at  first  her  heart  can  move; 
She  then  prefers  him  in  the  plural  number, 
Not  finding  that  the  additions  much  encumber. 

IV. 

I  know  not  if  the  fault  be  men's  or  theirs  ; 

But  one  thing  '-s  pretty  sure  ;  a  woman  planted 
(Unless  at  once  she  plunge  for  life  in  prayers)  — 

After  a  decent  time  must  be  gallanted  ; 
Although,  no  doub',  her  first  of  love  affairs 

Is  that  to  which  her  heart  is  wholly  granted  ; 
Yet  there  are  some,  they  say,  who  have  had  mojjc. 
But  those  who  have  ne'er  end  with  only  one. 


1  Lord  Byron  began  to  compose  Canto  III.  in  October, 
1819:  but  tie  for  a  time  laid  llie  work  a«ide,  and  after- 
wards proceeded  in  it  only  by  fits  and  atarla.  Cantos  III. 
IV.  giM  V.  were  publi«lied  together  in  August,  1821,— 
Dtill  without  the  name  either  of  author  or  bookseller.— & 


Cant)  lii.] 


DON  JUAN. 


505 


V. 

'T  is  melancholy,  and  a  fearful  sign 

Of  human  frailly,  folly,  tIso  crime, 
That  love  and  marriage  rarely  can  combine, 

Although  they  boih  are  born  in  the  same  clime ; 
Marriage  from  love,  like  vinegar  from  wine  — 

A  sad.  sour,  sober  beverage—  by  lime 
Is  sharpen'd  from  its  high  celes'ial  flavour, 
Down  to  a  very  homely  household  savour. 


There 's  something  of  antipathy,  as  'I  were, 

Between  their  present  and  Iheir  future  state; 
A  kind  of  flallery  that 's  hardly  fair 

Is  used  until  the  truth  arrives  loo  lale  — 
Yet  what  cm  people  do.  except  despair? 

The  same  things  change  their  names  at  such  a  rate; 
For  instance  —  passion  in  a  lover  's  gloriou«, 
Bui  in  a  husband  is  pronounced  uxorious. 

VII. 
Men  grow  ashamed  of  being  so  very  fond; 

They  sometimes  also  get  a  little  tired 
(But  thai,  of  course,  is  rare),  and  then  despond: 

The  same  things  cannol  always  be  admired, 
Yet  't  is  "  so  nominated  in  the  bond," 

That  both  are  tied  till  one  shall  have  expired. 
Sad  thought !  to  lose  the  spouse  that  was  adorning 
Our  days,  and  put  one's  servants  into  mourning. 

VIII. 
There 's  doubtless  something  in  domestic  doings 

Which  forms,  in  fact,  true  love's  antithesis  ; 
Romances  paint  at  full-length  people's  wooings, 

But  only  give  a  bust  of  marriages; 
For  no  one  cares  for  matrimonial  cooings. 

There  's  nothing  wrong  in  a  connubial  kiss  : 
Think  you,  if  Laura  had  been  Petrarch's  wife, 
He  would  have  wriiten  sonnets  all  bis  life  ? 

IX. 

All  tragedies  are  f.nish'd  by  a  death, 
All  comedies  are  ended  by  a  inarriaKe; 

The  future  slates  of  both  are  left  to  faith, 
For  authors  fear  description  might  disparage 

The  worlds  lo  come  of  both,  or  fall  benea'h. 

And  then  both  woilds  would   punish  their  miscar- 
riage ; 

So  leaving  each  Iheir  priest  and  prayer-book  ready, 

They  say  no  more  of  Death  or  of  the  Lady.i 

X. 

The  only  two  that  in  my  recollection 

Have  sung  of  heaven  and  hell,  or  marriage,  are 
Dante  2  and  Millon,3  and  of  both  the  atfectiou 

Was  hapless  in  their  nuptials,  for  some  bar 
Of  fault  or  temper  ruin'd  the  connection 

(Such  things,  in  fact,  it  dnn'l  ask  much  lo  mar) ; 
Rut  Dante's  Beatrice  and  Milton's  Eve 
Were  not  drawn  from  their  spouses,  you  conceive. 

XI. 
Some  persons  say  thai  Dante  meant  theology 

By  Beatrice,  and  not  a  mistress  —  I, 
Although  my  opinion  may  require  apology, 

Deem  this  a  commentator's  phantasy. 
Unless  indeed  it  was  from  his  own  knowledge  he 

Decided  thus,  and  shovv'd  good  reason  why  ; 
I  think  thai  Dante's  more  abstruse  ecstalics 
Meant  to  personify  the  mathematics. 

XII. 
Haidee  and  Juan  were  not  married,  but 

The  tault  was  theirs,  not  mine :  it  is  not  fair, 
Chaste  reader,  then,  in  any  way  lo  put 

The  blame  on  me,  unless  you  wish  they  were  ; 


1  The  old  ballad  of  "  Death  and  the  Lady  "  is  alluded  to 
in  Shakspeare.—  £. 

2  Dante  calls  his  wife,  in  the  Inferno,  "  la  fiera  moglie." 
8  Milton'«  first  wife  ran  away  from  him  wilhin  the  first 

month.     If  she   bad   not,  what  would  John  Milton  have 


Then  if  you'd  have  Ihem  wedded,  please  lo  shut 

The  book  which  treats  of  this  erroneous  pair, 
Before  the  consequences  grow  too  awful ; 
'T  is  dangerous  lo  read  of  loves  unlawful. 

xin. 

Yet  they  were  happy,— happy  in  the  illicit 

Indulgence  of  llieir  innocent  desires  ; 
But  more  imprudent  grown  with  every  visit, 

Haidee  forgot  the  island  uas  her  sire's: 
When  we  have  what  we  like,  't  is  hard  to  miss  it, 

At  least  in  the  beginning,  ere  one  tires  ; 
Thus  she  came  often,  not  a  moment  losing. 
Whilst  her  piratical  papa  was  cruising. 

XIV. 

Let  not  his  mode  of  raising  cash  seem  strange. 
Although  he  fleeced  the  tiags  of  every  nation. 

For  into  a  prime  minister  but  change 
His  title,  and  't  is  nothing  but  taxation ; 

But  he,  more  modest,  took  an  humbler  range 
Of  life,  and  in  an  honester  vocation 

Pursued  o'er  the  high  seas  his  watery  journey. 

And  merely  practised  as  a  sea-attorney. 

XV. 

The  good  old  gentleman  had  been  defain'd 

By  winds  and  waves,  and  some  important  captures; 

And",  in  the  hope  of  more,  at  sea  remained, 

Although  a  squall  or  two  had  damp'd  his  raptures. 

By  swamping  one  of  the  prizes  ;  he  had  chain'd 
His  prisoners,  dividing  Ihem  like  chapters 

In  number'd  lots  ;  they  all  had  cutfs  and  collars. 

And  averaged  each  fiom  ten  to  a  hundred  dollars. 

XVI. 

Some  he  disposed  of  off  Cape  Malapan, 

Among  his  friends,  the  Mainols  ;  some  he  sold 

To  his  Tunis  correspondents,  save  one  man 
Toss'd  overboard  unsaleable  (being  old) ; 

The  rest  —  save  here  and  there  some  riclicr  one, 
Reserved  for  future  ransom  in  the  hold. 

Were  link'd  alike,  as  for  the  common  people  he 

Had  a  large  order  from  the  Dey  of  Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The  merchandise  was  served  in  the  same  way, 
Pieced  out  for  different  marls  in  the  Levant, 

Except  some  certain  portions  of  the  prey. 
Light  classic  articles  of  female  want, 

French  stuffs,  lace,  tweezers,  toothpicks,  teapot,  tray. 
Guitars  and  castanets  from  Alicanl, 

All  which  selected  from  the  spoil  he  gathers, 

Robb'd  for  his  daughter  by  the  best  of  fathers. 

XVI  n. 

A  monkey,  a  Du»ch  mastiff,  a  mackaw. 

Two  parrots,  with  a  Persian  cat  and  kittens, 

He  chose  from  several  animals  he  saw  — 

A  terrier,  loo,  which  once  had  been  a  Briton's, 

Who  dying  on  the  coast  of  Ilhaca, 
The  peasants  gave  the  poor  dumb  thing  a  pittance. 

These  to  secure  in  this  strong  blowins  weather. 

He  caged  in  one  huge  hamper  altogether. 

XIX. 

Then  having  settled  his  marine  afTairs, 
Despatching  single  cruisers  heie  and  there, 

His  vessel  having  need  of  snnie  repairs. 

He  shaped  his  course  lo  where  his  daughter  fair 

Continued  still  her  hospitable  cares; 

But  that  narl  of  the  coast  being  shoal  and  bare,  | 

And  rouzh  with  reefs  which  ran  out  many  a  mile. 

His  port  lay  on  the  other  side  o'Ihe  isle. 

XX. 

And  there  he  went  ashore  without  delay,  . 

Having  no  custom-house  nor  quarantine 
To  ask  him  awkward  questions  on  the  way,  I 

About  the  time  and  place  where  he  had  been:  I 


43 


506 


DON  JUAN, 


[Canto  III. 


He  left  his  ship  (o  be  hove  down  next  day, 

With  orders  to  the  people  to  careen ; 
So  tliat  all  hands  were  bu-y  beyoud  measure, 
Id  getting  out  goods,  ballast,  guus,  and  treasure. 

XXI. 

Arriving  at  the  sumnill  of  a  hill 

Which  overlook 'd  the  while  walls  of  his  home, 
He  stopp'd. — Wliat  singular  emotions  fill 

Their  bosoms  who  have  been  induced  to  roam  ! 
With  fluttering  doubts  if  all  be  well  or  ill  — 

With  love  for  many,  and  with  fears  for  some  ; 
AH  feelings  which  o'erleap  the  years  long  lost, 
And  bring  our  hearts  back  to  their  starting-post. 

xxn. 

The  approach  of  home  to  husbands  and  to  sires, 
After  long  travelling  by  land  or  water. 

Most  naturally  some  small  doubt  inspires  — 
A  female  finiily's  a  serious  matter  ; 

(None  trusts  the  sex  more,  or  so  much  admires  — 
But  they  hate  flattery,  so  I  never  fialler;) 

Wives  in  their  husbands'  absences  grow  subtler 

And  daughters  sometimes  run  oft'  with  the  butler. 

XXIII. 

An  honest  gentleman  at  his  return 
May  not  hue  the  good  fortune  of  Ulysses  ; 

Not  all  lone  matrons  for  their  husbands  mourn. 
Or  show  the  same  dislike  to  suitors'  kisses  j 

The  odds  are  that  he  finds  a  handsome  urn 
To  his  memory  —  and  two  or  three  young  misses 

Born  to  some  friend,  who  holds  his  wife  and  riches  ;— 

And  that  hit  Argus  bites  him  by  —  the  breeches. 

XXIV. 

If  single,  probably  his  plighted  fair 

Has  in  his  absence  wedd'ed  some  rich  miser; 

But  all  the  better,  for  the  happy  pair 

May  quarrel,  and  the  lady  growing  wiser. 

He  may  resume  his  amatory  care 
As  cavalier  servente,  or  despise  her  ; 

And  that  his  sorrow  may  not  be  a  dumb  one. 

Write  odes  on  the  Inconstancy  of  Woman. 

XXV. 

And  oh  !  ye  gentlemen  who  have  already 
Some  chaste  liaison  of  the  kind—  I  mean 

An  honest  friendship  with  a  married  lady  — 
The  only  thing  of  this  sort  ever  seen 

To  last  —  (if  all  connections  the  most  steady. 
And  the  true  Hymen,  (the  first 's  but  a  screen)  — 

Ye',  for  all  that  keep  not  loo  long  away  ; 

I  've  known  the  absent  wrong'd  four  times  a  day. 

XXVI. 

Lambro,  our  sea-solicitor,  who  had 
Much  less  experience  of  dry  land  than  ocean, 

On  seeing  his  own  chimney-smoke,  felt  glad; 
But  not  knowing  metaphysics,  had  no  notion 

Of  the  true  reason  of  his  not  being  sad, 
Or  that  of  any  other  strong  emotion ; 

He  loved  his  child,  and  would  have  went  the  loss  of 
her. 

But  knew  the  cause  no  more  than  a  philosopher. 

XXVII. 

He  saw  his  white  walls  shining  in  the  sun, 
His  garden  trees  all  shadowy  and  green ; 

He  heard  his  rivulet's  light  bubbling  run. 

The  distant  dog-bark  ;  and  perceived  between 

The  umbrage  of  the  wood  so  cool  and  dun. 
The  moving  fieures,  and  the  sparkling  sheen 

Of  arms  (in  the  East  all  arm)  — and  vai^ious  dyes 

Of  colour'd  garbs,  as  bright  as  butterflies. 

XXVIII. 

And  as  the  spot  where  they  appear  he  nears. 
Surprised  at  these  unwonted  signs  of  idling, 
e  hears —  alas  !  no  music  of  the  spheres, 
Bat  an  unhallow'd,  earthly  sound  of  fiddling . 


A  melody  which  made  him  doubt  his  ears, 

The  cau^e  being  past  his  guessing  or  unriddling  ; 
A  pipe,  too,  .Hid  a  drum,  and  shortly  after, 
A  most  uuoriental  roar  of  laughter. 

XXIX. 
And  still  more  nearly  to  the  place  advancing, 

De-ceriding  r  ither  quickly  the  declivity. 
Through   the  waved  branches,  o'er  the  greensward 
glancing, 

'Midst  other  indicitinns  of  festivitv. 
Seeing  a  troop  of  his  domestics  dancing 

Like  dervises,  who  turn  as  on  a  pivo'l,  he 
Perceived  it  was  the  Pyrrhic  dance  so  martial, 
To  which  the  Levantines  are  very  partial. 

XXX. 

And  further  on  a  group  of  Grecian  girls, 

The  first  and  t.illest  her  white  kerchief  waving, 

Weie  strung  together  like  a  row  of  pearls, 
Link'd  hand  in  hand,  and  dancing ;  each  too  h£.viiig 

Down  her  white  neck  long  floating  auburn  curls  — 
(The  least  of  which  would  set  ten  jir.ets  raving); 

Their  leader  sang  —  and  bounded  to  her  song. 

With  choral  step  and  voice,  the  virgin  thiong. 

XXXI. 

And  here,  assembled  cross-legg'd  round  their  trays, 

Small  social  parties  jus!  begun  to  dine; 
Pilaus  and  meats  of  all  sorts  met  the  gaze. 

And  flasks  of  Sauiian  and  of  Chiairwine, 
And  sherbet  cooling  in  the  porous  vase ; 

Above  them  their  dessert  grew  on  its  vine, 
The  orange  and  pomegranate  nodding  o'er 
Diopp'd  in  iheir  laps,  scarce  pluck'd,  their  melloiv 
store. 

XXXII. 
A  band  of  children,  round  a  snow-white  ram. 

There  wreathe  his  venerable  horns  with  flowen: 
While  peaceful  as  if  still  an  unwean'd  lamb, 

The  patriarch  of  the  flock  all  gently  cowers 
His  sober  head,  majestically  tame. 

Or  eats  from  out  the  palm,  or  playful  lowers 
His  brow,  as  if  in  act  to  butt,  and  then 
Yielding  to  their  small  hands,  draws  back  again. 

XXXIII. 

Their  classical  profiles,  and  flittering  dresses. 

Their  large  black  eyes,  and  soft  seraphic  cheeks, 
Crimson  as  cleft  pomegranates,  their  long  tresses. 

The  gesture  which  enchants,  the  eye  that  speaks, 
The  innocence  which  happy  childhood  blesses, 

Made  quite  a  picture  of  these  little  Greeks  ; 
So  that  the  philosophical  beholder 
Sigh'd,  for  their  sakes  —  that  they  should  e'er  grow 
older. 

XXXIV. 
Afar,  a  dwarf  buffoon  stood  telling  tales 

To  a  sedate  grey  circle  of  nld  smokers. 
Of  secret  treasures  found  in  hidden  vales. 

Of  wonderful  replies  from  Arab  jokers, 
Of  charms  to  make  good  gold  and  cure  bajd  ails, 

Of  rocks  bewitch'd  that  open  to  the  knockers, 
Of  magic  ladies  who,  bv  one  sole  act, 
Transfbrm'd  their  lords' to  beasts  (but  that 's  a  feet). 

XXXV. 

Here  was  no  lack  of  innocent  diversion 

For  the  imagination  or  the  senses, 
Sone.  dance,  wine,  music,  stories  from  the  Persian, 

All  pretty  pastimes  in  which  no  offence  is  ; 
But  Lambro  saw  all  these  things  with  aversion. 

Perceiving  in  his  absence  such  expenses. 
Dreading  that  climax  of  all  human  ills. 
The  inflammation  of  his  weekly  bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah  !  what  is  man  ?  w  hat  perils  still  environ 
The  happiest  mortals  even  after  dinner  — 

A  day  of  gold  from  out  an  age  of  iron 
Is  all  that  life  allows  the  luckiest  sinner ; 


Canto  III.] 


DON  JUAN. 


507 


Pleasure  (whene'er  she  sings,  at  least)  's  a  siren, 
That  lures,  to  flay  nlive,  the  youii^  besiiiner ; 
Lambro's  reception  at  his  people's  bmcjuet 
Was  such  as  bre  accords  tu  a  wet  bUukel. 

XXXVII. 

He —  being  a  man  who  seldom  used  a  word 
Too  much,  and  wishing  gladly  to  surprise 

(In  general  he  surprised  men  with  the  sword) 
His  daughter—  had  not  sent  before  to  advise 

Of  his  arrival,  so  that  no  one  slirr'J  ; 
And  long  he  paused  to  re-assure  his  eyes. 

In  fact  much  more  aslonish'd  than  delighted, 

To  find  so  much  good  company  invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He  did  not  know  (alas  !  how  men  will  lie) 

That  a  report  (especially  the  Greeks) 
Avouch'd  his  death  (such  people  never  die), 

And  put  his  house  in  mourning  several  weeks, 
But  now  their  eves  and  also  lips  were  dry  ; 

The  bloom,  too,  had  return'd  to  Haidee's  cheeks. 
Her  tears,  loo,  being  leturn'd  into  their  fount, 
She  now  kept  bouse  upon  her  own  account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence  all  this  rice,  me  it,  dancins,  wine,  and  fiddling, 
Which  turo'd  the  isle  into  a  place  of  pleasure  ; 

The  servan's  all  were  getting  drunk  C'r  idling, 
A  life  which  made  Ihem  happy  beyond  measure. 

Her  father's  hospitality  seem'd  niiddlinj, 
Compared  wi  h  what  Hiidee  did  v/ilh  his  treasure  ; 

'T  was  wonderful  how  things  went  on  improving, 

While  she  had  not  one  liour  to  spare  from  loving. 

XL. 

Perhaps  you  think,  in  stumbling  on  this  feast, 

He  flew  into  a  passion,  and  in  fact 
Th-re  was  uo  mighty  reason  to  be  pleajed  ; 

Perhaps  you  prophesy  some  sudden  a'jt. 
The  whip,  the  rack,  or  dungeon  at  the  least, 

To  teach  his  people  to  be^more  exact, 
And  that,  proceeding  at  a  very  high  rale, 
He  show'd  the  royal  pe7ic/ia«fs  of  a  pirate. 

XLI. 

You're  wrong.— He  was  the  mildest  mannci'd  man 
That  ever  scuttled  ship  or  cut  a  Ihroat ; 

With  such  true  breeding  of  a  gentleman. 
You  never  could  divine  his  real  thought  ; 

No  courtier  could,  and  scarcely  womxn  can 
Gird  more  deceit  within  a  petticoat; 

Pity  he  loved  adventurous  life's  viriety, 

He  was  so  great  a  loss  to  good  society. 

XLII. 

Advancing  to  the  nearest  dinner  tray, 

Tapping  the  shoulder  of  the  highest  guest, 

With  a  peculiar  smile,  which,  by  the  way, 
Boded  no  good,  whatever  it  express'd, 

He  asked  the  meaning  of  this  holiday  ; 

The  vinous  Gieek  to  whom  he  had  address'd 

His  question,  much  too  merry  to  divine 

The  questioner,  fill'd  up  a  glass  of  wine, 

XLIII. 
And  without  turning  his  facetious  head, 

Over  his  shoulder,  with  a  Bacchant  air, 
Presented  the  o'erflowing  cup,  and  said, 

"  Talking  's  dry  work,  I  have  no  lime  to  spare." 
A  second  hiccup'd,  "  Our  old  mister 's  dead, 

You  'd  better  ask  our  mis' ress, who  's  his  heir." 
"Our  mistress!"  quoth   a   third:  "Our  mistress  ! - 

pooh  — 
You  mean  our  master  — not  the  old,  but  new. 

XLIV. 
These  rascalsi,  being  new  comers,  knew  not  whom 

They  thus  address'd  —  and  Linibro's  visage  fell  — 
And  o'er  his  eve  a  momentary  gloom 

Pass'd,  but  he  strove  quile  courteously  to  quell 


The  expression,  and  endeavouring  to  resume 

His  smile,  requested  one  of  them  to  tell 
The  name  and  quality  of  his  new  patron. 
Who  seem'd  lo  have  turn'd  Haidee  into  a  mation. 

XLV. 

"  I  know  not,"  quolh  the  fellow,  "  who  or  what 
He  is,  nor  whence  he  came  —  and  little  care  ; 

But  this  1  know,  that  this  roast  capon  's  fat. 

And  that  good  wine  ne'er  wash'd  down  better  fare  j 

And  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with  that. 
Direct  your  questions  to  my  neighbour  there; 

He  'II  ans«  er  ail  for  better  or  for  worse. 

For  none  likes  more  lo  hear  himself  converse." 

XLV  I, 
I  said  that  Lambro  was  a  man  of  patience, 

And  certainly  he  show'd  the  best  of  breeding. 
Which  scarce  even  France,  the  paragon  of  nations, 

E'er  sa«'  her  most  polite  of  sons  exceeding: 
He  bore  these  sneers  against  his  near  relations, 

His  own  anxiety,  his  heart,  too,  bleeding, 
The  insults,  loo,  of  every  servile  glu;loii. 
Who  all  the  time  was  eating  up  his  multon. 

XLVH. 

Now  in  a  person  used  lo  much  command  — 
To  bid  men  come,  and  g.i,  and  cume  again  — 

To  see  his  orders  done  too,  out  of  hand  — 

Whether  the  word  was  death,  or  but  the  chain  — 

It  may  seem  strange  lo  find  his  manners  bland ; 
Vet  such  things  are,  which  I  can  not  explain. 

Though  doubtless  he  who  can  command  himself 

Is  good  to  govern  —  almost  as  a  Guelf. 

XLVIII. 

Not  that  he  was  not  sometimes  rash  or  so. 
But  never  in  his  real  and  serious  mood  ; 

Then  calm,  concentrated,  and  sliU,  and  slow, 
He  liy  coil'd  like  Ihe  boa  in  the  wood; 

With  him  it  never  was  a  word  and  blow. 
His  angry  word  once  o'er,  he  shed  no  blood, 

But  ill  his  silence  there  was  much  to  rue. 

And  his  one  blow  left  little  work  for  txoo. 

XLIX. 

He  ask'd  no  further  question-;,  and  proceeded 
On  10  Ihe  house,  but  by  a  private  way. 

So  that  the  few  who  met  him  hardly  heeded, 
So  little  Ihey  expected  him  that  day  ; 

If  lo>.e  paternal  in  his  bosom  pleaded 
For  Haidee's  sake,  is  more  than  I  can  ssy. 

But  certainly  lo  one  deem'd  dead  returning. 

This  revel  seem"d  a  curious  mode  of  mourning. 


If  all  Ihe  dead  could  now  return  lo  life, 
(Which  God  forbid  '.)  or  some,  or  a  great  many. 

For  instance,  if  a  husband  or  his  wile 
(Niiplial  examples  are  as  good  as  any). 

No  doubt  whaie'er  might  be  their  former  strife. 
The  present  wealher  would  be  much  more  rainy - 

Tears  shed  into  the  giave  of  the  connection 

Would  share  most  probably  its  resuneclion. 

LI. 

He  enter'd  in  the  house  no  more  his  home, 
A  thins  to  humm  I'eelings  'he  most  trying^, 

And  harder  for  Ihe  heart  to  overcome. 

Perhaps,  than  even  the  mental  pangs  of  dying; 

To  find  our  hearthstone  turn'd  into  a  lomb. 

And  round  its  once  warm  precincts  palely  lymg 

The  ashes  of  our  hopes,  is  a  deep  grief, 

Beyond  a  single  gentleman's  belief. 

LII. 

He  enter'd  in  Ihe  house—  his  home  no  more. 
For  without  hearts  there  is  no  home  ;  —  and  felt 

The  solitude  of  passing  his  own  door 

Without  a  welcome  •  there  he  long  had  dwelt, 


508 


DON   JUAN 


[Canto  III. 


There  his  few  peaceful  dnys  Time  had  swept  o'er, 

There  his  warm  bosom  ;iiid  keen  eye  would  melt 
Over  the  innocence  of  that  sweet  child, 
His  only  shrine  of  feelings  undefiled. 

LIU. 

He  was  a  man  of  a  ^tranee  temperament, 
Of  mild  demeanour  though  of  savaee  mood, 

Moderate  in  all  his  habits,  and  content 
With  temperance  in  pleasure,  as  in  food, 

Quick  to  perceive,  and  sirone  to  bear,  and  meant 
For  something  better,  if  not  wholly  good  ; 

His  country's  ivrongs  and  his  despair  to  save  her 

Had  stung  him  from  a  slave  to  an  enslaver. 

LIV. 
The  love  of  power,  and  rapid  e;am  of  gold. 

The  hardness  by  Ions  habitude  produced, 
The  dangerous  life  in  which  he  had  grown  old, 

The  mercy  he  had  granted  oft  abused. 
The  sights  he  was  acustomed  to  behold, 

The  wild  sea?,  and  wild  men  with  whom  he  cruised, 
Had  cost  his  enemies  a  long  repentance. 
And  made  him  a  good  friend,  but  bad  acquaintance. 

LV. 

But  something  of  the  spirit  of  old  Greece 
Flash'd  o'er  his  soul  a  few  heroic  rays, 

Such  as  lit  onward  to  the  Golden  Fleece 
His  predecessors  in  the  Colchian  days; 

'T  is  true  he  had  no  ardent  love  for  peace  — 
Alas !  his  country  show'd  no  path  to  praise  : 

Hate  to  the  world  and  war  with  every  nation 

He  waged,  in  vengeance  of  her  degradation, 

LVI. 
Still  o'er  his  mind  the  influence  of  the  clime 

Shed  its  Ionian  elegance,  which  show'd 
Its  power  unconBCiou--ly  full  many  a  time, — 

A  taste  seen  in  the  choice  of  his  abode, 
A  love  of  music  and  of  scenes  sublime, 

A  pleasure  in  ihe  gentle  stream  that  flovv'd 
Fast  him  in  crystal,  and  a  joy  in  flowers, 
Bedew  d  his  spirit  in  his  caliiier  hours. 

LVII. 

But  whatsoe'er  he  had  of  love  reposed 
On  thai  beloved  daughter;  she  had  been 

The  only  thing  which  kept  his  heart  unclosed 
Amidst  the  savage  deeds  he  had  done  and  seen, 

A  lonely  pure  aiTection  unopposed  : 

There  wanted  but  (he  loss  of  this  to  wean 

His  feelings  from  all  milk  of  human  kindness, 

And  turn  him  like  the  Cyclops  mad  with  blindness. 

LVIII. 

The  cubless  tigress  in  her  jungle  raging 
Is  dreadful  to  the  shepherd  and  the  flock  ; 

The  ocean  when  i's  yesty  war  is  waging 
Is  awful  to  Ihe  vessel  near  Ihe  rock  ; 

But  violent  things  will  sooner  bear  as-uaging, 
Their  fury  being  speni  by  its  own  shock. 

Than  the  stern,  single,  deep,  and  wordless  ire 

Uf  a  strong  human  heart,  and  in  a  sire. 

LIX. 
It  is  a  hard  although  a  common  case 

To  tind  our  children  running  restive  — they 
In  whom  our  brightest  days  we  would  retrace, 

Our  little  selves  reformed  in  finer  clay. 
Just  as  old  age  is  creeping  on  apace. 

And  clouds  come  o'er  the  sunset  of  our  day, 
They  kindly  leave  us,  though  not  quite  alone, 
But  in  good  company  —  the  gout  or  slone. 

LX. 

Vet  a  fine  family  is  a  fine  thing 

(I'rovided  they  don't  come  in  after  dinner) ; 
"T  is  beautiful  to  see  a  matron  bring 

Her  children  up  (if  nursing  them  don't  fhio  her) ; 


Like  cherubs  round  an  altar-piece  they  cling 
To  the  fire-side  (a  sight  to  -ouch  a  sinner). 
A  lady  with  her  daughters  or  her  nieces 
Shine  like  a  guinea  and  seven-shilling  pieces. 

LXI. 

Old  Lambro  pass'd  unseen  a  private  gale. 
And  stood  within  his  hall  at  eventide; 

Meantime  the  lady  and  her  lover  sale 
At  wassail  in  their  beauty  and  their  pride  : 

An  ivory  inlaid  lable  spread  with  state 
Before  them,  and  fair  slaves  on  every  side  ;  i 

Gems,  gold,  and  silver,  form'd  the  service  mostly. 

Mother  of  pearl  and  coral  the  less  costly. 

LXIL 

The  dinner  made  about  a  hundred  dishes ; 

Lamb  and  pistachio  nuts  —  in  short,  all  meats. 
And  sali'ron  soups,  and  sweetbreads  ;  and  the  fishes 

Were  of  the  finest  that  e'er  flounced  in  nets, 
Drest  to  a  >yb\rite's  most  pampered  » ishes ; 

The  beverage  was  various  sherbe'-s 
Of  raisin,  orange,  and  ponjegranate  juice. 
Squeezed  through   the  rind,  which  makes  it  best  foi 

LXIIL 
These  were  ranged  round,  each  in  its  crysta  ewer, 

And  fruits,  aiid  date  bread  loaves  closed  the  repast. 
And  Mocha's  berry,  from  Arabia  pure. 

In  small  flne  China  cups,  came  in  at  last : 
Gold  cups  of  filigree  made  to  secure 

The  hand  from  burning  underneath  them  placed, 
Cloves,  cinnamon,  and  saflVon  too  were  boil'd 
Up  with  the  coftee,  which  (I  think)  they  spoil'd. 

LXIV. 
The  hangings  of  Ihe  room  were  tapestry,  made 

Of  velvet  panels,  eich  of  diticrent  hue. 
And  thick  with  damask  flowers  of  silk  inlaid  ; 

And  round  them  ran  a  yellow  border  too; 
The  upper  border,  richly  wrought,  display'd, 

Enibroider'd  delicately  o'er  with  blue. 
Soft  Persian  sentences,  in  lilac  letters. 
From  poets,  or  the  moralists  their  t>etter3. 

LXV. 
These  Oriental  writings  on  the  wall. 

Quite  common  in  those  countries,  are  a  kind 
Of  monitors  adajjtcd  to  recall. 

Like  skulls  at  Memphian  banquets,  to  the  mind 
The  words  which  shook  Belshazzar  in  his  hall. 

And  took  his  kingdom  from  him;  You  will  find. 
Though  sages  may  pour  out  their  wisdom's  treasure, 
There  is  no  sterner  moralist  than  Pleasure. 

LXVI. 

A  beauty  at  the  season's  close  grown  hectic, 
A  genius  who  lias  drunk  himself  to  death, 

A  rake  lurn'd  meth'xiistic,  or  Eclectic  — 
(For  that's  the  name  they  like  to  pray  beneath)  — 

But  most,  an  alderman  struck  apoplectic. 
Are  things  that  rclly  take  away  the  breath, — 

And  show  that  1  ite  hours,  wine,  and  love  are  able 

To  do  not  much  less  damage  than  the  table. 

LXVH. 

Haidee  and  Juan  carpe'ed  their  feet 
On  crimson  satin,  bordered  with  pale  blue; 

Their  sofa  occupied  three  parts  complete 

Of  Ihe  aparliiieni  —  and  ippear'd  quite  new  ; 

The  veUet  cushions  (for  a  throne  more  meet)  — 
Were  scarlet,  from  whose  glowing  centre  grew 

A  sun  emboss'd  in  gold,  whose  rays  of  tissue, 

Meridian-like,  were  seen  all  light  to  issue. 


1  "Almost  all  Don  Juan  is  real  life,  eiltier  my  own,  or 
from  people  I  knew.  By  tlie  way,  murti  of  the  deBcrlp- 
lion  of  Ihe  /urniture  in  canto  third,  is  taken  from  Tul- 
ll/'i  Tripoli  (pray  note  this),  and  the  rest  from  my  own 
observation.—  Lord  Bt/ron  (o  Mr.  Murray,  Aug.  U, 
1S21.-E. 


Canto  lil.J 


DON  JUAN. 


509 


LXVIII. 
Crystal  and  marble,  plate  and  porcelain, 

Had  done  their  work  of  splendour  ;  Indian  mats 
And  Persian  carpets,  which  the  heart  bled  to  stain, 

Over  the  floors  were  spread  ;  gazelles  and  cats, 
And  dwarfs  and  blacks,  and  such  like  things,  that  gain 

Their  bread  as  ministers  and  favourites  —  (that 's 
To  say,  by  degradation)  — mingled  there 
As  plentiful  as  in  a  court,  or  fair. 

LXIX. 
There  was  no  want  of  lofty  mirrors,  and 

The  tables,  most  of  ebony  inlaid 
With  moHier-of-pearl  or  ivory,  s'ood  at  hand. 

Or  were  of  tortoise-shell  or  nre  woods  made, 
Fretted  with  gold  or  silver :  —  by  command, 

The  greater  part  of  these  were  ready  spread 
With  viands  and  sherbets  in  ice  — and  wine  — 
Kept  for  all  comers,  at  all  hours  to  dine. 

LXX. 

Of  all  the  dresses  I  select  Haidee's  : 

She  wore  two  jelicks  —  one  was  of  pale  yellow  ; 
Of  azure,  pink,  and  white  was  her  chemise  — 

'Neath  which  her  breast  heaved  like  a  liltle  billow  ; 
With  buttons  forni'd  of  pearls  as  large  as  peas. 

All  gold  and  crimson  shone  her  jelick's  fellow. 
And  the  striped  while  gauze  baracan  that  bound  her. 
Like  lieecy  clouds  about  the  moon,  flow'd  round  her. 

LXXI. 

One  large  gold  bracelet  clasp'd  each  lovely  arm, 
Lockless  —  so  pliable  from  the  pure  gold 

That  the  hand  strelch'd  and  shut  it  without  harm, 
The  limb  which  it  adorn'd  its  only  mould  ; 

So  beautiful  —  its  very  shape  would  chnrm. 
And  clinging  as  if  loath  to  lose  its  hold. 

The  purest  ore  enclosed  the  xvhitest  skin 

That'e'er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in.  i 


LXXII. 

Around,  as  princess  of  her  father's  land, 
A  like  gold  bir  above  her  instep  roli'd  ' 

Announced  her  rank ;  twelve  rings  were  oi 

Her  hair  was  starr'd  » ith  gems  ;  her  veil's  fine  fold 

Below  her  breast  was  faslen'd  with  a  band 
Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scar 

Her  orange  silk  full  Turkish  trousers  furl'd 

About  (he  prettiest  ankle  in  the  world. 


And  pure  as  Psyche  ere  she  grew  a  wife  — 

Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  ties; 
Her  overpowering  presence  made  you  feel 
It  would  uot  be  idolatry  to  kneel. 

LXXV. 

Her  eyelashes,  though  dark  as  night,  were  tinged 
(It  is  ihe  country's  custom  ■•).  but  in  vain; 

For  those  large  black  eyes  were  so  blackly  fringed, 
The  glos*y  rebels  niock'd  the  jetty  stain, 

And  in  their  native  beaniy  stood  avenged  : 

Her  nails  were  touch'd  with  henna  ;  but  again 

The  power  of  art  was  lurn'd  to  nothing,  for 

They  could  not  look  more  rosy  than  before. 

LXXVI, 

The  henna  should  be  deeply  dyed  to  make 
The  skin  relieved  appear  more  fairly  fair  , 

She  had  no  need  of  this,  day  ne'er  will  break 

On  mountain  tops  more  heavenly  white  than  her; 

The  eye  might  doubt  if  it  were  well  awake. 
She  was  so  like  a  vision  ;  I  might  err. 

But  Shakspeare  also  says,  't  is  very  silly 

"To  gild  refined  gold,  or  paint  the  lily." 

LXXVII. 

Juan  had  on  a  shawl  of  black  and  gold. 
But  a  while  baracan,  and  so  transparent 

The  sparkling  gems  beueath  vou  might  behold. 
Like  small  stars  through  the  milky  way  apparent ; 

His  turban,  furl'd  in  many  a  graceful  fold. 
An  emerald  aigrette  with  Haidee's  hair  in  't 

Surmounted,  as  its  clasp,  a  growing  crescent. 

Whose  rays  shone  ever  trembling,  but  incessant. 


LXXVI  n. 

And  now  they  n  ere  diverted  by  their  suite. 

Dwarfs,  dancing  girls,  black  eunuchs,  and  a  poet. 

Which  made  their  new  establishment  complete  ; 
The  last  was  of  great  fame,  and  liked  to  show  if; 

His  verses  rarely  wanted  their  due  feet  — 

And  for  his  theme—  he  seldom  sung  below  it, 

He  being  paid  to  satirise  or  flatter, 
her  hand  •    ^^  ""^  psalm  says,  "  inditing  a  good  matter." 


LXXIIL 

Her  hair's  long  auburn  waves  down  to  her  heel 
Flow'd  like"an  Alpine  torrent  which  the  sun 

Dyes  wiih  his  morning  light,— and  would  conceal 
Her  person  3  if  allow'd  at  large  lo  run, 

And  still  they  seem  resentfully  to  feel 

The  silken  fillet's  curb,  and'soughl  to  shun 

Their  bonds  whene'er  some  Zephyr  caught  began 

To  offer  his  young  pinion  as  her  fan. 

LXXIV. 

Round  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life. 
The  very  air  seeni'd  lighter  from  her  eyes. 

They  were  so  soft  and  beautiful,  and  rife 
With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies, 


LXXIX. 

be  told  ;  '  He  praised  the  present,  and  abused  the  past, 
Reversing  the  good  custom  of  old  days, 
An  Eastern  anti-jacobin  at  last 

He  turn'd,  preferring  pudding  to  no  praise  — 
For  some  few  years  his  lot  had  been  o'ercast 

By  his  seeming  independent  in  his  hys. 
But  now  he  sung  the  Sultan  and  the  Pacha 
With   truth   like  Southey,  and  with  verse  like  C.-J- 
shaw. 


LXXX. 

He  was  a  man  who  had  seen  many  changes. 
And  always  changed  as  'rue  as  any  needle  ; 

His  polar  star  being  one  which  rather  ranges. 
And  not  the  fix'd  —  he  knew  the  way  to  wheedle . 

So  vile  he  'scaped  the  doom  which  oft  avenges  ; 
And  being  fluent  (save  indeed  when  fee'd  ill), 

He  lied  with  such  a  fervour  of  intention  — 

There  was  no  doubt  he  earn'd  his  laureate  pension. 


worn  in  ll>e  man 


Mooiieh.  and  the  bracelets  and  bar  are    But  he  had  genius,- 


:  described.     The  re.ider  will  pi 


LXXXI. 

vhen  a  turncoat  has  it. 


The  ''Vales  irritabilis"  takes  care 


5:X7wt;'  rhe's^rbT/n"  fo"ut  ""  "'  '^"'  '"    That  without  notice  few  full  n.oons  shall  pass  it 


2  The  bar  of  gold  above  the  instep  is  a  mark  of  sove- 
reign raiili  in  Ihe  women  i>f  Ihe  families  of  the  deys,  and 
is  wiirii  as  such  by  their  female  relatives. 

3  This  is  no  exaggeration :  there  were  four  women 
■whom  I  rememtwr  to  have  seen,  who  possessed  their  hair 

ia  this  profusion;  of  these,  three  were  English,  the  other ■ 

waa  a  Levantine.  Their  hair  was  of  that  lenpth  ond  4  "  It  was,  and  still  is,  the  custom  to  tiupe  the  eyes  of 
quantity,  that,  when  let  down,  it  almost  entirely  shaded  the  women  with  an  impalpable  powder,  prepared  chiefly 
the    person,  so   as   nearly  to  render  dress    a  Huperfluity.     from   crude   antimony.     This  pigment,  when    applied  to 


Even  good  men  like  lo  make  Ihe  public  stare 
But  to  my  subject  —  let  me  see—  what  was  it?  — 

Oh  !  —  Ihe  third  canto—  and  the  pretty  pair  — 
Their  loves,  and  feasts,  and  house,  and  dress,  and  mode 
Of  living  in  their  insular  abode. 


43* 


510 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  III. 


LXXXII. 
Their  pcet,  a  sad  tiimmer,  but  no  less 

lu  company  a  very  pleasant  fellow, 
Had  been  the  favourite  of  full  many  a  mess 

Of  men,  ai  d  made  Ihem  speeches  when  half  mel- 
low ; 
And  though  his  meaning  they  could  rarely  guess, 

Yet  still  they  deign'd  to  hiccup  or  to  bellow 
The  glorious  rueed  of  popular  applause, 
Of  which  the  first  ne'er  knows  the  second  cause. 

LXXXIII. 

But  now  being  lifted  into  high  society, 
And  having  picfe'd  up  several  odds  and  ends 

Of  free  thoughts  in  his  travels  for  variety, 

He  deem'd,  being  in  a  lone  isle,  amonj  friends, 

Ihat  without  any  dinger  of  a  riot,  he 
Might  for  long  lying  make  himself  amends; 

And  singing  as  he  sung  in  his  warm  youth, 

Agree  to  a  short  armistice  with  truth. 

LXXXIV. 

Hehad  travell'd  'mongstthe  Arabs,  Turks,  and  Franks, 
And  knew  the  self-loves  of  the  difi'erent  nations; 

And  having  lived  wiih  people  of  all  ranks, 
Had  something  ready  upon  most  occasions  — 

Which  got  him  a  few  presents  and  some  thanks. 
He  varied  wiih  some  skill  his  adulations; 

To  "  do  at  Rome  as  Romans  do,"  a  piece 

Of  conduct  was  which  he  observed  in  Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus,  usually,  when  he  was  ask'd  to  sing. 

He  gave  ihe  different  nations  something  national  ; 

T  was  all  Ihe  same  to  him  —  "  God  save  the  king," 
Or  "  Ca  tra,"  according  to  the  fashion  all : 

His  muse  made  increment  of  any  thing, 

From  the  high  lyric  down  to  the  low  rational : 

If  Pindar  sang  horse-races,  what  should  hinder 

Himself  fiom  being  as  pliable  as  Pindar  ? 

LXXXVI. 

In  France,  for  instance,  he  would  write  a  chanson ; 

In  England  a  six  canto  quarto  tale  ; 
Id  Spsin  he  "d  make  a  bilhd  or  romance  on 

The  last  war  —  much  the  same  in  Portugal ; 
In  Germany,  the  Pegasus  he  'd  prance  on 

Would  be  old  Goethe's  —  (see  what  says  De  Stael) ; 
In  Italy  he  'd  ape  Ihe  "  Trecenlisti ;  "  > 
In  Greece,  he  'd  sing  some  sort  of  hymn  like  this  f  ye  : 

I. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace,— 

Where  Uelos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung  ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  Ihem  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 


The  Scianis  and  the  Teian  muse,3 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute. 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse ; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mule 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blest."  « 

3. 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  Ihe  sea ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free  ; 

For  stinding  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 


A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis  ; 

And  shifis,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 
And  men  in  nations ;  —  all  were  his! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 

And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they  ?  » 


And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tunele-s  now  — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine. 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 


T  is  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame. 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetler'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

7. 
Must  M>e  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 

Mubt  we  but  blush  ?  —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  hut  three. 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae  ! 


What,  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  !  no  ;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  toireni's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise. —  we  come,  we  come  !' 
'T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 


In  vain—  in  vain  :  strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  wiih  Samian  wine! 
Leave  batiles  to  the  Turkish  hordes. 

And  shed  ihe  blood  of  Scio's  vine! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignobl.e  call  — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

10. 
You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet ; 

Where  is  'he  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 

The  nobler  xnd  the  manlier  one  ? 
You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 
Think  ye  be  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 

II. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  : 

He  served  —  but  served  Polycrafes  — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  counlrymeo. 

12. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersone«e 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend  ; 
Thai  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh  !  that  tlie  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 


'  Deep  were  the  groans  of  Xerxes,  when  be  MW 
This  liavoc;  fur  his  »ei.I.  a  lorty  mound 
Commanding  the  wide  8ea,  o'erlook'd  the  bcwta. 
Wiih  rueful  cries  he  tenl  his  royal  rubes. 
And  through  his  troops  emhattled  on  the  ahon 
Gave  signal  of  retreat ;  then  slnrled  wild 
And  fled  disorder'd."  — AESCHYLUS. 


Canto  III  .J 


DON  JUAN. 


511 


IS. 

Fill  hish  the  bowl  with  Is^mian  nin« 
Oil  Suli's  rock,  and  Parp.'e  sliore, 

Exists  the  remnant  of  n  lice 

Such  as  the  Doric  niothirs  bore  ; 

And  there,  perhaps,  some  ftsed  is  sown, 

The  Ueracleidau  blood  might  own. 

14. 
Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 

They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells: 
In  native  swords,  and  nativeVoiiks, 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells: 
But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 
Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

15. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves. 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 


16. 
Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep. 

Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ; 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die:  i 
A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine  — 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samiao  wine  I 

LXXXVII. 
Thus  snng,  or  would,  or  could,  or  should  have  sung, 

The  modern  Greek,  in  tolerable  verse  : 
If  not  like  Orpheus  quite,  when  Greece  was  young, 

Yet  in  these  times  he  might  have  done  much  worse  : 
His  strain  display'd  some  feeling  —  right  or  wrong  ; 

And  feeling,  in  a  poet,  is  the  source 
Of  others'  feeling  ;  but  they  are  such  liars, 
And  take  all  colours  —  like  the  hands  of  dyers. 

Lxxxviir. 

But  words  are  things,  and  a  small  drop  of  ink, 
Falling  like  dew,  upon  a  thought,  produces 

That  n  hich  makes  thousands,  perhnps  millions,  think  ; 
'T  is  strange,  the  shortest  letter  which  man  uses 

Instead  of  speech,  may  form  a  lasting  link 
Of  ages ;  to  what  straits  old  Time  reduces 

Frail  man,  when  paper  —  even  a  rag  like  this, 

Survives  himself,  bis  tomb,  and  all  that 's  his. 

LXXXIX. 

And  when  his  bones  are  dust,  his  grave  a  blank, 
His  station,  generation,  even  his  nation, 

Become  a  thing,  or  nothing,  save  to  rank 
In  chronological  commemoration. 

Some  dull  MS.  oblivion  long  has  sank. 

Or  graven  stone  found  in  a  barrack's  station 

In  digging  the  foundation  of  a  closet. 

May  turnbis  name  up,  as  a  rare  deposit. 

XC. 

And  glory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile  ; 

'T  is  something,  nothing,  woras.  illusion,  wind  — 
D«pending  more  upon  the  historian's  style 

1  han  on  the  name  a  person  leaves  behind  : 
Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  whist  owes  to  Hoyle  : 

The  present  century  was  growing  blind 
To  the  great  Marlborouzh's "skill  in  giving  knocks, 
Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 


XCI. 

Milton  's  the  prince  of  poets  —  so  we  say  ; 

A  little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine  : 
An  independent  being  in  his  day  — 

Learn'd,  pious,  temperate  in  love  and  wine; 
But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way, 

We  're  told  this  great  high  priest  of  all  the  Nine 
Was  whipt  at  college  — a  harsh  sire  — odd  spouse. 
For  the  tirst  Mrs.  Milton  left  bis  house.^ 

XCII. 

All  these  are,  certts,  entertaining  facts. 

Like  Shakspeare's  stealing  deer,  Lord  B  icon's  briba, 
Lake  Titus'  youth,  and  Caesar's  earliest  acts  ; 

Like  Burns  (whom  Doctor  Currie  well  describes); 
Like  Cromwell's  pranks  ;  —  bul  although  truth  exaeli 

These  amiable  descriptions  from  the  scribes. 
As  most  essential  to  their  hero's  story. 
They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 

XCIIL 

All  are  not  moralists,  like  Southey,  when 
He  prated  to  the  world  of  "  Pantisocrasy  ;" 

Or  Wordsworth  unexcised,  unhired,  who  then 
Season'd  his  pedlar  poems  with  democracy  j 

Or  Coleridge.3  long  before  his  tlighly  pen 
Let  to  the  Morning  Post  its  aristocracy  ; 

When  he  and  Southey,  following  the  same  path, 

Espoused  two  partners  (milliners  of  Bath). 


XCIV. 
Such  names  at  present  cut  a  convict  figure, 
j      The  very  Botany  Bay  in  moral  geography  j 
j  Their  loyal  treason,  renegado  rigour. 

Are  good  manure  for  their  Hiore  bare  biography  , 
I  Wordsworth's  last  quarto,  by  the  way,  is  bigger 
Than  any  since  the  birthday  of  typography  ; 
A  drowsy  frowzy  poem,  call'ij  the  "  Excursion," 
Writ  in  a  manner  which  is  my  aversion. 

XCV. 
He  there  builds  up  a  formidable  dyke 

Between  his  own  and  others'  intellect; 
But  Wordsworth's  poem,  and  his  followers,  like 

Joanna  Southcote's  Shiloh,'*  and  her  sect. 
Are  things  which  in  this  century  don't  strike 

The  public  mind,— so  few  are  the  elect; 
And  the  new  births  of  both  their  stale  virginities 
Have  proved  but  dropsies,  taken  for  diviuitieii. 


XCVI. 
But  let  me  to  my  story  :  I  must  own. 

If  I  have  any  fault,  it  is  digression  — 
Leaving  my  people  to  proceed  alone. 

While  I  soliloquize  beyond  expression  ; 
But  these  are  my  addresses  from  the  throne, 

Which  put  off  business  to  the  ensuing  session  : 
Forgetting  each  omission  is  a  loss  to 
The  world,  not  quite  so  great  as  Ariosto. 

XCVII. 
I  know  that  what  our  neighbours  call  "  loneveurt," 

(We  've  not  so  eood  a  word,  but  have  the  thivg 
In  that  comple'e  perfection  which  ensures 

Au  epic  from  Bob  Southey  every  spring—) 


.    .    .    "Tcvoiiiav 
Iv'  1)\.acv  lirc(ni  itovrov 
7rpo6A7/ft'  i\tK\v<rTov,  6,Kpav 
{>no  nKoKa  Zovviov.    k.    t.     X." 

SOPH.  Ajttx,  V.  1217. 


3  See  Johnson's  Life  of  Milton. 

3  See  Cr.leritlge'8  Biograpliia  Literaria,  1817.— E. 

4  The  followers  of  this  fanatic  are  said  t'  have 
ed,  at  one  time,  to  a  hundred  thousand.  She  anncunred 
herself  03  the  mither  of  a  eecnod  Shiltj,  wlioee  pperjy 
advent  she  confidently  predicted.  A  cradle  of  expcnsiT* 
materials  wrs  prepared  for  the  expected  prodigy.  A  Dr. 
Reece  and  another  medical  man  attested  her  drnpsyj  ud 
many  were  her  dupes  down  to  the  moment  of  her  deatb, 
in  1814.— E. 


512 


DON   JUAN, 


[Canto  1 1 1.)  I 


Form  not  the  true  temptation  wbicli  allures 

The  render  ;  but 't  would  not  be  hard  lo  bring 
Some  fine  examples  of  the  epopee, 
To  prove  its  grand  iujredient  is  ennuiA 

XCVllI. 
We  learn  from  Horace,  "Homer  sometimes  sleeps;  " 

We    feel    without    bini,    Wordsworth    sometimes 
wakes, — 
To  show  wilh  what  complacency  he  creeps. 

With  his  dear  "  fVagmiers,"  around  his  lakes.^ 
He  wishes  for  "  a  boat  "  to  sail  the  deeps  — 

Of  ocean  ? —  No,  of  air  ;  and  Iheu  he  makes 
Another  outcry  for  "  a  little  boat," 
And  drivels  seas  lo  set  it  well  afloat. 3 

XCIX. 
If  he  must  fain  sweep  o'er  the  ethereal  plain. 

And  Pegasus  runs  restive  in  his  "  Wagon," 
Could  he  not  beg  the  loan  of  Charles's  Wain  ? 

Or  pray  Medea  for  a  single  dragon  ? 
Or  if  too  clissic  for  his  vulgir  br.iin, 

He  fear'd  his  neck  to  venture  such  a  nag  on, 
And  he  must  needs  mount  ne,irer  lo  Ihe  niooii. 
Could  not  the  blockhead  ask  for  a  balloon  ? 

C. 
"  Pedlars,"  and   "  Boats,"  and  "  Wagons  !  "  Oh  !  ye 

Of  Pope  and  Dryden,  are  we  come  to  this  ?  [shades 
That  trash  of  such  sort  not  ainne  e.ades 

Contempt,  but  from  the  bathos'  vast  abyss 
Floats  scumlike  uppermost,  and  these  Jack  Cades 

Of  sen«e  and  song  above  your  graves  nny  hi^s  — 
The  "  lillle  boatman  "  and  his  "  Peier  Bell  " 
Can  sneer  at  him  who  drew  "  Achiiophel  ! "  * 

CI. 
T'our  tale. —  The  feast  was  over,  Ihe  slaves  gone, 

The  duarfs  and  dancing  girls  had  all  retired  ; 
The  Arab  lore  and  poefs  song  were  done, 

And  every  sound  of  revelry  expired  ; 
The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone. 

The  rosy  flood  of  twilight's  sky  admired  ;  — 
Ave  Maria  1  o'er  the  earth  and  sea, 
That  heavenliest  hour  of  Heaven  is  worthiest  thee  ! 

cir. 

Ave  Maria !  blessed  be  the  hour ! 

The  time,  Ihe  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft. 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  Ihe  distant  tower. 

Or  the  faint  dying  d;iy-hymn  stole  aloft. 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air. 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seem'd  slirr'd  with  prayer. 

CHI. 

Ave  Maria  !  'I  is  the  hour  of  prayer  ! 

Ave  Maria  !  't  is  the  hour  of  love  ! 
Ave  M  trial  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  Ihy  Son's  above  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  oh  ihal  face  so  fair  ! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Almighty  dove  — 
Wh.at  though  't  is  but  a  pictured  image  ?  —  strike  — 
Thai  painting  is  no  idol, —  't  is  too  like. 


1  Here  follows  in  the  original  MS.— 
"Time  l\as  approved  Ennui  to  be  tlie  best 

or  fnendd.  and  opiaie  draughts:  your  love  and  wine 
Wtiicb  shake  so  much  tbe  human  brain  and  brejst. 

Most  end  in  languor ;  men  must  sleep  like  swine  : 
The  happy  luver  and  Ihe  welcome  guest 

Both  sink  at  last  into  a  swoon  divine; 
Full  of  deep  raptures  and  of  bumpers,  they 
Are  somewhat  sick  and  sorry  the  next  day."  — E. 

2  Wordsworth's  "  Benjamin   the  Wagoner,"    appeared 
in  1819.—  E. 

S  "There's  somethins  in  a  flying  horse. 

There's  something  in  a  huge  balloon: 
But  through  the  clouds  I  'II  never  float 
Until  I  have  a  lillle  boat,"  jcc— 

WORDSWORTH'S  Peter  Bell. 
4  "The  verses  of  Dryden,  once    highly  celebrated,  are 
fjriotten."  — Mr.  W.  WORDSWORTH'S  Preface. 


CIV. 

Some  kinder  casuists  are  pleased  lo  siy, 
In  nameless  print  —  that  I  have  no  devotion  ; 

But  set  those  persons  down  with  me  to  prav, 
And  you  shall  see  who  has  the  properest' notioD 

Of  getting  into  heaven  the  shortest  way  ; 
My  altars  are  the  mountains  and  the  ocean, 

Earth,   air,   stars,— all   that  spriags   from   Ihe  great 
Whole, 

Who  hath  produced,  and  will  receive  the  soul. 

CV. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight  !  —  in  the  solitude 

Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 
Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 

R(X)ted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flow'd  o'er, 
To  where  the  hst  Caesarean  fortress  stood, 

Evergreen  forest  !  which  Boccaccio's  lore 
And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me. 
How  have  I  loved  Ihe  twilight  hour  and  thee ! 

CVT. 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine. 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 

Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mine, 
And  vesper  bell's  Ihal  rose  ihe  boughs  along  ; 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line. 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  throng 

Which  learn'd  from  this  example  not  lo  fly 

From  a  true  lover, —  shadow'd  my  mind's  eye. 

CVII. 

Oh,  Hesperus !  thou  bringest  all  good  things  *  — 
Home  to  Ihe  weary,  to' the  hungry  cheer. 

To  the  young  bird  Ihe  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabour'd  steer; 

Whale'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  hoiisehold  gods  protect  of  dear. 

Are  gather'd  round  us  by  Ihy  look  of  rest; 

Thou  bring'sl  the  child,  too,  lo  Ihe  mother's  breast. 

cvin. 

Soft  hour !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  tbe  heart 
Of  those  who  s*il  the  seas,  on  the  first  djy 

When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  lorn  apart ; 
Or  fills  wilh  love  Ihe  pilgrim  on  his  way 

As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start. 
Seeming  to  weep  Ihe  dying  day's  decay  ; 

Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns.' 

Ah  !  surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns  !  « 

CIX. 

When  Nero  perish'd  by  Ihe  justest  doom 
Which  ever  Ihe  destroyer  yet  deslroy'd, 

Amidst  the  roar  of  libera'ledRonie, 

Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  overjoy'd. 

Some  hands  unseen  sirew'd  flowers  upou  his  tomb: ' 
Perhaps  Ihe  weakness  of  a  heart  not  void 

Of  feeling  for  some  kindness  done,  when  power 

Had  left  the  wreicb  an  uncorrupled  hour. 

ex. 

But  I  'm  digressing  ;  what  on  earth  has  Nero, 

Or  any  such  like  sovereign  buffoons, 
To  do  with  Ihe  transactions  of  my  hero. 

More  than  such  madmen's  fellow-man— the  moon's? 


5  "  'EoTTEpE  Travra  <l>epug, 
$£p£iS  oi'vov  —  ^£p£is  tuya, 
$£p£ij  itarifii  natia.^'  —  Fragment  of  Sappho. 
0  "  Era  gia  1'  ora  cbe  vt'lge  '1  disio, 

A'  uavieanti.e  'nienerisce  il  cuore; 
Lo  di  ch'  ban  detio  a'  dolci  amici  a  dio; 

E  che  lo  nuovo  peregrin'  d'  amore 
Fuoge,  se  ode  Squilla  di  lonlano, 
Che  paia  'I  giorno  pianger  i  he  si  mnore."  — 

DANTE'S  Purgatorji,  cuato  viil. 
This  last  line  is  the  first  of  Uray'a  Elegy,  taken  by  him 
vithout  acknowledgment. 
7  See  Suetonius  for  this  fact. 


Canto  IV.] 


DON  JUAN. 


513  I 
I 


Sure  my  invention  must  be  down  at  zero, 

And  I  grown  one  of  many  "  wooden  spoons" 
Of  verse  (the  name  with  which  we  Canlabs  please 
To  dub  tlie  last  of  honours  in  degree^). 

CXI. 
I  feel  this  tediousness  will  never  do  — 

'T  is  being  too  epic,  and  1  muit  cut  down 
(In  copvins)  this  Ion?  canto  into  two  ; 

They' '11  never  tind  it  out,  unless  I  own 
The  fact,  excepting  snnie  experienced  few  ; 

And  then  as  an  iniproveajent  M  will  be  shown : 
I  'II  prove  that  such  the  opinion  of  the  critic  is 
From  Aristotle  jJOiJim.— See  noiijriKijs. 


CANTO  THE   FOURTH 
I. 

Nolhio?  so  difficult  as  a  beginning 

In  poesv,  unless  perhaps  the  end  ; 
For  oftentimes  when  Pegasus  seems  winning 

The  race,  he  sprains  a  wing,  and  down  we  tend, 
Like  Lucifer  when  hurl'd  from  heaven  for  sinning  ; 

Our  sin  the  same,  and  hard  as  his  tn  mend. 
Being  pride,  which  leads  the  mind  to  soar  too  far, 
Till  our  own  weakness  shows  us  what  we  are. 

IL 

But  Time,  which  brings  all  beings  to  their  level, 
And  sharp  Adversity,  will  teach  at  last 

Man,—  and,  as  we  would  hope,—  perhaps  the  devil, 
Thit  neither  of  their  intellects  are  vast: 

While  youth's  hot  wishes  in  our  red  veins  revel, 
We  know  not  this  —  the  blood  flows  on  too  fast: 

But  as  the  torrent  widens  towards  the  ocean, 

We  ponder  deeply  on  each  past  emotion. 

IIL 
As  bov,  I  thought  myself  a  clever  fellow, 

And  wish'd  that  others  held  the  same  opinion  ; 
They  took  it  up  when  my  days  grew  more  mellow, 

And  other  minds  acknowledged  my  dominion  : 
Now  mv  sere  fancy  "  falls  into  the  yellow 

Leaf,"  and  Imagination  droops  her  pinion, 
And  the  sad  truth  which  hovers  o'er  njy  desk 
Turns  what  was  once  romantic  to  burlesque. 

IV. 

And  if  I  laugh  at  anv  mortal  thing, 

'T  is  that  1  may  not  weep  ;  and  if  I  weep, 

'T  is  that  our  nature  cmnot  always  bring 
Itself  to  apathy,  for  we  must  s''eep 

Our  hearts  first  in  the  depths  of  Lethe's  spring. 
Ere  what  we  least  wish  to  behold  will  sleep  • 

Thetis  baptized  her  mortal  son  in  Styx  ;  i 

A  mortal  mother  would  on  Lethe  fix. 


Some  have  accused  me  of  a  strange  design 
Against  the  creed  and  morals  of  the  land, 

And'trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line: 
I  don't  pretend  that  I  quite  understand 

My  own  meaning  when  I  would  be  veiy  fine ; 
But  the  fact  is  that  1  have  nothing  planu'd, 

Unless  it  were  to  be  a  moment  merry, 

A  novel  word  iu  my  vocabulary. 

VL 

To  the  kind  reader  nf  our  sober  clime 
This  way  of  writing  will  appear  exotic; 

Pulci  was  sire  of  the  half-serious  rhyme, 

Who  sang  when  chivalry  was  more  Quixotic, 

And  revell'd  in  the  fancies  of  the  time. 
True  knights,  chaste   dames,   huge    giants,   kings 
despotic  ; 

But  all  these,  save  the  las',  being  obsole'e, 

I  chose  a  modern  subject  as  more  meet. 


VH. 

How  I  have  treated  it,  I  do  not  know  ; 

Perha|)s  no  better  than  they  have  treated  me, 
Who  have  imputed  such  designs  as  show 

Not  what  they  siw,  but  what  they  wish'd  to  see  • 
But  if  it  gives  them  pleasure,  be  it  so; 

This  is  a  liberal  age,  and  thoughts  are  free: 
Meantime  Apollo  plucks  me  by  the  ear. 
And  tells  me  to  resume  my  story  here. 

vin. 

Young  Juan  and  his  lady-love  were  left 
To  their  own  hearts'  most  sweet  society  ; 

Even  Time  the  pitiless  in  sorrow  cleft 

With  his  rude  scythe  such  gentle  bosoms  ;  he 
I  Sigh'd  to  behold  them  of  their  hours  bereft, 

Though  foe  to  love  ;  and  yet  they  couU  not  be 

Meant  to  grow  old,  but  die  in  happy  spring. 

Before  one  charm  or  hope  had  taken  wing. 

IX. 

Their  faces  were  not  made  for  wrinkles,  their 
Pure  blood  to  stagnate,  their  great  hearts  to  fail ; 

The  blank  grey  wis  not  made  to  blast  their  hair, 
But  like  the  climes  that  know  nor  snow  nor  hail 

They  were  all  summer  :  lightning  might  assail 
Aud  shiver  them  to  ashes,  but  to  trail 

A  long  and  snake-like  life  of  dull  decay 

Was  not  for  them  —  they  had  too  little  clay. 

X. 

They  were  alone  once  more  ;  for  them  to  be 

Thus  was  another  Eden  ;  they  were  never 
Weary,  unless  when  separite  :  the.tree 

Cut  from  its  fore-t  root  of  years  —  the  river 
Damm'd  from  its  fountain  —  the  child  from  the  knee 

And  breast  miternal  wean'd  at  once  for  ever,— 
Would  wither  less  than  these  two  torn  apart ; 
Alas !  there  is  no  instinct  like  the  heart  — 

XL 
The  heart  —  which  may  be  broken  :  happy  they  ! 

Thrice  fortunate  !  who  of  that  fragile  mould, 
The  precious  porcelain  of  human  clay, 

Break  with  the  first  fall  :  they  can  ne'er  behold 
The  long  year  liiik'd  with  heavy  day  on  day. 

And  all  which  must  be  borne,  and  never  told  ; 
While  life's  strange  principle  will  often  lie 
Deepest  in  those  who  long  the  most  to  die. 

XIL 
"  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young,"  was  said  of  yore,3 

And  mmy  deaths  do  they  escape  by  this : 
The  death  of  friends,  and  that  which  slays  even  more— 

The  death  of  friendship,  love,  youth,  all  that  is, 
Except  mere  breath  ;  and  since  the  silent  shore 

Awaits  at  last  even  those  who  longest  miss 
The  old  archer's  shaf  s,  perhaps  the  early  grave 
Which  men  weep  over  may  be  meant  to  save. 

XIIL 

Haidee  and  Juan  thought  not  of  the  dead. 

'1  he  heavens,  and  e.irth,  and  air,  seem'd  made  for 
them : 
They  found  no  fault  v^'ith  Time,  save  that  he  fled  ; 

They  saw  not  in  themselves  aught  to  condemn : 
Each  was  the  other's  mirror,  and  but  read 

Joy  sparkling  in  their  dark  eyes  like  a  gem. 
And  knew  such  brightness  was  but  the  reflection 
Of  their  exchanging  glances  of  atfcction. 

XIV. 
The  gentle  pressure,  and  the  thrilling  touch. 

The  least  glance  better  unders'ood  than  words, 
Which  still  said  all,  and  ne'er  could  say  too  much: 

A  language,  too,  but  like  to  that  of  birds. 
Known  Lut'to  them,  at  least  appearing  such 

As  but  to  lovers  a  true  sense  afl"ords  ; 
Sweet  playful  phrases,  which  would  seem  absurd 
To  thOM 


,  Achilles  Ig  said  tn  have  been  dipped  by  tiis  mother  in 
I  river  Styx,  to  render  him  invulnerable.  —  E. 


tho  have  cc.ised  to  hear  such,  or  ne'er  heard ; 


3  See  Herodotufc 


33 


514 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  IV. 


XV. 

AW  the«e  were  theirs,  for  they  were  children  still, 
Aim  cliildren  still  they  should  have  ever  been ; 

Tbey  were  not  made  in  the  real  world  to  till 
A  bu-y  rharacler  in  the  dull  scene, 

But  like  two  beings  born  from  out  a  rill, 
A  Drmph  and  her  beloved,  all  unseen 

To  pass  their  lives  in  fnuntiins  and  on  flowers, 

And  never  know  (he  weight  of  huaiau  hours. 

XVI. 

Moons  changing  had  rolPd  on,  and  changeless  found 
Those  their  blight  rise  had  lighted  to  such  joys 

As  rarely  they  beheld  throughout  their  round  ; 
And  these  were  not  of  the  vain  kind  which  cloys. 

For  theirs  were  buoyant  spirits,  never  bound 
By  the  mere  senses  ;  and  thai  which  destroys 

Most  love,  po-session,  unto  them  appeared 

A  thing  which  each  endearment  more  endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh  beautiful !  and  rare  as  beautiful ! 

But  theiis  was  love  in  which  the  mind  delights 
To  lose  itself,  when  the  old  world  grows  dull. 

And  we  are  sick  of  its  hack  sounds  and  sights. 
Intrigues,  adventures  of  the  common  school. 

Its  petty  passions,  marriages,  and  flights, 
Where  Hymen's  torch  but  lirands  one  strumpet  more. 
Whose  husband  only  knows  her  not  a  wh-re. 

XVIII. 
Hard  words;  harsh  tru'h  ;  a  truth  which  many  know. 

Enough.—  The  faithful  and  the  fairy  pair, 
Who  never  found  a  single  hour  loo  slo'w. 

What  was  it  made  them  thus  exempt  from  care  ? 
Toung  innate  feelings  all  have  felt  below. 

Which  perish  in  the  rest,  but  in  them  were 
Inherent ;  what  we  mortals  call  romantic, 
And  always  envy,  though  we  deem  it  frantic 

XIX. 

This  is  in  others  a  factitious  state, 

An  opium  dream  of  too  much  youth  and  reading. 
But  was  in  Ihem  their  nature  or  their  fate : 

No  novels  e'er  had  set  Iheir  young  hearts  bleeding. 
For  Haidee's  knowledge  was  by  no  means  great, 

And  Juan  was  a  boy  of  saintly  breeding; 
So  that  there  was  no  reason  for  their  loves 
More  than  for  those  of  nightingales  or  doves. 

XX. 

They  gazed  upon  the  sunset ;  't  is  an  hour 
Dear  unto  all,  but  dearest  to  their  eyes. 

For  it  had  made  them  what  they  were  ;  the  power 
Of  love  had  firsi  o'erwhelm'd  them  from  such  skies, 

When  happiness  had  been  their  only  dower. 
And  twilight  saw  them  link'd  in  passion's  ties ; 

Charni'd   with  each   other,  all   things  charm'd   that 
brought 

The  past  slill  welcome  as  the  present  thought, 

XXI. 

I  know  not  why,  but  in  that  hour  to-night. 
Even  as  they  gazed,  a  sudden  tremor  came, 

And  swept,  as  'twere,  across  their  heart's  delight, 
Like  the  wind  o'er  a  harp-string,  or  a  flame. 

When  one  is  shook  in  sound,  and"one  in  sight : 
And  thus  some  tK)ding  flash "d  through  either  frame. 

And  call'd  from  Juan's  breast  a  faint  low  sigh. 

While  one  new  tear  arose  in  Haidee's  eye. 

XXII. 

That  large  black  prophet  eye  seem'd  to  dilate 

And  follow  far  the  disappearing  sun. 
As  if  their  last  day  of  a  happy  date 

With   his   broad,  bright,   and   dropping   orb  were 
gone; 
Jnan  gazed  on  her  as  to  ask  his  fate  — 

He  fell  a  grief,  but  knowing  cause  for  none. 
His  glance  enquired  of  hers  for  some  excuse 
For  feelings  causeless,  or  at  least  abstruse. 


XXIII. 

She  turn'd  to  him,  and  smiled,  but  in  that  sort 

Which  makes  not  others  smile  ;  then  turn'd  aside: 

Whatever  feeling  shook  her,  it  seem"d  short. 
And  mas'er'd  by  her  wisdom  or  her  pride  ; 

When  Juan  spoke,  too —  it  might  be  in  sport  — 
Of  this  iheir  mutual  feeling,  she  replied 

"If  it  should  be  so, —  but  —  it  cannot  be  — 

Or  I  at  least  shall  not  survive  to  see." 

XXIV. 

Juan  would  question  further,  but  she  preas'd 
His  lip  to  hers,  and  silenced  him  with  this. 

And  then  dismiss'd  the  omen  from  her  breail, 
Defying  augury  with  that  fond  kiss; 

And  no  doubt  of  all  methods  'I  is  the  liest: 
Some  people  prefer  wine  —  't  is  not  amiss  ; 

I  have  tried  both  ;  so  those  who  would  a  part  take 

May  choose  between  the  headache  and  the  heaitacb*. 

XXV. 

One  of  the  two,  according  to  your  choice, 
Woman  or  wine,  you  '11  have  to  undergo ; 

Both  miladies  are  trues  on  our  joys  : 

But  which  to  choose,  I  really  hardly  know  ; 

And  if  I  had  to  give  a  casting  voice, 

For  both  sides  I  could  many  reasons  show, 

And  then  decide,  without  great  wrong  to  either. 

It  were  much  better  to  have  both  than  neither. 

XXVI. 

Juan  and  Haidee  gazed  upon  each  other 

With  swimming  looks  of  speechless  tenderness, 

Which  mix'd  all  feelings,  friend,  child,  lover,  brother 
All  that  the  best  can  mingle  and  express 

When  two  pure  hearts  are  pour'd  in  one  another. 
And  love  too  much,  and  yet  can  not  love  less ; 

But  almost  sanctify  the  sweet  excess 

By  the  immortal  ivish  and  power  to  bless. 

XXVII. 

Mix'd  in  each  other's  arms,  and  heart  in  heart. 
Why  did  ihey  not  then  die?  —  they  had   lived  toe 
long 

Should  an  hour  come  to  bid  them  breathe  apart ; 
Years  could  but  bring  them  cruel  things  or  wrong; 

The  world  was  not  for  them,  nor  the  world's  art 
For  beings  passionate  as  Sappho's  song  ; 

Love  was  lx>rn  with  them,  in  Ihem,  so  intense, 

It  was  their  verj'  spirit  —  not  a  sense, 

XXVIH. 
They  should  have  lived  together  deep  in  woods, 

Unseen  as  sings  the  nightingale ;  they  were 
Until  to  mix  in  these  thick  solitudes 

Call'd  social,  haunts  of  Hate,  and  Vice,  and  Car* 
How  lonely  every  freeborn  creature  broods  ! 

The  sweetest  song-birds  nestle  in  a  pair; 
The  eagle  soars  alone ;  the  gull  and  crow 
Flock  o'er  their  carrion,  jusf  like  men  below. 


I  XXIX. 

Now  pillow'd  cheek  to  cheek,  in  loving  sleep, 

Haidee  and  Juan  their  siesta  took, 
A  gentle  slumber,  but  it  was  not  deep. 

For  ever  and  anon  a  something  shook 
Juan,  and  shuddering  o'er  his  frame  would  creep; 

And  Haidee's  sweet  lips  murmur'd  like  a  brook 
A  wordless  music,  and  her  face  so  fair 
Stirr'd  with  her  dream,  as  rose-l6»ve»  with  the  air ; 

XXX. 

Or  as  the  stirring  of  a  deep  clear  stream 

Within  an  Alpine  hollow,  when  the  wind 
Walks  o'er  it,  was  she  shaken  by  tbedrpam, 

The  mystical  usurper  of  the  mind  — 
O'erpowering  us  to  be  whale'er  may  seem 

Good  to  the  soul  which  we  no  more  can  bind ; 
I  Strange  state  of  being  !  (for  't  is  still  to  be) 
I  Senseless  to  feel,  and  with  sea  I'd  eyes  to  tee. 


re 


Canto  I  V.J 


DON  JUAN. 


515 


XXXI. 

She  dream'd  of  being  alone  on  ihe  sea-sliore, 
Chain'd  to  a  rock  ;  she  knew  not  how,  bul  s'ir 

She  could  not  from  Ihe  spot,  :ind  llie  loud  loar 
Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly.  Ihreitening  her  ; 

And  o'er  her  upper  lip  they  seem'd  to  pour, 
Until  she  sobb'd  for  breaih,  and  soon  they  were 

Foiming  o'er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and  high  — 

£acb  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  noi  d-e. 

XXXII. 
AnoD  —  she  was  released,  and  then  she  stray'd 

O'er  the  sharp  shingles  with  her  bleeding  feet, 
And  stumbled  almost  every  step  she  made  ; 

And  something  roll'd  before  her  in  a  sheet, 
Which  she  must  still  |iursue  howe'er  afraid  : 

'T  was  w  hile  and  indistinct,  nor  stopp'd  to  meet 
Her  glance  nor  grasp,  for  still  she  gazed  and  grasp'd, 
And  ran,  but  it  escaped  her  as  she  cla^p'd. 

XXXIII. 
The  dream  changed  :  —  in  a  cave  she  stood,  its  walls 

Were  hung  with  marble  icicles  ;  the  woik 
Of  ages  on  its  water-fretted  halls. 

Where  waves  might  wash,  and  seals  might  breed 
and  lurk  ; 
Her  hair  was  dripping,  and  the  very  balls 

Of  her  black  eyes  seem'd  lum'd  to  tears,  and  mirk 
The  sharp  rocks  look'd  oelow  each  drop  they  ought, 
Which  froze  to  marble  as  they  fell, —  she  thought. 

XXXIV. 

And  wet,  and  cold,  and  lifeless  at  her  (ret. 

Pale  as  Ihe  foam  that  froth'd  on  his  dead  brow, 

Which  she  essay'd  in  vain  to  clear,  (how  sweet 
Were  once  her  cares,  ho»v  idle  seem'd  they  now  !) 

Lay  Juan,  nor  could  aught  renew  the  beat 
Of  his  quench'd  heart ;  and  the  sei  dirges  low 

Rang  in  her  sad  ears  like  a  mermaid's  song. 

And  that  brief  dream  appear'd  a  life  too  long. 

XXXV. 

And  gazing  on  the  dead,  she  thought  his  face 
Faded,  or  aller'd  into  something  new  — 

Like  to  her  father's  features,  till  each  trace 
More  like  and  like  to  Lambro's  aspect  grew  — 

With  all  his  keen  worn  look  and  Grecian  grace; 
And  starling,  she  awoke,  and  what  to  view  ? 

Oh !  Powers  of  Heaven  !  what  dark  eye  meets  she 
there? 

T  is  —  'I  is  her  father's  —  fix'd  upon  the  pair ! 

XXXVI. 

Then  shrieking,  she  arose,  and  shrieking  fell. 
With  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  to  see 

Him  whom  she  deem'd  a  habitant  where  dwell 
The  ocean-buried,  risen  from  denth,  to  be 

Perchance  Ihe  death  of  one  she  loved  loo  well : 
Dear  as  her  father  had  been  to  Hiidee, 

It  was  a  moment  of  thai  awful  kind 

1  have  seen  such—  but  must  not  call  to  mind. 

XXXVII. 

Up  Juan  sprung  to  HaideeN  bitter  shriek, 

And  caught  her  falling,  and  from  off  the  wall 

Snatch'd  down  his  sabre,  in  hot  h  iste  to  wreik 
Vengeance  on  him  w ho  was  llie  ciuse  of  all  : 

Then  Lanibro,  who  till  now  forbore  to  speak, 
Smiled  scornfully,  and  said,  "  Within  my  call, 

A  thousand  scimitars  await  the  word ; 

Put  up,  youDg  man,  put  up  your  silly  sword." 

XXXVIII. 

And  Haidee  clung  around  him  ;  "  Juan, '( is  — 
Tis  Lambro  —  'I  is  my  father!  Kneel  with  me  — 

He  will  forgive  us  —  yes—  it  must  be— yet. 
Oh  !  dearest  father,  in  this  agony 

or  pleasure  and  of  pain  —  even  while  I  kiss 
Thy  garment's  hem  with  transport,  can  it  be 

That  doubt  should  mingle  with  my  filial  joy  ? 

Deal  with  me  as  Ibou  will,  bul  spare  this  boy." 


XXXIX. 

High  and  inscrutable  the  old  man  stood, 
Calm  in  his  voice,  and  elm  within  his  eye  — 

Net  always  signs  w  iih  him  of  calmest  mood  : 
He  look'd  upon  her,  but  gave  no  reply  ; 

Then  turn'd  to  Juan,  in  whose  cheek  Ihe  blood 
Oft  came  and  went,  as  there  resolved  to  die ; 

In  arms,  al  least,  he  s'ood,  in  act  to  spring 

On  the  first  foe  whom  Lambro's  call  might  bring. 

XL. 

"  Young  man,  your  sword  ; "  so  Lambro  onc«  more 
said  : 

Juan  replied,  "  Not  while  this  arm  is  free." 
The  old  man's  cheek  grew  pale,  but  not  with  dread, 

And  drawing  from  his  bell  a  pistol,  he 
Replied,  "  Your  blood  be  then  on  your  own  head." 

Then  look'd  clo-e  at  ihe  liint,  as'  if  to  see 
'T  was  frerh  —  for  he  had  lately  used  Ihe  lock  — 
And  next  proceeded  quie;ly  to  cock. 

XLI. 
It  has  a  strange  quick  jar  upon  the  ear, 

That  cocking  of  a  pistol,  when  you  know 
A  moment  more  will  bring  Ihe  sight  to  bear 

Upon  your  person,  twelve  yards  off,  or  so  ; 
A  gentlemanly  distance,  not  loo  near. 

If  you  luve  gol  a  former  friend  for  foe  ; 
But  after  being  fired  al  once  or  twice. 
The  ear  becomes  more  Irish,  and  less  nice. 

XLII. 

Lambro  presented,  and  one  in^tlnl  more 

Had  stopp'd  this  Canto,  and  Don  Juan's  breath, 

When  Haidee  threw  herself  her  boy  before; 
Stern  as  her  sire  :  '■  On  me,"  she  cried,  "  let  death 

Descend  —  the  fault  is  mine;  this  faial  shore 
He  found  —  but  sought  not.    I  have  pledged  my 
faith ; 

I  love  him  —  I  will  die  with  him  :  I  knew 

Your  nature's  firmness  —  know  your  daughter's  too." 

XLIH. 
A  minute  past,  and  she  had  been  all  tears. 

And  tenderness,  and  infancy  ;  but  now 
She  stood  as  one  who  champion'd  human  fears  — 

Pale,  slatue-like,  and  stern,  she  woo'd  Ihe  blow  ; 
And  tall  beyond  her  sex,  and  their  compeers, 

She  drew  up  to  her  height,  as  if  to  show 
A  fairer  mark  ;  and  with  a  fix'd  eye  scinn'd 
Her  father's  face  —  but  never  stopp'd  his  hand. 

XLIV. 
He  gazed  on  her,  and  she  on  him  ;  't  was  strange 

How  like  they  look'd  I  the  expression  was  the  sane; 
Serenely  savage,  with  a  little  chanee 

In  ihe  large  dark  eye's  niutual-d<rted  flame  ; 
For  she,  loo,  was  as  one  who  could  avenge. 

If  cause  sh'^'Uld  be  —  a  lioness,  though  larae. 
Her  father's  blood  before  her  f  ilher's  face 
Boil'd  up,  and  proved  her  truly  of  his  race. 

XLV. 
I  said  they  were  alike,  their  features  and 

Their  stature,  differing  but  in  sex  and  years: 
Even  to  the  delicacy  of  their  hand 

■|  here  was  resemblance,  such  as  true  blood  »ean; 
And  now  to  see  them,  thus  divided,  stand 

In  fix'd  ferocity,  when  joyous  tears, 
And  sweet  sensations,  should  have  welcomed  both. 
Show  what  the  passions  are  in  their  full  growth. 

XLVL 
The  father  paused  a  moment,  then  withdrew 

His  wea|ion,  and  replaced  it ;  but  stood  still, 
And  looking  on  her,  as  to  look  her  through, 

"  Not  /,"  he  said,  "  have  sought  this  stianger't  ill  ( 
Not  /  haie  made  ihis  desolaiion  :  few 

Would  bear  such  ouirage,  and  forbear  to  kill ; 
Bul  I  must  do  my  duty  —  how  thou  hast 
Done  thine,  the  present  vouches  for  the  patt 


51G 


DON   JUAN. 


[Canto  IV. 


XLVII. 
"  Let  him  distrm  ;  or,  by  my  father's  head. 

His  own  shall  roll  before  ynu  like  a  ball  !  " 
He  raised  his  whistle,  as  the  word  he  said, 

And  blew,  another  answer'd  lo  the  c  ill, 
And  ru^hi^5  in  disorderly,  though  led, 

And  arm'd  from  boot  to  turban,  one  and  all. 
Some  twenty  of  his  train  came,  rank  on  rank  ; 
He  gave  the  word,  "  Arrest  or  slay  the  Frank." 

XLVIII. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he  withdrew 

His  daughter  ;   while  conipress'd  within  his  clasp, 
'T  wixt  her  and  Juan  interposed  the  crew  ; 

In  vain  she  struggled  in  her  father's  grasp  — 
His  arms  were  like  a  serpent's  coil:  then  flew 

Upon  their  prey,  as  darts  an  angry  asp. 
The  file  of  pirates  ;  save  the  foremost,  who 
Had  fallen,  with  his  right  shoulder  half  cut  through. 

XLIX. 

The  second  had  his  cheek  laid  open  ;  but 
The  third,  a  wary,  cool  old  sworder,  took 

The  blows  upon  his  cutlass,  and  then  put 

His  own  well  in  :  so  well,  ere  you  could  look, 

His  man  was  flnor'd,  and  helpless  at  his  foot, 
With  the  blood  running  like  a  little  brook 

Fiom  two  smart  sabte  gashes,  deep  and  red  — 

One  on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  head. 


And  then  they  bound  him  whe-e  he  fell,  and  bore 
Juan  from  the  apartment  :  with  a  sign 

Old  Lambro  bade  them  take  him  to  the  shore. 
Where  lay  some  ships  which  were  to  sail  at  nine. 

They  laid  him  in  a  boat,  and  plied  the  oar 
Until  they  reach'd  -ome  galliots,  placed  in  line; 

On  board  of  one  of  these,  and  under  Intches, 

They  stow'd  him,  with  strict  ordeis  lo  the  watches. 

LI. 

The  world  is  full  of  strange  vicissitudes. 
And  hers  was  one  exceedinriy  unpleasant : 

A  gentleman  so  rich  in  the  world's  goods. 

Handsome  and  young,  enjoying  all  the  present, 

Just  at  the  very  time  when  he  least  broods 
On  such  a  thing  is  suddenly  lo  sea  sent. 

Wounded  and  chain'd,  so  that  he  cannot  move, 

And  all  because  a  lady  fell  in  love. 

LII. 

Here  I  must  leave  him,  for  I  grow  pathetic, 

Moved  by  the  Chinese  nymph  of  tears,  green  tea  ! 

Than  whom  Cissandra  was  not  more  (iropheticj 
For  if  my  pure  libations  exceed  three, 

I  feel  my  heart  become  so  sympathetic. 
That  I  must  have  recourse  to  black  Bohea  : 

'T  is  pity  wine  should  be  so  deleterious, 

For  tea  and  coffee  leave  us  much  more  serious, 

LIII. 
Unless  when  qualified  with  thee,  Cogniac  ! 

Sweet  Naiad  of  the  Phlegethonlic'rill ! 
Ah  !  why  the  liver  will  thou  thus  attack. 

And  make,  like  other  nymphs,  thy  lovers  ill  ? 
I  would  take  refuge  in  weak  punch,  but  rack 

(In  each  sense  of  the  word),  whene'er  I  fill 
My  mild  and  midnight  beakers  to  the  brim, 
Wakes  me  next  morning  with  its  synonym. 


LIV. 


I  leave  Don  Juan  for  the  present,  safe  — 

Not  sound,  poor  fellow,  but  severely  wounded  ; 

Fet  could  his  corporal  pangs  amount  to  half 
Uf  those  with  ivhich  his  Haidee's  bosom  bounded  '. 

She  was  not  one  to  weep,  and  rave,  and  chafe. 
And  then  give  way,  subdued  because  surrounded  ; 

Her  mother  was  a  Aloorish  maid,  from  Fez, 

Where  all  is  Eden,  or  a  wilderness. 


I  LV. 

There  the  large  olive  rains  its  amber  store 

Jn  marble  fonts  ;  there  grain,  and  flower,  and  fruit, 

Gush  from  the  earth  until  the  land  runs  o'er; 
I       But  there,  t'  o,  many  a  poison-tree  has  root, 
I  And  midnight  listens  to  the  lion's  roar, 
I      And  long,  long  de-erts  scorch  (he  camel's  foot, 

Or  heaving  whelm  the  helpless  caravan  ; 
I  And  as  the  soil  is,  so  the  heart  of  man. 

I  LVI. 

1  Afric  IS  all  the  sun's,  and  as  her  earth 

Her  human  clay  is  kindled  ;  full  of  poiver 
For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birh, 

1he  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet's  hour, 
And  like  the  soil  beneath  it  will  biing  forth  : 

Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee's  mother's  dower  ; 
But  her  Urge  dark  eye  show'd  deep  Passion's  force, 
Though  sleeping  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 

!  LVII. 

Her  daughter,  temper'd  with  a  milder  ray, 

Like  summer  clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and  fair, 
I  Till  slowly  charged  wiih  thunder  they  display 

Terror  lo  earth,  and  tempest  to  the  air, 
i  Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way; 
But  overwrought  with  passion  and  despair. 
The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Nuniidian  veins, 
j  Even  as  the  Simoom  sweeps  the  blasted  plains. 

'  LVIII. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan's  gore, 

And  he  himself  o'ermaster'd  and  cut  down; 
His  blood  was  running  on  the  veiy  floor 

Where  late  he  trod,  her  benutiful,  her  own  ; 
Thus  much  she  view'd  an  instant  and  no  more, — 

Her  struggles  ceased  wiih  one  convulsive  groan  ; 
On  her  sire's  arm,  w  hicli  until  now  scarce  held 
Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a  cedar  fell'd. 

LIX. 

t  A  vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure  dyes 

I      Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran  o'er ; 

And  her  head  drnnp'd  as  when  the  lily  lies 
j      O'ercharged  with  rain:  her  sumnioii'd  handmaids 
I  bore 

Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes; 

Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their  store, 
1  But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ. 

Like  one  life  could  not  hold,  nor  death  destroy. 

LX. 

Days  lay  she  in  that  state  unchanged,  though  chill  — 
With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  red  ; 

She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seem'd  absent  still ; 
No  hideous  sign  proclaim'd  her  surely  dead; 

Corruption  came  not  iu  each  mii:d  to  kill 
All  hope  ;  to  look  upon  her  sweet  face  bred 

New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seem'd  full  of  soul  — 

She  bad  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the  whole. 

LXL 

The  ruling  pa>«ion,  such  as  marble  shows 
When  exquisitely  chiseli'd,  still  lay  there, 

But  fix'd  as  marble's  unchanged  aspect  throws 
O'er  the  fair  Venus,  but  for  ever  fair ; 


1  This  is  no  very  nncommon  effect  n(  the  violence  of 
conflicting  and  dilTt-renl  passions.  The  Dnge  Francis 
Foscari,  on  his  deposition  in  1457.  hearing  the  bells  of  Si. 
Mark  announce  Ihe  election  of  hie  successor,  "  mourul 
eubitement  d'une  hemurragie  causae  par  une  veine  qui 
B'eclata  dans  sa  pnilrine,"  (see  Si>«mondi  and  Daru,  vols. 
1.  and  ii.)  at  llie  age  of  eighty  years,  when  ••  Who  vouli 
have  thought  the  old  man  had  to  much  hlouA  m  him?" 
Before  I  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  I  was  witness  lo  a 
melamholy  instance  of  Ihe  same  effect  of  mixed  passions 
upon  a  young  person,  who,  however,  did  not  die  in  con- 
sequence, at  that  time,  but  fell  a  victim  some  years  after- 
wards to  a  seizure  uf  the  same  kind,  arising  from  cau««» 
intimately  connected  with  agitation  of  njind. 


Canto  I  V.J 


DON  JUAN. 


517 


O'er  the  Laocoon's  all  eternal  throes, 

And  ever-dying  Gladiator's  air, 
Their  energy  like  life  forms  all  their  fame. 
Yet  looks  not  life;  for  they  are  still  the  same. 

LXII. 

She  n-oke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers  wake. 
Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seem'd  something  new, 

A  strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 
Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 

Struck  not  on  memory,  though  a  heavy  ache 
Liy  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat  still  true 

Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the  cause. 

For,  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 

LXIII. 
She  look'd  on  many  a  face  with  vacant  eye, 

On  many  a  token  without  knowing  what ; 
She  saw  !hem  walch  her  without  asking  why,  . 

And  reck'd  not  who  around  her  pillow  sal ; 
Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not ;  not  a  sigh 

Relieved  her  thoughts  ;  dull  silence  and  quick  chat 
Were  tried  in  vain  by  those  who  served ;  she  gave 
No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the  grave. 

LXIV. 
Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not ; 

Her  father  walch 'd,  she  turn'd  her  eyes  away  ; 
She  recognised  no  being,  and  no  spot. 

However  dear  or  cherish'd  in  their  day  ; 
They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  all  forgot, 

Gentle,  but  without  memory,  she  lay  ; 
At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fain  be  wean- 
ing 
Back  to  old  thoughts,  wax'd  full  of  fearful  meaning. 

LXV. 

And  then  a  sljjve  bethought  her  of  a  harp  ; 

The  harper  came,  and  tuned  his  instrument ; 
At  the  first  notes,  irregular  arid  sharp, 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a  moment  bent. 
Then  to  Ihe  wall  she  turn'd  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrow  through  her  heart  re- 
sent ; 
And  he  began  a  long  low  island  song 
Of  ancient  days,  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall 

In  time  to  his  old  tunc;  he  changed  ihe  theme, 

And  sung  of  love  ;  the  fierce  name  struck  through  all 
Her  reci  llection  ;  on  her  flash'd  the  dream 

Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call 
To  be  so  being  ;  in  a  gushing  stream 

The  tears  rush'd  forth  from  her  o'erclouded  brain. 

Like  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  iu  rain. 

Lxvn. 

Short  solace,  vain  relief;  —  thought  came  too  quick, 
And  whirl'd  her  brain  lo  madness  ;  she  arose 

As  one  who  ne'er  had  dwell  among  Ihe  sick, 
And  flew  al  all  she  met.  as  on  her  foes; 

But  no  one  ever  heard  her  speak  or  shriek, 

Allhough  her  paroxysm  drew  lowajds  ils  close  ;  — 

Hers  was  a  phrensy  which  disdain'd  lo  rave. 

Even  when  they  siiiote  her,  in  the  hope  to  save. 

LXVni. 

Yet  she  betray'd  at  times  a  gleam  of  sense  ; 

Nothing  could  make  her  meet  her  father's  face, 
Though  on  all  other  thinsfs  with  locks  intense 

She  ga/ed.  but  none  she  ever  could  retrace  ; 
Food  she  refu^ed,  and  raiment ;  no  pretence 

Avail'd  for  ei'her  ;  neither  change  of  plice. 
Nor  time,  nor  skill,  nor  remedy,  could  give  her 
Senses  to  sleep  —  the  power  seem'd  gone  for  ever. 


44 


LXIX. 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  withered  thus;  at  last, 
Without'a  groan,  or  sigh,  or  glance,  to  show 

A  parting  pang,  Ihe  spirit  from  her  past : 

And  they  w  ho  walch'd  her  nearest  could  not  know 

The  very  instant,  till  Ihe  change  that  cast 
Her  sweet  face  into  shndovv,'dull  and  slow. 

Glazed  o'er  her  eyes  — the  beautiful,  the  black  — 

Oh  I  to  possess  such  lustre  — and  then  lack  I 

LXX. 

She  died,  but  not  alone ;  she  held  wilhin 
A  second  principle  of  life,  which  might 

Have  dawn'd  a  fair  and  sinless  child  of  sin  ; 
But  closed  its  little  being  without  light, 

And  went  down  to  the  gra've  unborn,  wherein 
Blossom  and  bough  lie  wither'd  with  one  blight; 

In  vain  the  dews  of  Heaven  descend  above 

Ihe  bleeding  flower  and  blasted  fruit  of  love. 

LXXI. 

Thus  lived  —  thus  died  she  ;  never  more  on  her 
Shall  sorrow  light,  or  shame.     She  was  not  made 

Through  years  or  moons  the  inner  weizht  lo  bear. 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  Ihey  are  laid 

By  age  in  earth  :  her  days  and  pleasures  were 
Brief,  but  delightful— 'such  as  had  not  staid 

Long  w ith  her  destiny  ;  but  she  sleeps  well 

By  the  sea-shore,  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell. 

LXII. 

That  iHe  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare, 

Its  dwellings  down,  its  tenants  pass'd  away; 

None  but  her  own  and  father's  grave  is  there. 
And  nothins  outward  tells  of  human  clay  ; 

Ye  could  not  know  where  lies  a  thing  so  fair, 
No  .-tone  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to  say, 

Wh.il  was;  no  dirge,  except  the  hoilow  sea's, 

Mourns  o'er  the  beauty  of  Ihe  Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 
But  many  a  Greek  maid  in  a  loving  song 

Sighs  o'er  her  name;  and  many  an  islander 
With  her  sire's  story  makes  the  night  less  long; 

Valour  was  his,  and  beiuiy  dwelt  wi;h  her; 
If  she  loved  rashly,  her  life  paid  for  wrong  — 

A  heavy  price  must  all  pay,  who  thus  err, 
In  some  shape ;  let  none  think  to  fly  the  danger, 
For  soon  or  late  Love  is  his  own  avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But  let  me  change  this  theme,  which  grows  too  sad. 
And  lay  this  sheet  of  sorrows  on  the  shelf; 

I  don't  much  like  describing  people  mad. 
For  fear  of  seeming  rather  touch'd  myself — 

Besides,  I  've  no  more  on  this  head  o  add; 
And  as  my  Muse  is  a  capricious  elf. 

We'll  put  about,  and  try  another  lack 

With  Juan,  left  balf-kili'd  some  stanzas  back. 

LXXV. 

Wounded  and  fefter'd,  "  cabin'd.  cribb'd,  confined," 
Some  days  and  nights  elapsed  before  that  be 

Could  altogether  call  Ihe  past  to  mind  ; 
And  when  he  did,  he  found  himself  at  sea, 

Sailing  six  knots  an  hour  before  Ihe  wind  ; 
The  shores  of  Ilion  lay  benealh  their  lee  — 

Another  time  he  might  have  liked   o  see  'em, 

But  now  was  not  much  pleased  wilh  Cape  Sigaeum- 

LXXVI. 
There,  on  the  green  and  village-cotted  hill,  is 

(Flank'il  by  the  Heilesponl,  and  by  the  sen) 
Enlomb'd  Ihe  brnve-t  of  the  brave,  Ach)lles; 

They  say  so  —  (Bryant  savs  the  contrary)  : 
And  further  downward,  tall  and  cowering  still.  It 

'1  he  tumulus— of  whom  ?  Heaven  knows;  't  may  Di 
Palroclus,  Ajax,  or  Protesilaus  ; 
All  heroes,  who  if  living  still  would  slay  us. 


518 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  IV. 


LXXVII. 

High  barrows,  without  marble,  or  a  name, 
A  vast,  unlill'd,  and  mountain-skirled  plain, 

And  Ida  in  the  distance,  still  the  same. 
And  old  Scaniander,  (if  't  is  he)  remain  ; 

The  situation  seenjs  still  form'd  for  fame  — 
A  hundred  thousand  men  might  fight  again, 

With  ease;  bu^  where  I  sought  for  llion's  walls. 

The  quiet  sheep  feeds,  and  the  tortoise  crawls  j 

Lxxviir. 

Troops  of  untended  horses  ;  here  and  there, 
Some  litile  hamlets,  with  new  names  uncouth ; 

Some  shepherds,  (unlike  Paris)  led  to  stare 
A  moment  at  the  European  youth 

Whom  to  the  spot  their  schoolboy  feelings  bear  ; 
A  Turk,  wi  h  beads  in  hand,  and  pipe  in  moulh, 

Extremely  taken  with  his  own  religion, 

Are  what  I  found  there— but  the  devil  a  Phrygian, 

LXXIX. 

Don  Juan,  here  permitted  to  emerge 
From  his  dull  cabin,  found  him-elf  a  slave ; 

Forlorn,  and  gazing  on  the  deep  blue  surge, 
O'er^hadow'd  there  by  many  a  hero's  grave  ; 

Weak  still  with  loss  of  blood,' he  scarce  could  urge 
A  few  brief  questions  ;  and  the  answers  gave 

No  very  satisfactory  information 

About  his  past  or  present  situation. 

LXXX. 

He  saw  some  fellow-captives,  who  appear'd 
To  be  Italians,  as  they  were  in  fact ; 

From  ihem,  at  least,  tkeir  destiny  he  heard. 
Which  was  an  odd  one  ;  a  troop  going  to  act 

In  Sicily —  all  singers,  duly  rear'd 
In  their  vocation  ;  had  not  been  atlack'd 

In  sailing  from  Livorno  by  the  pirate. 

But  sold  by  the  impresario  at  no  high  rate.l 

LXXXI. 

By  one  of  these,  the  bufto'J  of  the  parly, 
Juan  was  told  alxjut  their  curious  case; 

For  alihough  destined  to  the  Turkish  mart,  he 
Still  kept  his  spirits  up  — at  least  his  face  ; 

The  little  fellow  really  look'd  quite  hearty. 
And  bnre  him  with  some  gaiety  and  grace, 

Showing  a  much  more  reconciled  demeanour, 

Than  did  the  prima  donna  and  the  lenor. 

LXXXII. 

In  a  few  words  he  told  their  hapless  story, 
Saying,  "Our  Machiavelian  impresario, 

Making  a  signal  otf  some  promontory, 
Hail'd  a  strange  brig  ;  Corpo  di  Caio  Mario  ! 


1  This  is  a  fact.  A  few  years  ago  a  man  engaged  a  com- 
pany for  eome  foreign  ttieaire,  embarked  ttiem  at  an  Ita- 
lian port,  and,  carrying  them  to  Algiers,  sold  them  all. 
One  of  the  women,  returned  from  her  captivity,  I  heard 
sing,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  in  Rossini's  opera  of  "  L* 
Italiana  in  Algieri,"  at  Venice,  in  the  beginning  of  18!7. 
— [IVe  have  reason  to  believe  that  the  following,  which 
we  take  from  tlie  MS.  journal  of  a  highly  respectable  tra- 
veller, is  a  more  correct  account  :—'•"  In  1812.  a  Signor 
Guariglia  induced  seveial  young  persons  of  brth  sexes — 
none  of  Ihem  exceeding  fifteen  years  of  age— to  accom- 
pany him  on  an  operatic  excursion;  part  lo  form  the 
opera,  and  part  the  ballet.  He  contrived  lo  get  Ihem  on 
board  a  veawl,  which  took  Ihem  to  Janina.  where  he  sold 
tbem  for  the  basest  purposes.  Some  died  from  the  effect 
of  the  climate,  and  some  from  suffering.  Among  the  few 
who  returned  were  a  Signor  Mnlinari,  and  a  female 
dancer,  named  Bomfiglia,  who  afterwards  became  the  wife 
of  C'respi,  Ihc  tenor  singer.  The  wretch  who  so  basely 
sold  Ihem  was.  when  Lord  Byron  resided  at  Venice,  em- 
ployed as  capo  de'  vestarj,  or  head  tailor,  at  the  Fenice." 
—  Ornham.]  —  K. 

3A  comic  singer  in  the  opera  buffu.  The  Italians, 
however,  distinguish  the  bulto  cantai.te,  which  requires 
good  ringing,  from  the  butfo  comico,  in  which  there  ia 
more  acting.]  — K. 


We  were  transferr'd  on  board  her  in  a  /lurry, 

Without  a  single  scudo  of  salario  ; 
But  if  the  Sultan  has  a  taste  for  song. 
We  will  revive  our  fortunes  before  long. 

LXXXIIL 

"  The  prima  donna,  though  a  little  old. 

And  haggard  with  a  dissipated  life. 
And  subject,  when  the  house  is  thin,  to  cold, 

Has  some  good  notes ;  .nnd  then  Ihe  tenor's  wifo. 
With  no  great  voice,  is  pleasing  to  behold ; 

Last  cainiv.Tl  she  made  a  deal  of  strife. 
By  carrying  otf  Count  Cesare  Cicogna 
From  an  old  Roman  princess  at  Bologna, 

LXXXIV. 

"And  then  there  are  the  dancers;  there's  the  Nini, 
With  more  than  one  profession  gaini  by  all ; 

Then  there's  that  laughing  slut  Ihe  Pelegrini, 
She,  loo,  wa~  fortunate  last  carnival. 

And  made  at  least  five  hundred  good  zecchini, 
But  spends  so  fast,  she  has  not  now  a  [laul ; 

And  then  there  's  the  Grotesca  —  such  a  dancer  ! 

\Vhere  men  have  souls  or  bodies,  she  niust  answer. 


LXXXV. 

"  As  for  the  figuranti,^  they  are  like 
The  rest  of  all  that  iribc;  with  here  and  there 

A  pretty  person,  which  perhaps  may  strike, 
ihe  rest  are  hardly  fitted  for  a  fair  ; 

Tliere's  one,  though' tall  and  stitfer  than  a  pike, 
Yet  has  a  sentimeiital  kind  of  air. 

Which  might  go  far,  but  she  don't  d:<nce  with  vigour; 

The  more's  the  pity,  with  her  face  and  figure. 

LXXXVI. 

"  As  for  the  men,  they  are  a  mic  Jing  set : 
The  musico  is  but  a  crack'd  old  basin. 

But  being  qualified  in  one  »ay  yet. 
May  liie  seraglio  do  to  set  his  face  in. 

And  as  a  servant  some  preferment  get ; 
His  singing  I  no  further  trust  can  place  in  : 

From  all  Ihe  Pope  ■•  m.ikes  yearly  't  would  perplex 

To  find  three  perfect  pipes  of  the  third  sex. 

LXXXVII. 

"  The  tenor's  voice  is  spoilt  by  affectation. 
And  for  the  bass,  the  beast  can  only  bellow ;  . 

In  fact,  he  had  no  singing  education. 
An  isrnorant,  noteless,  timeless,  tuneless  fellow, 

But  being  the  prima  donna's  near  relation. 

Who  swore  his  voice  was  very  rich  and  mellow, 

They  hired  him,  though  to  hear  him  you'd  believe 

An  ass  was  praciising  recitative, 

LXXXVIII. 

"  'T  would  not  become  myself  to  dwell  upon 

My  own  merits,  and  though  young— I  see,  sir — yon 

Have  got  a  traveli'd  air,  which  speaks  you  one 
To  whom  Ihe  opera  is  by  no  means  new  : 

You  've  heard  of  RaucocanIi  ?  '—  1  'm  the  man  ; 
The  time  may  come  when  you  may  hear  me  loo; 

You  was  not  last  vear  at  ihe  fair  of  Lugo, 

But  next,  when  I'm  engaged  lo  sing  there  —  do  go. 


3  The  flgnranti  are  those  dancers  of  a  ballet  who  do  not 
dance  singly,  but  mitny  together,  and  serve  lo  till  up  the 
background  daring  the  exhibition  of  individual  perform- 
ers. They  correspond  to  the  chorus  iu  the  opera.- Gra- 
ham.—  E. 

4  It  is  strange  that  it  should  be  Ihe  Pope  and  II  *  Sul- 
tan, who  are  the  chief  encuur.igers  of  Ihin  branch  of  trade 
—women  being  prohibited  as  singers  at  SI.  Peter's,  and 
not  deemed  trust-worthy  as  guardians  uf  the  liarem. 

fi  Rauco-caoU— may  be  rendered  by  Hoarse-aoog.— B. 


Canto  IV.] 


DON  JUAN. 


519 


LXXXIX. 

"  Our  baritdoe »  I  almost  had  forgot, 
A  pretty  lad,  but  bur>tiD§  with  conceit ; 

With  graceful  action,  science  not  a  jot, 
A  voice  of  no  great  compiiss,  and  not  sweet, 

He  always  is  complaining  of  his  lot. 
Forsooth,  scarce  (it  for  ballads  in  the  street ; 

Id  lovers'  parts  his  passion  more  to  breathe. 

Having  no  heart  to  show,  he  shows  his  teeth." 

XC. 
Here  Raucocanti's  eloquent  recital 

Was  interrupted  by  the  pirate  crew. 
Who  came  at  stated  moments  to  invite  all 

The  captives  back  to  iheir  sad  berths  ;  each  threw 
A  rueful  glance  upon  the  waves,  (which  bright  all 

From  the  blue  skies  derived  a  double  blue, 
Dancing  all  free  and  happy  in  the  sun,) 
And  then  went  down  the  hatchway  one  by  one. 

XCI. 

They  heard  next  day  —  that  in  the  Dardanelles, 

Waiting  for  his  Sublimity's  lirman, 
The  most  imperative  of  sovereign  spells. 

Which  every  body  does  without  who  can, 
More  to  secure  them  in  their  naval  cells. 

Lady  to  lady,  well  as  man  to  man, 
Were  to  be  chain'd  and  lotted  out  per  couple, 
For  the  slave  market  of  Constantinople. 

XCH. 
It  seems  when  this  allotment  was  made  out, 

There  chanced  to  be  an  odd  male,  and  odd  female, 
Who  (after  some  discussion  and  some  doubt. 

If  the  soprano  might  be  deem'd  to  be  male, 
They  placed  him  o'er  the  woman  as  a  scout) 

Were  link'd  together,  and  it  happen'd  the  male 
Was  Juan,  who,—  an  awkward  thing  at  his  age, 
Pair'd  off  with  a  Bacchante  blooming  visage. 

XCIH. 

With  Raucocanti  lucklessly  was  chain'd 

The  tenor ;  these  two  hated  with  a  ha'e 
Found  only  on  the  stage,  and  each  more  pain'd 

With  this  his  tuneful  neighbour  than  his  f;.te; 
Sad  strife  arose,  for  they  were  so  cross-grain'd, 

Instead  of  beirin?  up  without  debate, 
That  each  puli'd  different  ways  with  many  an  oath, 
"  Arcades  anibo,"  id  est  —  blackguards  both. 

XCIV. 
Juan's  companion  was  a  Romagnole, 

But  bred  within  the  march  of  old  Ancona, 
With  eyes  that  look'd  into  the  very  soul 

(And  other  chief  points  of  a  "  bella  donna  "), 
Bright  —  and  as  black  and  burning  as  a  coal ; 

And  through  her  clear  brunette  complexion  shone  a 
Great  wish  to  please  —  a  most  attractive  dower. 
Especially  when  added  to  the  power. 

XCV. 
But  all  that  power  was  wasted  upon  him. 

For  sorrow  o'er  each  sense  held  stern  command  ; 
Her  eye  might  flash  on  his,  but  found  it  dim  : 

And  though  thus  chain'd,  as  natural  her  hand 
Touch'd  his,  nor  that  —  nor  any  handsome  limb 

(And  she  had  some  not  easy  to  withstand) 
Could  stir  his  pulse,  or  make  his  f.iith  feel  brittle ; 
Perhaps  his  recent  wounds  might  help  a  little. 

XCVI. 
No  matter  ;  we  should  ne'er  loo  much  enquire, 

But  facts  ar«  tacts  :  no  knight  could  be  more  true, 
And  (inner  faith  no  ladye-love  desire; 

We  will  omit  the  proofs,  save  one  or  two : 

1  A  male  voice,  the  compass  of  which  partakes  of  those 
o  the  common  bafe  and  the  tenor,  but  does  not  extend 
•o  far  downwards  as  the  one,  nor  to  ao  equal  height  with 
th«  other.—  GRAHAM.—  F. 


'T  is  said  no  one  in  hand  "can  hold  a  (ire 

By  thou|ht  of  frosty  Caucasus  ; "  but  few, 
I  really  think  ;  yet  Juan's  then  ordeal 
Was  more  triumphant,  and  not  much  less  real. 

XCVII. 

Here  I  might  enter  on  a  chaste  description. 
Having  withstood  temptation  in  my  youth. 

But  hear  that  several  people  lake  exception 
At  the  first  two  boobs  having  loo  much  truth  ; 

Therefore  I  'II  make  Don  Juan  leave  the  ship  soon, 
Because  the  publisher  declares,  in  sooth. 

Through  needles'  eyes  it  easier  for  the  camel  is 

To  pass,  than  those  two  cantos  into  families. 

XCVIII. 

'T  is  all  the  same  to  me  ;  t  'm  fond  of  yielding. 
And  therefore  leave  them  to  the  purer  page 

Of  Smollett,  Prior,  Ariosto,  Fielding, 

Who  say  strange  things  for  so  correct  an  age ; 

I  once  had  great  alacrity  in  wieldii;g 
My  pen,  and  liked  poetic  war  to  wage, 

And  recollect  the  time  when  all  this  cant 

Would  have  provoked  remarks  which  now  it  sbaot 

XCIX. 
As  boys  love  rows,  my  boyhood  liked  a  squabble  ; 

But  at  this  hour  I  wish  to  part  in  peace. 
Leaving  such  to  the  literary  rabble. 

Whether  mv  verse's  fame  be  doom'd  to  cease. 
While  the  right  hand  which  wrote  it  still  is  able. 

Or  of  some  centuries  to  take  a  lease  ; 
The  grass  upon  my  grave  will  grow  as  long, 
And  sigh  to  miduight  winds,  but  not  to  song. 

C. 

Of  poets  who  come  down  to  us  through  distance 
Of  time  and  tongues,  the  footer-babes  of  Fame, 

Life  seems  the  smallest  portion  of  existence; 
Where  twenty  ages  gather  o'er  a  name, 

"T  is  as  a  snowball  which  derives  assistance 
From  every  flake,  and  yet  rolls  on  the  same. 

Even  till  an  iceberg  it  may  chance  to  grow; 

But,  after  all,  't  is  nothing  but  cold  snow. 

CL 

And  so  great  names  are  nothing  more  than  nominal. 

And  love  of  glory  's  but  an  airy  lust, 
Too  often  in  its  fury  overcoming  all 

Who  would  as  't  were  identify  Iheir  dust 
From  out  the  wide  destruction,  which,  entombing  all, 

Leaves  nothing  till  "  the  coming  of  the  just"  — 
Save  change  :  I  've  stood  upon  Achilles'  tomb. 
And  heard  Troy  doubted ;  time  will  doubt  of  Rome. 

cn. 

The  very  generations  of  the  dead 

Are  swept  away,  and  tomb  inherits  tomb. 

Until  the  memory  of  an  age  is  fled. 

And,  buried,  sinks  beneath  its  otfspring's  doom  : 

Where  are  the  epitaphs  our  fathers  read  ? 
Save  a  few  glean'd  from  the  sepulchral  gloom 

Which  once-named  myriads  nameless  lie  beneath, 

And  lose  their  own  in  universal  death. 

ClU. 

I  canter  by  the  spot  each  afternoon 

Where  perish'd  in  his  fame  the  hero-boy, 

Who  lived  too  long  (or  men,  but  died  too  soon 
For  human  vanity,  the  young  De  Foix  ! 

A  broken  pillar,  not  uncouthly  hewn, 

Bu!  which  neglect  is  hastening  to  destroy, 

Records  Ravenna's  carnage  on  its  face. 

While  weeds  and  ordure  rankle  round  the  ba.«e.4 


2  The  pillar  which  records  the  battle  of  Ravanna,  is 
sbout  two  miles  from  the  city,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
riTer  to  the  read  towards  Forli.  Gaston  de  Foil,  who 
gained  the  battle,  was  killed  in  it :  there  fell  on  both  (idea 
tweDlf  tbourand  men.  The  present  stale  of  the  inllar 
and   its   site    is   described  in  the  text. — "DeFcix  was 


520 


DON   JUAN 


[Canto  IV. 


CIV. 
I  pass  each  day  where  Dante's  bones  are  laid ; 

A  little  cupola,  more  neat  than  soleD)n, 
Protects  his  dust,  bul  reverence  here  is  paid 

To  the  bard's  t"nib,i  and  not  the  warrior's  columD  : 
The  time  must  come,  when  both  alike  decay'd, 

The  chiefiain's  trofhy,  and  the  poet's  volume. 
Will  sink  where  lie  the  soug;*  and  wars  of  earth, 
Before  Pelides'  dealh,  or  Homer's  birth. 

CV. 
With  human  blood  that  column  was  cemented, 

VVith  human  filth  that  column  is  defiled, 
As  if  the  peasant's  coarse  contempt  were  vented 

To  show  his  loathing  of  the  sjKJt  he  soii'd: 
Thus  is  the  trophy  used,  and  thus  lamented 

Should  ever  be  those  blood-hounds,  from  whose  wild 
Instinct  of  gore  and  glory  earth  has  known 
Those  sufferings  Dante  saw  in  hell  alone. 

CVI. 

Tet  there  will  still  be  bards :  though  fame  is  smoke. 
Its  fumes  are  frankincense  to  human  thought  ; 

And  the  unquiet  feelings,  which  first  woke 
Song  in  the  world,  w  ill  seek  whit  then  they  sought : 

As  on  the  beach  the  waves  at  last  are  broke, 

Thus  to  their  extreme  verge  the  passions  brought 

Dash  into  poetry,  which  is  but  passion, 

Or  at  least  was  so  ere  it  grew  a  fashion. 

CVII. 
If  in  the  course  of  such  a  life  as  was 

At  once  adventurous  and  contemplative. 
Men  who  partake  all  passions  as  they  pass, 

Acquire  the  deep  and  bitter  power  to  give 
Their  images  again  as  in  a  glass. 

And  in  such  colours  that  Ihey  seem  to  live  ; 
You  may  do  right  forbidding  them  to  show  'em, 
But  spoil  (I  think)  a  veT  pretty  poem. 

CVIII. 
Oh  !  ye,  who  make  the  fortunes  of  all  books ! 

Benign  Ceruleans  of  Ihe  second  sex  1 
Who  adverlise  new  poems  by  your  looks. 

Your  "  imprimatur  "  will  ye  not  annex  ? 
What !  must  I  go  to  the  oblivious  cooks? 

Those  Cornish  plunderers  of  Parnassian  wrecks 
Ah  !  must  I  then  the  only  minstrel  be. 
Proscribed  from  tasting  your  Caslalian  tea  ! 

CIX. 
What !  can  I  prove  "a  lion  "  then  no  more ? 

A  ball-room  bard,  a  fool-cap,  hot-press  darling  ! 
To  bear  the  compliments  of  many  a  bore, 

And  sigh,  •'  I  can't  get  out,''  like  Yorick's  starling; 
Why  then  I  'II  swear,  as  poet  Wordy  swore, 

(Because  ihe  world  won't  read  him  always  snarling) 
That  taste  is  gone,  that  fame  is  but  a  lottery, 
Drawn  by  the  blue-coat  misses  of  a  coterie. 


Doke  of  Nemour9,  and  npfhew  to  Louis  XII.,  who  gave 
bim  the  eovcmraent  of  Milan,  and  made  him  grnpral  of 
his  army  iu  Italy.  The  young  hero  signalised  his  valour 
and  abilities  in  variouv  actiniis.  which  terminated  in  the 
battle  nf  Ravenna,  fouEht  ou  Easter-day,  1512.  After  he 
had  obtained  the  victory,  he  could  not  be  diBsuadcd  from 
pursuing  a  body  of  Spanish  infantry,  which  retreated  in 
g.iod  order.  Making  a  furious  change  on  this  brave  troop, 
he  was  thrown  from  his  horse,  and  despalnhed  by  a  thrust 
of  a  pike.  He  perished  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  and 
the  king'ii  aHliciinn  for  his  d''ath  embittered  all  the  joy 
arising  from  his  success. "  —  MORERI.— E. 

1  Dante  was  buried  ("  in  sacra  minorum  acde")  at  Ra- 
vanna,  in  a  handsome  lomb,  which  was  erected  by  his 
protector,  Quid*  da  Polenta,  restored  by  Bernard';  Bembo, 
in  1483.  again  restored  by  Cardinal  Oorsi,  in  1692.  and  re- 
placed by  a  more  magnificent  sepulchre,  in  17S0,  at  the 
expense  of  the  Cardinal  Luigi  Valeiit  Oonzaga.  The  Flo- 
rentines having  in  vain  and  frequently  attempted  to  re- 
I  cover  his  body,  crowned    his    imbge  in  a  church,  and  his 

1    picture  is  still  one  of  the  idols  of  their  cathedral.—  HOB- 

I   BOUSE. -E. 

l'  •  


ex. 

Oh  I  "  darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue," 

As  some  one  somewhere  sings  about  the  sky, 
And  I,  ye  learned  ladies,  say  of  you  ; 

They  say  your  stockings  are  so  — (Heaven  knowt 
why, 
I  have  examined  few  pair  of  thit  hue) ; 

Blue  as  the  garters  which  serenely  lie 
Round  the  Pairician  left-legs,  which  adorn 
The  festal  midnight,  and  the  levee  morn. 

CXI. 
Yet  some  of  you  are  most  senphic  creatures  — 

But  times  are  alier'd  since,  a  rhyming  lover. 
You  read  my  ttanzas,  and  I  read  your  featurei: 

And  —  but  no  matter,  all  those  things  are  o»er ; 
Still  I  hnve  no  dislike  to  learned  natures, 

for  sometimes  such  a  world  of  virtues  cover  ; 
I  knew  one  worn  in  of  that  purple  school, 
The  loveliest,  chastest,  best,  but  —  quite  a  fool. 

CXII. 
Humboldt,  "  the  first  of  travellers,"  but  not 

The  last,  if  late  accounts  be  accurate, 
Invented,  by  soma  name  I  have  forgot. 

As  well  as  the  sublime  discovery's  da'e, 
An  airy  instrument,  with  which  besought 

To  ascertain  Ihe  atmospheric  state, 
By  measuring  "  Ihe  intensity  of  blue :  "  * 
Oh,  Lady  Daphne '.  let  me  measure  you  ! 

CXIII. 
But  to  the  narrative.—  The  vessel  bound 

With  slaves  to  sell  off  in  tbe  capital. 
After  Ihe  u^ual  process,  might  be  found 

At  anchor  under  Ihe  seraglio  wall  : 
Her  cargo,  from  the  plague  being  safe  and  sound. 

Were  landed  in  the  market,  one  and  all, 
And  there  with  Georgians,  Russians,  and  CircaesiaJM, 
Bought  up  for  diiferent  purposes  and  passions. 

CXIV. 
Some  went  off  dearly  ;  fifteen  hundred  dollars 

For  one  Circassian,  a  sweet  girl,  were  given, 
Warranted  virgin  ;  beauty's  brightest  colours 

Had  deck'd  her  out  in  .ill  the  hues  of  heaven  : 
Her  sale  sent  home  some  disappointed  bawlers. 

Who  bade  on  till  the  hundreds  reach'J  eleven  ; 
But  when  the  offer  went  beyond,  ihey  knew 
'T  was  for  the  Sultan,  and  at  once  withdrew. 

CXV. 
Twelve  negresses  from  Nubia  brought  a  price 

Which  the  West  Indian  market  scarce  would  bring; 
Though  Wilberforce,  at  last,  his  made  it  twice 

What  't  was  ere  Abt^lilion  ;  and  the  thing 
Need  not  seem  very  wonderful,  for  vice 

Is  always  much  more  splendid  than  a  king: 
The  virtues,  even  the  most  exalted.  Charily, 
Are  saving  —  vice  spares  nothing  for  a  rarity. 

CXVI. 
But  for  the  des'iny  of  this  young  troop. 

How  some  were  boughl  by  pichas,  some  by  Jews, 
How  some  to  burdens  were  obliged  to  stoop. 

And  others  rose  to  the  command  of  crews 
As  reiiegadoes ;  while  in  hapless  group. 

Hoping  no  very  old  vizier  might  choose. 
The  females  stood,  as  one  by  one  they  pick'd  'em, 
To  make  a  mistress,  or  fourth  w  ife,  or  victim  : 

CXVI  I. 
All  this  must  be  reserved  for  further  song  ; 

Al-o  our  hero's  lot,  howe'er  unpleasant 
(Because  this  Canto  has  become  too  long), 

Musi  he  postponed  discreetly  for  Ihe  present; 
1  'm  sensible  redundancy  is  w  rong. 

But  could  not  for  the  "muse  of  me  put  less  in  't : 
And  now  delay  the  progress  of  Don  Juan, 
Till  what  is  call'd  in  Ossian  the  fifth  Duan. 


r—  — 

(?ARTO  v.] 


DON  JUAN. 


521 


CANTO  THE  FIFTH.i 
I. 

When  amatory  pcets  sing  their  loves 

Id  liquid  lines  niellitluou^ly  blind, 
And  pair  their  rhymes  as  Vehm  yokes  her  doves, 

They  little  think  what  mischief  is  in  hand ; 
The  greater  their  success  the  worse  it  proves, 

As  Ovid's  ver^e  mav  give  to  understand  ; 
Even  Petrarch's  self,  if  judged  with  due  severity, 
Is  the  Platonic  pimp  of  all  posturily. 

II. 

1  therefore  do  denounce  all  amorous  writing. 
Except  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  attract ;  _ 

Plain  — simple —  short,  and  by  no  means  inviting. 
But  with  a  moml  to  each  error  lack'd, 

Form'd  rather  lor  instructing  Ihan  delighling, 
And  with  all  passions  in  their  turn  altack'd; 

Now,  if  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  shod  ill. 

This  poem  will  become  a  moral  model. 

III. 

The  European  with  the  Asian  shore 

Sprinkled  wiih  palaces  ;  the  ocean  stream  ^ 
Here  and  there  studded  with  a  seventy-fnur : 

Sophia's  cupola  with  golden  gleam  ; 
The  cypress  groves  ;  Olympus  high  and  hoar  ; 

The  twelve  isles,  and'ihe  more  than  I  could  dream, 
Far  less  describe,  present  the  very  view 
Which  charm'd  the  charming  Mary  Montagu. 

IV, 
I  have  a  passion  for  the  name  of  "  Mary," 

For  once  it  was  a  magic  sound  to  me  ; 
And  still  it  half  calls  up  the  realms  of  fairy, 

Where  I  beheld  what  never  was  to  be  ; 
All  feelings  changed,  but  this  was  last  to  vary, 

A  spelTfrom  which  even  yet  1  am  not  quite  free: 
But  I  grow  sad  —  and  let  a  tale  grow  cold. 
Which  must  not  be  pathetically  told. 

V. 

The  wind  swept  down  the  Euxine,  and  the  wave 
Broke  foaming  o'er  the  blue  Svniplegades  ; 

'T  is  a  grand  sight  from  off  "  the  Giant's  Grave"  3 
To  watch  the  progress  of  those  rolling  seas 

Between  the  Bosphorus,  as  they  lash  and  lave 
Europe  and  Asia,  you  being  quite  at  ease  ; 

There's  not  a  sea  the' passenger  e'er  pukes  in, 

Turns  up  more  dangerous  breakers  than  the  Euxine. 

VI. 

'T  was  a  raw  day  of  Autumn's  bleak  beginning. 

When  nights  are  equal,  but  not  so  the  days  ; 
The  Parcje  then  cut  short  the  further  spinning 

Of  seamen's  fates,  and  the  loud  tempests  raise 
The  waters,  and  repentance  for  past  sinning 

in  all,  who  o'er  the  great  deep  take  their  ways: 
They  vow  to  amend  their  lives,  and  yet  they  don't ; 
Because  if  drown'd,  they  can't— if  spared,  they  won"t, 

VII. 
A  crowd  of  shivering  slaves  of  every  nation, 

And  age,  and  sex,  were  in  the  market  ranged  ; 
Each  bevy  with  the  meichant  in  his  station  : 

Poor  creatures  !  their  good  looks  were  sadly  changed, 
All  save  the  blacks  seem'd  jaded  with  vexation, 

From  friends,  and  home,  and  fieedom  far  estranged  : 
The  negroes  more  philosophy  display'd,— 
Used  to  it,  no  doubt,  as  eels  are  to  be  flay'd. 


1  Canto  V.  Vfas  begun  at  Ravenna,  O.tt.tier  llie  IGtl), 
a.id  liuiBtied  November  ll)e  20lh.  ib'K.  It  was  publistieU 
late  in  lti21,  along  with  Cantos  III.  and  IV.—  K. 

2  'Siacavoio  (itoio.  1  his  expression  of  Homer  has 
been  much  eritirised.  It  hardly  anBwem  lo  or  Alianlic 
ideas  of  the  ocean,  hut  is  suffi'cieully  applicable  lo  the 
Hellespont,  anj  the  Bosplioruii,wilh  the  Egeau  intersect- 
ed with  inlands. 

3  The  "Giant's  Grave  "  is  a  heighten  the  Asiatic  shore 
(A  the  Bosphorus,  much  rrequeuted  by  hcliUay  parties; 
like  Harrow  and  Higbgate. 


VIII. 

Juan  was  juvenile,  and  thus  was  full. 

As  most  at  his  age  are,  of  hope,  and  health; 

Yet  I  must  own,  he  Iook"d  a  litile  dull, 
And  now  and  then  a  tear  stole  down  hy  stealth; 

Perhaps  his  recent  loss  of  blocd  might  pull 
His  spirit  down  ;  and  then  the  loss  of  weallh, 

A  mistress,  and  such  comfortable  quarters, 

To  be  put  up  for  auction  amongst  Tartars, 

IX. 

Were  things  to  shake  a  stoic  ;  ne'erlheless. 
Upon  the  whole  his  carriage  was  serene  : 

His  figure,  and  the  splendour  of  his  dress. 
Of  which  tome  gilded  leninants  still  were  seen, 

Drew  all  eyes  on  him,  giving  them  to  guess 
Ha  was  above  the  vulgar  by  his  mien  ; 

And  then,  though  pale,  he  was  so  very  handsome ; 

And  then  —  they  calculated  on  his  ransom. 


Like  a  backgammon  board  the  place  was  dotted 
With  whftes  and  blacks,  in  groups  on  show  for  sale, 

Though  rather  more  irregularly  spotted  : 

Some  bought  the  jet,  while  others  chose  the  pale. 

It  chanced  amongst  the  other  people  lolled, 
A  man  of  thirty,  rather  stout  and  hale, 

With  resolution  in  his  daik  grey  eye, 

Next  Juan  stood,  till  some  might  choose  lo  buy. 

XI. 

He  had  an  English  look  ;  that  is,  was  square 
In  make,  of  a  complexion  white  and  ruddy. 

Good  teeth,  with  curling  rather  dark  biown  hair. 
And,  it  might  be  from  thought,  or  toil,  or  study, 

An  open  brow  a  little  mark'd  with  care: 
One  arm  had  on  a  bandage  rather  bloody  ; 

And  there  he  stood  with  such  sang-froid,  that  greater 

Could  scarce  be  shown  even  by  a  mere  spectator. 

XII. 

But  seeing  at  his  elbow  a  mere  lad, 

Of  a  hieh  spirit  evidently,  though 
At  present  weigh'd  down  by  a  doom  which  had 

O'erthrnwn  even  men,  he  soon  began  to  show 
A  kind  of  blunt  compassion  for  the  sad 

Lot  of  so  young  a  partner  in  the  woe. 
Which  for  himself  he  seem'd  to  deem  no  wone 
Than  any  other  scrape,  a  thing  of  course. 

XIH. 

"  My  boy  ! "  —  said  he,  "amidst  this  motley  crew 
Of  Georgians,  Russians,  Nubians,  and  what  not, 

All  ragnmuffins  differing  but  in  hue. 

With  whom  it  is  our  luck  to  cast  our  lot, 

The  only  gentlemen  seem  I  and  you  ; 
So  let  us  be  acquainted,  as  we  ought: 

If  I  could  yield  you  any  consolation,  [nation  ?" 

'T  would    give  me  pleasure.— Pray,  what    is  yout 

XIV. 
When  Juan  answer'd  —  "  Spanish  !  "  he  replied, 

"  1  thought,  in  fact,  you  could  not  be  a  Greek  ; 
Those  servile  dogs  are  not  so  proudly  eyed  : 

Fortune  has  play'd  you  here  a  pretty  freak. 
But  that  's  her  wav  with  all  men,  till  they  're  tried ; 

But  never  mind,—  ,ne'll  turn,  perhaps,  next  week  ; 
She  hns  served  mc  '.Iso  much  the  same  as  you, 
Except  that  I  havo  found  it  nothing  new." 

XV. 
"  Prav,  sir,'"  said  Juan.  "  if  I  may  presume,     Irare  — 
I      IVhnt   brought  you   here?  "— "  Oh  !  nothing  very 
Six  Tartars  and  a  drag-chain "  —  "  To  tb"  doom   I 

But  what  conducted,  if  the  question  's  fair. 
Is  that  which  I  would  leirii."  — "  I  served  for  some 

Months  with  the  Russian  army  here  and  there. 
And  taking  lately,  by  Suwarrow's  bidding, 
A  town,  was  ta'en  myself  instead  of  VViddin."*  ] 

ulgaria,  on  the  right  l>uk  of 


44 


522 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  V. 


XVL 
"Have  you   no  friends?"  —  "!  had  — but,  by  God's 
blessing, 

Have  not  been  troubled  with  them  lately.     Now 
I  have  answer'd  ^ill  your  questions  without  pressing, 

And  you  an  equal  courtesy  should  show." 
"Alas  !  "  said  Juan,  "  't  were  a  tale  distressing, 

And  long  besides."' —  "  Oh  !  if  'I  is  really  so. 
You  're  right  on  both  accounts  to  hold  your  tongue ; 
A  sad  tale  saddens  doubly,  when  't  is  long. 

XVII. 

"  But  droop  not :  Fortune  at  your  time  of  life, 

Although  a  female  moderately  fickle, 
Will  hardly  leave  you  (as  >he  's  not  your  wife) 

For  any  length  of  days  in  such  a  pickle. 
To  strive,  too,  wiih  our  fate  were  such  a  strife 

As  if  the  corn-sheaf  should  oppose  the  sickle  : 
Men  are  the  sport  of  circumstances,  when 
The  circumstances  seem  the  sport  of  men." 

XVII  I. 

"T  is  not,"  said  Juan,  "  for  my  present  doom 
I  mourn,  but  for  the  past ;  — 'l  loved  a  maid  :  "- 

He  paused,  and  his  dark  eye  grew  full  of  gloom  ; 
A  single  tear  upon  his  eyelash  staid 

A  moment,  and  then  dropp'd  ;  "  but  to  resume, 
T  is  not  my  present  lot,  as  I  hive  said, 

Which  I  deplore  so  much  ;  for  1  have  borne 

Hardships  which  have  the  hardiest  overworn, 

XIX. 

"  On  the  rough  deep.    But  this  last  blow  —  "  and  here 
He  stopp'd  again,  and  lurn'd  away  his  face. 

"  Ay,"  quoth  his  friend,  "  I  thought  it  would  appear, 
That  there  had  been  a  lady  in  the  case ; 

And  these  are  things  which  ask  a  tender  tear. 
Such  as  I,  too,  would  shed  if  in  your  place: 

I  cried  upon  my  first  wife's  dying  day. 
And  also  when  my  second  ran  away  : 

XX. 

"  My  third "  —  "  Your  third  ! "  quoth  Juan,  turn- 
ing round ; 

"  You  scarcely  can  be  thirty  :  have  you  three?" 
"  No  —  only  two  at  present  above  ground  : 

Surely,  't  is  nothing  wonderful  to  see 
One  person  thrice  in  holy  wedlock  bound  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  your  third,"  said  Juan  ;  "  what  did  she? 
She  did  not  run  away,  too, —  did  she,  sir?" 
"  No,  faith."  —  "  Wliat  then  ?  "  —  "I  ran  away  from 
her." 

XXI. 
"  Tou  take  things  coolly,  sir,"  said  Juan.     "  Why," 

Replied  the  other,  "  what  can  a  man  do? 
There  still  are  many  rainbows  in  your  sky. 

But  mine  have  vanish'd.     All,  when  life  is  new. 
Commence  with  feelings  warm,  and  prospects  high  ; 

But  time  strips  our  illusions  of  their  hue. 
And  one  by  one  in  turn,  some  grand  mistake 
Casts  off  its  bright  skin  yearly  like  the  snake. 

XXII. 

"  T  is  true,  it  gets  another  bright  and  fresh. 

Or  fresher,  brighter;  but  the  year  gone  through, 
This  skin  must  go  the  way,  too,  of  all  flesh. 

Or  sometimes  only  wear  a  week  or  two  ;  — 
Love's  the  first  net  which  spreads  its  deadly  mesh  ; 

Ambition,  Avarice,  Vengeance,  Glory,  elue 
The  glittering  lime-twigs  of  our  latter  days. 
Where  still  we  flutter  on  for  pence  or  praise." 

XXIII. 
"  All  this  is  very  fine,  and  may  be  true," 

Said  Juan  ;  "  but  I  really  don't  see  how 

II  betters  present  times  with  me  or  you." 

"  No  ?  "  quoth  the  other ;  "  yet  you  will  allow 
By  setting  things  in  their  right  point  of  view. 

Knowledge,  at  least,  is  gain'd  ;  for  instance,  now, 
We  know  what  slavery  is,  and  our  disasters 
May  teach  us  better  to  behave  when  masters." 


XXIV. 

"  Would  we  were  masters  now,  if  but  to  try 

Their  present  lessons  on  our  Paean  friends  here," 
Said  Juan  —  swallowing  a  heart-burning  sigh  : 

•'  Heaven  help  the  scholar,  whom  his  fortune  sends 
here  I " 
"  Perhaps  we  shall  lie  one  day,  by  and  by," 

Rejnin'd  the  other,  "  when  our  bad  luck  mends  here; 
Meanlinie  (yon  old  black  eunuch  seems  to  eye  us) 

I  wish  to  G — d  that  somebody  would  buy  us  ! 

XXV. 

"  But  after  all,  what  is  our  present  state  ? 

'T  is  bad,  and  may  be  better  — all  men's  lot; 
Most  men  are  slaves,  none  more  so  than  the  great. 

To  their  own  whims  and  passions,  and  what  not ; 
Society  itself,  which  should  create 

Kindness,  destroys  what  little  we  had  got : 
To  feel  for  none  is  the  true  social  art 
Of  the  world's  stoics  —  men  without  a  heart." 

XXVI. 

Just  now  a  black  old  neutral  personage 
Of  the  third  sex  s'ept  up,  and  peering  over 

The  captives  seem'd  to  mark  their  looks  and  age, 
And  capabilities,  as  to  discover 

If  they  were  fitted  for  the  purposed  cage: 
No  lady  e'er  is  ogled  by  a  lover. 

Horse  by  a  blackleg,  broadcloih  by  a  tailor, 

Fee  by  a  counsel,  felon  by  a  jailor, 

XXVII. 

As  is  a  slave  by  his  intended  bidder. 

'T  is  pleasant  purchasing  our  fellow-creatures; 
And  all  are  to  be  sold,  if  you  consider 

Their  passions,  and  are  dext'rous  ;  some  by  features 
Are  bought  up,  others  liy  a  warlike  leader. 

Some  by  a  place—  as  tend  their  years  or  natures, 
The  most'by  ready  cash  —  but  all  have  prices. 
From  crowns  to  kicks,  according  to  their  vices. 

XXVIII. 

The  eunuch  having  eyed  them  o'er  with  care, 
Turn'd  to  the  merchant,  and  began  to  bid 

First  but  for  one,  and  after  for  the  pair ; 
They  haggled,  wrangled,  swore,  too  —  so  they  did  ! 

As  though  they  were  in  a  mere  Christian  fair, 
Cheapening  an  ox,  an  ass,  a  lamb,  or  kid  ; 

So  that  their  bargain  sounded  like  a  battle 

For  this  superior  yoke  of  human  cattle. 

XXIX. 

At  last  they  settled  into  simple  grumbling. 

And  pulling  out  reluctant  purses,  and 
Turning  each  piece  of  silver  o'er,  and  tumbling 

Some  down,  and  weighing  others  in  their  hand, 
And  by  mistake  sequins  1  with  paras  jumbling. 

Until  the  sum  was  accurately  scann'd. 
And  then  the  merchant,  giving  change,  and  signin; 
Receipts  in  full,  began  to  think  of  dining. 

XXX. 

I  wonder  if  his  appetite  was  good  ? 

Or,  if  it  were,  if  also  his  digestion  ? 
Methinks  at  meals  some  odd  though's  might  intnxie, 

And  conscience  ask  a  curious  sort  of  question. 
About  the  right  divine  how  far  we  should 

Sell  flesh  and  blood.     When  dinner  has  opprest  one, 
I  think  it  is  perhaps  the  gloonriesi  hour 
Which  turns  up  out  of  the  sad  twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire  says  "  No  :  "  he  tells  you  that  Candide 

Found  life  most  tolerable  after  meals  ; 
He  's  wrong  —  unless  man  were  a  pig,  indeed, 

Repletion  rather  adds  to  what  he  feels. 


The   TurkiBh    zercbino  is  a  gold  cnin,  worth   aboal  ! 
teteo  nhilliuga  and  sixpeorr.     The  para  la  not  qoite  equal 
I  English  balfpennjr.—  K. 


Canto  V.] 


DON  JUAN. 


523 


Unless  he  's  drunk,  and  then  no  doubt  he 's  freed 
From  his  own  brain's  oppression  while  it  reels. 
Of  food  1  think  with  Philip's  sod,i  or  rather 
Anmioo's  (ill  pleased  with  one  world  and  one  father ;) 

XXXII. 

I  think  with  Alexander,  that  the  act 

Of  eating,  with  another  act  or  two, 
Makes  us  feel  our  mortali'y  in  fact 

Redoubled  ;  when  a  roast  and  a  raeout, 
And  fish,  and  soup,  by  some  side  dishes  back'd, 

Cin  give  us  either  pain  or  pleasure,  who 
Would  pique  himself  on  intellects,  whose  use 
Depends  so  much  upon  the  gastric  juice  ? 

XXXIII. 

The  other  evening  ('(  was  on  Friday  last) . 

This  is  a  fact,  and  no  poetic  fable  — 
Just  as  my  great-coat  was  about  me  cast. 

My  hat  and  gloves  still  lying  on  the  table, 
I  heard  a  shot  — 't  was  eight  o'clock  scarce  past  — 

And,  running  out  as  fast  as  I  was  able,"* 
I  found  the  niilitary  commandant 
Stretch'd  in  the  street,  and  able  scarce  to  pant. 

XXXIV. 

Poor  fellow  !  for  some  reason,  surely  bad, 

They  had  stain  him  with  five  slugs;  and  left  bim 
there 

To  perish  on  the  pavement :  so  I  had 

Him  borne  into  the  house  and  up  the  stair, 

And  stripp'd,  and  lookd  to,— But  why  should  I  add 
More  circumstances  ?  vain  "as  every  care  ; 

The  man  was  gone  :  in  some  Italian  quarrel 

Kill'd  by  five  bullets  from  an  old  gun-barrel. 

XXXV. 

I  gazed  upon  him,  for  I  knew  him  well ; 

And  though  1  h^ve  seen  many  corpses,  never 
Saw  one,  whom  such  an  accident  befell, 

So  calm;  though  pierced  through  stomach,  heart, 
and  liver, 
He  seem'd  to  sleep, —  for  you  could  scarcely  tell 

(As  he  bled  inwardly,  no  hideous  river 
Of  gore  divulged  the  cause)  that  he  was  dead  : 
So  as  I  gazed  on  bim,  I  thought  or  said  — 

XXXVI. 

"  Can  this  be  death  ?  then  what  is  life  or  death  ? 

Speak! "but  he  spoke  not:  "wake!"  but  still  be 
slept :  — 
"  But  yesterday  and  who  had  mightier  breath  ? 

A  thousand  warriors  by  his  word  were  kept 
In  awe  :  he  said,  as  the  centurion  saiih, 

'  Go,'  and  he  goelh  ;  '  come,'  and  forth  he  slepp'd. 
The  trump  and  bugle  till  he  spake  were  dumb  — 
And  now  nought  left  him  but  the  muffled  drum." 

XXXVII. 

And  they  who  waited  once  and  worshipp'd —  they 
VVjlh  their  rough  faces  throng'd  about  the  bed 

To  gaze  once  more  on  the  commanding  clay 

Which  for  tne  last,  though  not  the  first,  time  bled  ; 

And  such  an  end  !  that  he  who  many  a  day 
Had  f  iced  Napoleon's  foes  until  they  fled, — 

The  foremost  in  the  charge  or  in  the  sally. 

Should  now  be  butcher'd  in  a  civic  alley. 


1  See  Plutarch  in  Alex.,  Q.  Curt.  Hist.  Alexander, 
aod  Sir  Richard  Clayton'8  "Critical  luquiry  into  the  Life 
of  Alexander  the  Great." 

3  The  asKassination  alluded  to  tools  pla.e  on  the  flh  of 
December,  IfcW,  in  the  atreels  of  Ravenna,  onr  a  hoiiured 
paces  from  the  residence  nf  ttie  writer.  The  circuni- 
•UDces  were  as  described. 


XXXVIII. 

The  scars  of  his  old  wounds  were  near  his  new, 
Those  honourable  scars  which  brought  him  fame; 

And  horrid  was  the  contrast  to  the  view 

Bui  let  me  quit  the  theme;  as  such  things  claim 

Perhaps  even  more  attention  than  h  due 

From  me :  I  gazed  (as  oft  I  have  gazed  the  same) 

To  try  if  I  could  wrench  aught  out  of  death 

Which  should  confirm,  or  shake,  or  make  a  faith ; 

XXXIX. 

But  it  was  all  a  mystery.     Here  we  are, 
And  there  we  go :  —  but  where  ?  five  bits  of  lead. 

Or  three,  or  two,  or  one,  send  very  far  ! 

And  is  this  blood,  then,  form'd  but  to  be  shed  ? 

Can  every  element  our  elements  mar? 
Andnir  —  earth  —  water  —  fire  live  — and  we  dead  ? 

We,  whose  minds  comprehend  all  things.     No  more  ; 

But  let  us  to  the  story  as  before, 

XL. 
The  purchaser  of  Juan  and  acquaintance 

Bore  off  his  bargains  to  a  gilded  boat, 
Embark'd  himself  and  them,  and  off  they  went  thence 

As  fast  as  oars  could  pull  and  water  flo  it ; 
They  look'd  like  persons  being  led  to  sentence, 

Wond'ring  what  next,  till  the  caique  3  was  brought 
Up  in  a  little  creek  below  a  wall 
O'ertopp'd  with  cypresses,  dark-green  and  talL 

XLI. 

Here  their  conductor  tapping  at  the  wicket 
Of  a  small  iron  door,  't  was  open'd,  and 

He  led  them  onward,  first  through  a  low  thicket 
Flank'd   by  large  groves,  which  tower'd  on  either 
hand: 

They  almost  lost  their  way,  and  had  to  pick  it  — 
For  night  was  closing  ere  they  came  to  land. 

The  eunuch  made  a  sign  to  those  on  board, 

Who  row'd  off,  leaving  them  without  a  word. 

XLII. 

As  they  were  plodding  on  their  winding  way 

Through  orange  bowers,  and  jasmine,  and'  so  forth : 

(Of  which  I  might  have  a  good  deal  to  say. 
There  being  no  such  profusion  in  the  North 

Of  oriental  plants,  "et  cetera,"  . 
But  that  of  late  your  scribblers  think  it  worth 

Their  while  to  rear  whole  holbeds  in  their  works 

Because  one  poet  travell'd  'mongst  the  Turks  :)* 

XLI  II. 
As  they  were  threading  on  their  way,  there  came 

Into  Don  Juan's  head  a  thought,  which  he 
Whisper'd  lo  his  companion  :  —  't  wns  the  same 

Which  might  have  then  occurr'd  to  you  or  me. 
"  Methink',"— said  he,—-'  it  would  be 'no  great  shame 

If  we  should  strike  a  stroke  to  set  us  free  ; 
Let's  knock  that  old  black  fellow  on  the  head, 
And  march  away  —  'I  were  easier  done  than  said." 


XLIV. 
"  Yes,"  Slid  the  other,  "  and  when  done,  what  then  ? 

How  get  out  ?  how  (he  devil  got  we  in  ? 
And  when  we  once  were  fairly  out,  and  when 

From  Saint  Bartholomew  we  have  saved  our  sk5n,» 
To-morrow  'd  see  us  in  some  other  den. 

And  worse  off  than  we  hitherto  have  been  ; 
Besides,  I  'm  hungry,  and  just  now  would  take, 
Like  Esau,  for  my  birthright  a  beef-steak. 


S  The  light  and  elegant  wherries  plying  about  the  quays 
of  Conslantinople  are  so  called. 

4  "  Eastern  Sketches,"  "Parga,"  "Phrosyne,"  •'  Ilde- 
rirn,"  Sec.  6ic. —  E. 

e  St.  Bartholomew  is  said  to  have  been  flayed  »live. 


524 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  V. 


XLV. 
"  We  mus!  be  near  some  place  of  man's  abode  ;  — 

For  the  old  negro's  contideiice  in  creeping, 
With  his  luo  captives,  bv  so  queer  a  road. 
Shows  that   he  thinks'  his  friends  ha\e  not  been 
sleeping ; 
A  single  cry  would  bring  them  ail  abroad: 
'T  is  therefore  betier  looking  before  leaping- 


LIII. 


Along  this  hall,  and  up  and  down,  some,  squatted 
Upon  their  hams,  were  occupied  at  chess; 

Others  in  monosyllable  Mk  chatted. 
And  sonieseem'd  much  in  love  with  their  own  drew; 

And  divers  smoked  supeib  pipes,  decorated 
With  amber  mouths  of  greater  pi  ice  or  less; 

And  several  strutted,  nthers  slept,  and  some 


And  there,  you  see,  this  turn  has  brought  us  through,      Prepared  for  supper 'with  a  glass 'of  rum. 
By  Jo\e,  anoble  Dalace    —  liehled  tiio.'  I  '^'^  * 


By  Jo\e,  a  noble  palace  !  —  lighted  too 

XLVI. 
It  was  indeed  a  wide  extensive  building 

Which  open'd  on  their  view,  and  o'er  ihe  front 
There  seem'd  to  be  besprent  a  deal  of  gilding 

Ai;d  various  hues,  as  is  Ihe  Turkish  wont, — 
Apudy  taste;  ftir  they  are  little  skill'd  in 

The  arts  of  which  these  lauds  were  once  the  font: 
Each  villa  on  the  Bosphorus  looks  a  screen 
New  painted,  or  a  pretty  opera-scene. 

XLVI  I. 

And  nearer  as  they  came,  a  genial  savour 
Of  certain  slews,  and  roast-meats,  and  pilaus. 

Things  which  in  hungry  mortals'  eyes  find  favour, 
Made  Juan  in  his  haish  intentions  pause, 

And  put  himself  upon  his  good  behaviour : 
His  friend,  too,  adding  a  new  saving  clause, 

Said,  "In  Heaven's  name  let 's  get  some  supper  now, 

And  then  I  'm  with  you,  if  you  're  fo.-  a  row." 

XLVIII. 

Some  talk  of  an  appeal  unto  some  pas'^ion. 
Some  to  men's  feelings,  others  to  their  reason ; 

The  last  of  these  was  never  much  the  fashion, 
For  reason  thinks  all  reisoning  out  of  season ; 

Some  speakers  whine,  and  others  lay  the  lash  on, 
But  more  or  less  continue  slill  to  tease  on, 

Wiih  arguments  according  to  their  >'  forte  ;  " 

But  no  cue  ever  dreams  of  being  short. — 

XLIX. 

But  I  digress:  of  all  appeals,— although 
I  grant  the  power  of  pathos,  and  of  gold, 

Of  beauty,  flattery,  threats,  a  shilling,— no 
Method  's  niTe  sure  at  monjen's  to  take  hold 

Of  the  best  feelings  nf  mankind,  which  grow 
More  tender,  as  we  every  day  behold, 

Than  that  all-softening,  overpowering  knell. 

The  tocsin  of  the  soul  —  the  dinner-bell. 


Turkey  contains  no  bells,  and  yet  men  dine  ; 

And  Juan  and  his  friend,  albeit  they  heard 
No  Christian  knoll  to  table,  saw  no  line 

Of  lackeys  usher  to  Ihe  feast  prepared. 
Yet  smelt  roast-meat,  beheld  a  huge  tie  shine. 

And  cooks  in  motion  with  their  clean  arms  bared, 
And  gaze-i  aroun-i  them  to  the  left  and  right, 
With  the  prophetic  eye  of  appetite. 

LI. 
And  giving  up  all  notions  of  re^^istance, 

They  follow'd  close  behind  their  sable  guide. 
Who  little  thought  that  his  own  crack'd  existence 

Was  on  the  point  of  being  set  aside : 
He  motiou'd  them  to  stop  at  some  small  distance, 

And  knocking  at  the  gale,  'I  was  open'd  wide, 
And  a  magnilicenl  large  hall  dl^play'd 
The  Asian  pomp  of  Ottoman  parade. 

LII. 
I  won't  describe  ;  description  is  my  forte, 

But  every  fool  describes  in  these  bright  days 
His  wondrous  journey  to  some  foreign  court. 

And  s|iawns  his  quarto,  and  demands  your  praise  — 
Death  to  his  publisher,  to  him  't  is  sjiort ; 

While  Nature,  tortured  twenty  thousand  ways, 
Resigns  herself  with  exemplary  patience 
To  guide-books,  rhymes,  tours,  sketches,  illustrations. 


LIV. 

As  the  black  eunuch  enter'd  with  his  brace 
I     Of  purchased  Infidels,  some  raised  their  eyet 

A  moment,  without  slackening  from  their  pace; 
I      But  tho-e  who  sate,  ne'er  siirr'd  in  any  wise  : 

One  or  two  stared  the  captives  in  the  face, 
Just  as  one  views  a  horse  to  guess  his  price ; 

Some  nodded  to  the  negro  from  their  station. 

But  no  one  troubled  him  with  conversation. 
I  LV. 

He  leads  them  through  the  hall,  and,  without  stopping, 
On  through  a  farther  range  of  goodly  rooms. 

Splendid  but  silent,  save  in  one,  where,  dropping,* 
j      A  marble  fountain  echoes  through  the  glooms 
;  Of  night,  which  robe  the  chaml)er,  or  where  popping 
I      Some  female  head  most  curiously  presumes 

To  thrust  its  black  eyes  through  the  door  or  lattice. 

As  wondering  what  the  devilnoise  that  is. 

j  LVL 

Some  faint  lamps  gleaming  from  the  lofty  walls 

Gave  light  enough  to  hint  their  farther  way. 
But  not  enough  to  show  the  imperial  halls 

In  all  the  flashing  of  their  full  array  ; 
Perhaps  there's  nothing —  1  '11  not  say  appals, 

But  saddens  more  by  night  as  well  as  day, 
Than  an  enormous  room  without  a  soul 
To  break  Ihe  lifeless  splendour  of  the  whole. 

LVII. 
Two  or  three  seem  so  little,  one  seems  nothing : 

In  deserts,  forests,  crowds,  or  by  the  shore. 
There  solitude,  we  know,  has  her  full  growth  in 

The  spots  which  were  her  realms  for  evermore; 
But  in  a  mighty  hall  or  gallery,  both  in 

More  modern  buildings  and  those  built  of  yore, 
A  kind  of  death  comes  o'er  us  all  alone. 
Seeing  what 's  meant  for  many  with  but  one 

LVIIL 

A  neat,  snug  study  on  a  winter's  night, 

A  book,  friend,  single  lady,  or  a  glass 
Of  claret,  sandwich,  and  an  appetite, 

Are  things  which  make  an  English  evening  pass ; 
Though  certes  by  no  means  so  grand  a  sight 

As  is  a  theatre  lit  up  by  gas. 
I  pass  my  evenings  in  long  galleries  solely ; 
And  that 's  the  reason  I  'm  so  melancholy. 

LIX. 

Alas  !  man  makes  that  great  which  makes  him  little: 
I  grant  you  in  a  church  't  is  very  well : 

What  speaks  of  Heaven  should  by'no  means  be  brittle. 
But  strong  and  lasiin?,  till  no  tongue  can  tell 

Their  names  who  rear'd  it;  but  huge  houses  fit  ill  — 
And  huge  tombs  worse  —  mankind,  since  Adam  fell: 

Methinks  the  story  of  Ihe  tower  of  Babel 

Might  leach  them  this  much  belter  than  1  'm  able. 


1  In  Turkey  nothing  is  more  common  than  for  the 
Mussnlmana  to  takp  several  giaBses  of  strong  •pirits  by 
way  of  appvlizer.  I  have  seen  thpm  U>e  as  many  an  iix 
of  raki  before  dinner,  and  swear  that  thry  diued  the  bel- 
ter fur  it;  I  tried  Ihe  experiment,  but  fared  like  Ihe 
Srolrhman,  who  having  heard  that  Ihe  birds  called  kitti- 
wbkes  were  admirable  whets,  ale  six  of  them,  and  tom- 
plained  Ihat  -he  was  no  hungrier  than  when  he  breui." 

2  A  ciimrooD  furniture.  I  recollect  l>eing  receivd  by 
A)i  Pacha,  in  a  large  room,  paved  with  marble,  contain- 
ing a  marble   baaio,  and    fouulaio  playing  in  the  cer:.-c. 


Canto  V.] 


DON  JUAN. 


525 


LX. 

I  Babel  was  Nirorod's  hunting-box,  and  Ihen 

A  town  of  eardens,  walls,  and  wealth  amazing, 
'  Where  Nabuchadonosor,  kine  of  men, 

Reign'd,  till  one  summer's  day  he  took  to  grazing, 
And  Daniel  tamed  the  lions  in  their  den, 

Tl  e  people's  awe  and  admiration  mi'iiis; ; 
'T  w«s  famous,  too,  for  Thisbe  and  for  Pynmus, 
And  the  calumniated  queen  Semiramis.—  » 

LXI. 
That  injured  Queen,  by  chroniclers  so  coarse. 

Has  been  accused  (I  doubt  not  by  conspir.icy) 
Of  an  improper  frieijd!.hip  for  her  horse 

(Love,  like  religion,  sometimes  runs  to  heresy): 
This  monstrous  tale  had  probably  its  source 

(For  such  ex^egeralions  here  and  there  1  see) 
In  writing  "  Courser  "  by  mistake  for  '•  Courier:  " 
I  wish  the  case  could  come  bjfore  a  jury  bere.^ 

LXI  I. 
But  to  resume, —  should  there  be  (what  may  not 

Be  in  these  days?)  some  infidels,  who  don't, 
Because  they  can't  find  out  the  very  spot 

Of  that  same  Babel,  or  beciu-e  ihey  won't 
(Thnuzh  Claudius  Rich,  Esquire,  some  bricks  has  got, 

And  written  litely  two  memoirs  upon  'l,)3 
Believe  the  Jews,  those  unbelievers,  wlio 
Must  be  believed,  though  they  believe  not  you. 

LXIII. 
Yet  let  them  think  that  Horace  has  expresf 

Shortly  and  sweetly  the  masonic  folly 
Of  those,  forgetting  the  great  place  of  rest, 

W  ho  give  themselves  to  architecture  wholly  ; 
We  know  where  things  and  men  must  end  at  best: 

A  moral  (like  all  morals)  melancholy. 
And  "Et  sepulchri  imniemor  struis  domos" 
Shows  that  we  build  when  we  should  but  entomb  us. 

LXIV. 
At  last  they  reach'd  a  quarter  most  retired. 

Where  echo  woke  as  if  from  a  long  slumber  ; 
Though  full  of  all  things  which  c-ould  be  desired. 

One  wonder'd  what  to  do  with  such  a  number 
Of  articles  which  nobody  required  ; 

Here  wealth  had  done'  iis  uniost  to  encumber 
With  furniture  an  exquisite  apartment. 
Which  puzzled  Nature  much  to  know  what  Art  meant. 

LXV. 
It  seem'd,  however,  but  to  open  on 

A  range  or  suite  of  further  chambers,  which 
Might  lead  to  heaven  knows  w  here  ;  but  in  this  one 

The  moveables  were  prodigally  rich  : 
Sofas  'I  was  half  a  sin  to  sil  upon, 

So  costly  were  they  ;  carpets  every  stitch 
Of  workmanship  so  rare,  they  made  you  wish 
You  could  glide  o'er  them  like  a  golden  fish. 

LXVI. 
The  black,  hovvever,  without  hardly  deigning 

A  glance  at  that  which  wrapt  the  slaves  in  wonder. 
Trampled  what  Ihey  scarce  trod  for  fear  of  staining, 

As  if  the  milky  way  their  feel  wms  under 
With  all  its  stars  ;  and  with  a  s'retch  attaining 

A  certain  press  or  cupboard  niched  in  yonder  — 
In  that  remote  recess  which  you  may  see  — 
Or  if  you  don't  the  fault  is  not  in  nje,— 


1  Batiylnn  was  enlarged  by  Ximrod,  strengthened  and 
beoulified  by  Jiabuctiadonosor,  and  rebuilt  by  Semiratnis. 

2  At  the  time  when  Lord  Byron  was  writing  this 
Canto,  the  unfortunate  aftair  of  Clueen  Caroline,  charged, 
smcng  other  olTeDoes,  with  admitliog  her  chamberlain, 
Birgami,  oriei rally  a  courier,  toiler  bed,  was  ociupy- 
ing  much  atttntion  in  Ituly,  aB  in  England.  The  allii- 
(loos  to  the  domestic  troubles  of  George  IV.  in  the  text 
■  re  frequent. —  E. 

J"Two  Memoirs  on  the  Ruins  cf  Babylon,  by  Claudios 
Jame«  Rich,  Esq.,  Resident  for  the  East  India  Company, 
St  the  Court  of  the  Pasha  of  Bagdat."—  E. 


Lxvn. 

I  wiib  to  be  perspicuous;  and  the  black, 
I  say,  unlocking  the  recess,  puH'd  forlh 

A  quantity  of  clothes  fit  for  the  back 
Of  any  Mussulman,  whate'er  his  worth; 

And  of  variety  there  was  no  lack  — 

And  yet.  though  I  have  said  there  was  no  deartb,^ 

He  chose  himself  to  point  out  what  he  thought 

Most  proper  for  the  Christians  he  bad  bought. 

LXVIII. 

The  suit  he  thought  most  suitable  to  each 
Was.  for  the  elder  and  the  siouler,  first 

A  Candiote  cloak,  which  to  the  kuee  might  reach. 
And  trousers  no!  so  ti;hl  that  tney  w:uld  burst. 

But  such  as  fit  an  Asiitic  breech  ; 
A  shaw-:,  w  hose  folds  in  Cashmire  had  been  nursf, 

Slippers  of  saffron,  dasger  lich  and  handy  : 

In  short,  all  things  which  form  a  Turkish  Dand> 

LXIX. 

While  he  was  dressing,  Bnba,  their  black  friend, 
Hinted  the  vast  advantages  which  they 

Might  probably  obtain  both  in  the  end, 
If  Ihey  would  but  pursue  the  proper  way 

Which  Fortune  plainly  seem"d  to  recommend; 
And  then  he  added,  that  he  needs  must  say, 

"  "T  would  greatly  tend  to  belter  their  conditio!*. 

If  they  would  condescend  to  circumcision. 

LXX. 

"  For  his  own  part,  he  really  should  rejoice 
To  see  them  true  believers,  but  no  'icn 

Would  leave  his  proiwsiliofi  |o  iheir  choice." 
The  other,  thanking  him  for  this  excess 

Of  goodness,  in  thus  leaving  them  a  voice 
hi  such  a  Irirte,  scarcely  could  express 

"  Sufficiently  "  (he  said)  •'  his  approbation 

Of  all  the  customs  of  this  polisb'd  nation. 

LXXL 

"  For  his  own  share  —  he  saw  but  small  objcctioo 

To  so  respectable  an  ancient  rile; 
And,  after  swallowing  down  a  slight  refection, 

For  which  he  own'd  a  present  t|)pe!ite. 
He  doubled  not  a  few  hours  of  reflection 

Would  reconcile  him  to  \',ie  business  quite." 
"  Will  it  ?  "  said  Juan,  sharply  :  "  Strike  me  dead, 
But  they  as  soon  shall  circumcise  my  head  ! 

LXXII. 

"  Cut  off  a  thousand  he:\ds,  before "  —  "  Now 

pray," 

Replied  the  other,  "do  not  interrupt : 
You  put  me  out  in  what  I  had  to  say. 

Sir  !  —  as  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  have  supt, 
I  shall  perpend  if  your  proposal  may 

lie  such  as  I  can  properly  accept ; 
Provided  always  your  great  goodness  still 
Remits  the  matter  to  our  own  free-will." 


LXXIH. 
Baba  eyed  Juan,  and  said,  "  Be  so  good 

As  dress  yourself—  "  and  pointed  out  a  suit 
In  which  a  Princess  with  grea'  pleasure  would 

Array  her  limbs;  but  Joan  standing  mule, 
As  not  being  in  a  masquerading  mood. 

Gave  it  a  slight  kick  with  his  Christian  foot; 
And  w  hen  the  old  negro  told  him  to  "  Get  ready," 
Replied,  "  Old  gentleman,  I  'm  not  a  lady." 

LXXIV. 

"  What  you  may  be,  I  neither  know  nor  care," 
Said  Baba  ;  "  but  pray  do  as  I  desire : 

I  have  no  more  lime  nor  many  words  to  spare." 
"  At  lensl,"  said  Juan,  "sure  I  may  inquire 

The  cause  of  this  odd  travesty  ?"  — '•  Forbear," 
Said  Baba,  "  to  be  curious;  t  will  transpire, 

No  doubt,  in  proper  place,  and  lime,  and  «ea«c 

1  have  no  authority  to  tell  the  reason." 


IJ 


526 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  V. 


LXXV. 

"  Then  if  I  do,"  said  Juan,  "  I  '11  be "  —  "  Hold  !  » 

Rejoin'd  the  negro,  "pray  be  not  provoking  ; 

This  spirit's  well,  but  it  may  ivax  too  bold. 
And  you  will  find  us  not  too  fond  of  jokine;." 

"  What,  sir,"  said  Juan,  "  shall  it  e'er  be  told 
That  I  unsex'd  my  dress?"  But  Baba,  stroking 

The  things  down,  said,  '•  Incense  me,  and  1  call 

Those  who  will  leave  you  of  no  sex  at  all : 

LXXVI. 

"  I  offer  you  a  handsome  suit  of  clothes  : 
A  woman's,  true ;  but  then  there  is  a  cause 

Why  you  should  wear  them." — "What,  though  my 
soul  loathes 
The  etfeminale  garb?"  —  thus,  after  a  short  pause, 

Sigh'd  Ju  in,  muttering  also  sonje  slight  oaths, 
"  What  the  devil  shall  I  do  with  all  this  gauze  ?'» 

Thus  he  profanely  term'd  the  finest  lace 

Which  e'er  set  off  a  marriage-morning  face. 

LXXVII. 

And  then  he  swore;  and,  sighing,  on  he  slipp'd 
A  pair  of  trousers  of  fieshcolour'd  siik  ; 

Next  with  a  virgin  zone  he  was  equipp'J, 

Which  girt  a  slight  chemise  as  while  as  milk  ; 

But  tugging  on  his  petticoat,  he  tripp'd, 

Which  —  as  we  say  —  or,  as  the  Scotch  say,  tvhilk, 

(The  rhyme  obliges  nie  to  this  ;  sometimes 

Mooarchs  are  less  imperative  than  rhymes)  — 

LXXVIII. 
Whilk,  which  (or  what  you  please),  was  owing  t 

His  garment's  novelty,  and  hi~  being  awkward  : 
And  yet  at  last  he  managed  to  get  through 

His  toilet,  though  no  dnubt  a  liille  backward  : 
The  negro  Baba  help'd  a  liille  loo. 

When  some  untoward  part  of  raiment  stuck  hard ; 
And,  wrestling  both  his  arms  into  a  gown. 
He  p.iused,  and  took  a  survey  up  aud  down. 

LXXIX. 

One  difficulty  still  remain'd  —  his  hair 
Was  hardly  long  enough  ;  but  Baba  found 

So  many  false  long  tresses  all  to  spare, 

That  soon  his  head  was  most  completely  erown'd, 

After  the  manner  then  in  fashion  there  ; 
And  this  addition  with  such  gems  was  bound 

As  suited  the  ensemble  of  his  toilet. 

While  Baba  made  him  comb  his  head  and  oil  it. 

LXXX. 

And  now  being  femininely  all  array'd. 

With    some    small    aid   from    scissors,   paint,  and 
tweezers. 
He  look'd  in  almost  all  respects  a  maid. 

And  Bab*  smilingly  exclaim'd,  "  You  see,  sirs, 
A  perfect  transformation  here  display'd  ; 

And  now,  then,  you  must  come  along  with  me,  sirs, 
That  is  —  the  Lady  : "  clapping  his  hands  twice, 
Four  blacks  were  at  bis  elbow  in  a  trice. 

LXXXI. 

"  You,  sir,"  said  Baba,  nodding  fo  the  one, 
"  Will  please  to  accompany  those  gentlemen 

To  supper;  but  you,  worthy  Christian  nun. 
Will  follow  me:  no  trifling,  sir;  for  when 

I  say  a  thing,  it  must  at  once  be  done. 

What  fear  y""  ?  think  you  this  a  lion's  den  ? 

Why,  't  is  a  pahce  ;  where  the  truly  wise 

Anticipate  the  Prophet's  paradise. 

Lxsxir. 

«' You  fool  !  I  tell  you  no  oje  means  you  harm." 
"  So  much  the  better,"  Juan  said,  '•  for  them  ; 

Else  they  shall  feel  the  weight  of  this  my  arm. 
Which  is  not  quite  so  light  as  you  may  deem. 

I  yield  thus  far;  but  soon  will  break  the  charm, 
If  any  take  me  for  th^t  which  I  seem  : 

So  that  I  trust  for  every  body's  sake. 

That  this  disguise  may  lead  to  no  mistake." 


LXXXUI. 

"  Blockhead  '.  come  on,  and  see,"  quoth  Baba ;  while 

Don  Juan,  turning  to  his  comrade,  w  ho 
Though  somewhat  grieved,  could  scirce  forbear  a  smile 

Upon  the  metamorphosis  in  view, — 
"  Farewell  I  "  Ihey  mutually  exclaim'd  :  "  thit  (Oil 

Seems  fertile  in  adventures  strange  and  new; 
One  's  turn'd  half  Mussulman,  and  one  a  maid, 
By  this  old  black  enchanter's  unsought  aid. 

LXXXIV. 
"  Farewell !  "  said  Juan  :  "  should  we  meet  no  more, 

I  wish  you  a  good  appetite."—  "Farewell ;  " 
Replied  the  other  ;  "though  it  grieves  me  sore: 
When  we  next  meet,  we  'II  have  a  tale  to  tell : 
We  needs  must  follow  when  Fate  puts  from  shore. 

Keep  your  good  name:  though   E;e  herself  ooce 
fell." 
"  Nay,'  quoth  the  maid,  "  the  Sultan's  self  sbant  carry 
Unless  his  highness  promises  to  marry  me."  [me, 

LXXXV. 
And  thus  they  parted,  ench  by  separate  doors ; 

Baba  led  Juan  onward  room  by  room 
Through  glittering  galleries,  and  o'er  marble  floors. 

Till  a  gigantic  ponal  through  the  gioom, 
Haughty  and  huge,  along  the  "distance  lowers  ; 

And  wafled  far  arose  a  rich  perfume: 
It  seem'd  as  though  they  came  upon  a  shrine, 
For  all  was  vast,  still,  fragrant,  and  divine. 

LXXXVI. 
The  giant  door  was  broad,  and  bright,  :iDd  high, 

Of  gilded  bronze,  and  carved  in  curious  guise; 
Warriors  thereon  were  battling  furiously; 

Here  stalks  the  victor,  there  the  vanquish'd  lies; 
There  captives  led  in  triumph  droop  the  eye, 

And  in  perspective  many  a  squadron  flies: 
It  seems  the  work  of  limes  before  the  line 
Of  Rome  transplanted  fell  with  Coustautioe. 

LXXXVII. 
This  inassy  portal  stood  at  the  wide  close 

Of  a  huge  hall,  and  on  its  either  side 
Two  little  dwarfs,  the  least  you  could  suppose. 

Were  sate,  like  ugly  imps,  as  if  allied 
1>T  mockery  lo  the  enormous  gale  which  rose 

O'er  them  in  almost  pyramidic  pride: 
The  gate  so  splendid  was  in  all  its  featura,t 
You  never  thought  about  those  little  creatures, 

LXXXVIII. 
Until  you  nearly  trod  on  them,  and  then 

You  started  back  in  horror  to  survey 
The  wondrous  hideousiiess  of  those  small  men. 

Whose  colour  was  not  bUrk,  nor  while,  uor  grey, 
But  an  extraneous  mixture,  which  no  pen 

Can  trace,  allhough  perhaps  the  pencil  may  ; 
They  were  mis-shapen  pigmies,  deaf  and  dumb, — 
Monsters,  who  cost  a  no  less  monstrous  sum. 

LXXXIX. 
Their  duty  was  —  for  they  were  strong,  and  though 

They  look'd  so  little,  did  strong  things  at  times  — 
To  ope  this  door,  which  Ihey  could  really  do. 

The  hinges  being  as  sniooih  as  Rogers'  rhymes  ; 
And  now  and  then,  with  tough  strings  of  the  bow, 

As  is  the  custom  of  those  Eastern  climes. 
To  give  some  rebel  Pacha  a  cravat ; 
For  niutes  are  generally  used  for  that. 

XC. 
They  spoke  by  signs  —  that  is,  not  spoke  at  all ; 

And  looking  like  two  incubi,  they  glared 
As  Baba  with  his  fingers  made  them  Yall 

To  helving  back  the  portal  folds  :  it  scared 
Juan  a  moment,  as  this  pair  so  small, 

With  shrinking  s»rpent  optics  on  him  stared  ; 
It  was  as  if  their  liille  looks  cnulJ  poison 
Or  fascinate  who-ic'er  they  fix'd  their  eyes  on. 


1  Features  of  a  gate  — a  ministerial    metaphn 
feature    upon    wliich    this   qufslion   hinget."     I 
Fudge  Family,"  or  liear  Casllereagb. 


Canto  V.] 


DON  JUAN. 


527 


xci. 

Before  Ihey  enter'd,  R;iba  paused  to  hint 
To  Juan  some  slight  lessons  as  his  guide  : 

"  If  you  could  just  contrive,"  he  said,  "  to  stint 
That  somewhat  manly  majesty  of  stride, 

T  would  be  as  well,  and,— ithough  Iheie's  not  much 
in't) 
To  swing  a  little  less  from  side  to  side. 

Which  has  at  times  an  aspect  of  the  oddest ;  - 

And  also  could  you  look  a  little  modest, 

XCII. 

"  T  would  be  convenient ;  for  these  mutes  have  eyes 
Like  needles,  which  m:»y  pierce  those  petticoats; 

And  if  they  should  discover  your  disguise, 
You  know  how  near  us  the  deep  Bosphorus  floats ; 

And  you  and  I  may  chance,  ere  morning  rise, 
To  find  our  way  to  Marmora  without  bnals, 

Slitch'd  up  in  sacks  —  a  mode  of  navigation 

A  good  deal  practised  here  upon  occasion."  i 

XCIII. 
With  this  encouragement,  he  led  the  way 

Into  a  room  still  nobler  than  Ihe  last ; 
A  rich  confusion  form'd  a  disarray 

In  such  sort,  that  the  eye  along  it  cast 
Could  hardly  carry  any  thing  away. 

Object  on'object  flash'd  so  bright  and  fast ; 
A  d  izzling  mass  of  gems,  and  gold,  and  glitter, 
Magnificeutly  mingled  in  a  litter. 

XCIV. 

Wealth  had  done  wonders  —  taste  not  much  ;  such 
things 

Occur  in  Orient  palaces,  and  even 
Id  the  more  chasten'd  domes  of  Western  kings 

(Of  which  I  have  also  seen  some  six  or  seven) 
Where  I  can't  say  or  gold  or  diamond  flings 

Great  lustre,  there  is  much  to  be  forgiven ; 
Groups  of  bad  statues,  tables,  chairs,  and  pictures, 
On  which  I  cannot  pause  to  make  my  strictures. 

XCV. 
Id  this  Imperial  hall,  at  distance  lay 

Under  a  canopy,  and  there  reclined 
Quite  in  a  confidenlial  queenly  way, 

A  lady  ;  Baba  s'opp'd,  and  kneeling  sign'd 
To  Juan,  who  though  not  much  u^ed  to  pray, 

Knelt  down  by  instinct,  wondering  in  his  mind 
What  all  this  meant :  while  Baba  bow'd  and  bended 
His  bead,  until  the  ceremony  ended. 

XCVI. 
The  lady  rising  up  with  such  an  air 

As  Venus  rose  with  from  (he  wave,  on  them 
Bent  like  an  antelope  a  Paphian  pair 

Of  eyes,  which  put  out  each  surrounding  gem  ; 
And  raising  up  an  arm  as  moonlight  fair, 

She  sign'd  to  Baba,  who  first  kiss'd  the  hem 
Of  her  deep  purple  robe,  and  speaking  low, 
Pointed  to  Juau,  who  remain'd  below. 

XCVII. 
Her  presence  was  as  lofty  as  her  state  ; 

Her  beauty  of  that  overpowering  kind. 
Whose  force  description  only  would  abate; 

I  'd  rather  leave  it  much  to  your  own  mind, 
Than  lessen  it  by  what  I  could  relate 

Of  forms  and  features  ;  it  would  strike  you  blind 
Could  I  do  justice  to  the  full  detail  ; 
So,  luckily  for  both,  my  phrases  fail. 


XCVIII. 
Thus  much  however  I  may  add,—  her  years 

Were  ripe,  thev  might  make  sii-and-twenly  springs, 
But  there  are  forms  which  Tinie  to  touch  forbears, 

And  turns  aside  his  scythe  to  vulgar  things, 
Such  as  was  Mary's  t^ueen  of  Scots  ;  true  —  tears 

And  love  destroy  ;  and  sappinc;  sorrow  wrings 
Charms  from  the  caarmcr,  yet  some  never  grow 
Ugly;  for  instance—  Ninon  de  rEnclos.f» 

'  XCIX. 

She  spake  some  words  to  her  attendants,  who 
Composed  a  choir  of  girls,  ten  or  a  dozen, 

And  were  all  clad  alike  ;  like  Juan,  too. 
Who  wore  their  uniform,  by  Baba  chosen : 

They  form'd  a  very  uympli-like  looking  crew. 

Which  might  have  cali'd  Diana's  chorus  '•  cousin," 

As  far  as  outward  show  may  correspond  ; 

I  won't  be  bail  for  any  thing  beyond. 


They  bow'd  obeisance  and  withdrew,  retiring. 
But  not  by  the  same  door  through  which  came  in 

Baba  and  Juan,  which  last  stood  admiring. 
At  some  small  distance,  all  he  saw  within 

This  strange  saloon,  much  tilted  for  inspiring 
Marvel  and  praise  ;  for  both  or  none  things  wi* ; 

And  I  must  say,  I  ne'er  could  see  the  very 

Great  happiness  of  the  "Nil  Admirari." 

CI. 

"  Not  to  admire  is  all  the  art  I  know 

(Plain   truth,  dear   Murray,3  needs  hw  flowers  of 
speech) 
To  make  men  happy,  or  to  keep  them  so  ;" 

(So  take  it  in  the  very  words  of  Creech). 
Thus  Horace  wrole  we' all  know  long  ago  ; 

And  thus  Pope  quotes  the  precept  to  re-teach 
From  his  translation  ;  but  had  none  admired. 
Would  Pope  have  sung,  or  Horace  been  inspired  ? 

I  CII. 

Baba,  when  all  Ihe  damsels  were  withdrawn, 

Molion'd  to  Juan  to  approach,  and  then 
A  second  time  desired  him  to  kneel  down, 

And  kiss  the  lady's  foot ;  which  maxim  when 
He  heard  repealed,  Juan  with  a  frown 

Drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  again. 
And  said,  "  It  grieved  him,  but  he  could  not  stoop 
To  any  shoe,  unless  it  shod  Ihe  Pope." 


1  A.  few  years  ago  the  wife  of  Mnchtar  Pacha  cf.mplain- 
ed  to  his  father  of  his  son's  supposed  infidelity  :  he  asked 
with  whom,  and  she  had  the  barbarity  to  give  in  a  list 
of  the  twelve  handsomest  women  in  Yanina.  They  were 
seized,  fastened  up  in  sacks,  and  Jrowned  in  the  lake  Ihe 
•am!  night.  One  or  the  guards  who  was  present  inform- 
ed ne,  that  not  one  of  the  victims  uttered  a  cry,  or  show- 
•d  a  symptom  of  terror  at  so  sudJen  a  "  wrench  from  all 
we  know,  from  all  we  love." 


i  CIII. 

Baba,  indignant  at  this  ill-timed  pride. 

Made  fierce  remonstrances,  and  then  a  threat 
He  niulter'd  (but  the  last  was  given  aside) 

About  a  bow-string  —  quite  in  vain  ;  not  yet 
Would  Juan  bend,  though  'I  were  to  Mahomet's  bride: 
I      There  's  nothing  in  the  world  like  etiquette 
In  kingly  chambers  or  imperial  halls, 
As  also  at  the  race  and  county  balls. 

I  2  Mademoiselle  de  l'Eiul.)S.  celebrated  for  her  beauty, 
her  wit,  her  gallantry,  and.  above  all,  for  the  extraordi- 
nary length  of  lime,  during  which  she  preserved  her  at- 
tractions. She  intrigued  with  the  young  gentlemen  of 
three  geneiations,  and  is  said  to  have  had  a  grandson  of 
her  own  among  her  lovers.  See  the  works  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne,  Voltaire,  &c.  it.c.  for  copious  particulars  of 
her  life.  The  Biographie  Universelle,  says  — "In  her 
old  age,  her  house  was  Ihe  rendezvous  of  Ihe  most  dislin- 
,  guished  persons.  Scarron  consulted  her  on  his  romances, 
St.  Kvremond  on  his  pnem>,  Moliere  on  his  comedies, 
Fontenelle  on  his  dialogues,  and  La  Rochefoucault  on  his 
maxims.  Colrguy,  Sevigne.  f<c.  were  her  lovers  and 
friends.  At  her  death,  in  1705,  in  her  ninetieth  year, 
she  bequeathed  to  Voltaire  a  considerable  sum.  to  expend 
in  books."  — E. 

3  The  "Murray  "  of  Pope  wa»   the   great  Earl  Hana- 
field.—  E. 


528 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  V. 


CIV. 
He  stood  like  Atlas,  with  a  world  of  w  nrds 

About  his  ears,  aud  nnlhless  would  uot  bend  ; 
The  blood  of  all  his  line's  Caslilian  lords 

Boil'd  in  his  veius,  and  rather  than  descend 
To  slain  his  pedigree,  a  thousand  swords 

A  thousand  liniea  of  him  had  made  an  end  ; 
At  length  perceiving  the  ^'fool  "  could  not  stand, 
Baba  proposed  thjit  he  should  kiss  the  hand. 

CV. 
Here  was  an  honourable  compromise, 

A  half-way  house  of  diplomatic  rest, 
Where  they  might  meet  in  much  moie  peaceful  guise; 

And  Juan  now  his  willingness  cxprest 
To  use  all  tit  and  proper  courtesies. 

Adding,  that  this  was  commonest  and  best, 
For  throujh  the  South,  the  custom  still  commands 
1'he  gentleman  to  kiss  the  lady's  hands. 

CVI. 
And  he  advanced,  though  with  but  a  bad  grace. 

Though  on  more  thorough-bred »  nr  fairer  lingers 
No  lips  e'er  left  their  Iran^ilory  trace  : 

On  such  as  the-e  the  lip  too  f.mdly  lingers, 
And  for  one  kiss  would  fain  imprint  a  brace. 

As  you  will  see,  if  she  you  love  shall  bring  h=rs 
In  contact ;  and  sometimes  even  a  fair  stranger's 
An  almost  twelvemonth's  constancy  endangers. 

CVil. 
The  lady  eyed  him  o'er  and  o'er,  and  bade 

Bab  I  retire,  which  he  obey'd  in  sl>le. 
As  if  well-used  to  the  retreating  trade  ; 

And  taking  hints  in  good  part  all  ihe  while, 
He  whisper'd  Juan  not  lo  oe  afraid. 

And  looking  on  him  with  a  sort  of  smile, 
Took  leave,  with  such  a  face  of  satisfaction, 
As  good  men  wear  who  have  done  a  virtuous  action. 

CVIII. 

When  he  was  gone,  there  was  a  sudden  change  : 

I  know  not  what  might  be  Ihe  lady's  ihough', 
But  o'er  her  bright  brow  Ibsh'd  a  tumult  strange. 

And  into  her  clear  cheek  Ihe  blood  was  brought, 
Blond  red  as  sunset  summer  clouds  which  range 

The  verge  of  Heaven  ;  and  in  her  large  eyes  wrought 
A  mixture  of  sensations  might  be  scann'd, 
Of  half-voluptuousness  and  half-command. 

CIX. 
Her  form  had  all  the  softness  of  her  sex. 

Her  featuies  all  the  sweetness  of  Ihe  devil, 
When  he  put  on  Ihe  cherub  to  perplex 

Eve,  and  paved  (God  knows  how)  Ihe  road  to  evil ; 
The  sun  himself  was  scarce  more  free  from  specks 

Than  she  from  aughl  at  which  the  eye  could  cavil  ; 
Yet,  somehow,  there  was  something  somewhere  want- 
As  if  she  rather  ordered  than  was  granting.—     [ing, 

ex. 

Somtthing  imperial,  or  imperious,  threw 

A  chain  o'er  all  she  did  ;  that  is,  a  chain 
Was  thrown  as  't  were  ahou'  the  neck  of  you,— 

And  rapture's  self  will  seem  almost  a  pain 
With  aught  which  look',  like  despolisni  in  view; 

Our  souls  at  least  are  free,  and  'I  is  in  vain 
We  would  against  them  make  the  flesh  obey  — 
The  spirit  in  the  end  will  have  its  way. 

CXI. 
Her  very  smile  was  haughty,  though  so  sweet ; 

Her  very  nod  was  not  an  inclin.iliou  ; 
There  was  a  self-will  even  in  her  small  feet. 

As  though  they  were  quite  conscious  of  her  station— 
They  Irod'as  upon  necks  :  and  to  complete 

Her  stale  (it  is  Ihe  custom  of  her  nation), 
A  pnniard  deck'd  her  girdle,  as  the  sign 
She  was  a  sultan's  bride,  (thank  Heaven,  not  mine!) 


1  There  19  nothing,  pertiaps,  more  distincli'e  of  birtn 
than  the  hand.  It  in  almost  the  only  sign  of  blood  which 
uiotocroty  can  generate. 


cxn. 

"  To  hear  and  to  obey  "  had  been  from  birth 

The  law  of  all  around  her  ;  lo  fulEl 
All  phantasies  which  yielded  jcy  or  mirth. 

Had  bee[i  her  slaves'  chief  pleisure,  as  her  willf 
Her  blood  was  high,  her  beauty  scarce  of  earth: 

Judge,  then,  if  her  caprices  e'er  stood  stiJ  ; 
Had  she  but  been  a  Christian,  1  've  a  no'ion 
We  should  have  found  out  the  "  perpetual  motion." 

CXIII. 

Whate'er  she  saw  and  coveted  was  brought ; 

Whate'er  she  did  not  see,  if  she  supposed 
It  might  be  seen,  with  dilijence  was  >ought. 

And   when  't  was   found   straightway   Ihe  bargain 
closed  : 
There  was  no  end  unto  the  things  she  bought. 

Nor  to  Ihe  trouble  which  her  fancies  caused  J 
Yet  even  her  tyranny  had  such  a  grace. 
The  women  pardon'd  all  except  her  face. 

CXIV. 
Juan,  the  latest  of  her  whims,  had  caught 

Her  eye  in  passing  on  his  way  to  sale ; 
She  order'd  him  directly  lo  be  bought. 

And  Baba,  who  had  ne'er  been  known  to  fail 
In  any  kind  of  mischief  to  be  wrought. 

At  all  such  auctiiins  knew  how  10  prevail: 
She  had  no  prudence,  but  he  had  ;  and  this 
Explains  the  garb  which  Juan  took  amiss. 

CXV. 

His  youth  and  features  fivour'd  the  disguise, 
And,  should  you  ask  how  she,  a  sultan's  bride, 

Could  risk  or  compass  such  stranse  phantasies, 
1  his  I  must  leave  sullams  lo  decide  : 

Emperors  are  only  husbands  in  wives'  eyes, 
And  kings  and  consorts  nft  are  mystified. 

As  we  may  ascertain  wi'h  due  precision. 

Some  by  experience,  others  by  tradition. 

CXVI. 

But  to  Ihe  main  point,  where  we  have  been  tending: — 
She  now  conceived  all  difficulties  past, 

And  deen)'d  herself  extremely  condescending 
When,  beiirg  made  her  property  at  last, 

Without  more  preface,  in  her  blue  eyes  blending 
Passion  and  power,  a  glance  on  him  she  cast, 

And  merely  saying,  "  Christian,  canst  thou  love?" 

Conceived  that  phrase  was  quite  enough  to  move. 

CXVII. 

And  so  it  was,  in  proper  time  and  place  ; 

But  Ji.an,  who  had  still  his  mind  o'erflowing 
With  Haidee's  isle  and  soft  Ionian  face. 

Felt  the  warm  blor.d,  which  in  his  fice  was  glowing, 
Rush  back  upon  his  heart,  which  fill'd  apace. 

And  left  his  cheeks  as  pale  as  snowdrops  blowing: 
These  words  went  through  his  soul  like  Arab-spears, 
So  that  he  spoke  not,  but  burst  into  tears. 

CXVIII. 

She  was  a  good  deal  shnck'd  ;  not  shock'd  at  tears. 
For  women  shed  and  use  them  at  their  liking; 

But  there  is  something  when  man's  eye  appears 
Wet,  still  more  disagreeable  and  striking  : 

A  woman's  tear-drop  melts,  a  man's  half  sears. 
Like  molten  lead,  as  if  you  IhrusI  a  pike  iu 

His  heart  lo  force  it  out,  for  (lo  be  shorter) 

To  them  't  is  a  relief,  to  us  a  torture. 

CXIX. 
And  she  would  have  consoled,  but  knew  not  how  ; 

Having  no  equals,  nothing  which  had  e'er 
Infected  her  with  sympathy  till  now. 

And  never  having  dreamt  what 't  was  lo  bear 
Auzht  of  a  serious,  sorrowing  kind,  alihoueh 

There  might  arise  some  pouting  petty  cire 
To  cross  her  brow,  she  wonder'd  how  so  near 
Her  eyes  another's  eye  could  shed  a  tear. 


Canto  V.] 


DON  JUAN. 


529 


cxx. 

But  nature  leaches  more  thin  power  can  spoil, 
And,  when  a  strong  although  a  strange  sensation 

Moves  — female  hearts  aie  such  a  genial  soil 
For  kinder  feelings,  whatsoe'er  flieir  nation, 

They  naturally  pour  the  "  wine  and  oil," 
Simaritans  in  every  situation  ; 

Attl  thus  Gulbeyaz,  though  she  knew  not  why, 

Felt  an  odd  glistening  moisture  in  her  eye, 

CXXI. 

But  tears  must  stop  like  all  things  else ;  and  soon 
Juan,  who  for  an  instant  had  been  moved 

To  such  a  sorrow  by  the  intrusive  tone 
Of  one  who  dared  to  ask  if  "  he  had  loved," 

Call'd  back  the  stoic  to  his  eyes,  which  shone 
Bright  with  the  very  weakness  he  reproved; 

And  although  sensitive  to  beauty,  he 

Felt  most  indignant  still  at  not  being  free. 

CXXII, 

Gulbeyaz,  for  the  first  lime  in  her  days. 
Was  much  embarrassed,  never  having  met 

In  all  her  life  with  aught  save  prayers  and  praise; 
And  as  she  also  risk'd  her  life  to  get 

Him  whom  she  meant  to  tutor  in  love's  way* 
Into  a  comfortable  lete-a-lele. 

To  lose  the  hour  would  make  her  quite  a  martyr, 

And  they  bad  wasted  now  almost  a  quarter. 

CXXIII. 
I  also  would  suggest  the  fitting:  time. 

To  gentlemen  in  any  such  like  case, 
That  is  10  say  —  in  a  meridian  clime. 

With  us  there  is  more  law  given  to  the  chase, 
But  here  a  small  delay  forms  a  great  crime: 

So  recollect  that  the  extremest  grace 
Is  just  two  minutes  for  your  declaration  — 
A  moment  more  %vould  hurt  your  reputation. 

CXXIV. 

Juan's  was  good  :  and  might  have  been  still  better, 

But  he  had  got  Haidee  into  his  head  : 
However  strange,  he  could  not  yet  forget  her. 

Which  made  him  seem  exceedingly  ill-bred, 
Gulbeyaz,  who  look'd  on  him  as  her  debtor 

For  having  had  him  to  her  palace  led. 
Began  to  blush  up  to  the  eyes,  and  then 
Grow  deadly  pale,  and  Iben  blush  back  again. 

CXXV. 

At  length,  in  an  imperial  wny,  she  laid 
Her  hand  on  his,  and  l)ending  on  him  eyes. 

Which  needed  not  an  empire  to  persuade, 
Look  d  into  his  for  love,  where  none  replies: 

Her  brow  grew  black,  but  she  would  not  upbraid, 
That  being  the  last  thing  a  proud  woman  fries ; 

She  rose,  and  pausing  one  chaste  moment,  threw 

Herself  upon  his  breast,  and  there  she  grew. 

CXXVI. 

This  was  an  awkward  test,  as  Juan  found, 

But  he  was  sleei'd  by  sorrow,  wrath,  and  pride  : 

With  gertle  force  her  white  arms  he  unwound. 
And  seated  her  all  drooping  by  his  side. 

Then  rising  haughtily  he  glanced  around. 
And  looking  coldly  in  her  face,  he  cried, 

"The  prison'd  eagle  will  not  pair,  nor  I 

Serve  a  sultana's  sensual  phantasy. 

CXXVII. 
"  Thou  ask'st,  if  I  can  love?  be  this  the  proof 

How  much  I  have  loved  —  that  I  love  not  thee  ! 
In  this  vile  garb,  the  distaff,  web.  and  woof, 

Were  fitter  for  me  :  Love  is  for  the  free ! 
I  am  not  dazzled  by  this  splendid  roof; 

Whate'er  thy  power,  and  great  it  seems  to  be. 
Heads  bow,  knees  bend,  eyes  watch  around  a  throne, 
And  hands  obey  —  our  hearts  are  still  our  own." 

4?i  sT" 


CXXVIII, 

This  was  a  truth  to  us  extremely  trite  ; 

Not  so  to  her,  who  ne'er  had  heard  such  things ; 
So  deem'd  her  least  command  must  yield  deljght, 

Earth  being  only  made  for  queens  and  kings. 
If  hearts  lay  on  the  left  side  or  the  right 

She  hardly  knew,  to  such  perfection  brings 
Legitimacy  its  born  votaries,  when 
Aware  of  their  due  royal  rights  o'er  men. 

CXXIX. 

Besides,  as  hag  been  said,  she  was  so  fair 
As  even  in  a  m-jch  humbler  lot  had  made 

A  kingdom  or  confusion  anywhere. 

And  also,  as  may  be  presumed,  she  laid 

Some  stress  on  charms,  which  seldom  are,  if  e'er. 
By  their  possessors  thrown  into  the  shade: 

She  thought  hers  gave  a  double  "  right  divine;  " 

And  half  of  that  opinion  's  also  mine, 

cxxx. 

Remember,  or  (if  you  can  not)  imagine. 

Ye !  who  have  kept  your  chastity  when  young. 

While  some  more  desperate  dowager  has  been  waging 
Love  with  you,  and  been  in  the  dog-days  stung 

By  your  refusal,  recollect  her  raging  ! 
Or  recollect  all  that  was  said  or  sung 

On  such  a  subject ;  then  suppose  the  face 

Of  a  young  downright  beauty  in  this  case. 

cxx  XI. 

Suppose, —  but  you  already  have  supposed, 
The  spouse  of  Potiphar,  the  Lady  Booby,« 

Phasdra,  and  all  which  story  has  disclosed 
Of  good  examples ;  pity  that  so  few  by 

Poets  and  private  tutors  are  exposed. 

To  educate  —  ye  youth  of  Europe  —  you  by  ! 

But  when  you  have  supposed  the  few  we  know. 

You  can't  suppose  Gulbeyaz'  angry  brow. 

cxxxu. 

A  tigress  robb'd  of  young,  a  lioness, 

Or  any  interesting  beast  of  prey. 
Are  similes  at  hand  for  the  uintress 

Of  ladies  who  can  not  hav«  their  own  way  ; 
But  though  my  turn  will  not  be  served  with  less, 

These  don't  express  one  half  »  hat  I  should  say  : 
For  what  is  stealing  young  ones,  few  or  many. 
To  cutting  short  their  hopes  "f  having  any  ? 

CXXXIII. 
The  love  of  offspring's  nature's  general  law, 

From  tigresses  and  cubs  to  ducks  and  ducklings  ; 
There  's  nothing  whets  the  beak,  or  arms  the  cl  iw. 

Like  an  invasion  of  their  babes  and  sucklings; 
And  all  who  have  seen  a  human  nursery,  saw 

How   mothers    love   their    children's   squalls   and 
chucklings; 
This  strong  exti^eme  effect  (to  tire  no  longer 
Your  patience)  shows  the  cause  must  s!ill  be  stronger. 

CXXXIV. 

If  I  said  fire  flash'd  from  Gulbeyaz'  eyes, 

'T  were  nothing—  for  her  eyes  flash'd  always  fire; 
Or  said  her  cheeks  assumed  the  deepest  dyes, 

I  should  but  bring  disgrace  upon  the  dyer. 
So  supernatural  was  her  passion's  rise  ; 

For  ne'er  till  now  she  knew  a  check'd  desire: 
Even  ye  who  know  what  a  check'd  woman  is 
(Enough,  God  knows '.)  would  much  fall  short  of  this. 

CXXXV. 
Her  rage  was  but  a  minute's,  and  'I  was  well  — 

A  moment's  more  had  slain  her;  but  the  while 
It  lasted  't  was  like  a  short  glimpse  of  hell  : 

Nought 's  more  sublime  than  energetic  bile. 
Though  horrible  to  see  yet  grand  to  tell. 

Like  ocean  warring  'gainst  a  rocky  isle  ; 
And  the  deep  passions  flashing  through  her  form 
Made  her  a  beautiful  embodied  storm. 


In  Fielding'8  novel  of  Joseph  Andrewi.— K. 


530 


DON   JUAN 


[Canto  V  jl 


CXXXVI. 

A  vulvar  tempest  't  were  lo  a  typhoon 
To  match  a  coiiinion  fury  with  her  rage, 

And  yet  she  did  not  want  to  reach  the  moon, 
Like  moderate  Hotspur  on  the  immortal  page; 

Her  anger  pitch'd  in  o  a  lower  tune. 
Perhaps  the  fault  of  her  soft  sex  and  age  — 

Her  wish  was  but  lo  "  kill,  kill,  kill,"  like  Lear's, 

And  then  her  thirst  of  blood  was  quench'd  in  tears. 

cxxxvu. 

A  storm  it  raeed,  and  like  the  storm  it  pass'd, 

Pass'd  without  words—  in  fact  she  could  not  speak 

And  then  her  sex's  shame  broke  in  at  last, 
A  sentiment  till  then  in  her  but  weak, 

But  now  it  flow'd  in  natural  and  fast. 
As  water  through  an  unexpected  leak, 

For  she  felt  humbled  —  and  humiliation 

Is  sometimes  good  for  people  in  her  station. 

CXXXVUI. 

It  teaches  them  that  they  are  flesh  and  blood. 

It  also  gently  hints  lo  them  that  others, 
Although  of  clay,  are  yet  not  quite  of  mud  ; 

Thal~urns  and  pipkins  are  but  fragile  brothers, 
And  works  of  (he  same  pottery,  bad  or  good. 

Though  not  all  born  of  the  same  sires  and  mothers: 
It  teaches  —  Heaven  knows  only  what  it  leaches, 
But  sometimes  it  may  mend,  and  often  reaches. 

CXXXIX. 

Her  first  thought  was  to  cut  off  Juan's  head  ; 

Her  second,  to  cut  only  his —  acquaintance; 
Her  third,  to  ask  him  where  he  bad  been  bred  ; 

Her  fourth,  lo  rally  him  into  repentance; 
Her  fifth,  to  call  her  maids  and  go  to  bed  ; 

Her  sixth,  lo  stab  herself;  her  sevenih,  to  sentence 
The  lash  lo  Baba  :  —  but  her  grand  resource 
Was  to  sit  down  again,  and  cry  of  course. 

CXL. 

She  thought  to  stab  herself,  but  then  she  hid 

The  dagger  close  at  hand,  which  made  it  awkward  ; 

For  Eastern  stays  are  little  made  to  pad, 
So  that  a  poniard  pierces  if  'I  is  stuck  hard  : 

She  thought  of  killing  Juan  —  but,  poor  lad  ! 

Though  he  deserved  it  well  for  being  so  backward, 

The  culling  off  his  head  was  not  the  art 

Most  likely  to  attain  her  aim  —  bis  heart, 

CXLI. 

Juan  was  moved :  he  had  made  up  his  mind 

To  be  impaled,  or  quarter'd  as  a  dish 
For  dogs,  or  to  be  slain  with  pangs  refined. 

Or  thrown  lo  lions,  or  made  bails  for  fish. 
And  thus  heroically  stood  resign'd, 

Rather  than  sin  —  except  to  his  own  wish  : 
But  all  his  great  preparatives  for  dying 
Dissolved  like  snow  before  a  woman  crying. 

CXLH. 

As  through  his  palms  Bob  Acres'  valour  oozed, 
So  Juan's  viilue  ebb'd,  I  know  not  how; 

And  first  he  woiider'd  why  he  had  refused  ; 
And  then,  if  mailers  could  be  mide  up  now ; 

And  next  his  savage  virtue  he  accused, 
Just  as  a  friar  may  accuse  his  vow, 

Or  as  a  dame  repents  her  of  her  oath. 

Which  mostly  ends  in  some  small  breach  of  both. 

CXLIII. 

S3  he  began  to  slammer  some  excuses ; 

But  words  are  not  enough  in  such  a  matter. 
Although  you  borrow'd  all  thai  e'er  ihe  muses 

Have  sung,  or  even  a  Daiuly's  dandiest  chatter, 
Or  all  the  figures  Cabllereagh  abuses  ; 

Just  as  a  languid  smile  began  lo  flatter 
His  peace  was  making,  but  before  he  ventured 
further,  old  Baba  rather  briskly  enter'd. 


CXLIV. 

"  Bride  of  Ihe  Sun  !  and  Sister  of  Ihe  Moon  .  " 
"T  was  thus  he  spake,)  "  and  Empress  of  Ihe  Earth. 

Whose  frown  would  put  Ihe  spheies  all  out  of  tune. 
Whose  smile  makes  all   the    planets   dance   with 
miilh. 

Your  slave  brings  tidings —  he  hopes  not  too  soon  — 
Which  your  sublime  attention  may  be  worth : 

The  Sun  himself  has  sent  me  like  a  ray, 

To  hint  that  he  is  coming  up  this  way." 

CXLV. 
"  Is  it,"  exclaim'd  Gulbeyaz,  "  as  you  say? 

I  wish  to  heaven  he  would  not  shine  till  morning  ! 
Bu'  bid  my  women  form  the  milky  way. 

Hence,  my  old  comet !  give  :he  stars  due  warning — 
And,  Christian  I  mingle  with  them  as  you  may. 

And   as   you  'd  have  me   pardon  your   past  scorn. 

ing " 

Here  Ihey  were  interrupted  by  a  humming 

Sound,  and  then  by  a  cry,  "  The  Sultan 's  coming !  " 

CXLVL 
First  came  her  damsels,  a  decorous  file, 

And  then  his  Highness'  eunuchs,  black  and  white; 
The  train  might  reach  a  quarter  of  a  mile  : 

His  majesty  was  always  so  polite 
As  to  announce  his  visits  a  long  while 

Before  he  came,  especially  at  night ; 
For  being  the  last  wife  of  the  Emperor, 
She  vras  of  course  the  favourite  of  the  four. 

CXLVII. 
His  Highness  was  a  man  of  solemn  port, 

Shawl'd  to  Ihe  nose,  and  bearded  lo  Ihe  eyes, 
Snatch'd  from  a  prison  to  preside  at  court. 

His  lately  bowslrung  brother  caused  his  rise; 
He  was  as  good  a  sovereign  of  the  sort 

As  any  mentioned  in  the  histories 
Of  Cant'emir,  or  Knolles,  where  few  shine 
Save  Solyman,  the  glory  of  their  liue.> 

CXLVIII. 

He  went  to  mosque  in  state,  and  said  his  prayers 
With  more  than  "  Oriental  scrupulosity  ;  "> 

He  left  lo  his  vizier  all  state  affairs. 
And  show'd  but  little  royal  curiosity : 

I  know  not  if  he  had  domestic  cares  — 
No  process  proved  connubial  animosity  ; 

Four  wives  and  twice  five  hundred  maids,  unseen. 

Were  ruled  as  calmly  as  a  Christian  queen. 

CXLIX. 
If  now  and  then  there  happen 'd  a  slight  slip, 

Little  was  heard  of  criminal  or  crime; 
The  story  scarcely  pass'd  a  single  lip  — 

The  sack  and  sea  had  settled  all  in  lime, 
From  which  Ihe  secret  nobody  could  rip: 

The  public  knew  no  more  than  does  this  rhyme  ; 
No  scandals  made  the  daily  press  a  curse  — 
Morals  were  better,  and  the  fish  no  worse. 


CL. 

He  saw  with  his  own  eyes  the  moon  was  round, 
Was  also  certain  that  the  earth  was  square. 

Because  he  had  journey'd  fifty  miles,  and  found 
No  sign  thai  it  was  circular  anywhere  : 


It  may  mil  be  unworthy  of  remark,  that  Bacnn,  in  bis 

ay  on  "Krapirtf,"  hinlB  that  Solyman  was  the  last  of 

line;  on  what  authority,  I  know  nnt.     These  are  bis 

nlii:  — "  The  clestructioo  of  Mu«laptia  was   so  falsi  lo 

ISolyroan'8  )ini-,  cs  Ihe  succession  of  Ihe  Turks  from  Soljr. 

,  until  this  day,  is   suspecled    to  be    untrue,  anj  of 

strange  blood  ;  for  that  SHymus  Ihe  second  was  thougbl 

lo  be  eiipposiiitious."     But    Bacon,  Id  his  historicsl   ao- 

Ihorilies,  is  often  in-iccurate.     I  could  give  half  a  da(ea 

instances  from  his  Apophthegms  only.     Bee  note  at  Ui« 

end  of  Ihis  Caoto.—  E. 

a  Gibbon.—  R. 


Canto  V.] 


DON  JUAN. 


531 


His  empii«  also  was  without  a  bounci : 

T  is  true,  a  little  troubled  here  and  there, 
By  rebel  pachas,  and  encroacbin;  giaours, 
But  then  they  never  came  to  "  the  Seven  Towers ; "  i 

CU. 

Except  in  shape  of  envoys,  who  were  sent 
To  lodge  there  when  a  war  broke  out,  according 

To  the  true  law  of  nations,  which  ne'er  meant 
Those  scoundrels,  who  have  never  had  a  sword  in 

Their  dirty  diplomatic  hands,  to  vent 

Their  spleen  in  makins;  strife,  and  safely  wording 

Their  lies,  yclep'd  despafches.  without  risk  or 

The  singeing  of  a  single  inky  whisker. 

CLII. 
He  had  fifty  daughters  and  four  dozen  sons. 

Of  whom  all  such  as  came  of  age  were  slow'd, 
The  former  in  a  palace,  where  like  nuns 

They  lived  till  some  Bashaw  was  sent  abroad, 
Wheii'she,  whose  turn  it  was,  was  wed  at  once. 

Sometimes  at  six  years  old  —  though  this  seems  odd, 
'T  is  true  ;  the  reason  is,  that  the  Bashaw 
Must  make  a  present  to  his  sire  in  law. 

CLHt. 

His  sons  were  kept  in  prison,  till  they  grew 
Of  years  to  till  a  bowstring  (ir  the  throne, 

One  or  the  other,  but  which  of  the  two 
Could  yet  be  known  unto  the  fates  alone  ; 

Meantime  the  education  they  went  through 

Was  princely,  as  the  proofs  have  always  shown  ; 

So  that  the  heir  apparent  still  was  found 

No  less  deserving  to  be  hang'd  than  crown'd. 

CLIV. 
His  Majesty  saluted  his  fourth  spouse 

With  all  the  ceremonies  of  his  tank, 
Whocle.ir'd  her  sparkling  eyes  and  smooth'd  her  brows. 

As  suits  a  matron  who  his  play'd  a  prank  ; 
These  must  seem  doubly  mindful  of  their  vows, 

To  save  the  credit  of  their  breaking  bank  : 
To  no  men  are  such  cordial  greeliu;s  given 
As  those  whose  wives  have  made  them  fit  for  heaven. 

CLV. 

His  Highness  cast  around  his  ereat  black  eyes. 
And  looking,  as  he  always  look'd,  perceived 

Juan  amongst  the  damsels  in  disguise. 

At  which  he  seem'd  no  whit  surprised  nor  grieved, 

But  just  remirk'd  with  air  ^edate  and  wise. 
While  still  a  fluttering  sigh  Gulbeyaz  heaved, 

"  I  see  you  've  bought  another  girl ;  M  is  pity 

That  a  mere  Christian  should  be  half  so  pretty." 

CLVI, 
This  compliment,  which  drew  all  eyes  upon 

The  new-bought  virgin,  made  her  blush  and  shake. 
Her  comrades,  also,  ihousbl  themselves  undone: 

Oh  !  Mahomet  I  that  his  Majesty  should  lake 
Such  notice  of  a  giaour,  while  scarce  to  one 

Of  them  his  lips  imperial  ever  spake  ! 
There  was  a  general  whisper,  tnss,  and  wriggle. 
But  etiquette  forbade  them  all  to  giggle. 

CLVU. 
The  Turks  do  well  to  shut  —  at  leas',  sometimes  — 

The  women  up — t)ecau-e.  in  sad  reality, 
Their  chastity  in  these  unhappy  climes 

Is  not  a  thing  of  that  astringent  quali'y 
Which  in  the  Nonh  prevents  precocious  crimes. 

And  makes  our  snow  le«s  pure  than  our  morality  ; 
The  sun,  which  yearly  melt:<  the  polar  ice, 
Has  quite  the  contrary  effect  on  vice. 


CLVIH. 

Thus  in  the  East  they  are  extremely  strict. 
And  wedlock  and  a  padlock  mean  the  same; 

Excepting  only  when  the  former's  pick'd 
It  ne'er  can  be  replaced  in  proper  frame ; 

Spoilt,  as  a  pipe  of  claret  is  when  prick'd  : 
But  then  their  own  polygamy's  to  blame  ; 

VVhy  don't  they  knead  tuo  virtuous  souls  for  life 

Into'tbat  moral  centaur,  man  and  wife  7 

CLIX. 
Thus  far  our  chronicle ;  and  now  we  pause. 

Though  not  for  want  of  matter ;  but 't  is  time. 
According  to  the  ancient  epic  laws. 

To  slacken  sail,  and  anchor  with  our  rhyme. 
Let  this  fifth  canto  meet  with  due  applause. 

The  six'h  shall  have  a  touch  of  the  sublime  ; 
Meanwhile,  as  Homer  someiimes  sleeps,  perhaps 
Fou  '11  pardon  to  my  muse  a  few  short  naps. 


Lord  Bacon's  Aphorisms. 

[See  ante,  p.  530,  note.] 
BacrniU  Apophthegmi.  Obtervationi. 


Michael  Angelo,  the  famous        This  was    not    the 
inter,  painting  in  the  pope's    portrait  of  a  cardinal. 


but  of  the  pope's 
ter  of  the  ceremonies. 


1  The  stale  prison  of  Constantinople,  in  whirh  the 
Forte  shuts  up  the  ministers  of  hostile  powers,  who  are 
dilatory  io  taking  their  departure,  under  pretence  of  pro- 
icetiog  them  from  the  insults  of  the  mnb.—  HO^E.—  JC. 


chapel  the  portraiture  of  hell 
and  damned  souls,  made  one 
of  the  damned  souls  so  like  a 
cardinal  that  was  his  enemy, 
as  everybody  at  first  sight 
knew  it :  whereupon  the  car- 
dinal complained  to  Pope 
Clement,  humbly  praying  it 
might  be  defaced.  The  pope 
said  to  him.  Why,  you  know 
very  well  I  have  power  to  de- 
liver a  soul  out  of  purgatory, 
but  not  out  of  hell. 

153. 

Alexander,  afer  the  battle 
of  Granicum,  had  very  great 
offers  made  him  by  Darius. 
Consuliing  with  his  captains 
concerning  them,  Parmenio 
said,  Sure,  I  would  accept  of 
these  offers,  if  1  were  as  Alex- 
ander. Alexander  answered. 
So  would  1,  if  I  were  as  Par- 
menio. 

158. 

Antigonus,  when  it  was  told 
him  that  the  enemy  had  such 
volleys  of  arrows  that  they 
did  hide  the  sun,  said.  That 
falls  out  well,  for  it  is  hot 
weather,  and  so  we  shall  fight 
in  the  shade. 


162. 
There  was  a  philosopher        This  happened  un- 
that  disputed  with  Adrian  the    der  Augustus    Caesar, 
Emperor,  and  did  it  but  weak-    and    not    during    the 
ly.     One   of  his   friends  that    reign  of  Adrian, 
stood  by  afterwards  said  unto 
him,  Methlnks  you  were  not 
like  yourself  last  day,  in  argu- 
ment   with   the   Eniperor:  I 
could   have  answered    belter 
myself.     Why,  said  the  phi- 
losopher, would  you  have  ma 
contend  with  him  that   com- 
mands thirty  legions? 


II  was  after  the  bat 
tie  of  Issns  and  during 
the  siege  of  Tyre,  and 
not  immediately  after 
the  passage  of  (he 
Granicus.  that  this  is 
said  to  have  occurred. 


This  was  nnt  said 
by  Aniigonus,  but  by  a 
Spartan,  previously  to 
the  battle  of  Thermo- 
pylae. 


532 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  V. 


i&i. 

There  was  one  that  found 
a  eieal  mass  of  money,  dij- 
gill?  under  ground  in  his 
grandfather's  house,  and  be- 
iDg  somewhat  doubtful  of  the 
case  signified  it  to  the  em- 
peror that  he  had  found  such 
treasure.  The  emperor  made 
a  rescript  thus  :  Use  it.  He 
writ  back  again,  that  the  sum 
was  greater  than  his  stale  or 
condition  could  use.  The 
emperor  writ  a  new  rescript 
(bus :  Abuse  it. 

178. 
One  of  the  seven  was  wont 
to  say,  that  laws  were  like 
cobwebs :  where  the  small 
flies  were  caught,  and  the 
great  break  through. 

ao9. 

An  orator  of  Athens  said  to 
Demosthenes,  The  Athenians 
will  kill  you  if  they  wax 
mad.  Demosthenes  replied. 
And  they  will  kill  you,  if 
they  be  in  good  sense. 

221. 
There  was  a  philosopher 
abont  Tiberius  that,  looking 
into  the  nature  of  Caius,  said 
of  him,  'I  hat  he  was  mire 
mingled  wilb  blood. 

97. 

Tiiere  was  a  king  of  Hun- 
gary took  a  bishop  in  battle, 
and  kept  him  prisoner : 
whereupon  the  pope  writ  a 
monitory  to  him,  for  thit  he 
had  broken  the  privilege  of 
holy  church,  and  taken  his 
son  :  the  king  sent  an  embas- 
sage to  him,  and  sent  withal 
the  armour  wherein  the 
bishop  was  taken,  and  this 
only  in  wri'ing  — Kufe  num 
hxc  sit  vestisfilii  tui  ?  Know- 
now  whether  this  be  thy  son's 
coat? 

267. 

Deme'rius,  king  of  Mace- 
don,  had  a  petition  offered 
him  divers  limes  by  an  old 
woman,  and  answered  he  had 
no  leisure ;  whereupon  the 
woman  said  aloud.  Why  then 
give  over  to  be  king. 


This  happened  to 
the  father  of  Herodea 
Alliens,  and  the  an- 
swer was  made  by  the 
Emperor  A'erca,  who 
deserved  that  his  name 
should  have  been  stated 
by  the  "  greatest  — 
wisest  —  meanest  of 
mankind." 


This  was  said  by 
Anacharsis  the  Scy- 
Jhian,  and  not  by  a 
TJreek. 


This  was  not  ix\i 
by  Demosthenes,  but 
tn  Demosthenes  by 
Phocion. 


This  was  not  said  of 
Caius  (Caligula,  I  pre- 
sume, is  intended  by 
Caius).  but  of  TiUrius 
himself. 


This  reply  was  not 
made  by  a  king  of 
Hungary,  but  sent  by 
Richard  the  First, 
Cocur  de  Linn,  of  Eng- 
land, tothePope,wiih 
the  breast-plate  of  the 
bishop  of  Beauvais. 


This  did  not  happen 
to  Demerius,  but  to 
Philip,  King  of  Mace- 
don. 


the  Life  and  Writings  of  Lope  de  Vega,  vol.  i.  p.  215. 
edition  of  1SI7. 

Voliaire  has  even  been  termed  a  "shallow  fellow," 
by  some  of  the  same  scho  il  who  called  Dryden's  Ode 
'•a  drunken  song  ;"— a  JcAooJ  (as  it  is  called,  I  pre- 
sume, from  their  education  being  still  incomplete)  the 
whole  of  whose  filthy  trash  of  Epics,  Excursions,  &c 
&c.  &c.  is  not  worth  the  two  words  in  Zaire,  '•Vovt 
plevrtz."  or  a  single  speech  of  Tancred  :  —  a  school, 
the  apostate  lives  of  whose  renegadoes,  with  their  tei- 
driuking  neutrality  of  morals,  and  their  convenient 
treachery  in  politics —  in  the  record  of  their  ircumu. 
laled  pretences  to  virtue  can  produce  no  actimu  (were 
all  their  good  deeds  drawn  up  iu  array)  to  equal  or  ap- 
proach Ihe  sole  defence  of  the  fimily' of  Galas,  by  that 
great  and  unequalled  genius  —  the  universal  Volt  lire. 

1  have  ventured  to  remark  on  these  little  inaccura- 
cies of  "  the  greatest  genius  that  England,  or  perhaps 
any  other  c  miitiy  ever  produced,-'  merely  lo  show  our 
national  injustice  in  condemning  generally  the  great- 
est genius  of  France  for  such  inadvertencies  as  These, 
of  which  Ihe  highest  of  England  has  been  no  lea 
(uilty.  Query,  was  Bacon  a  greater  intellect  than 
Newton  ? 


VOLTAIRE. 
Having  slated  that  Bacon  was  frequently  incorrect 
in  bis  citations  from  history,  1  have  thought  it  neces- 
sary  in  what  regards  so  great  a  name  (however  tri- 
fling), to  support  the  assertion  by  such  facts  as  more 
immediately  occur  to  me.  They  are  but  trifles,  and 
yet  for  such  trifles  a  schoolboy  would  be  whipped  (if 
still  in  the  fourth  form) ;  and  Voltaire  for  half  a  dozen 
similar  errors  has  been  treated  as  a  superficial  writer, 
notwithstanding  the  testimony  of  Ihe  learned  VVarton  : 
—  "  Voltaire,  a  writer  of  niticA  deeper  research  than 
is  imagined,  and  \he  first  who  has  displayed  Ihe  litera- 
ture and  customs  of  the  dark  ages  w  iih  any  degree  of 
penetratinti  and  comprehension."  For  another  dis- 
tingui-hed  testimony  to  Voltaire's  merits  in  literary  re- 
aearch,  see  also  Lord  Holland's  excellent  Account  of 


CAMPBELL. 

Being  in  Ihe  humour  of  criticism.  I  shall  proceed, 
after  having  ventured  U)  on  Ihe  slips  of  Bacon,  lo  touch 
upon  one  or  two  as  trifling  in  the  edition  of  the 
British  Poets,  by  the  justly  celebrated  Campbell.  But 
I  do  this  in  good  will,  and  trust  it  will  he  so  taken.  If 
any  thing  could  add  lo  my  opinion  of  the  talents  and 
true  feeling  of  that  gentleman,  it  would  be  his  classi- 
cal, honest,  and  triumphant  defence  of  Pope,  against 
the  vulgar  cant  of  the  dav,  and  its  existing  Grub- 
street. 

The  inadvertencies  to  which  I  allude  are, — 

Firstly,  in  speakine  of  Anxtey,  whom  he  accuses  of 
having  taken  "his  leading  characters  from  Sniotlelt." 
Anstey's  Bath  Guide  was  published  in  1766.  Smol- 
lett's Humphry  Clinker  ('he  only  work  of  Smollett's 
from  which  T.bitha,  &c.  &C.  cotjW  have  been  taken) 
was  wri-ien  during  Smolietl's  last  residtn^ce  at  Leg- 
horn, in  1770—  ^'  Jtrgal,"  if  there  has  been  any  bor- 
rowing, Ansley  must  be  the  creditor,  and  not  the 
deblorT  I  refer  .Mr.  Campliell  to  bis  oiwn  data  in  his 
lives  of  Smollett  and  Anstev. 

Secondly,  Mr.  Campbell  says  in  the  life  of  Cowper 
(note  to  page  358.  vol.  vii.)  that  he  knows  not  to  whom 
Cowper  alludes  in  these  lines:  — 
"  Nor  he  who,  for  the  bane  of  thousands  Iwm, 

Built  God  a  church,  and  laugh'd  his  vcord  to  scorn." 

The  Calvinist  meant  Voltaire,  and  the  church  of 
Fernev,  with  its  inscription  "  Deo  erexit  Voltaire." 

Thirdly,  in  the  life  of  Burns,  Mr.  Campbell  quotet 
Shakspeire  thus :  — 

"To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  «»«  rote. 
Or  add  fresh  perfume  lo  the  violet." 
This  version  by  no  means  improves  the  original,  which 
is  as  follows:  — 
"To  gild  refined  geld,  to  paint  the  Uly, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet,"  SiC— Xiit?  John. 

A  great  poet  quoting  another  should  be  correct :  he 
should  also  be  accurate,  when  he  accuses  a  Parnassian 
brother  of  that  dangerous  charge  "  borrowing  :  "  a  poet 
had  belter  borrow  any  thing  (excepting  money)  than 
the  thoushts  of  another  — they  are  always  sure  lo  be 
reclaimed  ;  but  il  is  very  hard,  having  been  the  lender, 
to  be  denounced  as  the  debtor,  as  is  the  case  of  Austey 
versus  Smollett. 

As  there  is  "  honour  amongst  thieves,"  let  there  be 
some  amongst  poets,  and  eive  each  his  due, —  none  can 
afl'ord  lo  give  it  more  than  Mr.  Campbell  himself,  wh", 
with  a  high  reputation  for  originality,  and  a  fame 
»vhich  caniiol  be  shaken,  is  the  only  poet  of  the  time* 
(except  Rogers)  who  can  be  reproached  (and  in  him  it 
is  indeed  a  reproach)  with  having  written  too  littU. 

Ravenna,  Jan.  S,  1831. 


Canto  Vl.] 


DON  JUAN. 


533 


PREFACE  TO  CANTOS  VI.  YII.  AND  VIII.  i 

The  details  of  the  siege  of  Ismail  in  two  of  the  fol- 
lowing cantos  (t.  c.  the  seventh  and  eighth)  are  taken 
from  a  French  Work,  enliiled  "  Hisoire  de  la  Nou- 
velle  Russie."  Some  of  the  incidents  attributed  to 
Don  Juan  really  occurred,  particularly  the  circum- 
siauce  of  his  saving  the  infant,  which  was  the  actual 
cace  of  the  hte  Due  de  Richelieu,  then  a  young  volun- 
teer in  the  Russian  service,  and  afterward  the  founder 
andbenefctor  of  Odessa,  where  his  nime  and  memory 
can  never  cease  to  be  regarded  with  reverence. 

In  the  course  of  these  cantos,  a  stanza  or  two  will  be 
found  relative  to  the  lae  Marquis  of  Londonderry,  but 
written  some  time  before  his  decease.  Had  that  per- 
son's oligarchy  died  with  him,  they  would  have  been 
suppressed;  as  it  is,  I  am  aware  of  nothing  in  the 
manner  of  his  death  2  or  of  his  life  to  prevent  the  free 
expression  of  the  opinions  of  ull  whom  his  whole  ex- 
isie.'ice  was  onsuiiied  in  endeavouring  to  enslave. 
Tlia'  he  was  an  amiable  man  in  private  life,  may  or 
miy  not  be  true  :  but  with  this  the  public  have  no- 
thing to  do;  and  as  to  lamenting  his  death,  it  will  be 
time  enough  when  Ireland  has  ceased  to  mourn  for  his 
birth.  As  a  minister,  I,  for  one  of  millions,  looked 
upon  him  as  the  most  depotic  in  intention,  and  the 
weakest  in  intellect,  that  ever  tyrannised  over  a  coun- 
try. It  is  the  fir^l  lime,  indeed,  since  the  Normans, 
that  EngUnd  has  been  insulted  by  a  ministerial  le.ist) 
who  could  not  speak  English,  and  that  parliament  per- 
nrji'ted  itself  to  be  dictated  to  in  the  language  of  Mrs. 
Milaprop. 

Of  the  manner  of  his  death  little  need  be  said,  ex- 
cept that  if  a  poor  radical,  such  as  Waddinglon  or 
Watson,  had  cut  his  throat,  he  would  have  been  buri- 
ed in  a  cross-road,  with  the  usual  appurtenances  of  the 
st^ke  and  mallet.  But  the  niinis:er  was  an  elegant 
lunatic  —  a  sentimen'al  suicide  —  he  me:ely  cut  the 
"  carotid  artery,"  (blessings  on  their  learning  '.)  and, 
lo  !  the  pageant,  and  the  Abbey!  and  "the  syllables 
of  dolour  yelled  forth"  by  the  riewspapeis  — and  the 
harangue  of  the  Coroner  in  a  eulogy  over  the  bleed- 
ing body  of  the  deceased  —  (an  Antony  worthy  of 
such  a  Caesar)  —  and  the  nauseous  and  at'rocious  cant 
of  a  degraded  crew  of  conspirAtors  ajainst  all  that  is 
sincere  and  honourable.  In  his  death  he  was  necessa- 
rily one  of  two  things  by  the  law^  —  n  felon  or  a 
madman  —  and  in  either  c»sc  no  great  subject  for  pai.e- 
gvric.  In  his  life  he  was  —  what  all  the  world  knows, 
ai'id  half  of  it  will  feel  for  years  to  come,  unless  his 
death  prove  a  '■  moral  lesson  "  to  the  surviving  Sejani  * 
of  Europe.  It  may  at  least  serve  as  some  consolation 
to  the  nations,  thit  their  oppressors  are  not  happy,  and 
in  some  instances  judge  so  justly  of  their  own  ac'ions 
as  10  anticipate  the  sentence  of  mankind.—  Let  us  hear 
no  more  of  this  man;  and  let  Ireland  remove  the 
ashes  of  her  Graitan  from  the  sanc'uary  of  Westmin- 
ster. Shill  the  p.itriot  of  humanity  repose  by  the 
Weriher  of  politics  I '. ! 

With  regard  to  the  objections  which  have  been  made 
on  another  score  lo  the  already  published  cantos  of  this 
poem.  I  shall  content  myself  wiih  two  quotations  from 
Voltaire: — "La  pudeur  s'est  enfuite  des  cocurs,  et 
s'est  refugiee  sur  les  levres."  .  .  .  .  "  Plus  les  mceurs 

1  Caotos  VI.  VII.  and  VIII.  were  written  at  Pisa,  in 
1623,  and  publisht-d  iu  Loajun,  io  J;.ly,  1823.— E. 

3  Rol)€rt,  «fccnd  Marqnis  of  Lncdmiderry,  died,  by  his 
own  band,  .it  his  seat  at  North  Cray,  in  Kent,  in  August, 
IKM.  During  the  session  of  parliament  which  had  just 
clo«ed,  his  lordship  appears  to  have  sunk  under  tlie  weight 
of  his  labours,  and  insanity  was  the  consequence.— E. 

3  I  say  by  the  law  of  the  land—  the  lawi  of  bumaDily 
judge  more  gently ;  but  as  Ilie  legitimates  have  always 
the  law  in  their  mouths,  let  them  here  make  the  moat 
of  it. 

4  From  this  number  must  be  excepted  Canning.  Can- 
ning is  a  geiiius,  almost  a  uoiverbal  one.  an  orator,  a  wit, 
a  p«l,  a  statesman  ;  and  no  man  of  talent  cau  lang  pur- 
sue the  path  of  his  late  predecessor,  Lord  C.  If  ever 
man  saved  his  country,  Cinuiug  can;  but  will  bc7  I,  for 
one,  hope  so. 

45* 


sont  depraves,  plus  les  expressions  deviennent  me- 
surees  ;  on  eroil  regagner  en  1  ingage  ce  qu'on  a  perdu 
en  veilu." 

1  his  is  the  real  fact,  as  applicable  lo  the  degraded 
and  hypocritical  mass  which  leavens  the  present  Eng- 
lish generation,  and  is  the  only  answer  they  deseive. 
The  hackneted  and  lavished  title  of  Blasphemer  — 
which,  with  Radical,  Liberal,  Jacobin,  Reformer,  &c., 
are  the  changes  which  the  hitelin?s  are  daily  ringing 
in  the  ears  of  those  who  will  listen  —  should  be  wel- 
come lo  all  who  recollect  on  v)hom  it  was  originally 
bestowed.  Socr-.tes  and  Jesus  Christ  w  ere  put  to  death 
publicly  as  blasphemers,  and  so  have  been  and  may  be 
many  who  dare  lo  oppose  the  most  notorious  abuses  of 
the  name  of  God  and  ihc  mind  of  man.  But  persecu- 
tion is  not  refutation,  nor  even  triumph  :  the  "  wretch- 
ed infidel,"  as  he  is  called,  is  probably  happier  in  hit 
prison  than  the  proudest  of  his  assailants.  With  bis 
opinions  I  have  nothing  to  do  —  they  may  be  right  or 
wrong  —  but  he  has  suffered  for  them,  and  that  very 
suffering  for  conscience' sake  will  make  more  prose- 
lytes to  deism  than  the  example  of  heterodox  '  Pre- 
lates lo  Christianity,  suicide  statesmen  lo  oppression, 
or  ovei pensioned  homicides  lo  the  impious  alliance 
which  insults  the  world  with  the  name  of  "Holy!" 
I  have  no  wish  to  trample  on  the  dishonoured  or  the 
dead  ;  but  it  would  be  well  if  the  adherents  lo  the 
classes  from  whence  those  persons  sprung  should  abate 
a  little  of  the  cant  which  is  the  crying  sin  of  this 
double-dealing  and  false-speaking  lime  of  sellisb  spoil- 
ers,  and but  enough  for  the  present. 

Pisa,  July.  1832. 


I 

CANTO    THE    SIXTH. 

I. 

"  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,'  —  you  know  the  rest,* 
And  most  of  us  have  found  it  now  and  then  ; 

At  least  we  think  so,  though  but  few  have  gucss'd 
The  moment,  till  too  late  lo  come  again. 

But  no  doubt  every  thing  is  for  Ih'e  best  — 
Of  w  hich  the  surest  sign  is  in  the  end  : 
When  things  are  at  the  worst  they  sometimes  mend. 

II. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  aff.iirs  of  women. 

Which,  taken  at  the  tlooJ,  leads— God  knows  where: 
Those  navigators  must  be  able  seamen 

Whose  charts  lay  down  its  current  lo  a  hair; 
Not  all  the  reveries  of  Jacob  Behinen  ^ 

With  its  strange  whirls  and  eddies  can  compare: 
Men  with  their  heads  reHect  on  this  and  that  — 
But  women  with  their  hearts  on  heaven  knows  what  < 


in. 

And  yet  a  headlong,  headstrong,  downright  she, 
Young,  benutifuT,  and  daring—  who  would  risk 

A  throne,  the  world,  the  universe,  to  be 
Beloved  in  her  own  way,  and  rather  whisk 

The  stars  from  out  the  sky,  than  not  be  free 
As  are  the  billows  when  the  breeze  is  brisk  — 

Though  such  a  she  's  a  devil  (if  that  there  be  oue), 

Yet  she  would  make  full  manv  a  Manichean. 


5  When  Lord  Sandwiih  said  "he  did  not  know  the  dif- 
ference tietween  orthodoxy  and  belerodoxy,"  Warburton, 
the  bishop,  replied,  ••Orthodoxy,  my  lord,  is  my  rfojji,  and 
heterodoxy  is  another  man'i  doxy."  A  pre-.ate  of  Ibe 
present  day  has  discovered,  it  Beem»,  a  t)iird  kind  of  doxy, 
which  has  not  greatly  exalted  in  the  eyes  of  Ihe  elect, 
that  which  Bentliam  calls  "  Church-ofEnglandism." 

6  See  Shakxpeare,  Julius  Cesar,  act  iv.  sc.  iii. 

7  A  noted  v:sii.nary,  born  near  Gorliiz,  in  Vpper  Losa- 
tia,  in  J575,  and  founder  of  the  sect  called  Bebmenites. 
He  had  numerous  followers  in  Germany,  aod  tas  not  been 
without  admirers  in  England ;  one  of  thes^,  Ihe  famous 
William  Law,  author  of  the  "Serious  Cal ,"  edited  aa 
edition  of  his  works.- E. 


534 


DOIN   JUAi^ 


[Canto  VI. 


IV. 

Thrones,  worlds,  et  cetera,  are  so  oft  upset 
By  commonest  ambition,  Ih^t  when  passion 

O'erihrows  the  same,  ive  readily  forget, 
Ck  at  the  least  forgive,  the  loving  rash  one. 

If  Antony  be  well  reniember'd  yet, 
'T  is  not  his  conquests  keep  his  name  in  fasbioa, 

But  Actium,  lost  for  Cleopatra's  eyes, 

Outbalances  all  Caesar's  victories. 


He  died  at  fifty  for  a  queen  of  forty  j 
I  wi,h  Iheir  years  had  been  fifieen  and  twenty. 

For  then  wealth,  binsdonis.  worlds  are  but  a  sport—  I 
Remember  when,  though  I  had  no  great  plenty 

Of  worlds  to  lo^e,  yet  still,  to  pay  mv  court,  1 
Gave  what  I  had  —  a  heart :  as  the  world  went,  I 

Gave  what  was  worth  a  world  ;  for  worlds  could  never 

Reslore  me  those  pure  feelings,  gone  for  ever. 

VI. 

"T  was  the  boy's  •'  mite,"  and,  like  the  "  widow's,"  may 
Perhaps  be  weighd  hereafler,  if  not  now  ; 

But  whether  such  things  do  or  do  n'it  weigh. 
All  who  have  loved,  (^r  love,  will  still  allow 

Life  has  nought  like  it.     God  is  love,  they  say, 
And  Love 's  a  God,  or  w.is  before  the  brow 

Of  earth  was  wrinkled  by  the  sins  and  tears 

Of      but  Chronology  best  knows  the  years. 

VI L 

We  left  our  hero  and  third  heroine  in 

A  kind  of  state  more  awkward  than  uncommon, 

For  genllemen  must  sometimes  risk  their  skin 
For  that  sad  tempter,  a  f  irbidden  woman  : 

Sultans  too  much  abhor  this  sort  of  sin. 

And  don'l  azree  at  all  wiih  the  wise  Roman, 

Heroic,  stoic  Calo,  the  sententious, 

Who  lent  his  lady  to  his  friend  Horlensius." 

Via. 
I  know  Gulbeyaz  was  extremely  wrong  ; 

1  own  it,  1  deplore  it,  I  condemn  it ; 
But  I  detest  all  fiction  even  in  song. 

And  so  must  tell  the  truth,  howe'er  you  blame  it. 
Her  reason  being  weak,  her  passions  strong. 

She  ihoueht  that  her  lord's   heart  (even  could  she 
claim  it) 
Was  scarce  enough  ;  for  he  had  fifty-nine 
Years,  and  a  fifieen-hundred'h  concubine. 

IX. 

I  am  not,  like  Cassio,  "  an  arithmetician," 
But  by  the  "  bookish  theoric"  it  appears. 

If  't  is  sunini'd  up  with  feminine  precision, 
That,  adding  to  ihe  account  his  Highness'  years, 

The  fair  Sultana  err'd  from  inanition  ; 
For,  were  the  Sullan  just  to  all  his  dears. 

She  could  but  claim  Ihe  tifteen-hundredih  part 

Of  what  should  be  mouopoly  —  the  heart. 

X. 

It  is  observed  that  ladies  are  litigious 

Upon  all  legal  objec  s  of  possession. 
And  not  the  least  so  when  they  are  religious. 

Which  doubles  what  they  think  of  Ihe  transgression: 
With  suits  and  prosecutions  they  besiege  us, 

As  the  tribunals  show  through  many  a  session. 
When  they  suspect  that  any  one  goes  shares 
In  that  to  which  Ihe  law  makes  them  sole  heirs. 

1  Cato  gave  np  his  wife,  Martia,  to  Iii8  friend  Hurlen- 
('.as;  but,  on  llie  deatli  of  ttie  latter,  to<ilt  ber  back  a^ain, 
TbiB  conduct  was  ridiculed  by  tlie  RomaDp,  who  observ- 
ed, tlial  Martia  eotered  tlie  house  of  Hnrlensjus  very 
ponr,  but  returned  In  the  bed  of  Calo  luaded  with  trea- 
•ure«.-PLi;TARCH. 


XI. 

Now  if  this  holds  good  in  a  Christian  land, 

The  heathen  also,  though  wiih  lesser  latitude, 
Are  apt  to  carry  things  with  a  high  hand. 

And  take,  what  kings  call  •'  an  imposing  attitude  ;  " 
And  for  their  rights  connubial  make  a  staiid,      [tude  ; 

When  their  liege  husbands  treat  them  with  ingmii- 
And  as  four  wives  must  have  quadruple  claims, 
The  Tigris  hath  its  jealousies  like  Thames. 

XH. 
Gulbeyaz  was  the  fourth,  and  (as  I  siid) 

Tie  fAvouri'e  ;  but  what 's  favour  amongst  four? 
Polygamy  may  well  be  held  in  dread. 

Not  only  as  a  sin,  but  as  a  fctwe ; 
Most  wise  men  with  one  moderate  woman  wed, 

Will  scarcely  find  philosophy  for  more  ; 
And  all  (except  Mahometans)  forbear 
To  make  the  nuptial  couch  a  "  Bed  of  Ware."  a 

XIIL 
His  Highness,  the  sublimes!  of  mankind, — 

So  styled  according  to  the  usual  forms 
Of  every  monarch,  till  they  are  consigned 

To  tho-e  sad  hungry  jacobins  Ihe  worms. 
Who  on  the  very  loftiest  kinss  have  dined, — 

His  Highness  gazed  upon  Gulbeyaz'  charms, 
Expecting  all  the  welcome  of  a  lover 
(A  ••  Highland  »elcome"3  all  the  wide  world  over). 

XIV. 

Now  here  we  should  distinguish  ;  for  howe'er 
Kisses,  sweet  words,  embraces,  and  all  that, 

May  look  like  what  is  —  neither  here  nor  there, 
Thev  are  put  on  as  easily  as  a  bat. 

Or  rather  Imnnet,  which  the  fair  sex  wear, 
Trimm'd  either  heads  or  hearts  to  decorate. 

Which  form  an  ornament,  but  no  more  part 

Of  he  ids,  than  their  caresses  of  the  heart. 

XV. 

A  slight  blush,  a  soft  tremor,  a  calm  kind 

Of  gentle  feminine  delight,  and  shown 
More  in  the  eyelids  than  the  ejes,  resign'd 

Rather  to  hide  what  pleases  most  unknown, 
Are  Ihe  best  tokens  (to  a  modest  mind) 

Of  love,  «  hen  seated  on  his  loveliest  throne, 
A  sincere  woman's  breast,—  for  over-ioarm 
Or  over-coW  annihilates  the  charm. 

XVL 
For  over-warmth,  if  false,  is  worse  than  truth ; 

If  true,  't  is  no  great  lease  of  its  own  fire; 
For  no  one,  save  in  very  early  youlh. 

Would  like  (I  think)'to  trust  all  to  desire, 
Which  is  but  a  precarious  bond,  in  "-ooth. 

And  apt  to  be  transferr'd  to  Ihe  first  buyer 
At  a  sad  discount :  while  your  over-chilly 
Women,  on  t'other  hand,  seem  somewhat  silly. 

XVII. 
That  is,  we  cannot  pardon  their  bad  taste. 

For  so  it  seems  to  lovers  swift  or  slow. 
Who  fain  would  have  a  mutual  flame  confess'd, 

And  see  a  sentimental  passion  glow. 
Even  were  St.  Francis'  paramour  their  guest, 

In  his  monastic  concubine  of  snow  ;  —  * 
In  short,  the  maxim  for  the  amorous  tribe  is 
Horatian,  "Medio  tu  tutissimus  ibis." 


2  "At  Ware,  the  inn  knovpn  by  the  eign  of  the  Sara- 
cen's Head,  stilt  contains  the  famous  fted,  raeasuriug 
taelve/eel  »(;uar«,  lo  which  an  allusion  is  made  by  Shalt- 
Bpeare  in  'Twelfth  Night.'  "  —  CLUTTERBl'CK'S  Herf- 
ford,  vol.  iii.  p.  285.  — E. 

3  See  Warerley. 

4  ■'  The  blessed  Francis,  being  strongly  E<i1iritrd  one  day 
by  the  emotions  of  the  flesh,  pulled  off  his  clothes  and 
scourged  himself  soundly  :  being  after  this  inflamed  with 
a  wonderful  fervour  of  mind,  he  plunged  his  naked  body 
into  a  great  heap  of  snow.  The  devil,  being  overcome, 
retired  immediately,  and  Ihe  holy  man  returned  Tictoti- 
ou3  inlchis  cell."  — See  BUTLER'S  Livedo/  tht  Bmimtt 


Canto  VLJ 


DON  JUAN 


535 


XVIII. 

The  "  tu  " '«  too  much,—  but  let  ir  stand,—  the  verse 
Requires  it,  that 's  to  say,  the  English  rhyme, 

And  QOt  the  pinlt  of  old  hexameters  ; 

But,  afier  all,  there's  neither  tune  nor  time 

In  the  last  line,  which  cmnot  well  be  worse. 
And  was  thrust  in  to  close  the  octave's  chime: 

I  own  no  prosody  can  ever  rale  it 

Asa  rule,  but  truth  may,  if  you  translate  it. 

XIX. 
If  fair  Gulbeyaz  overdid  her  part, 

I  know  noi  —  it  succeeded,  and  success 
Is  much  in  most  things,  not  lesi  in  the  heart 

Than  other  articles  of  female  dress. 
Self-love  in  man,  loo,  beats  all  female  art ; 

They  lie,  we  lie,  all  lie,  but  love  no  less : 
And  no  one  virtue  yet,  except  starvalion. 
Could  stop  that  worst  of  vices  —  propagation. 

XX. 

We  leave  this  royal  couple  to  repose : 
A  bed  is  not  a  throne,  and  they  may  sleep, 

Whate'er  their  dreams  be,  if  of  joys  or  woes : 
Yet  disappointed  joys  are  woes  as  deep 

As  any  man's  clay  mixture  undergoes. 

Our  least  of  sorrows  are  such  as  we  weep  ; 

'T  is  the  vile  doily  drop  on  drop  which  wears 

The  soul  out  (like  the  stone)  with  petty  cares. 

XXI. 

A  scolding  wife,  a  sullen  son,  a  bill 

To  pny,  unpaid,  protested,  or  discounted 

At  a  per-ccniage;  a  child  cross,  dog  ill, 

A  favourite  horse  fallen  lame  just  as  he's  mounted, 

A  bad  old  woman  making  a  worse  will. 

Which  leaves  you  minus  of  the  cash  you  counted 

As  certain ;  —  these  are  paltry  things,  and  yet 

1  've  rarely  seen  the  man  they  did  not  fret. 

XXII. 

I'm  a  philosopher;  confound  them  all  ! 

Bills,  beasts  and  men,  and  —  no  1  not  womankind  '. 
With  one  eood  hearty  curse  I  vent  my  icall. 

And  then  my  stoicism  leaves  nought  behind 
Which  it  can  either  pain  or  evil  call. 

And  I  can  give  my  who.e  soul  up  to  mind  ; 
Though  what  is  soul  or  mind,  their  birlh  or  growth. 
Is  more  than  I  know  —  the  deuce  take  them  both  1 

XXIII. 

So  DOW  all  things  are  d— n'd  one  feels  at  ease, 

As  after  reading  Athanasius'  curse, 
Which  dolh  your  true  believer  so  much  please: 

I  doubt  if  any  now  could  make  it  worse 
O'er  his  worst  enemy  when  at  Jiis  knees, 

'T  is  so  sententious,  positive,  and  terse. 
And  decorates  the  book  of  Common  Prayer 
As  doth  a  rainbow  the  just  clearing  air. 

XXIV. 

Guibeyaz  and  her  lord  were  sleeping,  or 

At  least  one  of  them  !  —  Oh.  the  heavy  night, 

When  wicked  wives,  who  love  some  bachelor, 
Lie  down  in  dudeeon  to  sigh  for  the  light 

Of  the  grey  morning,  and  look  vainly  for 
Its  twinkle  through  the  lattice  dusky  quite  — 

To  toss,  to  tumble,  doze,  revive,  and  quake 

Lest  their  too  lawful  bed-fellow  should  wake  I 

XXV. 

These  are  beneath  the  canopy  of  heaven. 

Also  beneath  ;he  canopy  of  beds 
Four-posted  and  silk-curtain'd,  which  are  given 

For  rich  men  and  their  brides  to  lay  their  heads 
Upon,  in  sheets  whi'e  as  what  bards  call  "  driven 

Snow."     Well  !  't  is  all  hap-hazard  when  one  weds. 
Gulbeyaz  was  an  empress,  but  had  been 
Perhaps  as  wretched  if  a  pmsanVs  quean. 


XXVI. 

Don  Juan  in  his  feminine  disguise. 

With  all  the  damsels  in  their  long  array. 

Had  bow  'd  themselves  before  th'  imperial  eyes, 
And  at  the  usual  signal  ta'en  their  way 

Back  to  their  chambers,  those  long  galleries 
In  the  seraglio,  where  the  ladies  lay 

Their  delicile  limbs ;  a  thousand  bosoms  there 

Beating  for  love,  as  the  caged  bird's  for  air. 

XXVI  I. 

I  love  the  sex,  and  sometimes  would  reverse 
The  tyrant's  »  wish,  '■  that  mankind  only  had 

One  neck,  which  he  with  one  fell  stroke  might  pierce  :" 
My  wish  is  quite  as  wide,  but  not  so  bad. 

And  much  more  lender  on  the  whole  linn  fierce; 
It  being  (not  now,  but  only  while  a  lad) 

That  wonjankind  had  but  one  rosy  mouth, 

To  kiss  them  all  at  once  from  North  to  South. 

XXVIII. 

Oh,  enviable  Briareus !  with  thy  hands 
And  he.nds,  if  thou  badst  all  things  multiplied 

In  such  proportion  !  —  But  my  Muse  withstands 
The  giant  thought  of  being"a  Titan's  bride. 

Or  travelling  in  Palagonian  l^nds; 
So  let  us  back  to  Lilliput,  and  guide 

Our  hero  through  the  labyrinth  of  love 

In  which  we  left  him  several  lines  above. 

XXIX. 

He  went  forth  with  the  lovely  Odalisques,^ 
At  the  given  signal  j  lin'd  to  their  array  ; 

And  though  he  certainly  ran  many  ri>ks. 
Yet  he  could  not  at  times  keep,  by  the  way, 

(Although  the  consequences  of  such  frisks 
Are  worse  than  the  worst  damages  men  pay 

In  moral  England,  where  the  thing  's  a  tax,) 

From  ogling  all  their  charms  from  breasis  to  backs. 

XXX. 

still  lie  forgot  not  his  disguise :  —  along 

The  galleries  from  room  to  room  they  walk'd, 

A  virgin-like  and  edifying  throng. 
By  eunuchs  flank'd  ;  while  at  their  head  there  stalk'd 

A  dame  who  kept  up  discipline  among 
The  female  ranks,  so  that  none  stirr'd  or  lalk'd 

Without  her  sanction  on  their  she-parades : 

Her  title  was  "  the  Mother  of  the  Maids." 

XXXI. 

Whether  she  was  a  "  mother,"'  I  know  not. 
Or   whether   they  were  "maids"   who  cnll'd  her 

But  this  is  her  seraglio  title,  got  [mother; 

I  know  nol  how,  but  good  as  any  other  : 

So  Cantemir  3  cm  tell  you,  or  De  Toll :  * 
Her  office  was,  to  keep  aloof  or  smother 

All  bad  propensities  in  fifteen  hundred 

Young  women,  and  correct  them  when  they  blunder'd. 

XXXII. 

A  goodly  sinecure,  no  doubt !  but  made 
Slore  easy  by  the  absence  of  all  men  — 

Except  his  majesty, —  w  lio,  w  ith  her  aid, 

And  guards,  and  bolt-,  and  wall?,  and  now  and  then, 

A  slight  example,  just  to  cast  a  shide 
Along  the  rest,  contrived  to  keep  this  den 

Of  beauties  cool  :>s  an  Italian  convent. 

Where  all  the  passions  have,  alas !  but  one  vent. 


1  Calignla  —  St-e  SueloniiiH.  "  Being  in  a  rage  at  the 
people,  for  favouring  a  parly  in  the  Circen»ian  games  in 
oppoellion  to  him,  lie  cried  out,  ■  I  wish  Ibe  Komau  peo- 
ple had  but  one  neck."  " 

2  The  ladies  of  the  seraglio. 

9  Demetrius  Cantemir,  a  prince  of  MoIdaTin;  who«e 
'•  History  of  the  Growth  and  Decay  of  the  Ottoman  Em- 
pire." v»aa  translated  into  English,  by  Tindal.  He  died 
in  1723.— E. 

4  ■•  Memoirs  of  the  State  of  the  Turkish  Empire. 
nbS."- E. 


536 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  VI. 


XXXIII. 
And  w  hat  is  tliil  ?    Devotion,  doubltes  —  hoiv 

Could  you  ask  such  a  queslioD  ?  —  but  we  will 
Continue.     As  I  said,  this  goodly  row 

Of  ladies  of  all  countries  at  the  will 
Of  one  good  man,  with  stately  march  and  slow, 

Like  walei-lilies  fliialing  down  a  rill  — 
Or  rather  lake  —  for  rills  do  7iot  ruu  slowly, — 
Paced  on  most  maideu-like  and  melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But  when  they  reach'd  their  own  apartments,  there, 
Lite  birds,  or  boys,  or  bedlamites  broke  loose, 

Waves  at  spring-tide,  or  women  anywhere 
When  freed  from  bonds  (which  are  of  no  great  use 

Alter  all),  or  like  Irish  at  a  fair. 
Their  guards  being  gone,  and  as  it  were  a  truce 

Establish'd  between  them  and  bondage,  Ihey 

Began  to  sing,  dance,  chatter,  smile,  and  play. 

XXXV. 

Their  talk,  of  course,  ran  most  on  the  new  comer; 

Her  shape,  her  hair,  her  air,  her  every  thing  : 
Some  thousht  her  dress  did  not  so  much  become  her. 

Or  wonder'd  at  her  ears  without  a  ring  ; 
Some  s:iid  her  years  were  getting  nigh  their  summer, 

Others  contended  they  were  but  in  spring; 
Some  thought  her  rather  masculine  in  height, 
While  others  wish'd  that  she  had  been  so  quite. 

XXXVI. 

But  no  one  doubted  on  the  whole,  that  she 
W  l^  \Oiat  her  dress  bespoke,  a  dsiiisel  fair, 

And  Ircsh,  and  "  beautiful  exceedingly," 

Who  with  the  brightest  Georgians  '  might  compare: 

They  wonder'd  how  Gulbeyaz,  too,  could  be 
So  silly  as  tn  buy  slaves  w  ho  might  share 

(If  that  his  Highness  wearied  of  his  bride) 

Her  throne  and  power,  and  every  thing  beside. 

XXXVIL 

But  what  was  strangest  in  this  virgin  crew, 
Although  her  beauty  was  enough  to  vex, 

After  the  first  investigating  view, 

They  all  found  out  as  few,  or  fewer,  specks 

In  the  fair  form  of  their  companion  new, 
Thin  is  the  custom  of  the  gentle  sex. 

When  they  survey,  with  Christian  eyes  or  Heathen, 

In  a  new  face  "  the  ugliest  creature  breathing." 

XXXVIII. 
And  yet  Ihey  had  their  little  jealousies. 

Like  all  the  rest ;  but  upon  this  occasion, 
Whether  there  are  such  things  as  sympathies 

Without  nur  knowledge  or  our  approbation, 
Although  Ihey  could  not  see  through  his  disguise, 

All  felt  a  soft  kind  of  concalenalion. 
Like  magnetism,  or  devili^m,  or  what 
You  please  —  we  will  not  quarrel  about  that ! 

XXXIX. 

But  certain  't  is  they  all  felt  for  their  new 
Companion  something  newer  still,  as  'twere 

A  sentimental  friendship  through  and  through. 
Extremely  pure,  which  made  them  all  concur 

Id  wishing  her  their  sister,  save  a  few 

Who  wish'd  they  had  a  brother  just  like  her. 

Whom,  if  they  were  at  home  in  sweet  Circassia, 

They  would  prefer  to  Padishah  or  Pacha. 


1  "  It  is  in  the  adjacent  climates  of  Georgia,  Mingrelia, 
mod  Circaaeia,  that  nature  has  (ilacrd,  at  leant  to  our  i^yes, 
lb*  mrdel  of  beauty,  in  ttie  fhape  of  the  limbs,  tile  colour 
of  the  skin,  Itie  symmetry  of  the  features,  and  the  ex- 
pretsion  of  the  countenance;  Ih:;  men  ore  formed  for  ac- 
tioo,  tt>e  women  fur  love."  — GIBBON. 

2  Padisha  in  the  Turkish  title  of  Itie  Grand  Signior. 


XL. 
Of  those  who  had  most  genius  for  this  sort 

Of  sentimental  friendstiip,  there  were  three, 
Lolah,  Katinka,3  and  Dudu  ;  in  short, 

(To  sive  description)  fair  as  fair  can  be 
Were  they,  according  to  the  best  report, 

Thougti  differing  in  stature  and  degree. 
And  cliiue  and  lime,  and  country  and  complexion; 
They  all  alike  admired  their  new  connection. 

XLL 
Lolah  was  dusk  as  India  and  as  warm  ; 

Kalinka  was  a  Georgian,  white  and  red. 
With  great  blue  eyes,  a  lovely  hand  and  arm. 

And  feet  so  small  Ihey  scarce  seem'd  made  to  tread, 
But  rather  .'kirn  tlie  earth  ;  while  Dudu's  form 

Look'd  more  adapted  to  be  put  to  bed, 
Being  somewhat  large,  and  languishing,  and  lazy. 
Yet  of  a  beauty  that  would  drive  you  ciazy. 

XLIL 
A  kind  of  sleepy  Venus  seem'd  Dudu, 

Yet  very  &\  tu  "  murder  sleep  "  in  those 
Who  g  ized  upon  her  cheek's  transcendent  hue, 

Her  Attic  forehead,  and  her  Phidian  nose : 
Few  angles  were  there  in  her  form,  'tis  true. 

Thinner  she  might  have  been,  and  yet  scarce  lose  ; 
Yet,  after  all,  't  would  puzzle  to  say  where 
It  would  not  spoil  some  separate  charm  to  pare. 

XLIII. 
She  was  not  violently  lively,  but 

Stole  on  your  spirit  like  a  May-day  breaking; 
Her  eyes  were  not  too  sparkling,  yet,  half-shut. 

They  put  beholders  in  a  lender  taking; 
She  look'd  (this  simile's  quite  new)  just  cut 

From  marble,  like  Pygmalion's  statue  waking, 
The  mortal  and  the  marble  s'ill  at  strife, 
And  timidly  expanding  into  life. 

XLIV. 
Lolah  demanded  the  new  damsel's  name  — 

"Juanna."  —  Well,  a  pretty  name  enough. 
Katirika  ask'd  her  also  whence  ^he  caue- 

"  From  Spain."— "But  where  is  Spain  ?"—" Don't 
ask  such  s'uff, 
Nor  show  your  Georgian  ignorance  —  for  shame  ! " 

Said  Lolah,  with  an  accent  rather  rough. 
To  poor  Katiiika  :  "  Spain's  an  island  near 
Morocco,  betwixt  Egypt  and  Tangier." 

XLV. 
Dudu  said  nothing,  but  sat  down  beside 

Juanna,  playing  with  her  veil  or  hair; 
And  looking  at  her  steadfastly,  she  sigh'd. 

As  if  she  pitied  her  for  being  there, 
A  pretty  stringer,  without  friend  or  guide, 

And  all  abash'd,  too,  at  the  general  stare 
Which  welcomes  hipless  strangers  in  all  places, 
With  kind  remarlts  upon  their  mien  and  faces. 

XLVI. 
But  here  the  Mother  of  ihe  Maids  drew  near. 

With,  "  Ladies,  it  is  lime  to  go  to  rest. 
I  'm  puzzled  what  to  do  with  you,  my  dear," 

She  added  to  Juanna,  their  new  guest : 
"  Your  coming  has  been  unexpected  here. 

And  every  couch  is  occupied  ;  you  had  best 
Partake  of  mine  ;  but  by  to-morrow  early 
We  w  ill  have  all  things' settled  for  you  fairly." 

XLVII. 
Here  Lnlih  interposed  —  "  Mamma,  you  know 

You  don't  sleep  soundly,  and  I  cannot  bear 
That  any  body  should  disturb  you  so; 

I  'II  lake  Juanna  ;  we  're  a  slenderer  pair 
Than  you  would  m.ike  Ihe  half  of;  -don't  say  no; 

And  I  of  your  young  charge  will  take  due  care." 
But  here  Kalinka  interfered,  and  snid, 
"  She  also  had  compassion  and  a  bed." 


3  Katintia  wan  the  name  of  the  youngest  of  the  thrw 
girls,  at  whose  house  Lord  Byron  resided  while  it  Alhant. 
to  IfelO.— E. 


Canto  VI.j 


DON  JUAN 


537 


XLVIII. 

"  Besides,  I  hate  to  sleep  alone,"  quoth  she. 

The  niatroD  frown'd :  "  why  so  ? "  —  "  For  fear  of 
ghosts," 
Replied  Katinka;  "  I  am  sure  I  see 

A  phantom  upon  each  of  the  fsur  posts  ; 
And  then  I  have  ttie  v\orst  dreams  that  can  be, 

Of  Guebres,  Giaours,  and  Ginns,  and  Gouls  in  hosts." 
The  dame  leplied,  "  Beween  your  dieams  and  you, 
I  fear  Juanna's  dreams  would  be  but  few. 

XLIX. 

"  Yoa,  Lolah,  must  continue  still  to  lie 

Alone,  for  reasons  which  don't  matter;  you 

The  same,  Katinka,  until  by  and  by  ; 
And  I  shall  place  Juanna  with  Dudu, 

Who's  quiet,  inoH'ensive,  silent,  shy. 
And  will  not  toss  and  chatter  the  night  through. 

What  say  you,  child  ?"—  Dudu  said  nothing,  as 

Her  taieuts  were  of  the  more  silent  class ; 

L. 

But  she  ro<e  up,  and  kiss'd  the  matron's  brow 
Between  the  eyes,  and  Lolah  on  both  cheeks, 

Kalinka  too;  and  with  a  gentle  bnw 
(Curt'sies  are  neither  used  by  Turks  nor  Greeks) 

She  took  Juanna  by  the  hand  lo  show 

Their  place  of  rest,  and  left  lo  both  their  piques, 

The  others  pouting  at  the  matron's  preference 

Of  Dudu,  though  they  held   their   tongues  from  de- 


Ll. 

It  was  a  spacious  chamber  (Oda  is 

The  Turkish  title),  and  ranged  round  the  wall 
Were  couches,  toiiels  —  and  much  more  than  this 

I  might  describe,  as  I  have  seen  it  all, 
But  it  suffices—  little  was  amiss; 

'T  was  on  the  whole  a  nobly  furnish'd  hall, 
With  all  things  ladies  want,  save  one  or  two. 
And  even  those  were  nearer  than  they  knew. 

LII. 

Dudu,  as  has  been  said,  was  a  sweet  creature. 
Not  very  dashing,  but  extremely  winning. 

With  the  most  regulated  chaims  nf  feature. 
Which  painters  cannot  catch  like  faces  sinning 

Against  proportion  —  the  wild  strokes  of  nature 
Which  tliey  hit  otf  at  once  in  the  beginning, 

Full  of  expression,  right  or  wrong,  that  strike, 

And  pleasing,  or  unpleasing,  still  are  like. 

LIII. 
But  she  was  a  soft  landscape  of  mild  earth. 

Where  all  was  harmony,  and  calm,  and  quiet, 
Luxuriant,  budding  ;  cheerful  without  mirth. 

Which,  if  not  happiness,  is  much  more  nigh  it 
Than  are  your  mighty  passions  and  so  forth. 

Which   some  call  "  the  sublime :  "  I  wish  they  'd 
try  it : 
I  've  seen  your  stormy  seas  and  stormy  women, 
And  pity  lovers  rather  more  than  seamen. 

LIV. 

But  she  was  pensive  more  than  melancholy, 
And  serious  more  than  pensive,  and  serene, 

It  may  be,  more  than  either—  not  unholy 

Her  thoughts,  at  least  till  now,  appear  to  have  been. 

The  strangest  thing  was,  beauteous,  she  was  wholly 
Unconscious,  albeit  turn'd  of  quick  seventeen, 

That  she  was  fair,  or  dark,  or  short,  or  tall ; 

She  never  thought  about  herself  at  all. 

LV. 

And  therefore  was  she  kind  and  gentle  as 

The  Age  of  Gold  (when  gold  was  yet  ui  known, 

By  which  its  nomenclature  came  to  pass ; 
Thus  most  appropriately  hus  been  shown 

"  Lucus  a  71  on  lucendo,''  jiol  what  was. 

But  what  100*  not  ;  a  sort  of  style  that 's  grown 

Extremely  common  in  this  age,  whose  metal 

The  devil  may  decompose,  but  never  settle : 


LVL 

I  think  it  may  be  of  "  Corinthian  Brass,"  l 

Which  was  a  mixture  of  all  metals,  but 
The  brazen  ui)permost).     Kind  re;\der  !  pass 

This  long  patenthesis  :  I  could  not  shut 
It  sooner  for  the  soul  of  me,  and  class 

My  faults  even  with  your  own  !  which  meanetb,  Put 
A  kind  construction  upon  them  and  me  : 
But  that  you  won't  —  then  don't  —  1  am  not  less  free. 

LVII. 
'T  is  time  we  should  return  lo  plain  narration. 

And  thus  my  narrative  proceeds :  —  Dudu, 
With  every  kmdness  short  of  oslentaiion, 

Show'd  Juan,  or  Juanna,  through  and  through 
This  labyrinth  of  female;,  acd  each  station  [few  : 

Described  —  what 's  strargo  — in  words  extremely 
I  have  but  one  simile,  and  that's  a  blunder, 
For  wordless  woman,  which  is  silent  thunder. 

LVIIL 
And  next  she  gave  her  (I  say  hn;  because 

The  gender  still  was  epicene,  at  least 
In  outward  show,  which  is  a  saving  clause) 

An  outline  of  the  customs  of  the  East, 
With  all  their  chaste  integrity  cf  laws. 

By  which  the  more  a  hafem  is  increased. 
The  stricter  doubtless  grow  the  vestal  duties 
Of  any  supernumerary  i,ea,;!;es. 

LIX. 
And  then  she  gave  Juanna  a  chaste  kiss  : 

Dudu  was  fond  of  kissing—  which  I  'm  sure 
That  nobody  can  ever  take  amiss, 

Because  'I  is  pleasant,  so  that  it  be  pure, 
And  between  females  means  no  more  than  this  — 

That  they  have  nothing  better  near,  or  newer. 
"  Kiss  "  rhymes  to  "  bliss "  in  fact  as  well  as  verse  — 
I  wish  it  never  led  to  something  worse. 

LX. 
In  perfect  innocence  she  then  unmade 

Her  toilet,  which  cost  little,  for  she  was 
A  child  of  Nature,  carelessly  array'd  : 

If  fond  of  a  chance  osle  at  her  glass, 
'T  was  like  the  fawn,  which,  in  the  lake  display'd, 

Beholds  her  own  shy,  shadowy  image  pass, 
When  first  she  starts,  and  then  returns  to  peep. 
Admiring  this  new  native  of  the  deep. 

LXI. 
And  one  by  one  her  articles  of  dress 

Were  laid  aside  ;  but  i;ot  before  she  offer'd 
Her  aid  to  fair  Juanna,  who>e  excess 

Of  modesty  declined  the  as'^istance  profTer'd : 
Which  pass'd  well  off— as  she  could  do  no  less; 

Though  by  this  politesse  she  rather  suffer'd. 
Pricking  her  fingers  with  those  cursed  pins, 
Which  surely  were  invented  for  our  sins, — 

LXIl. 
Making  a  woman  like  a  porcupine. 

Not  to  be  rashly  louch'd.     But  still  more  dread. 
Oh  ye  !  whose  fate  it  is,  as  once  't  was  mine, 

In  early  youth,  to  turn  a  lady's  maid  j  — 
I  did  my  very  boyi-h  best  to  shine 

In  tricking  her  out  for  a  masquerade; 
The  pins  were  jjlaced  sufficiently,  but  not 
Stuck  all  exactly  in  the  proper  spot. 

LXIII. 
But  these  are  foolish  thinss  to  all  the  wise, 

And  I  \o\e  wisdom  more  than  she  loves  me; 
My   endency  is  to  philosophise 

On  most  things,  from  a  Ivrant  to  a  tree ; 
But  still  the  spouseless  virgin  Knowledge  files. 

What  are  we?  and  whence  came  we?  what  shall  be 
Our  ultimate  existence  ?  w  hat 's  our  present  ? 
Are  questions  answerless,  and  yet  incessant. 


1  This  brass,  so  famous  in  antiquity,  's  a  mixture  of 
enlil,  silver,  and  copper,  ami  is  supposed  to  have  been  pn»- 
Juird  by  tne  fusion  of  Itiese  metals,  in  which  Cnrlnlb 
abounded,  when  it  was  saclied. —  E. 


538 


DON   JUAJN. 


[Canto  VI. 


LXIV. 
There  was  deep  silence  in  the  chamber  :  dim 

And  distant  from  each  other  burn'd  the  lights, 
And  slumber  hover'd  o'er  each  lovely  limb 

Of  the  fair  occupants  :  if  there  be  sprites, 
They  ^hould   have  vvalk'd  there  in  their  sprightliest 
trim, 

By  way  of  change  from  their  sepulchral  sites, 
And  shown  themselves  as  ghosts  ot  heller  taste 
Than  haunting  some  old  rum  or  wild  waste. 

LXV. 
Many  and  beautiful  lay  those  around, 

Like  flowers  of  diflereni  hue,  and  clime,  and  roo', 
In  some  exotic  garden  sometimes  found, 

With  co^t,  and  care,  and  warmth  induced  to  shoot. 
One  Willi  her  auburn  tresses  lighlly  bound. 

And  fair  bnuvs  gently  drooping,  as  the  fruit 
Nods  from  the  tree,  was  sluDibering  with  soft  breath, 
And  lips  apart,  wliich  show'd  the  pearls  beneath. 

LXVI. 

One  with  her  flush'd  cheek  laid  on  her  white  arm, 
And  raven  ringlets  g.ilher'd  in  dark  croud 

Above  her  brow,  liy  dreaming  soft  and  warm  ; 

And  smiling  ihrough  her  dream,  as  through  a  cloud 

The  moon  breaks,  half  unveil'd  each  further  charm, 
As,  slighily  stirring  in  her  snowy  shroud. 

Her  beauiies  seized  the  unconscious  hour  of  night 

All  bashfully  to  struggle  into  light. 

LXVII. 
This  is  no  bull,  although  it  sounds  so  ;  for 

'I'was  night,  but  there  were  lamps,  as  hath  been 
said. 
A  third's  all  pallid  aspect  offer'd  more 

The  trails  of  sleeping  sorrow,  and  betray'd 
Through  the  heaved  breast  the  dream  of  some  far  shore 

Beloved  and  deplored  ;  while  slowly  siray'd 
(As  nighi-dew,  on  a  cypress  glittering,  tinges 
The  black  bough)  tear-drops   tnrough  her  eyes'  dark 
fringes. 

LXVIII. 
A  fourth  as  marble,  statue-like  and  still, 

Lay  in  a  breathless,  hush'd,  and  stony  sleep; 
White,  cold,  and  pure,  as  looks  a  frozen  rill. 

Or  the  snow  minaret  on  an  Alpine  sleep. 
Or  Lot's  wife  done  in  salt, —  or  what  you  will  j 

My  similes  are  gather'd  in  a  heip. 
So  pick  and  choose  —  perhaps  you  '11  be  content 
Wilh  a  carved  lady  on  a  monument. 

LXIX. 

And  lo !  a  fifth  appears ;  —  and  what  is  she  ? 

A  lady  of  "  a  certain  age,"  which  means 
Certainly  aged  —  what  her  years  might  be 

I  know  not,  never  counliiig  past  Iheir  teens; 
But  there  she  slept,  not  quite  so  fair  lo  see, 

As  ere  Ihat  awful  period  intervenes 
Which  lays  both  men  and  women  on  the  shelf. 
To  meditate  upon  Iheir  sins  and  self. 

LXX. 

But  all  this  time  how  slept,  or  dream'd,  Dudu  ? 

Wilh  strict  inquiry  1  could  ne'er  discover. 
And  scorn  to  add  a  syllable  untrue; 

But  ere  the  middle  watch  was  hardly  over. 
Just  when  llie  fading  lamps  waned  dim  and  blue, 

And  phantoms  hover'd,  or  might  seem  to  hover. 
To  those  »ho  like  their  company,  about 
The  apartment,  on  a  sudden  she  scieam'd  out: 

LXXI. 

And  that  so  loudly,  that  upstarted  all 

The  Oda,  in  a  general  commolioQ  : 
Ma'rnn  and  maids,  and  those  whom  you  may  call 

Neilher,  came  crowding  like  the  waves  of  ocean. 
One  on  the  other,  throughout  the  whole  hall. 

All  trembling,  wondering,  wilhout  ihe  least  notion 
More  Ihan  I  have  myself  of  what  could  make 
The  calm  Dudu  so  turbulenllv  wake. 


LXXIL 

But  wide  awake  she  was,  and  round  her  bed, 
Wilh  (ioating  draperies  and  wilh  living  hair, 

With  eager  eyes,  and  light  but  hurried  tread, 
And  bosoms,  arms,  and  ankles  glancing  bare. 

And  bright  as  any  meteor  ever  bied 
By  the  North  Pole,—  Ihev  sought  her  cause  of  care. 

For  she  stem'd  agitaled,  flu'-h'd,  and  frighteud, 

Her  eye  dilaled  and  her  colour  heighten'd. 

Lxxni. 

But  what  is  strange  — and  a  strong  proof  how  great 

A  blessing  is  sound  sleep  —  Juauua  lay 
As  fast  as  ever  husband  by  his  mate 

In  holy  matrimony  snores  auay. 
Not  all  the  clamour  broke  her  happy  state 

Of  slumber,  ere  Ihey  shook  her,—  so  they  say 
At  least, — and  ilien  she,  too,  unclosed  her  eyes, 
And  yawn'd  a  good  deal  with  discreet  surprise. 

LXX  IV. 
And  now  commenced  a  strict  investigation, 

Which,  as  all  spoke  at  ince,  and  more  than  once 
Conjecturing,  wondering,  asking  a  narration, 

Alike  might  puzzle  either  wit  or  dunce 
To  answer  in  a  very  clear  oration. 

Dudu  had  never  pass'd  for  wanting  sense, 
But,  being  "  no  oralor  as  Brutus  is," 
Could  not''at  first  expound  what  was  amiss. 

LXXV. 
At  length  she  said,  that  in  a  slumber  sound 

She  dreim'd  a  dieam,  of  walking  in  a  wood  — 
A  '■  wood  obscure,"  like  that  where  Dane  found 

Himself  in  at  the  age  when  all  grovv  good  ; 
Life's  haif-way  liouse,where dames  with  virtue crown'd 

Run  much  less  risk  of  lovers  turning  rude  ; 
And  that  Ibis  wood  was  full  of  pleasant  fruits, 
And  trees  of  goodly  growth  and  spreading  rootg ; 

LXXVI. 
And  in  the  midst  a  golden  apple  grew, — 

A  most  prodigious  pippin  —  but  it  hung 
Rather  too  high  and  distant ;  that  she  threw 

Her  glances  on  it,  and  then,  longing,  flung 
Stones  and  whatever  she  could  pick  up,  lo 

Bring  down  the  fruit,  which  still  perversely  clung 
To  its  own  bough,  and  danjied  yet  in  sight. 
But  always  at  a  most  provoking  height;  — 

LXXVH. 
That  on  a  sudden,  when  she  least  had  hope. 

It  fell  down  of  ils  own  accord  before 
Htr  feet;  that  her  first  movement  was  to  stoop 

And  pick  it  up,  and  bite  it  to  Ihe  core; 
That  just  ns  her  young  lip  began  lo  ope 

Upon  the  golden  fruit  the  vision  bore, 
A  bee  flew  out,  and  stung  her  lo  Ihe  heirf. 
And  so  — she  woke  with  a  great  scream  and  start. 

LXXVHL 
All  this  she  told  with  some  confusion  and 

Dismay,  Ihe  usual  consequence  of  dreama 
Of  Ihe  unpleasant  kind,  with  none  at  hand 

To  expound  their  vain  and  visionary  gleams. 
I  've  known  some  odd  ones  which  seem'd  really  plann'd 

Prophetically,  or  that  which  one  deems 
A  "  strange  coincidence,"  lo  use  a  phrase 
By  which  such  things  are  settled  now-a-days.* 

LXXIX. 
The  damsels,  who  had  thoughts  of  some  great  harm. 

Began,  as  is  the  consequence  of  fear, 
To  scold  a  lillle  at  Ihe  false  alarm 

That  broke  for  nothing  on  iheir  sleeping  eir. 
The  matron,  loo,  was  wrolh  lo  leave  her  warm 

Bed  f  T  the  dream  she  had  been  obliged  to  hear, 
And  chafed  at  poor  Dudu,  who  only  sigh'd. 
And  said,  that  she  was  sorry  she  had  cried. 


1  One  of  Ihe  advocates  employed  for  Quern  Caroline  In 
Ihe  House  of  Lords,  spoke  of  some  of  the  most  puizling 
passapeB  in  Ihe  history  of  herinlrrcoarse  wilh  Bergmmi.u 
amounting  lo  '•  odd  ioslascM  of  •IraBrecoiocMcacc."  —  B. 


Canto  VL] 


DON  JUAN. 


539 


LXXX. 

"  I  've  heard  of  storie'i  of  a  cock  and  bull ; 

But  visions  of  an  apple  and  a  bee. 
To  tike  us  from  our  natural  rest,  and  pull 

The  whole  Oda  from  their  beds  at  half-past  three, 
Would  make  us  think  the  moon  is  at  its  full. 

You  surely  are  unweli,  child  !   we  must  see, 
To-morrow,  what  his  Ilighness's  physician 
Will  say  to  Ibis  hysteric  of  a  vision. 

LXXXI. 

"And  poor  Juanna,  too,  the  child's  first  night 
Within  these  walls,  to  be  broke  in  upon 

With  such  a  clamour—  I  had  thought  it  right 
Thit  the  young  stranger  should  not  lie  alone, 

And.  as  the  quietest  of  all,  she  might 

With  you,  Dudu,  a  good  night's  rest  have  known ; 

But  now  I  must  transfer  her  to  the  charge 

Of  Lolah  —  though  her  couch  is  not  so  large." 

LXXXII, 

Lolah's  eyes  sparkled  at  the  proposition  ; 

But  poor  Dudu,  with  I  irge  drops  in  her  own. 
Resulting  from  the  scolding  or  the  vision, 

Implored  that  present  pardon  might  be  shown 
For  ihis  first  fault,  and  that  on  no  condition 

(She  added  in  a  soft  and  piteous  lone) 
Juanna  should  be  taken  from  her,  and 
Her  future  dreams  should  be  all  kept  in  band. 

LXXXIII. 

She  promised  never  more  lo  have  a  dream. 
At  least  to  dream  so  loudly  as  just  now  ; 

She  wonder'd  at  herself  how  she  could  scream  — 
'T  was  foolish,  nervous,  as  she  must  allow, 

A  fond  hallucination,  and  a  theme 

For  laughter —  but  she  felt  her  spirits  low, 

And  begg'd  they  would  excuse  her ;  she  M  get  over 

This  weakness  in  a  few  hours,  and  recover. 

LXXXIV. 

And  here  Juanna  kindly  interposed. 
And  said  she  felt  herself  extremely  well 

Where  she  then  was,  as  her  sound  sleep  disclosed. 
When  all  around  rana  like  a  locsin  bell  : 

She  did  not  find  herself  the  least  disposed 
To  quit  her  gentle  partner,  and  lo  dwell 

Apart  from  one  who  had  no  sin  to  show 

Suve  that  of  dreaming  once  "  mal-a-propos." 

LXXXV. 
As  thus  Juanna  spoke,  Dudu  turn'd  round 

And  hid  her  face  within  Juanna's  breast : 
Her  neck  alone  was  seen,  but  that  was  found 

The  colour  of  a  budding  rose's  crest. 
I  can't  tell  why  she  blush'd,  nor  c>n  expound 

The  mvstery  of  this  rupture  of  their  rest ; 
All  that  I  know  is,  that  the  facts  I  state 
Arc  true  as  truth  has  ever  been  of  late. 

LXXXVI. 

And  so  good  night  to  them  —  or,  if  you  will. 
Good  morrow  — for  the  cock  had  crown,  and  light 

Began  to  clothe  each  Asiatic  hill, 

And  the  mosque  crescent  sirugsled  into  sight 

Of  the  long  caravan,  which  in  the  chill 

Of  dewy  dawn  wound  slowly  round  each  height 

That  stretches  to  the  stony  bell,  ivhich  girds 

Asia,  where  Kaff  looks  dow  n  upon  the  Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 

With  the  first  ray,  or  rather  grey  of  morn, 
Gulbeyaz  rose  from  restlessness;  and  pale 

As  Passion  rises,  with  Its  br>som  worn, 
Array'd  herself  with  mantle,  gem,  and  veil: 

The  nightingale  that  sings  wi  h  the  deep  thorn. 
Which  fable  places  in  her  breast  of  wail. 

Is  lighler  far  of  heart  and  voice  than  those 

Whose  headlong  passions  form  their  proper  woes. 


LXXXVIII. 

And  Ihat  's  the  moral  of  this  composition, 
If  people  would  but  see  its  real  drift ;  — 

But  that  ihey  will  not  do  wilhout  suspicion, 
Beciuse  all  gentle  readers  have  the  gift 

Of  closing  'gainst  the  light  their  orbs  of  vision ; 
While  genile  writers  also  love  to  lift 

Their  voices  'gains!  each  other,  which  is  natural, 

The  numbers  are  too  great  for  them  to  flatter  all. 

LXXXIX. 

Rose  the  sultana  from  a  bed  of  splendour. 
Softer  ihan  the  soft  Sybarite's,  who  cried 

Aloud  because  his  feelmgs  were  loo  tender 
To  brook  a  ruflSed  rose-leaf  by  his  side, — 

So  beautiful  Ihat  an  ctiuld  lillle  mend  her. 
Though  pale  with  conflicts  between  loveandpride;- 

So  agiialed  was  she  wilh  her  error, 

She  did  not  even  look  into  the  mirror. 

XC. 

Also  arose  about  the  self-same  lime. 

Perhaps  a  little  la'er,  her  great  lord, 
Mas'er  of  thirty  kingdoms  so  sublime. 

And  of  a  wile  by  whom  he  was  abhorr'd; 
A  thing  of  much  less  import  in  that  clime  — 

At  least  to  those  of  incomes  which  afford 
The  filling  up  their  whole  connubial  cargo  — 
Than  where  two  wives  are  under  an  embargo. 

XCI. 

He  did  not  think  much  on  the  matter,  nor 

Indeed  on  any  other:  as  a  man 
He  liked  lo  have  a  handsome  paramour 

At  hand,  as  one  may  like  to  have  a  fan, 
And  therefore  of  Circassians  had  good  store. 

As  an  amusement  after  the  Divan  ; 
Though  an  unusual  fit  of  love,  or  duty. 
Had  made  him  lately  bask  in  his  bride's  beauty. 

XCII. 

And  now  he  rose  ;  and  after  due  abluiions 

Exac'ed  by  the  customs  of  the  East, 
And  prayers  and  other  pious  evolutions. 

He  drank  six  cups  of  coffee  at  the  least. 
And  then  withdrew  lo  hear  about  the  Russians, 

Whose  victories  had  recei.lly  incieased 
In  Catherine's  reign,  whom  glory  still  adores, 
As  grealest  of  all  sovereigns  and  vv s. 

XCIII. 

But  oh,  thou  grand  legitimate  Alexander! 

Her  son's  son,  let  not  this  last  phrase  offend 
Thine  ear,  if  it  should  reach— and  now  rhymes  wander 

Almost  as  far  as  Pelershurgh,  and  lend 
A  dreadful  impulse  to  each  loud  meander 

Of  murmuring  Liberty's  wide  waves,  which  blend 
Their  roar  even  with  the  B<llic's  — so  you  be 
Your  father's  son,  'I  is  quite  enough  for  me. 

XCIV. 
To  call  men  love-begotten,  or  proclaim 

Their  mothers  as  the  antipodes  of  Timon, 
That  hater  of  mankind,  would  be  a  shame, 

A  libel,  or  whale'er  you  please  to  rhynie  on  : 
But  peojile's  ancestors  are  hist  ry's  gaiiie  ; 

And  if  one  lady's  slip  could  leave  a  crime  on 
All  generations,  I  should  like  to  know 
What  pedigree  the  best  would  have  to  show  ? 

XCV. 

Had  Catherine  and  the  sullan  understood 
Their  own  true  interests,  which  kings  rarely  know. 

Until  't  is  taught  by  lessons  rather  rude. 

There  was  a  way  to  end  'heir  strife,  allhoush 

Perhaps  precarious,  had  Ihev  but  thought  good, 
Without  the  aid  of  prince  or  plenlpo  : 

She  to  dismiss  her  guards  and  he  his  harein, 

And  for  their  other  matters,  meet  and  share  'em. 


540 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  VI. 


XCVI, 
But  as  it  was,  his  Highness  had  to  hold 

His  daily  council  upon  ways  and  means 
How  to  encounter  with  this  martial  scold, 

This  modern  Amazon  and  queen  of  queans; 
And  the  perplexity  cnuld  not  be  tnld 

Of  all  the  pillars  of  the  state,  which  leans 
Sometimes  a  little  heavy  on  the  backs 
Of  those  who  cannot  lay  on  a  new  tax. 

XCVII. 
Meantime  Gulbeyaz,  when  her  king  was  gone, 

Retired  into  her  boudoir,  a  sweet  place 
For  love  or  breakfast ;  private,  pleasing,  lone, 

And  rich  with  all  contrivances  which  grace 
Those  gay  recesses  :  —  many  a  precious  stone 

Sparkled  along  its  rnof,  and  many  a  vase 
Of  porcelain  held  in  the  felter'd  flowers. 
Those  captive  soothers  of  a  captive's  hours. 

xcvni. 

Mother  of  pearl,  and  porphyry,  and  marble 
Vied  with  each  other  on  this  costly  spoi ; 

And  singing  birds  wihoul  were  heard  to  warb.e , 
And  the  stain'd  glass  which  lighted  this  fair  grot 

Varied  each  rav  ;  —  but  all  descriptions  garble 
The  true  effect,  and  so  we  had  belter  not 

Be  too  minu!e  ;  an  outline  is  the  best, — 

A  lively  reader's  fancy  does  the  rest. 

XCIX. 

And  here  she  summon'd  Baba,  and  required 
Don  Junn  a;  his  hands,  and  information 

Of  what  had  pass'd  since  all  the  slaves  retired, 
And  whether  he  had  occupied  their  station  : 

If  matters  had  been  managed  as  desired, 
And  his  disguise  with  due  con5ideration 

Kept  up  ;  and  above  all,  the  where  and  how 


CIV. 
He  hoped,  indeed  he  thought,  he  could  be  sure, 

Juan  had  not  beiray'd  himself;  in  fact 
'T  was  Certain  that  his  conduct  hid  been  pure, 

Because  a  foolish  or  imprudent  act 
Would  not  alone  have  made  him  insecure. 

But  ended  in  his  being  found  out  and  satk'd, 
And  thrown  into  the  sea.—  Thus  Bsba  spoke 
Of  all  save  Dudu's  dream,  which  was  no  joke. 

CV. 
This  he  discreetly  kept  in  the  back  ground, 

And  talk'd  away  —  and  might  have  talk'd  till  now, 
For  any  further  answer  that  he  found. 

So  deep  an  anguish  wrung  Gulbeyaz'  brow ; 
Her  cheek  turn'd  ashes,  ears  rung,  brain  whirl'd  round 

As  if  she  had  received  a  sudden  blow, 
And  the  heart's  dew  of  pain  sprang  fast  and  chilly 
O'er  her  fair  front,  iike  Morning's  on  a  lily. 

CVI. 

Although  she  was  not  of  the  fainting  sort, 

Baba  thought  she  would  faint,  but  there  he  err'd  — 

It  was  but  a  convulsif.n,  which  though  short 
Can  never  be  described  ;  we  all  have  heard, 

And  some  of  us  have  felt  thus  "all  amort,'" 

When  things  beyond  the  common  have  occurr'd  :  — 

Gulbeyaz  pioved  in  that  brief  agony 

What  she  could  ne'er  express  —  then  how  should  I  ? 

CVI  I. 
She  stood  a  moment  as  a  Pythoness 

Stands  on  a  tripod,  agonised,  and  full 
Of  inspiration  gather'd  from  distress, 
i      When  all  the  heart-srings  like  wild  horses  pull 
j  The  heirt  asunder ;  —  then,  as  more  or  less 

Their  speed  abated  or  Iheir  strength  grew  dull, 
She  sunk  down  on  her  seat  by  slow  degrees. 


He  had  pass'd  the  night,  was  what  she  wish'd  to  know,  i  And  bow'd  her  throbbing  head  o'er  trembling 


Baba,  with  some  embarrassment,  replied 
To  this  long  catechism  of  questions,  ask'd 

More  easily  than  answer'd,—  that  he  had  tried 
His  besl'to  obey  in  what  he  had  been  task'd  ; 

But  there  seem'd  something  that  he  wish'd  to  hide, 
Which  hesitation  more  betray'd  than  mask'd ; 

He  scratch'd  his  eir,  the  infallible  resource 

To  which  embarrass'd  people  have  recourse. 

CI. 

Gulbeyaz  was  no  model  of  true  patience, 
Nor  much  disposed  to  wait  in  word  or  deed  ; 

She  liked  quick  answers  in  all  conversations; 
And  when  she  saw  him  stumbling  like  a  s'eed 

In  his  replies,  she  puzzled  him  for  fresh  ones; 
And  as  his  speech  grew  still  more  broken-kneed, 

Her  cheek  began  to  flush,  her  eyes  to  sparkle. 

And  her  proud  brow's  blue  veins  to  swell  and  darkle. 

CII. 
When  Baba  saw  the<e  symptoms,  which  he  knew 

To  bode  him  no  great' good,  he  deprecated 
Her  anger,  and  beseech'd  she  'd  hear  him  through  — 

He  could  not  help  the  thing  which  he  related  : 
Then  out  it  came  at  length,  that  to  Dudu 

Juan  was  triven  in  charge,  as  hath  been  s'aled ; 
But  not  by  Baba's  fault,  he  said,  and  swore  on 
The  holy  camel's  hump,  besides  the  Koran. 

cm. 

The  chief  dame  of  the  Oda,  upon  whom 
The  disci|iliae  of  the  whole  harem  bore. 

As  soon  as  they  re-enter'd  ^hcir  own  room. 
For  Baba's  function  slopt  short  at  the  door, 

Had  settled  all ;  nor  could  he  ihen  presume 
(The  aforesaid  Baba)  just  then  to  do  more, 
I  Without  exciting  «■  ch  suspicion  as 


L' 


Migbl  make  the  matter  still  worie  than  it  was. 


CTIII. 
Her  face  declined  and  was  unseen  ;  her  hair 

Fell  in  long  tresses  like  the  weeping  ivillow, 
Sweeping  the  marble  underneath  her  chair. 

Or  rather  sofa,  (for  it  was  all  pillow, 
A  low,  soft  ottoman,)  and  black  despair 

Stirr'd  up  and  down  her  bosom  like  a  billow. 
Which  rushes  lo  some  shore  whose  shingles  check 
Its  farther  course,  but  must  receive  its  wreck. 

CtX. 

Her  head  hung  down,  aiid  her  long  hair  in  stooping 
ConceaI'd  her  features  better  than  a  veil  ; 

And  one  hand  o'er  the  ottoman  lay  drooping. 
While,  waxen,  and  as  alabaster  pale  : 

Would  that  I  were  a  painter  !  to  be  grouping 
All  that  a  poet  drags  into  detail ! 

Oh  that  my  words  were  colours  !  but  their  tints 

May  serve' perhaps  as  outlines  or  slight  hints. 

ex. 

Baba,  who  knew  by  experience  when  to  talk 
And  when  to  hold  his  tongue,  now  held  it  till 

This  passion  might  blow  o'er,  nor  dared  to  balk 
Gulbeyaz'  taciturn  or  speaking  will. 

At  length  she  rose  up,  and  began  to  walk 
Slowly  along  the  room,  but  silent  still. 

And  her  brow  clear'd,  but  not  her  troubled  eye ; 

The  wind  was  down,  but  still  the  sea  ran  high. 

CXI. 

She  slopp'd,  and  raised  her  head  to  speak— but  paused, 
And  then  moved  on  again  with  rapid  pace; 

Then  slacken'd  it,  which  is  the  march  most  caused 
By  deep  emotion  :  —  you  may  sometimes  trace 

A  feeling  in  each  footstep,  as  disclosed 
By  Sallust  in  his  Catiline,  who,  chased 

By  all  the  demons  of  all  passions,  shnw'd 

Their  work  even  by  the  way  in  which  be  trod*. 


Canto  VII.] 


DON  JUAN. 


i*»|] 


I  CXII. 

I  Gulbeyaz  slopp'd  and  beckoii'd  Baba  :  —  "  Slave ! 
Bring  Ihe  two  slavej ! "  she  said  in  a  low  lone, 
But  one  X  liich  Bsba  did  not  like  to  brave, 

And  )el  he  shudder'd,  and  >eenrd  raiher  prone 
To  pi-ove  reluctant,  and  be^g'd  lesve  to  crave 

(Though  he  well  knew  the  nieanins;)  to  be  shown 
What  slave*  her  highness  wi-h'd  lo  indicate, 
For  fear  of  any  error,  like  the  late. 

CXIII. 

"  The  Georgian  and  her  paramour,"  replied 
The  imperial  br  ide  —  and  added,  "  Let  the  boat 

Be  ready  by  ihe  secret  portal's  side: 
You  kn>w  Ihe  rest."    The  words  stuck  in  her  throat. 

Despite  her  injured  love  and  fiery  pride; 
And  of  this  Babi  willingly  took  note, 

And  l)egg'd  by  every  hair  of  Mahnniel's  beard, 

She  would  revoke  the  oider  he  had  heard. 

CXIV. 
"  To  hear  is  lo  obey,"  he  said  ;  "  but  still, 

Suliana,  think  U|)On  the  consequence  : 
It  is  not  that  1  shall  not  all  fulfil 

Your  orders,  even  in  their  severest  sense ; 
But  such  precipitation  ni.iy  end  ill. 

Even  at  your  own  imperative  expense: 
I  do  not  mean  destrucuoo  and  exposure. 
In  case  of  any  premature  disclosure  j 

cxv. 

"But  your  own  feelings.    Even  should  all  the  rest 
Be  hidden  by  the  rolling  waves,  which  hide 

Already  many  a  once  love-beatcn  breast 
Deep  in  the  caverns  of  Ihe  deadly  tide  — 

You  love  this  boyish,  new,  seraglio  guest, 
And  if  this  violent  remedy  be  tried  — 

Excuse  my  freedom,  when  I  here  as-ure  you, 

That  killing  him  is  not  the  way  to  cure  you." 

CXVI. 
"What  dost  thou  know  of  love  or  feeling?— Wretch  ! 

Begone  : "  she  cried,  with  kindling  eyes  —  "  and  do 
My  bidding  1 "  Baba  vanish'd,  for  to  stretch 

His  own  remon-lrance  further  he  well  knew 
Might  end  in  acting  as  his  own  '•  Jack  Keich  ;  " 

And  ihough  he  wish'd  extremely  to  get  through 
This  awkward  business  without  harm  to  ol hers, 
He  stilt  preferr'd  his  own  neck  to  another's. 

CXVII. 
Away  he  went  then  upon  his  commission. 

Growling  and  grumbiing  in  good  Turkish  phrase 
Against  all  women  of  whate'er  condition, 

Especially  sultanas  and  their  ways; 
Their  obstinacy,  pride,  and  indecision, 

Their  never  knowins  their  own  mind  two  days. 
The  trouble  that  they  gave,  their  immorality. 
Which  made  him  daily  bless  his  own  neutrality. 

CXVIII. 
And  then  he  call'd  his  bre'hien  to  his  aid, 

An.l  sent  one  on  a  summons  lo  the  pair, 
That  they  must  instantly  be  well  array'd. 

And  above  all  be  comb'd  even  to  a  hair. 
And  brought  before  Ihe  empress,  who  had  made 

Inquiries  after  them  with  kindest  care  : 
At  which  Dudu  look'd  s'range,  and  Juan  silly ; 
But  go  they  must  at  once,  and  will  I  —  nill  I. 

CXIX. 
And  here  I  leave  "hem  at  their  preparation 

For  the  imperial  prt-seuce,  wherein  whether 
Gulbeyaz  show'd  ihtm  both  commiseration, 

Or  got  rid  of  the  parties  alogether, 
Like  oilier  angry  ladies  of  her  nation, — 

Are  things  the  turning  of  a  hair  or  feather 
May  settle  ;  but  far  be 't  from  me  to  anticipate 
la  what  way  feminine  caprice  may  dissipate. 


CXX. 

I  leave  them  for  Ihe  pre>eni  with  good  wishes,  I 

Though  doubts  of  their  well  doing,  to  arrange  | 

Another  part  of  history  ;  for  the  dishes 

Of  this  our  banquet  we  must  sometimes  change 

And  trusting  Juan  may  escape  ihe  fishes. 
Although  his  situation  now  seems  strange 

And  scarce  secure,  as  such  digressions  art  fair, 

The  Muse  will  take  a  Utile  touch  at  warfare. 


CANTO  THE   SEVENTH. 
I. 

0  Love  !  0  Glory  !  what  are  ye  who  fly 
Around  us  ever,  rarely  to  alight  ? 

There  's  not  a  meteor  in  the  polar  sky 

Of  such  transcendent  and  more  fleeting  flight. 
Chill,  and  chain'd  to  cold  earlli,  «e  lift  on  high 

Our  eyes  in  search  of  either  lovely  light ; 
A  thousand  and  a  thousand  colours  they 
Assume,  then  leave  us  on  our  freezing  way. 

II. 
And  such  as  they  are,  such  my  present  tale  it, 

A  non-descript  and  ever-varying  rhyme, 
A  versified  Aurora  Borealis, 

Which  flashes  o'er  a  waste  and  icy  clime. 
When  we  know  what  all  are,  we  must  bewail  u«, 

But  ne'erlheless  I  hope  it  is  no  crime 
To  laugh  at  aU  things—  for  1  wish  to  know 
PTAot,  after  all,  are  all  things  —  but  a  show  ? 

in. 

They  accuse  me  —  Me —  Ihe  present  writer  of 
Tiie  present  poem  —  of —  I  know  not  what  — 

A  tendency  to  under-rate  and  scoff 
At  human  power  and  v  iriue,  and  all  that ; 

And  this  Ihey  say  in  language  rather  rough. 
Good  God  !  I  wonder  what  Ihey  would  be  at ! 

1  say  no  more  than  hath  been  said  in  Dante's 
Verse,  and  by  Solomon  and  by  Cervantes ; 

IV. 

By  Swift,  by  Machiavel,  by  Rochefoucault, 
By  Fenelon,  by  LiUher,  and  by  Plato ; 

By  Tillolson,  and  Wesley,  and  Rousseau, 
Who  knew  this  life  was  not  worth  a  potato, 

'T  is  not  their  fault,  nor  mine,  if  this  be  so  — 
For  my  part,  I  pretend  not  to  be  Cato, 

Nor  even  Diogenes.— We  live  and  die, 

But  which  is  best,  you  know  no  more  than  I. 


Socra'es  said,  our  only  knowledge  was  [sant 

"To  know  that  nothing  could  be  known  ;"  a  plea- 
Science  enough,  which  levels  to  an  ass 

Each  man  of  wisdom,  future,  past,  or  present. 
Newton  (that  proverb  of  the  mind),  alas  ! 

Declared,  with  all  his  grand  discoveries  recent, 
That  he  himself  felt  only  "  like  a  youth 
Picking  up  shells  by  the  great  ocean  —  Truth." 

VI. 
Ecclesiasfes  said,  "  that  all  is  vanity  "  — 

Most  modern  preachers  say  the  same,  or  show  it 
By  their  examples  of  true  Christianity  : 

In  short,  all  know,  or  very  soon  may  know  it ; 
And  in  this  scene  of  all-confess'd  inanity. 

By  saint,  by  s.ige,  by  preacher,  and  by  poet, 
Must  I  restrain  me,  ihrough  the  fear  of  strife,- 
From  holding  up  the  nothingness  of  life  ? 

VII. 
Dogs,  or  men  !  —  for  I  flatter  you  in  saying 

That  ye  are  dogs  —  your  betters  far  —  ye  may 
Read,  nr  read  not,  what  1  am  now  essaying 

To  show  ye  what  ye  are  in  every  way. 
As  little  as  the  moon  slops  for  the  having 

Of  wolves,  will  the  bright  muse  withdraw  one  ray 
From  out  her  skies  —  then  howl  your  idle  wrath  ! 
While  she  still  silvers  o'er  your  gloomy  path. 


4G 


542 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  VIL 


VIII. 
"  Fierce  loves  and  faithless  wars  "  —  I  am  not  sure 

If  this  be  the  right  reading  —  't  is  no  matter ; 
The  f.ict  's  about  the  same,  I  am  secure ; 

I  siijg  them  bnlh,  and  am  about  to  baiter 
A  town  which  did  a  famous  siege  endure, 

And  «vas  beleaguer'd  both  by  land  and  water 
By  Souvaroff,  or  Anglice  Suwarrow, 
Who  loved  blood  as  an  alderman  loves  marrow. 

IX. 

The  fortress  is  call'd  Ismail,  and  is  placed 
Upon  the  Danube's  left  branch  and  left  bank, 

With  buildings  in  the  Oriental  taste, 
But  still  a  fortiess  of  the  foremost  rank, 

Or  was  at  least,  unless  'I  is  since  defaced. 

Which  with  your  conquerors  is  a  common  prank  ; 

It  stands  some  eighty  versts  from  the  high  sea, 

And  measures  round  of  toises  thousands  three. 


Within  the  extent  of  this  fortification 
A  borough  is  comprised  along  the  height 

Upon  the  left,  which  fmrn  its  loftier  station 
Commands  the  city,  and  upon  its  site 

A  Greek  hid  raised  around  this  elevation 
A  quantity  of  palisades  upright, 

So  placed  as  to  impede  the  lire  of  those 

Who  held  the  place,  and  to  assist  the  foe's. 

XI. 

This  circumstance  may  serve  to  give  a  notion 
Of  the  high  talents  of  this  new  Vauban : 

But  the  town  ditch  below  was  deep  as  ocean, 
The  rampart  higher  than  you'd  wish  to  hang: 

But  then  there  was  a  great  want  of  precaution 
(Prithee,  eicuse  this  engineering  slang). 

Nor  work  advanced,  nor  cover'd  way  was  there. 

To  hint  at  least  "  Here  is  no  thoroughfare." 

XII. 

But  a  stone  bastion,  with  a  narrow  gorge, 
And  walls  as  thick  as  most  skulls  born  as  yet ; 

T«vo  batteries,  cap-a-pie,  as  our  St.  George, 
Case-mated  i  one,  and  t'  other  "  a  barbette,"^ 

Of  Danube's  bank  took  formidable  charge; 
While  two  and  twenty  cannon  duly  set 

Rose  Over  the  town's  right  side,  in  bristling  tier, 

Forty  feet  high  upon  a  "cavalier. 

XIII. 
But  from  the  river  the  town  's  open  quite. 

Because  the  Turks  could  never  be  persuaded 
A  Russian  vessel  e'er  would  heave  in  sight ; 

And  such  their  creed  was,  till  they  were  invaded. 
When  it  grew  rather  late  to  set  things  right : 

But  as  the  Danube  could  not  well  be  waded. 
They  look'd  upon  the  Muscovite  flotilla, 
And  only  shouted,  "  Allah '. "  and  "  Bis  Millah  ! " 

XIV. 
The  Russians  now  were  ready  to  attack  ; 

But  oh.  ye  goddesses  of  war  and  glory  ! 
How  shall  I  spell  the  name  of  each  Cossaeque 

Who  were  immortal,  could  one  tell  their  story  ? 
Alas  !  what  to  their  memory  can  lack  ? 

Achilles'  self  was  not  more  grim  and  gory 
Than  thousands  of  this  new  and  polish'd  nation, 
Whose  names  want  nothing  but —  pronunciation. 


1  Casemate  is  a  work  made  under  the  rampart,  like  a 
c«]tar  nr  cave,  with  Innpholes  to  place  guau  in  it,  and  ia 
bomb  proof.— AJi7i«.  Diet.—  E. 

2  When  the  breastwork  of  a  battery  is  only  of  such 
bHpbt  that  the  guno  may  fire  over  it  without  beiDg 
oLtiged  to  make  embrasures,  the  guni  are  said  to  fire  io 
b«rbet.  — J6i<f.  — E. 


XV. 
Still  I  '11  record  a  few,  if  but  to  increase 

Our  euphony  :  there  was  Strongenoif,  and  Strokonoff, 
Meknop,  Serge  Low,  Arsniew  of  modern  Greece, 

And  Tschitsbhakotf,  and  Roguenoff,  and  Chokenofl; 
And  others  of  twelve  consonan  s  apiece; 

And  more  might  be  found  out,  if  I  could  poke  enough 
Into  gazettes ;  but  Fame  (capricious  strumpet), 
It  seems,  has  got  an  ear  as  well  as  trumpet, 

XVI. 

And  cannot  tune  those  discords  of  narration. 
Which  may  be  names  at  Moscow,  into  rhyme ; 

Yet  there  were  several  worth  commemoration, 
As  e'er  was  virgin  of  a  nuptial  chime; 

Soft  words,  100,  fitted  for  the  peroration 
Of  Londonderry  drawling  against  lime. 

Ending  in"  ischskin,""ousckin,  "'ilfskchy,'"'ouski,'' 

Of  whom  we  can  insert  but  Rousamouski, 

xvu. 

Scheremaloff  and  ChrematoflT,  Koplophti, 
Koclobski.  Kourakin,  and  Mouskin  Pouskin, 

All  proper  men  of  weapons,  as  e'er  scoff'd  high 
Against  a  foe,  or  ran  a  sabre  through  skin: 

Little  cared  they  for  Mahomet  or  Mufti, 
Unless  to  make  their  kettle  drums  a  new  skin 

Out  of  their  hides,  if  parchment  had  grown  dear, 

And  no  more  handy  substitute  been  near. 

XVIII. 
Then  there  were  foreigners  of  much  renown, 

Of  various  nations,  and  all  volunteers; 
Not  fighting  for  their  country  or  its  crown, 

But  wishing  to  be  one  day  brigadiers; 
Also  to  have  The  sacking  of  a  town  ; 

A  pleasant  thing  In  young  men  at  their  years. 
'Mor  gsl  them  were  several  Englishmen  of  pith, 
Sixteen  called  Thomson,  and  nineteen  named  Smith. 

XIX. 

Jack  Thomson  and  Bill  Thomson  ;  —  all  the  rest 
Had  been  call'd  ''Jemmy,"  after  the  great  ban! ; 

I  don't  know  whether  they  had  arms  or  crest, 
But  such  a  godfather  's  as  good  a  card. 

Three  of  the  Smiths  were  Peters  ;  but  the  best 
Amongst  them  all,  hard  blows  to  inflict  or  ward, 

Was  Ae,  since  so  renown'd  "  in  country  quarters 

At  Halifax  ;  "  but  now  he  served  the  Tartars. 

XX. 

The  rest  were  Jacks  and  Gills  and  Wills  and  Bills, 
But  w  hen  I  've  added  that  the  elder  Jack  Smith 

Was  born  in  Cumberland  among  the  hills. 
And  that  his  father  was  an  honest  blacksmith, 

1  've  said  all  /  know  of  a  name  that  fills 

Thiee  lines  of  the  despatch  in  taking  "  Schmack* 
smith," 

A  village  of  Moldavia's  waste,  wherein 

He  fell,  immortal  in  a  bulletin. 

XXI. 

I  wonder  ^although  Mars  no  doubt 's  a  god  I 

Praise)  if  a  man's  name  in  a  bulletin 
May  make  up  for  a  Intliet  in  his  Iwdy  ? 

I  hope  this  little  question  is  no  sin, 
Because,  though  I  am  but  a  simple  noddy, 

I  think  one  Shakspeare  puts  the  same  thought  is 
The  mouth  of  some  one  in  his  plays  so  doting. 
Which  many  people  pass  for  wits  by  quoting. 

XXII, 

Then  there  were  Frenchmen,  gallant,  young,  and  gay; 

But  I  'm  too  great  a  patriot  to  record 
Their  Gallic  names  upon  a  glorious  day  ; 

I  'd  rather  tell  ten  lies  Ihm  say  a  word 
Of  truth  ;  —  such  truths  are  treason ;  they  betray 

Their  country  ;  and  as  traitors  are  abhorr'd. 
Who  name  the  French  in  English,  save  to  show 
How  Peace  ahould  make  John  Bull  the  FrenchBanll 
foe. 


Canto  VII.] 


DON  JUAN. 


543 


XXIII. 

The  Russians,  havin;  boilt  two  batteries  on 
An  isle  near  Ismail,  had  two  ends  in  view  ; 

The  first  was  to  iHjmbard  it,  and  knock  down 
The  public  buildings  and  the  private  too, 

No  matter  what  poor  souls  might  be  undone. 
The  city's  shape  su;?ested  this,  't  is  true; 

Form'd  like  an  amphitheatre,  each  dwelling 

Presented  a  fine  mark  to  throw  a  shell  in. 

XXIV. 

The  second  object  was  to  profit  by 

The  moment  of  the  general  consternation, 

To  attack  the  Turk's  flotilla,  which  lay  nigh 
Extremely  tranquil,  anchor'd  at  its  station  : 

But  a  third  motive  was  as  probably 
To  frighten  them  into  capitulation  ; 

A  phantasy  which  sometimes  seizes  warriors. 

Unless  they  are  game  as  bulWogs  and  fox-terriers. 

XXV. 

A  habit  rather  blamable,  which  is 
That  of  despising  those  we  combat  with, 

Common  in  many  cases,  was  in  this 
The  cause  of  killing  Tchitchilzkoff  and  Smith ; 

One  of  the  valorous  "  Smiths"  whom  we  shall  miss 
Out  of  those  nineteen  who  late  rhymed  to  "  pith  ;  " 

But't  is  a  name  so  spread  o'er  "Sir"  and  "Madam," 

That  one  would  think  the  first  who  bore  it  "  Adam." 

XXVI. 
The  Russian  batteries  were  incomplete, 

Because  they  were  constructed  in  a  hurry  ; 
Thus  the  same  cause  which  makes  a  verse  want  feet. 

And  throws  a  cloud  o'er  Longman  and  John  Murray 
When  the  sale  of  new  books  is  not  so  fleet 

As  they  who  print  them  think  is  necessary, 
May  likewise  put  off  for  a  time  what  story 
Sometimes  calls  "  murder,"  and  at  others  "  glory."       1 

XXVII. 

Whether  it  was  their  engineer's  stupidity, 
Their  haste,  or  waste,  I  neither  know  nor  care, 

Or  some  contractor's  personal  cupidity. 
Saving  his  soul  by  cheating  in  the  ware 

Of  homicide,  but  there  »vas  no  solidity 
In  the  new  batteries  erected  there  ; 

They  either  miss'd,  or  they  were  never  miss'd, 

And  added  greatly  to  the  missing  list. 

XXVIII. 
A  sad  miscalculation  about  distance 

Made  all  their  naval  matters  incorrect ; 
Three  tireships  lost  their  amiable  existence 

Before  ihey  reach'd  a  spot  to  take  effect: 
The  match  was  lit  too  soon,  and  no  assistance 

Could  remedy  this  lubberly  defect  ; 
They  blew  up  in  the  middle  of  the  river. 
While,  though 't  was  dawn,  the  Turks  slept  fast  as 
ever. 

XXIX 
At  seven  thev  rose,  however,  and  survey'd 

The  Russ  flotilla  getting  under  way  ; 
'T  was  nine,  when  still  advancing  undismay'd, 

Within  a  cable's  length  their  vessels  lay 
Off  Ismail,  and  commenced  a  cannonade. 

Which  was  re'urned  with  interest,  I  may  say, 
And  by  a  fire  of  musketry  and  grape. 
And  shells  and  shot  of  every  size  and  shape. 

XXX. 

For  six  hours  bore  thev  without  intermission 
The  Tuikish  fire,  arid,  aided  by  their  own 

Land  batteries,  work'd  their  guns  with  great  precision; 
At  length  Ihey  found  mere  cannonade  alone 

By  no  means  would  produce  the  town's  submission, 
And  made  a  signal  to  retreat  at  one. 

One  bark  blew  up,  a  second  near  the  works 

Running  aground,  was  taken  by  the  Turks. 


XXXI. 

The  Moslem,  too,  had  lost  both  ships  and  men ; 

But  when  ihey  saw  the  enemy  retire, 
Their  Deltiis  »  maiin'd  some  boats,  and  sail'd  again, 

And  gali'd  the  Russians  with  a  heavy  fire, 
And  tried  to  make  a  landing  on  the  main  ; 

But  here  the  effect  fell  short  of  their  desire: 
Count  Damas  drove  them  back  ino  Ihe  water 
Pell-mell,  and  with  a  whole  gazeite  of  slaughter. 

XXXII. 

"  If,"  (says  the  historian  here)  "  I  could  report 
All  that  the  Russians  did  upon  this  day, 

I  think  that  several  volumes  would  fall  short, 
And  I  should  still  have  many  things  to  sny;" 

And  so  he  says  no  more  —  but  pays  his  court 
To  some  dislinguish'd  strangers  in  that  fray  ; 

The  Prince  de  Ligne,  and  Langeron,  and  Damas, 

Names  great  as  any  that  the  roll  of  Fame  has. 

XXXIII. 

This  being  the  case,  may  show  us  what  Fame  i$: 
For  out  of  these  three  "preux  Chevaliers,"  how 

Many  of  common  readers  give  a  guess 

That  such  existed  ?  (and  they  may  live  now 

For  aught  we  know.)    Renown's  all  hit  or  miss,* 
There  's  fortune  even  in  fame,  we  must  allow. 

'T  is  true,  the  Memoirs  ^  of  Ihe  Prince  de  Ligne 

Have  half  withdrawn  from  him  oblivion's  screen. 

XXXIV. 
But  here  are  men  who  fought  in  gallant  actions 

As  gallantly  as  ever  heroes  fought. 
But  buried  in  the  heap  of  such  transactions 

Their  names  are  rarely  found,  nor  often  sought. 
Thus  even  good  fame  may  suffer  sad  contractions,^ 

And  is  extinguish'd  sooner  than  she  ought : 
Of  all  our  modern  battles,  I  will  bet 
You  can't  repeat  nine  names  fiom  each  Gazette. 

XXXV. 

In  short,  this  last  attack,  though  rich  in  glory, 
Show'd  that  somewhere,  somehow,  there  was  a  laalt 

And  Admiral  Ribas  (known  in  Russian  story) 
Most  strongly  recommended  an  assault; 

In  which  he  was  opposed  by  young  and  hoary. 
Which  made  a  long  debate  j  but  I  must  hall. 

For  if  I  wrote  down  every  warrior's  speech. 

I  doubt  few  readers  e'er  would  mount  the  breach. 

XXXVI. 

There  was  a  man,  if  that  he  was  a  man, 

Not  that  his  manhood  could  be  call'd  in  question. 

For  had  he  not  been  Hercules,  his  span 
Had  been  as  short  in  vouth  as  indigestion 

Made  his  last  illness,  when,  all  worn  and  wan, 
He  died  beneath  a  tree,  as  much  unblest  on 

The  soil  of  the  green  province  he  had  wasted, 

As  e'er  was  locust  on  the  land  it  blasted. 


XXXVII. 

This  was  Potemkin  —  a  great  thing  in  days 
When  homicide  and  harlotry  made  great; 

If  stars  and  titles  could  entail  long  praise. 
His  glory  mizht  half  equal  his  estate. 

This  fellow,  being  six  foot  high,  could  raise 
A  kind  of  [ihantasy  proportionate 

In  the  then  sovereign  of  the  Ru-sian  people. 

Who  measured  men  as  you  would  do  a  steeple. 

1  "Properly  madmen  :  a  species  of  troops,  wlio,  in  the 
TurltUb  army,  act  as  the  forlorn  hope."  — D'HEBBE- 
LOT.— E. 

2  "Letters  and  Reflections  of  the  Austrian  FieW-Maf- 
fhal.  Charles  Joseph,  Prince  de  Li^ne,  edited  by  ihe  Buo> 
ness  de  Stael-Holstein,"  2  vols.  1809.— E. 


544 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  VII. 


xxxvni. 

While  things  were  in  abeyance,  Ribas  sent 
A  courier  to  the  prince,  and  he  succeeded 

Id  ordering  matters  after  his  own  bent ; 
I  cannnt  tell  the  way  in  which  he  pleaded, 

But  shortly  he  had  cau  e  to  be  content. 
In  the  mean  time,  the  bitteries  proceeded, 

And  fourscore  cannon  on  the  Dinube's  border 

Were  br  ^kly  tired  and  answer"d  in  due  order. 

XXXIX. 

But  on  th»  thirteenth,  when  already  part 

Of  the  tro:)ps  were  enibirk'd,  the  sie^e  to  raise, 

A  courier  ou  the  spur  inspired  new  heart 
Into  all  panters  for  neivsp^per  praise, 

As  well  as  dilettanti  in  war's  art. 

By  his  despatches  couch'd  in  pithy  phrase  ; 

Announcing  the  appnintment  of  that  lover  of 

Battles  to  the  comniaud,  Field-Marshal  Souvaroff. 

XL. 

The  letter  of  the  prince  to  the  same  marshal 
Was  worthy  of  a  Spartan,  had  the  cause 

Been  one  to  which  a  good  heart  could  be  partial  — 
Defence  of  freedom,  country,  or  of  laws  ; 

But  as  it  was  mere  lust  of  power  to  o'er-arch  all 
With  its  proud  brow,  it  merits  slight  applause, 

Save  for  its  style,  which  «aid.  all  in  a  trice, 

"  Vou  will  take  Ismail  at  whatever  price." 

XLI. 
"Let  there  be  light!  said  God,  and  there  was  light! " 

"  Let  there  be  blood  !  "  says  man,  and  there 's  a  sea  ! 
The  fiat  of  this  spoil'd  child  of  the  N'ight 

(For  Day  ne'er  saw  his  merits)  could'decree 
More  evil  in  an  hour,  than  thirty  bright 

Summers  could  renovate,  though  they  should  be 
Lovely  as  those  which  ripen'd  Eden's  fruit ; 
For  war  cuts  up  not  only  branch,  but  root. 

XLII. 

Our  friends,  the  Turks,  who  with  loud  "  Allahs  "  now 

Began  to  signalise  the  Russ  retreat. 
Were  damnably  mistaken  ;  lew  are  slow 

In  thinking  that  their  enemy  is  beat, 
(Or  beaten,  if  you  insist  on  grammar,  though 

I  never  think  about  it  in  a  heat,) 
But  here  I  say  the  Turks  were  much  mistaken. 
Who  bating  hogs,  yet  wish'd  to  save  their  bacon. 

XLin. 

For,  on  the  sixteenth,  at  full  gallop,  drew 

In  sight  two  horsemen,  who  were  deem'd  Cossacques 

For  some  time,  till  they  came  in  nearer  view. 
They  had  but  little  baggage  at  their  backs. 

For  there  were  but  three  shirts  between  the  two; 
But  on  they  rode  upon  two  Ukraine  hacks. 

Till,  in  approaching,  were  at  length  descried 

In  this  plain  pair,  Suwarrow  and  his  guide. 

XLIV. 
«  Great  joy  to  London  now  ! "  says  some  great  fool, 

When  London  had  a  grand  illumination. 
Which  to  that  bottle-conjuror,  John  Bull, 

Is  of  all  dreams  the  first  hallucination  ; 
So  that  the  streets  of  colour'd  lamps  are  full, 

That  Sage  [laid  John)  surrenders  at  discretion 
His  purse,  his  soul,  his  sense,  and  even  his  nonsense, 
To  gratify,  like  a  huge  moth,  this  one  sense. 

XLV. 

T  is  strange  that  he  should  farther  "  damn  his  eyes," 
For  Ihey  are  damn'd  ;  that  once  all-famous  oath 

Is  to  Ihe  devil  now  no  farther  prize, 
Since  John  has  lately  lost  the  use  of  both. 

Debt  he  calls  wealth,  and  taxes  Paradise; 

And  Famine,  with  her  gaunt  and  bony  grow  th, 

Which  stare  him  in  the  face,  he  won't  examine. 

Or  swears  that  Ceres  hath  begotten  Famine. 


But  to  the  tale ;  —  great  joy  unto  the  camp  ! 

To  Russian.  Tartar,  English.  French,  Cossacqce, 
O'er  whom  Suwarrow  shone  like  a  gas- lamp, 

Presaging  a  most  luminous  attack  ; 
Or  like  a  wisp  along  the  marsh  so  damp. 

Which  leads  beholders  on  a  boggy  walk, 
He  fiitted  to  and  fro  a  dancing  light. 
Which  all  who  saw  it  follow'd,  wrong  or  right. 

XLVII. 
But  certes  matters  took  a  diflerent  face  ; 

There  was  enthusiasm  and  much  applause. 
The  fleet  and  c.mp  saluted  w  ith  gre.at  grace. 

And  all  presaeed  good  fortune  to  their  cause. 
Within  a  cannon-shot  length  of  the  place 

They  drew,  constructed  ladders,  repur'd  flaws 
In  former  works,  made  new,  prepared  fascines, 
And  all  kinds  of  benevolent  machines. 

XLVIII. 
'T  is  thus  the  spirit  of  a  .single  mind 

Makes  that  of  muliiludes  take  one  direction. 
As  roll  the  waters  lo  the  breathing  wind. 

Or  roams  the  herd  beneath  the  bull's  protection  : 
Or  as  a  little  dog  will  lead  the  blind. 

Or  a  bell-wether  form  the  (lock's  connection 
By  tinkling  sounds,  when  they  go  forth  to  victu&I ; 
Such  is  the  sway  of  your  gre  it  men  o'er  little. 

XLIX. 
The  whole  camp  rung  with  joy ;  you  would  have 
thought 

That  they  were  eoing  to  a  marriage  feart 
(This  metaphor,  I  think,  holds  good  as  aught, 

Since  there  is  discord  after  both  at  least): 
There  was  not  now  a  luggage  boy  but  sought 

Danger  and  spoil  wiih  ardour  much  increased  ; 
And  w  hy  .'  because  a  little—  odd  —  old  man, 
Stript  to'his  shirt,  was  come  to  lead  the  van. 

L. 
But  so  it  was  ;  and  every  preparation 

Was  made  with  all  alacrity  :  the  first 
Detachment  of  three  columns  took  its  station 

And  waited  but  Ihe  signal's  voice  to  burst 
Upon  the  foe:  the  second's  ordination 

Was  also  in  three  columns,  with  a  thirst 
For  glory  gaping  o'er  a  sea  of  slaughter : 
The  third,  in  columns  two,  attack'd  by  water. 

LI. 

New  batteries  were  erected,  and  was  held 
A  general  council,  in  w  hich  unanimity. 

That  stranger  to  most  councils,  here  pre'vail'd, 
As  sometimes  happens  in  a  great  extremity  ; 

And  every  difficulty  being  dispeli'd, 
Gbry  began  to  dav^•n  with  due  sublimity, 

While  Souvarotr,  determined  to  obtain  it. 

Was  teaching  his  recruits  to  use  the  bayonet.t 

LIL 

It  is  an  actual  fact,  that  he,  commander 
In  chief,  in  proper  person  dcign'd  to  drill 

The  awkward  squad,  and  could  afford  to  squander 
His  time,  a  corporal's  duty  to  fulfil ; 

Just  as  you  'd  break  a  sucking  salamander 
To  swallow  fiame,  and  never  take  it  ill  : 

He  show'd  them  how  to  mount  a  ladder  (which 

Was  not  like  Jacob's)  or  to  cross  a  ditch. 

LIH. 

Also  he  dress'd  up,  for  the  nonce,  fascines 
Like  men  with  turbans,  scimitars,  and  dirks. 

And  made  them  charge  w  ith  bayonets  these  machines 
By  way  of  lesson  against  actual  Turks  ; 

And'  whe'n  well  practised  in  these  mimic  scenes, 
He  judged  them  proper  lo  assail  Ihe  works; 

At  which  your  wise  men  sneer'd  in  phrases  witly : 

He  made  no  answer  ;  but  he  look  Ihe  city. 


Fact :  Suvrarrow  did  this  in  | 


Canto  VII.] 


DON  JUAN. 


545 


LIV. 
Most  thiogs  were  in  this  posture  on  the  eve 

Of  the  Hgsault,  and  all  the  camp  was  in 
A  stern  repose  ;  which  you  would  tcarce  conceive  ; 

Tet  men  resolved  to  d  .sh  thrnujh  thick  and  thin 
Are  very  silent  when  Ihev  once  believe 

That  all  is  setMed  :  —  there  was  little  din, 
For  some  were  thinking  of  their  home  and  friends, 
And  others  of  themselves  and  Utter  ends. 

LV 
Suwarrow  chiefly  was  on  the  alert, 

Surveying,  drilling,  ordering,  jes'ing,  pondering, 
For  the  man  ivas,  we  safely  may  assert, 

A  thing  to  wonder  at  beyond  most  wondering  ; 
Hero,  butfoon,  half-demon,  and  half-dirt. 

Praying,  instructing,  desolating,  plundering; 
Now  Mars,  now  Momus  j  and  when  bent  to  storm 
A  fortress,  Harlequin  in  uniform. 

LVI. 
The  day  before  the  assault,  while  upon  drill  — 

For  this  great  conqueror  play'd  the  corporal  — 
Some  Cossacques,  hovering  like  hawks  round  a  hill, 

Had  met  a  party  towards  the  twilight's  fall, 
One  of  whom  spoke  their  tongue  —  or  well  or  ill, 

'T  was  much  that  he  was  understood  at  all ; 
But  whether  from  his  voice,  or  speech,  or  manner, 
They  found  that  he  had  fought  beneath  their  banner, 

LVH. 
Whereon  immediately  at  his  request 

They  brought  him  and  his  comrades  to  head-quarters; 
Their  dress  was  Moslem,  but  you  might  have  guess'd 

That  these  were  merely  ma's(juerading  Tartars, 
And  that  beneath  each  Turkish-fashion'd  vest 

Lurk'd  Christianity  ;  which  sometimes  barters 
Her  inward  grace  for  outward  show,  and  makes 
It  difficult  to  shun  some  strange  mistakes. 

LVni. 
Suwarrow,  who  was  standing  in  his  shirt 

Before  a  company  of  Calmucks.  drilling, 
Exclaiming,  fooling,  swearing  at  the  inert. 

And  lecturing  on  the  noMe  art  of  killing, — 
For  deeming  human  c'ay  but  common  dirt, 

This  ereat  philosopher  was  thus  instilling 
His  maxims,  which  to  martial  comprehension 
Proved  death  in  battle  equal  to  a  pension  ;  — 

LIX. 
Suwarrow,  when  he  saw  this  company, 

Of  Cossncque-i  and  their  prey,  turn'd  round  anj  cast 
Upon  them  his  slow  brow  and  piercing  eye  :  — 

"  Whence  come  ye  ? '' — "  From  Constantinople  last, 
Captives  just  now  esc.ip'd,"  was  the  reply. 

"Wh.1t  are  ye?"  — "What  you  see  us.''    Briefly 
pass'd 
This  dialogue  ;  for  he  who  answer'd  knew 
To  whom  he  spoke,  and  made  his  words  but  few. 

LX. 

"Your  names?" — "Mine's  Johnson,  and  my  com- 
rade's Juan ; 

The  other  two  are  women,  and  the  third 
Is  neither  man  nor  woman."    The  chief  threw  on 

'I'he  party  a  slight  glance,  then-said,  "  I  have  heard 
rbitr  name  before,  the  second  is  a  new  one : 

To  bring  the  other  three  here  was  absurd  : 
But  let  thil  pass  -.—  I  think  I  have  heard  your  name 
In  the  Nikolaiew  regiment  ? »  _  "  The  same." 

LXI. 
"  Ysu  served  at  Widdin  ? "  —  "  Yes."  —  "  You  led  the 
attack?" 

"  I  did."—"  What  next  ? "— "  I  really  hardly  know." 
"  You  were  the  first  i'  the  breach  ?"—"  1  was  not  slack 

At  least  to  follow  those  who  might  be  so." 
"  What  follow'd  ? "  —  "  A  shot  laid  me  on  my  back, 

And  I  became  a  prisoner  to  the  foe." 
"  You  shall  have  vengeance,  for  the  town  surrounded 
It  twice  as  strong  as  that  where  you  were  wounded. 


LXII. 

"  Where  will  you  serve  ? "  —  "  Where'er  you  please." 
—  "  I  know 

You  like  to  be  the  hope  of  the  forlorn. 
And  doubtless  would  be  foremost  on  the  foe 

Afier  the  hardships  you  've  have  already  borne. 
And  this  young  fellow  —  say  what  can  he  do  ? 

He  with  'he  beardless  chin  and  garments  torn  ?" 
"  Why,  general,  if  he  hath  no  greater  fault 
In  War  than  love,  he  had  belter  lead  the  assiult." 

Lxin. 

"  He  shall  if  (hat  he  dare."    Here  Juan  bow'd 
Low  as  the  compliment  deserv'd.     Suwarrow 

CoMliiiued  :  "  Your  old  regiment 's  allow"d. 
By  special  providence,  to  lead  to-morrow. 

Or  it  may  be  to-night,  the  assault :  I  have  vow'd 
To  several  saints,  that  shortly  plough  or  harrovr 

Shall  pass  o'er  what  was  Ismail,  and  iis  tusk 

Be  unimpeded  by  the  proudest  mosque. 

LXIV. 

"  So  now,  my  lads,  for  glory  !  "  —  Here  he  turn'd 
And  diiird  away  in  'he  most  classic  Russian, 

Until  each  high,  heroic  bosom  burn'd 

For  cash  and  conquest,  as  if  from  a  cushion 

A  preacher  had  held  forth  (who  nobly  spurn'd 

All  earthly  goods  save  tithes),and  bade  them  pushOD 

To  slay  the  Pagans  who  resisted',  battering 

The  armies  of  the  Christian  Empress  Catherine. 

LXV. 
Johnson,  who  knew  by  this  long  colloquy 

Himself  a  favourite,  ventured  to  address 
Suwarrow,  though  engaged  with  accents  high 

In  his  resumed  amusement.     "  I  confess 
My  debt  in  being  thus  allow'd  to  die 

Among  the  foremost ;  but  if  you  d  express 
Explicillv  our  several  posts,  my  friend 
And  self  would  know  what  duty  to  attend." 

LXVI. 

"Right !  I  was  busy,  and  forgot.     Why,  you 

Will  join  your  former  regiment,  which  should  be 

Now  under  arms.     Ho  !  Katskoff,  take  him  to  — 
(Here  he  call'd  up  a  Polish  orderly) 

His  post,  I  mean  the  regiment  Nikolaiew: 
The  stringer  stripling  may  remain  with  me; 

He  's  a  fine  boy.     The  women  may  be  sent 

To  the  other  baggage,  or  to  the  sick  tent." 

Lrv'ii. 

But  here  a  sort  of  scene  began  to  ensue : 

The  ladies, —  who  by  no  means  had  been  bred 
To  be  disposed  of  in  away  so  new, 
.   Although  their  harem  education  led 
Doubtless  to  that  of  doctrines  the  most  true. 

Passive  obedience. —  now  raised  up  the  head, 
With  flashing  eyes  and  starting  tears,  and  flung 
Their  arms,  as  hens  their  wings  about  their  young, 

LXV  11 1. 
O'er  the  promoted  couple  of  brave  men 

Who  were  thus  honoui'd  by  the  greatest  chief 
That  ever  peopled  hell  with  heroes  slain, 

Or  plunged  a  province  or  a  realm  in  grief. 
Oh.  foolish  mortals  !     Always  taught  in  vain  ! 

Oh,  glorious  laurel !  since  for  one  sole  leaf 
Of  thine  imaginary  deathless  tree, 
Of  blood  and  tears  must  flow  the  unebbing  sei. 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow,  who  had  small  regard  for  tears, 
And  not  much  sympathy  for  blood,  survey'^ 

The  women  with  their  hair  about  their  ears, 
And  natural  agonies,  with  a  slight  shade 

Of  feeling  :  for  however  habit  sears 
Men's  hearts  against  whole  millions,  when  (heir 
trade 

Is  butchery,  sometimes  a  single  sorrow 

Will  touch  even  heroes  —  and  such  was  Suwarrow. 


46 


35 


i"546" 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  VII. 


LXX. 

He  said,— and  in  the  kindest  Calmuck  tone,— 
"  VVhy,  Johnson,  what  the  devil  do  you  mean 

By  bringin?  women  here  ?    They  shall  be  shown 
All  the  attention  possible,  and  seen 

In  safety  to  the  wagons,  where  alone 
In  fact  they  can  be  safe.     You  should  have  been 

Aware  this  kind  of  baggage  never  thrives  : 

Save  wed  a  year,  I  hate  recruits  with  wives." 

LXXI. 
'May  it  please  your  excellency,"  thus  replied 

Our  British  friend,  "  these  are  the  wives  of  others, 
And  not  our  own.     I  am  too  qualified 

By  service  with  my  military  brothers 
To  break  the  rules  by  bringing  one's  own  bride 
Into  a  camp  ;  I  know  that  nought  so  bothers 
The  hearts  of  the  heroic  on  a  charge, 
As  leaving  a  small  family  at  large. 

LXXII. 

"But  these  are  but  two  Turkish  ladies,  who 
With  their  attendant  aided  our  escape. 

And  afterwards  accompanied  us  through 
A  thousand  perils  in  this  dubious  shape. 

To  me  this  kind  of  life  is  not  so  new  ; 
To  them,  poor  things,  it  is  an  awkward  scrape, 

I  therefore,  if  you  wish  me  to  fight  freely. 

Request  that  they  nny  both  be  used  genteelly." 

LXXIII. 

Meantime  these  two  poor  girls,  with  swimming  eyit, 
Loofc'd  on  as  if  in  doubt  if  they  could  trust 

Their  own  protectors  ;  nor  was  t'heir  surprise 
Less  than  their  grief  (and  truly  not  less  just) 

To  see  an  old  man,  rather  wild  than  wise 
In  aspect,  plainly  clad,  besmear'd  with  dust, 

Stript  to  his  waistcoat,  and  that  not  too  clean, 

More  fear'd  than  all  the  sultans  ever  seen. 

LXXIV. 

For  every  thing  seem'd  resting  oo  his  nod. 
As  they  could  read  in  all  eyiii.     Now  to  them, 

Who  were  accustom'd,  as  a  sort  of  god. 
To  see  the  sultan,  rich  in  many  a  gem. 

Like  an  imperial  peacock  stalk  abroad 
(That  royal  bird,  whose  tail  'b  a  diadem,) 

With  all  the  pomp  of  power,  it  was  a  doubt. 

How  power  could  condescend  to  do  without. 

LXXV. 

John  Johnson,  seeing  their  extreme  dismay, 
Though  little  versed  in  feelings  oriental. 

Suggested  some  slight  comfort  in  his  way: 
Don  Juan,  who  was  much  more  sentimental. 

Swore  they  should  see  him  by  the  dawn  of  day. 
Or  that  the  Russian  army  should  repent  all  : 

And,  stranje  tT  say,  they  found  some  consolation 

In  this  —  for  females  like  exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 

And  then  with  tears,  and  sighs,  and  some  slight  kisses. 
They  parted  for  the  present  —  these  to  await. 

According  to  the  artillery's  hits  or  misses. 

What  sage<  call  Chance,  Providence,  or  Fate  — 

(Uncertamly  is  one  of  many  blisses, 
A  mortgage  on  Humanity's  estate)  — 

While  their  beloved  friends  began  to  arm. 

To  burn  a  town  which  never  did  them  harm. 

LXXVIL 

Suwarrow,—  who  but  saw  things  in  the  gross, 
Being  much  too  gross  to  see  them  in  detail, 

Who  calculated  life  as  so  much  dross. 
And  as  the  wind  a  widow'd  nation's  wail. 

And  cared  as  little  for  his  army's  loss 
(So  that  their  efforts  should  at  length  prevail) 

As  wife  and  friends  did  for  the  boils  of  Job,— 

What  was 't  to  him  to  hear  two  women  sob? 


LXXVIU. 

Nothing.— The  work  of  glory  still  went  on 

In  preparations  for  a  cannonade 
As  terrible  as  that  of  Ilion, 

If  Homer  had  found  mortars  ready  made  ; 
But  now,  instead  of  slaying  Priam's  son. 

We  only  can  but  talk  of  escilade. 
Bombs,    drums,  guns,    bastions,    batteries,   bayonetli 

bullets; 
Hard  words,  which  stick  in  the  soft  Muses'  gullets. 

LXXIX. 
Oh,  thou  eternal  Homer  !  who  couldsf  charm 

All  ears,  though  long ;  all  ages,  though  so  short, 
By  merely  wielding  with  poetic  arm 

Arms  to  which  men  will  never  mere  resort. 
Unless  gunpowder  should  be  found  ;o  harm 

Much  less  than  is  the  hope  of  every  court. 
Which  now  is  leagued  young  Freedom  to  annoy  ; 
But  they  w  ill  not  find  Liber  y  a  Troy  :  — 

LXXX. 

Oh,  thou  eternal  Homer  !  I  have  now 
To  paint  a  siege,  w  herein  more  men  were  slain, 

With  deadlier  engines  and  a  speedier  blow. 
Than  in  thy  Greek  gazette  of  that  campaign; 

And  yet,  like  all  men  else,  I  must  allow. 
To  vie  with  thee  would  be  about  as  vain 

As  for  a  brook  to  cope  with  ocean's  flood  ; 

But  still  we  moderns  equal  you  in  blood  ; 

LXXXL 

If  not  m  poetry,  at  least  in  fact ; 

And  firt  is  tru'h,  the  grand  desideratum  ! 
Of  which,  howe'er  the  Muse  describes  each  act. 

There  should  be  ne'ertheless  a  slight  substratum. 
But  now  the  town  is  going  to  be  atlack'd  ; 

Great  deeds  are  doing  —  how  shall  I  relate  'em  ? 
Souls  of  immortal  generals!  PhcEbus  watches 
To  colour  up  his  rays  from  your  despatches. 

LXXXII. 

Oh,  ye  great  bulletins  of  Buonaparte  ! 

Oh,  ye  less  grand  long  lists  of  kill'd  and  wounded  ! 
Shade  of  Leonid  IS,  who  fought  so  hearty. 

When  my  poor   Greece   was  once,   as  now,  tui. 
rounded  I 
Oh.  Cjesar's  Commentaries  I  now  impart,  ye 

Shadows  of  glory  1  (lest  I  be  confounded) 
A  portion  of  your  fading  twilight  hues, 
So  beautiful,  so  fleeting,  to  the  Muse. 

LXXXIIL 

When  I  call  "  fading  "  martial  immortality, 

I  mean,  that  every  age  and  every  year, 
And  almost  every  day,  in  sad  reality. 

Some  sucking  hero  is  compell'd  to  rear. 
Who,  when  we  come  lo  sum  up  the  totality 

Of  deeds  to  human  happiness  most  dear, 
Turns  out  to  be  a  butcher  in  great  business, 
Afflicting  young  folks  with  a  sort  of  dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 

Medals,  rank,  ribands,  lace,  embroidery,  scarlet. 

Are  things  immortal  to  immortal  man. 
As  purple  to  the  Baby.nnian  harlot: 

An  uniform  to  boys  is  like  a  fan 
To  women  ;  there  is  scarce  a  crimson  varlef 

But  deems  himself  the  first  in  Glory's  v;.n. 
But  Glory  's  glory  ;  and  if  you  would  find 
What  that  is  — ask  the  pig  who  sees  the  wind  ! 

LXXXV. 

At  least  he  feels  it,  and  some  say  he  sea, 

Because  he  runs  before  it  like  a  pig  ; 
Or,  if  that  simple  sentence  should  displease, 

Say,  that  he  scuds  before  it  like  a  brig, 
A  schooner,  or  —  but  it  is  time  to  ease 

This  Canto,  ere  my  Mu-e  perceives  fatigue. 
The  next  shall  ring  a  peal  to  shake  all  people. 
Like  a  bob-major  from  a  village  steeple. 


Canto  VIII.] 


DON  JUAN. 


547 


LXXXVI. 
Hark  !  through  the  silence  of  the  cold,  dull  night, 

The  hiiiii  of  armies  gathering  rank  on  rank  ! 
Lo  !  dusky  masses  steal  in  dubious  sight 

Abng  the  ieaguer'd  wall  and  bristling  bank 
Of  the  arni'd  river,  while  with  sirazgling  light 

The  stars  peep  through  the  vapours  dim  and  dank, 
Which  curl  ii-.  curious  wreaths  :— how  soon  the  smoke 
Of  Hell  shall  pall  them  in  a  deeper  cloak ! 

LXXXVH. 
Here  pause  we  for  the  present  —  as  even  then 

'Ihat  awful  pause,  dividing  life  frnni  death, 
Struck  for  an  instant  on  the  hearts  of  men. 

Thousands  of  whom  were  drawing  tlieirlast breath! 
A.  moment  —  and  all  will  be  life  again  ! 

The  march  !  the  charge  !  the  shouts  of  either  faith  ! 
Hurra!  and  Allah!  and  —  one  moment  more  — 
The  death-cry  drowning  in  the  battle's  roar. 


CANTO  THE  EIGHTH. 
I. 

Oh,  blood  and  thunder !  and  oh,  blood  and  wounds  ! 

These  are  but  vulg.ir  oath",  as  you  may  deem, 
Too  eenMe  reader!  and  most  shocking  sounds: 

And  so  they  are  ;  yet  thus  is  Glory's  dream 
Unriddled,  and  as  my  true  Muse  expounds 

At  present  such  things,  since  ihey  are  her  theme. 
So  be  Ihey  her  inspirers  !    Call  them  Mars, 
Bellona,  what  you  will  —  Ihey  mean  but  wars. 

U. 
All  was  prepared  —  the  fire,  the  sword,  the  men 

To  wield  them  in  their  terrible  array. 
The  army,  like  a  lion  from  his  den, 

March'd  forth  with  nerve  and  sinews  bent  to  slay,- 
A  human  Hydra,  issuing  from  its  fen 

To  breathe  destruction  on  its  winding  way. 
Whose  heads  were  heroes,  which  cut  off  in  vain 
Immediately  in  others  grew  again. 

HI. 
History  can  only  take  things  in  the  gross; 

But  could  we  know  them  in  detill,  perchance 
In  balancing  the  profit  and  the  loss, 

War's  merit  it  by  no  means  might  enhance. 
To  waste  so  much  gold  for  a  little  dross. 

As  hath  been  done,  mere  conquest  to  advance. 
The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more 
Of  honest  finie,  than  shedding  seas  of  gore. 

IV. 
And  why  ?  —  because  it  brings  self-approbation ; 

Whereas  the  other,  after  all  its  glare. 
Shouts,  bridges,  arches,  pensions  fr  im  a  nation. 

Which  (it  may  be)  has  not  much  left  to  sptre, 
A  higher  title,  or  a  loftier  station. 

Though  they  may  make  Corruption  gape  or  stare, 
Yet,  in  the  end,  except  in  Freedom's  battles. 
Are  nothing  but  a  cjald  of  Murder's  rattles. 

V. 
And  such  they  are  —  and  such  they  will  be  found : 

Not  so  Lennidas  and  Washington, 
Wh05e  every  biltlefield  is  holy  ground, 

Which  breathesof  nations  save"d,  not  worlds  undone- 
How  sweetly  on  the  ear  such  echoes  sound  ! 

While  the  mere  victor's  may  appal  or  stun 
The  servile  and  the  vain,  such  names  will  be 
A  watchword  till  the  future  shall  be  free. 

VI. 

The  night  was  dark,  and  the  thick  mist  allow'd 
Nought  to  be  seen  save  the  artillery's  fl  mie, 

Which  arch'd  the  horizon  like  a  hery  cloud, 
And  in  the  Danube's  waters  shonr  the  same  — 

A  mirror'd  hell !  the  volleying  roar,  and  1  'ud 
Long  booming  of  each  peal  on  peal,  o'ercaroe 

The  ear  far  more  than  thunder;  for  Heaven's  flashes 

Spare,  or  smite  rarely— man's  make  millions  ashes  ! 


VII. 

The  column  order'd  on  the  assault  scarce  pass'd 

Beyond  the  Russian  batteries  a  few  toises, 
When  up  the  bristling  Moslem  rose  at  last, 

Ansvrering  the  Christian  thunders  with  like  voices! 
Then  one  vast  hre,  air.  eirth,  and  stream  embraced. 

Which  rock'd  as  't  were  beneith  the  mighty  noiset; 
While  the  whole  ranipirt  blazed  like  Etna,  when 
The  restless  Ti  an  hiccups  in  hi:?  den  : 

VIII. 
And  one  enormous  shout  of  '•  Allah  !  "  rose 

In  the  same  moment,  loud  as  even  the  roar 
Of  war's  most  mortal  engines,  to  their  foes 

Hurling  defiance  :  city,  stream,  and  shore 
Resounded  "  Allah  !  "  and  the  clouds  which  close 

With  thick'ning  canopy  the  conflict  o'er. 
Vibrate  to  the  Eternal  name.     Hark!  through 
All  sounds  it  piercelh  —  "  Allah  !  Allah !  Hu  ! "  « 

IX. 
The  columns  were  in  movement  one  and  all. 

Rut  of  the  portion  which  aliack'd  by  water, 
Thicker  than  leaves  the  liies  began  to  fall. 

Though  led  by  Arseniew,  that  great  son  of  slaughter. 
As  brave  as  ever  faced  bo'h  bomb  and  ball. 

"  Carnage,"  (so  Wordsworth   tells  you)   "  is  God's 
daugl.ter:"!» 
If  he  speak  truth,  she  is  Chris  "s  si>ler,  and 
Just  now  behaved  as  in  the  Holy  Land. 

X. 
The  Prince  de  Ligne  was  wounded  in  the  knee ; 

Count  Chapeau-Bras,  too,  had  a  ball  between 
His  cap  and  head,  w  hich  proves  the  head  to  be 

Aristocratic  as  was  ever  seen, 
Beouse  it  then  received  no  injury 

More  than  the  cap;  in  fict,  the  ball  could  mean 
No  harm  unto  a  right  legitimate  head  : 
"  Ashes  to  ashes  "  —  why  not  lead  to  lead  ? 

XI. 
Also  the  General  Mirkow,  Brigadier, 

Insisting  on  removal  of  the  prince  ] 

Amidst  some  groaning  thousands  dying  near, — 

All  common  fellows  who  mizht'wri  he  and  wince. 
And  shriek  for  water  into  a  deaf  tar,— 

The  General  Merkow,  who  could  thus  evince 
His  sympathy  for  rank,  by  the  same  token. 
To  leach  him  greater,  had  his  own  leg  broken. 

XII. 
Three  hundred  cmnon  threw  up  their  emetic. 

And  thirty  thousand  muskets  (lung  their  pills 
Like  hail,  to  make  a  bloody  diuretic. 

Mortality  !  thou  hast  thy  monthly  bills: 
Thy  plagues,  thy  famines,  thy  physicians,  yet  tick. 

Like  Che  death-wa  ch,  wi  liin  our  ears  the  ills 
Tasl,  present,  and  to  come  ;  —  but  all  may  yield 
To  the  true  portrait  of  one  battle-field. 

XIII. 

There  the  still  varying  pangs,  which  multiply 
Until  their  very  number  makes  men  hard 

Bv  the  infinities  of  agony, 
'Which  meet  the  gaze.'whate'er  it  may  regard  — 

The  groan,  the  roll  in  dust,  the  all-white  eye 
Turn'd  back  w  ithin  its  socket,—  these  reward 

Your  rank  and  file  by  thousands,  while  the  rest 

May  win  perhaps  a  riband  at  the  breast ! 

1  Allah  Hu  !  is  properly  the  war-cry  of  the  Mnssulmang, 
and  they  dwell  on  the  last  syllable,  whicli  fc.ve*  It  a  wild 
and  peculiar  effect. 

2  "  But  Thy*  most  dreaded  instruraent 

In  working  <mt  a  pure  intent,  , 

Is  man  array'd  for  mutual  slaughter; 
Yea,  Carntgt  is  thy  daughter  ."• 

WORDSWORTH'S  Thanisgwng  Ode. 

#To  wit,  the  Deity's  :  this  is  perhaps  as  pretty  a  pedi- 
gree for  murder  as  ever  was  found  out  by  Garter  King  at 
Arms.— What  would  have  been  »aid,  bad  i 
people  discovered  such  a  lineage? 


548 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  VIII. 


XIV. 
Yef  I  love  glory  ;  —  glory's  a  great  thing :  — 

Think  what  it  is  to  be  in  your  old  age 
Mainlain'd  at  the  expense  of  your  good  king: 

A  moderate  pension  shakes  full  many  a  sage, 
And  heroes  are  but  made  for  bards  to  sing, 

Which  is  slill  better  ;  thus  in  verse  to  wage 
Your  wars  eternally,  besides  enjoying 
Half-pay  for  life,  make  ninnsmd  worth  destroying. 

XV. 

The  troops,  already  disembark'd,  push'd  nn 
To  take  a  battery  on  the  i  ight :  the  others, 

Who  landed  lower  down,  Iheir  landing  done. 
Had  set  to  work  as  bris-kly  as  their  broihers : 

Being  grenadiers,  they  mounted  one  by  one. 
Cheerful  as  children  climb  the  breasts  of  mothers, 

O'er  the  entrenchment  and  the  palisade, 

Quite  orderly,  as  if  upon  jjarade. 

XVI. 

And  this  was  admirable  ;  for  so  hot 

The  fire  was,  thai  were  red  Vesuvius  loaded. 

Besides  its  lava,  with  all  sorts  of  shot 
And  shells  or  hells,  it  could  not  more  have  goaded. 

Of  officers  a  third  fell  on  Ihe  spot, 
A  thing  which  victory  by  no  means  boded 

To  gentlemen  engaged  in  the  assault : 

Hounds,  when  the  huntsman  tumbles,  are  at  fault. 

XVII. 
But  here  I  leave  the  general  concern, 

To  track  our  hero  on  his  path  of  fame : 
He  must  his  laurels  separately  earn  ; 

For  fifiy  thousand  heroes,  name  by  name 
Though  all  deserving  equally  to  turn 

A  couplet,  or  an  elegy  to  claim. 
Would  form  a  lengthy  lexicon  of  glory. 
And  what  is  worse  slill,  a  much  longer  story  : 

XVIII. 

And  therefore  we  must  give  the  greater  number 
To  the  Gazette  —  which  doub'less  fairly  dealt 

By  the  deceased,  who  lie  in  famous  slumber 
In  ditches,  helds,  or  "heresoe'er  Ihey  felt 

Their  clay  for  (he  last  lime  Iheir  souls  encumber ;  — 
Thrice  happy  he  whose  name  hns  been  well  spelt 

In  Ihe  despatch:  I  knew  a  man  whose  loss 

Was  printed  Grove,  although  his  name  was  Grose.i 

XIX. 

Juan  and  Johnson  join'd  a  certnin  corps, 

And  fought  away  with  might  and  main,  not  knowing 
The  way  which  they  had  never  trod  before. 

And  slill  less  guessing  where  they  might  be  going  ; 
But  on  Ihey  mafch'd,  dead  bodies  Irampling  o'er. 

Firing,  and  thrusting,  slashing,  sweating,  glowing, 
Bui  fighting  thoughtlessly  enough  to  win, 
To  Iheir  two  selves,  one  whole  bright  bulletin, 

XX. 

Thus  on  they  wallow'd  in  the  bloody  mire 

Of  dead  and  dying  thousands, —  sometimes  gaining 

A  yard  or  two  of  ground,  which  brought  them  nigher 
To  some  odd  angle  for  which  all  were  straining; 

At  other  limes,  repulsed  by  Ihe  close  fire. 

Which  really  pour'd  as  if  all  hell  were  raining 

Instead  of  heaven,  Ihey  stumbled  backwards  o'er 

A  wounded  comrade,  sprawling  in  his  gore. 


1  A  fart :  see  Ihe  Waterloo  Gazettes.  I  recclleot  re- 
Darkiug  at  Ihe  time  tu  a  ttieiiii  :  —  •' There  is  fame  !  a 
man  IB  killed,  his  name  is  G  rose,  and  they  print  it  Gin  ve." 
1  WU8  at  i-ollege  with  the  deceased,  nho  was  a  very  ami- 
•ble  and  clever  man,  and  his  sociely  in  great  request  for 
bis  wit,  gaiety,  acd  "ChaEsona  a  boire." 


XXI. 

Though  'f  was  Don  Juan's  first  of  fields,  and  though 

The  nightly  muster  and  Ihe  silent  march 
In  the  chill  dark,  when  comage  does  not  glow 

So  much  as  under  a  triumphal  arch, 
Perhaps  might  make  him  shiver,  yawn,  or  Ihrow 

A  glance  on  Ihe  dull  clouds  (as  thick  as  siarch. 
Which  slifi'en'd  heaven)  as  if  he  wish'd  for  day  ;  — 
Yet  for  all  this  he  did  not  run  away. 

XXII. 
Indeed  he  could  no!.     But  what  if  he  had? 

There  have  been  and  are  heroes  who  begun 
Wilh  something  not  much  belter,  or  as  bad: 

Frederic  :he  Great  from  Molwitz  deign'd  lo  run 
For  Ihe  first  and  lasl  time  ;  for,  like  a  pad. 

Or  hawk,  or  bride,  most  mortals  afier  one 
Warm  bout  are  broken  into  their  new  tricks, 
And  fight  like  fiends  for  pav  or  politics. 

xx'iii. 

He  was  what  Erin  calls,  in  her  sublime 
Old  Erse  or  Iri^h,  or  it  may  be  Punic;  — 

(The  antiquarians  2  who  can  settle  lime, 

Which  settles  all  things,  Roman,  Greek,  or  Runic, 

Swear  ll-al  Fat's  language  sprung  from  the  same  clime 
With  Hannibal,  and  wears  the  Tyrian  tunic 

Of  Dido's  alphabet ;  and  this  is  rational 

As  any  other  notion,  and  not  national)  ;  — 

XXIV. 

But  Juan  was  quite  "  a  broth  of  a  boy," 

A  thing  of  impulse  and  a  child  of  song  ; 
Now  swimming  in  the  sentiment  of  joy. 

Or  Ihe  seyuation  (if  thai  phrase  seem  wrong), 
And  afterward,  if  he  must  needs  destroy. 

In  such  good  company  as  always  throng 
To  bailies,  sieges,  and  that  kind  of  pleasure. 
No  less  deligbed  to  employ  his  leisure ; 

XXV. 
But  always  without  malice  :  if  he  warr'd 

Or  loved,  it  was  wilh  what  we  call  "  Ihe  best 
Intentions,"  which  form  all  mankind's  trump  card, 

To  be  produced  when  brought  up  to  Ihe  test. 
The  -talesnian,  hero,  harlot,  lawyer— waid 

Off  each  attack,  when  pe  pie  are  in  quest 
Of  their  designs,  by  sayiug  Ihev  meant  well; 
'T  is  pily  "  that  such  meaning  should  pave  hell."  3 

XXVI. 
I  almost  lately  have  begun  to  doubt 

Whether  hell's  pavement  —  if  it  be  so  paved  — 
Must  not  have  latterly  been  quite  worn  out. 

Not  by  the  numbers  good  intent  hath  saved, 
Bui  by  Ihe  mass  who  gn  below  wiihout 

Those  ancient  good  intentions,  which  once  shaved 
And  smooth'd  ihe  brimstone  of  Ihai  sreet  of  hell 
Which  bears  the  greatest  likeness  lo  Pall  Mall. 

XXVII, 
Juan,  by  some  strange  chance,  which  oft  divides 

Warrior  from  warrior  in  Iheir  grim  career, 
J  Like  chastest  wives  from  constant  husbands'  sidea 

Just  at  the  close  of  Ihe  first  bridal  year. 
By  one  of  those  odd  turns  of  Fortune's  tide&j 

Was  on  a  sudden  ralher  puzzled  here. 
When,  after  a  good  deal  of  heavy  firing. 
He  found  himself  alone,  and  friends  retiring. 

XXVIII. 
I  don't  know  how  the  thing  occurr'd  —  it  might 

Be  that  Ihe  greater  part  were  kill'd  or  wounded, 
And  that  Ihe  rest  had  faced  unto  the  right 

About :  a  circumstance  which  has  confounded 
Cassar  himself,  who,  in  Ihe  very  sight 

Of  his  whole  army,  which  so  much  abounded 
In  courage,  was  obliged  to  snatch  a  shield, 
And  rally  back  his  Romans  to  Ihe  field. 

2  See  General  Valancey  and  Sir  Lawrence  Parsons. 

3  1  he  Portuguese  proverb  snys.  that  "  bell  ii  paved  wiU 
good  iDleDtions." 


Canto  VIII.] 


DON   JUAN. 


549 


XXI.X. 

Juan,  who  had  no  shield  to  snatch,  and  was 

No  Caesar,  but  a  fine  youn»  lad,  who  fought 
He  knew  not  why,  arriving  at  this  pass, 

Slop|)'d  for  a  minute,  as  jierhaps  he  ought 
For  a  much  longer  lime  ;  ihen,  like  an  ass  — 

(Start  not,  kind  reader,  since  g^eat  Homer  thought 
This  simile  enough  for  Ajax,  Juan 
Perhaps  may  tinv  .:  better  than  a  new  one)  ;  — 

XXX. 
Then,  like  an  ass,  he  went  upon  his  way, 

And  what  was  stranger,  never  look'd  behind  J 
But  seeing,  Hashing  forward,  like  the  day 

Over  the  hills,  a  fire  enoush  to  blind 
Those  who  di  like  to  look  upon  a  fray. 

He  stunibled  on,  to  try  if  he  could  find 
A  path  to  add  hi>  own  slight  irni  and  forces 
To  corps,  the  greater  part  of  which  were  corses. 

XXXI. 
Perceiving  then  no  more  the  commandant 

Of  his  own  corps,  nor  even  the  corps,  which  had 
Quite  disappear'd  —  the  gods  know  how  !  (I  can't 

Account  for  every  thing  which  may  look  bad 
In  history  ;  but  we  at  lea>t  may  grant 

It  was  not  niarvellons  that  a  mere  lad. 
In  search  of  glory,  sh.)uld  look  on  before. 
Nor  care  a  pinch  of  smitf  alwut  his  corps  :)  — 

XXXII. 
Perceiving  nor  commander  nor  commanded, 

And  left  at  large,  like  a  young  heir,  to  nuke 
His  way  to  —  where  he  knew  not  —  single-handed  ; 

As  travellers  follow  over  bog  and  brake 
An  "  ignis  fuuus  ;"  or  as  sailor*  strnnded 

Unto  the  nearest  hut  iheniselves  betake; 
.So  Juan,  following  honour  and  his  nose, 
RusbM  where  the  thicke  t  fire  annotnced  most  foes. 

XXXIII. 
He  knew  not  where  he  was,  nor  greatly  cared, 

For  he  was  dizzy,  busy,  and  his  vein> 
FilPd  as  wih  lightning  — for  his  spirit  shared 

The  hour,  as  is  the  case  with  lively  brains ; 
And  where  the  holiest  hie  was  seen  and  heard. 

And  the  loud  cannon  peil'd  his  hoarsest  strains. 
He  rush'd,  while  earth  and  air  were  sadly  shaken 
By  thy  humane  discover)-    Friar  Bacon  1 » 

XXXIV. 
And  as  he  rush'd  along,  it  came  to  pass  he 

Fell   in   with   what  w  as  late   the  second  column, 
Under  the  orders  of  the  General  Liscy, 

But  iioiv  reduced,  as  is  a  bulky  volume, 
Into  an  elegant  extract  (much  less  massy) 

Of  heroism,  and  took  his  place  wih  solemn 
Air  'midst  the  rest,  who  kept  their  valiant  faces 
And  levell'd  wea[)0QS  still  against  the  glacis. 

XXXV. 
Just  at  this  crisis  up  came  Johnson  too. 

Who  had  "  retreated,"  as  the  phrase  is  when 
Men  run  away  much  rather  than  go  through 

Des'ruction's  jaws  into  the  devil's  den  ; 
But  Johnson  was  a  clever  fellow,  who 

Knew  w  hen  and  how  "  to  cut  and  come  again," 
And  never  ran  a»vay,  except  w  hen  running 
Was  nothing  but  a  valorous  kind  of  cunning. 

XXXVI, 
And  so,  when  all  his  corps  were  dead  or  dying, 

Eucept  Don  Juan,  a  mere  novice,  w  ho-« 
More  virgin  valour  never  dreamt  of  Hying, 

From  ignorance  of  danger,  which  eiidues 
Its  votaries,  like  innocence  relying 

On   its  own    strength,    with   careless    nerves    and 
Johnson  retired  a  litile,  just  to  rally  [thews, — 

Those  who  catch  cold  in  "  shadows  of  Death's  valley." 


1  Gunpowder  U  i>aid  to  have  t>een  Uiscovt'red  by  ttiis 
friar.  [Tliough  Fiiar  Bacon  seems  to  have  discovered 
guopowder,  he  had  the  humanity  not  to  record  bis  dis- 
cs rery  in  intelligible  language.—  E.] 


XXXVII. 
And  there,  a  little  shelter'd  from  the  shot. 

Which  raiei'd  from  baslion,  battery,  parapet, 
Ramparl,  wall,  casemen',  house  —  for  there  was  not 

In  this  exensive  city,  sore  beset 
By  Christian  soldiery,  a  single  spot 

Which  did  not  combat  like  ihe  devil,  as  yet, — 
He  found  a  number  of  Chasseurs,  all  sciiler'd 
By  the  resistauce  of  the  chase  they  batler'd. 

XXXVIII. 
And  these  he  call'd  on  ;  and,  what 's  strange,  they  came 

Unto  hia  call,  unlike  '•  the  sjii:  its  from 
The  vasty  deep,"  t"  whom  you  may  exclaim. 

Says  Hotspur,  long  ere  they  will  leave  their  home. 
Their  rea-oos  were  uncertiiiity,  or  shame 

At  shrinking  from  a  bullet  or  a  bonib. 
And  thai  odd  impulse,  which  in  wars  or  creeds 
Makes  men,  like  cattle,  follow  him  who  leads. 

XXXIX. 
By  Jove  I  he  was  a  noble  fellow,  Johnson, 

And  though  his  mme,  than  Ajax  or  Achilles 
Sounds  less  harmonious,  underneath  the  sun  vion 

We  shall  not  see  his  likcuess :  he  could  kill  his 
Man  quite  as  quietly  as  blows  the  monsoon 

Her  steady  breath  (which  some  months  the  same 
Seldom  he  varied  feature,  hue,  or  muscle,  [still  is) : 
And  could  be  very  busy  w  i  bout  bustle  ; 

XL. 
And  therefo  e,  when  he  ran  away,  he  did  so 

Upon  reflection,  knowing  that  beliind 
He  would  find  others  who  would  fain  be  rid  so 

Of  idle  apprehensions,  which  like  wind 
Trouble  heroic  stomachs.     Though  their  lids  so 

Ofl  are  soon  closed,  all  heroes  are  not  blind. 
But  when  they  light  u|ioii  immediate  death, 
Retire  a  little,  merely  to  take  breath. 

XLI. 
But  Johnson  only  ran  off,  to  return 

With  many  olher  warriors,  as  we  said, 
Unto  -hat  raiher  somewhat  misty  bourn. 

Which  Hamlet  tells  us  is  a  pass  of  dread. 
To  Jack,  howe'er,  this  gave  but  slight  concern  : 

His  soul  (like  galvanism  upon  the  dead) 
Acted  upon  the  living  as  on  \<  ire, 
And  led  them  back  into  the  heaviest  fire. 

XLII. 
Egad  !  they  found  the  second  time  what  they 

"I  he  first  time  thought  quite  terrible  enough 
To  flv  from,  malgre  .ill  which  jeople  say 

Of 'glory,  and  all  thai  immoital  slutj' 
Which  fills  a  regiment  (besides  their  pay, 

That  daily  shilling  which  makes  warriors  tough)  — 
They  fouiid'on  their  re  urn  Ihe  self-same  welcome, 
Which  made  some  think,  and  others  know,  a,hell  come. 

XLIII. 
They  fell  as  thick  as  harvesU  "oeneath  hail, 

Grass  before  scythes,  or  corn  below  the  sickle, 
Proving  that  trite  old  truth,  that  life's  as  fiail 

As  any  other  boon  fur  which  men  stickle. 
The  Turkish  batteries  thrash'd  them  like  a  flail 

Or  a  good  boxer,  into  a  sad  pickle 
Puiting  the  very  bravest,  "ho  were  knock'd 
Upon  ibe  head,  before  their  guns  were  cock'd. 

XLIV. 
The  Turks  behind  Ihe  travjrses  and  flanks 

Of  the  next  baslion,  fired  away  like  devil?, 
And  svvepi,  as  gales  sweep  foam  a«ay,  whole  ranks: 

However,  Heaien  knows  how,  the  Fa'e  »»ho  levels 
Towns,  naiions,  woilds,  in  her  revolving  pianks, 

So  order'd  it,  amid  these  sulphury  revels. 
That  John-on  and  s'nie  few  w  ho  had  n  t  scamper'd 
Reich'd  the  interior  t.lus^  of  Ihe  rampart. 


2  ■'  To?»j,— the  slope  or  inclinatinn  of  c  wall,  whersbjr, 
reclining  at  the  top  so  as  to  fall  within  its  base,  tbc 
ihicknefs  is  gradually  lessened  according  to  the  height."— 
Miltl.  Dict.—  E. 


550 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  VIII. 


XLV. 
First  OLe  oi  two,  then  five,  six,  and  a  dozen 

Came  mountine  auickly  up,  for  it  was  now 
All  neck  or  nothin;',  as,  like  pitch  or  rosin. 

Flame  was  shower'd  forth  above,  as  well 's  below, 
So  that  you  scarce  could  say  who  best  had  chosen, 

The  'entlemen  that  were  Ihe  first  to  show 
Their  rnartial  faces  on  the  parapet, 
Or  those  who  thought  it  brave  to  wait  as  yet, 

XLVI. 

But  those  who  scaled,  found  out  that  their  advance 
Was  favour'd  by  an  accident  or  blunder: 

The  Greek  and  I  urkish  Cohorn"s  ignorance 
Had  pallisado"d  in  a  way  you  'd  wonder 

To  see  in  forts  of  Netherlands  or  France  — 
(Though  these  to  our  Gibraltar  must  knock  under) — 

Ri^hl  in  the  middle  of  the  parapet 

Just  named,  these  palisades  were  primly  set : 

XLVII. 

So  that  on  either  side  some  nine  or  ten 

Faces  were  left,  whereon  you  could  contrive 

To  march;  a  great  convenience  to  our  men. 
At  least  to  all  those  who  were  left  alive. 

Who  thus  could  form  a  line  and  fijht  again ; 
And  that  which  farther  aided  them  to  strive 

Was,  that  they  could  kick  down  the  palisades. 

Which  scarcely  rose  much  higher  than  grass  blades. 

XLVIII. 

Amon;  the  first —  I  will  not  say  the  first, 
For  such  precedence  upon  such  occasions 

Will  oftentimes  make  deadlv  quarrels  burst 
Out  between  friends  as  well  as  allied  nations : 

The  Briton  must  be  bold  who  really  durst 
Put  to  such  trial  John  Bulls  partial  patience. 

As  say  that  Wellington  at  Waterloo 

Was  beaten,—  though  the  Prussians  say  so  too  ;  — 

XLIX. 

And  that  if  Blucher,  Bulow,  Gneisenau, 
And  God  knows  who  besides  in  "  au  "  and  "  ou," 

Had  not  coine  up  in  time  to  cast  an  awe 
Into  the  hearts  of  those  who  fought  till  now 

As  tigers  combat  %vith  au  empty  craw. 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  had  ceased  to  show 

His  orders,  also  to  receive  his  pensions; 

Which  are  the  heaviest  that  our  history  mentions. 


But  never  mind ;  — "  God   save    the   king !  "   and 
kings '. 
For  if  he  dont,  1  doubt  if  men  will  longer  — 

I  think  I  hear  a  little  bird,  who  sings 

The  people  by  and  by  will  be  the  stronger: 
The  veriest  jade  will  wince  whose  harness  wrings 

So  much  into  the  raw  as  quite  to  wrong  her 
Beyond  the  rules  of  posting,—  and  the  mob 
At  last  fall  sick  of  imitating  Job. 

LI. 
At  first  it  grumbles,  then  it  swears,  and  then, 

Like  David,  flings  smooth  pebbles  'gainst  a  giant ; 

At  last  it  takes  to  weapons  such  as  men 

Snatch  when  despair   makes  human   hearts   less 

pliant. 

Then  comes  the  "  tug  of  war  ;  "  —  't  will  come  again, 

I  rather  doubt ;  and  I  would  fain  say  "  fie  on  't,  ' 

II  I  had  not  perceived  that  revolution' 
Alone  can  sive  the  earth  from  hell's  pollution. 

LU. 

But  to  continue :  —  I  say  not  the  first, 

But  of  the  first,  our  little  friend  Don  Juan, 

Walk'd  o'er  the  walls  of  Ismail,  as  if  nursed        (out 
Amidst  such  scenes  —  though  this  was  quite  a  new 

To  him,  and  I  should  hope  to  moit.     The  thirst 
Of  glory,  which  so  pierces  through  and  through  one, 

Pervajjed  him  —although  a  generous  creature, 

As  wann  in  heart  as  feminine  in  feature. 


i       » 

Pel 


The  man  in  all  the  rest  might  be  confest, 

To  him  it  was  Elysium  to  be  there  ; 
And  he  could  even  withstand  that  awkward  test 

Which  Rousseau  points  out  to  the  dubious  fair, 
"  Observe  your  lover  when  he  leaves  your  arms ;  " 
But  Juan  never  left  them,  while  they  had  charms^ 

LIV, 
Unless  compell'd  by  fate,  or  wave,  or  wind. 

Or  near  relations,  who  are  much  the  same. 
But  htre  he  was !  —  where  each  tie  that  can  bind 

Humanity  must  yield  to  steel  and  flame  : 
And  he,  whose  very  body  was  all  mind, 

Flung  here  by  fate  or  circumstance,  which  tame 
The  loftiest,  hurried  by  the  time  and  place. 
Dash  d  on  like  a  spurr'd  blood-horse  in  a  race. 

LV. 
So  was  his  blood  stirr'd  while  he  found  resistance, 

As  is  the  hunter  s  at  the  five-bar  gate, 
Or  double  post  and  rail,  where  the  existence 

Of  Britain's  youth  depends  upon  their  weight, 
The  lijhtest  be'ing  the  safest :  at  a  distance 

He  hated  cruelty,  as  all  men  hate 
Blood,  until  heated  —and  even  then  his  own 
At  times  would  curdle  o'er  some  heavy  groan. 

LVI. 
The  General  Lascy,  who  had  been  hard  press'd, 

Seeing  arrive  an  aid  so  opportune 
As  were  some  hundred  youngsters  all  abreast, 

Who  came  as  if  just  dropped  down  from  the  moon. 
To  Juan,  who  was  nearest  him,  addressd 

His  thanks,  and  hopes  to  take  the  city  soon, 
Not  reckoning  him  to  be  a  '•  base  Bezonian,"  * 
(As  Pistol  calls  it)  but  a  young  Livonian. 

LVU. 
Juan,  to  whom  he  spoke  in  German,  knew 

As  much  of  German  as  of  Sanscrit,  and 
In  answer  made  an  inclination  to 

The  general  who  held  him  in  command  ; 
For  seeing  one  with  ribands,  black  and  blue, ' 

Stars,  medals,  and  a  bloody  sword  in  hand, 
Addressins  him  in  tonts  which  seem'd  to  thank, 
He  recognised  an  officer  of  rank. 

LVIII. 
Short  speeches  pass  between  two  men  who  speak 

No  common  language ;  and  besides,  in  time 
Of  war  and  taking  towns,  when  many  a  shriek 

Rings  o'er  the  dialogue,  and  many  a  crime 
Is  perpetrated  ere  a  word  can  break 

Upon  the  ear,  and  sounds  of  horror  chime 
In  like  church-bells,  with  sigh,  howl,  groan,  yell, 


LIX. 

And  therefore  all  we  have  related  in 
Two  long  octaves,  pass'd  in  a  little  minute; 

But  in  the  same  small  minute,  every  sin 
Contrived  to  get  itself  comprise!  within  it. 

The  very  cannon,  deafen'd  by  the  din, 
Grew  dumb,  for  you  might  almost  hear  a  linnet, 

As  soon  as  thunder,'  'midst  the  general  noise 

Of  human  natures  agonising  voice! 


The  town  was  enter'd.    Oh  eternity !  — 
"  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  Ine  town,' 

So  Cowper  says  —  and  1  begin  to  be 
Of  his  opinion,  when  I  see  cast  down 

Rome,  Babylon,  Tyre,  Carthage,  Nineveh, 
All  walls  men  know,  and  many  never  known ; 

And  pondering  on  the  present  and  the  past, 

To  deem  the  woods  shall  be  our  home  at  last :  — 


.  Pistol's  "  Bezonian  "  is  a  corruption  ol  bitognaio  — 
(  Decdy  man  —  metaphorically  (at  least)  a  scouodreU— B. 


Canto  VIIL] 


DON  JUAN, 


551 


LXI. 

Of  all  men,  savinj  Sylla  the  man-slayer, 
Who  passes  for  in'life  and  death  most  lucky, 

Of  the  great  names  which  in  our  faces  stare,' 
The  General  Boon,  back-woodsman  of  Kentucky, 

Was  happiest  amongst  mortals  anywhere ; 
For  kiUius:  nothing  but  a  bear  or  buck,  he 

Enjoy 'd  the  lonely,  vigorous,  harmless  days 

Of  nis  old  age  in  wilds  of  deepest  maze. 

LXII. 
Crime  came  not  near  him  —she  is  not  the  child 

Of  solitude^  Health  shrank  not  from  him — for 
Her  home  is  in  the  rarely  trodden  wild, 

Where  if  men  seek  her  not,  and  death  be  more 
Their  choice  than  life,  forgive  them,  as  beguiled 

By  habit  to  what  their  own  hearts  abhor  — 
In  cities  ca,gsd.  The  present  case  in  point  I 
Cite  is,  that  Boon  lived  hunting  up  lo  ninety  j 

LXIII. 

And  what's  still  stranger,  left  behind  a  name 
For  which  men  vainly  decimate  the  throng. 

Not  only  famous,  but  of  that  good  fame. 
Without  which  glory  "s  but  a  tavern  song  — 

Simple,  serene,  the"  antipodes  of  shame. 
Which  hate  nor  en\'}'  e'er  could  tinsre  with  wrong ; 

An  active  hermit,  even  in  a^e  the  child 

Of  Nature,  or  the  Man  of  Ross  run  wild. 

LXIV. 

T  is  true  he  shrank  from  men  even  of  his  nation. 
When  they  built  up  unto  his  darling  trees, — 

He  moved  some  hundred  miles  off,  for  a  station 
Where  there  were  fewer  houses  and  more  ease  ; 

The  inconvenience  of  civilisation 
Is,  that  you  neither  can  be  pleased  nor  please  ; 

But  where  he  met  the  individual  man. 

He  show  d  himself  as  kind  as  mortal  can. 

LXV, 
He  ^VJ.'•  not  all  alone :  around  him  grew 

A  syh^n  tribe  of  children  of  the  chase. 
Whose  young,  unwaken'd  world  was  ever  new, 

Nor  sworf!  nor  sorrow  yet  had  left  a  trace 
On-4ier  unwrinkled  brow,  nor  could  you  view 

A  frown  on  Nature's  or  on  human  face  ;  — 
The  free-born  forest  found  and  kept  them  free. 
And  fresh  as  is  a  torrent  or  a  tree. 

Lxvr. 

And  tall,  and  strong,  and  swift  of  foot  were  they, 
Beyond  the  dwarfing  city's  pale  abortions. 

Because  their  thoughts  had  never  been  the  prey 
Of  care  or  gain:  the  green  woods  were  their  portions; 

No  sinking  spirits  told  them  they  grew  grey. 
No  fashion  made  them  apes  of  her  distortions  ; 

Simple  they  were,  not  savage ;  and  their  rifles, 

Though  very  true,  were  not  yet  used  for  trifles. 

LXVII. 

Motion  was  in  their  days,  rest  in  their  slumbers. 
And  cheerfulness  the'handmaid  of  their  toil ; 

Nor  yet  too  many  nor  too  few  their  numbers ; 
Corruption  could  not  make  their  hearts  her  soil ; 

The  lust  which  stings,  the  splendour  which  encum- 
bers. 
With  the  free  foresters  divide  no  spoil ; 

Serene,  not  sullen,  were  the  solitudes 

Of  this  unsighing  people  of  the  woods. 

LXVIII. 
So  much  for  Nature :  —  by  way  of  variety, 

Now  back  to  thy  great  joys.  Civilisation  ! 
And  the  sweet  consequence  of  large  society, 

War,  pestilence,  the  despots  desolation, 
The  kingly  scourge,  the  lust  of  notoriety. 

The  millions  slain  by  soldiers  for  their  ration, 
The  scenes  like  Catherine's  tioudoir  at  threescore, 
With  Ismail's  storm  to  soften  it  the  more. 


LXIX. 

The  town  was  enfer'd :  first  one  column  made 

Its  sanguinary  way  good  —  then  another ; 
The  reeking  bayonet  and  the  flashing  blade 

Clashd  'gainst  the  scimitar,  and  babe  and  mother 
With  distant  shrieks  were  heard  Heaven  to  upbraid: — 

Still  closer  sulphur)-  clouds  began  to  smother 
The  breath  of  morn  and  man,  where  foot  by  foot 
The  madden'd  Turks  their  city  still  dispute. 

LXX. 
Koutousow,  he  who  afterward  beat  back 

(With  some  assistance  from  the  frost  and  snow) 
Napoleon  on  his  bold  and  bloody  track. 

It  happen'd  was  himself  beat  back  just  now  : 
He  was  a  jolly  fellow,  and  could  crack 

His  jest  alike  in  face  of  friend  or  foe. 
Though  life,  and  death,  and  victory  were  at  stake; 
But  here  it  seem'd  his  jokes  had  ceased  to  take : 

LXXI. 
For  having  thrown  himself  into  a  ditch, 

Follow'd  in  haste  by  various  grenadiers. 
Whose  blood  the  puddle  greatly  did  cnricn, 

He  climb'd  to  where  the  parapet  appears  ; 
But  there  his  project  reach'd  its  utmost  pitch 

('Mongst  other  deaths  the  General  Ribaupierre's 
Was  much  resretted),  for  the  Moslem  men 
Threw  them  all  down  into  the  ditch  again. 

LXXII. 
And  had  it  not  been  for  some  stray  troops  landing 

They  knew  not  where,  being  carried  by  the  stream 
To  some  spot,  where  they  lost  their  understanding-. 

And  wander'd  up  and  down  as  in  a  dream, 
Until  they  reach'd,  as  daybreak  was  expanding, 

'I  hat  which  a  portal  to  their  eyes  did  seem^ — 
The  great  and  gay  Koutousow  might  have  lain 
Where  three  parts  of  his  column  yet  remain. 

LXXI  1 1. 
And  scrambling  round  the  rampart,  these  same  troops. 

After  the  taking  of  the  "  Cavalier,"  i 
Just  as  Koutousow's  most  "  forlorn  "  of  "  hopes  " 

Took,  like  chameleons,  some  slight  tinge  of  fear, 
Open'd  the  gate  call'd  "  Kilia,"  to  the  groups 

Of  baffled  heroes,  who  stood  shyly  near, 
Sliding  knee-deep  in  lately  frozen  mud. 
Now  thaw'd  into  a  marsh  of  human  blood. 

LXXIV. 
The  Kozacks,  or,  if  so  you  please,  Cossacques  — 

(I  dont  much  pique  myself  upon  orthography, 
So  that  I  do  not  grossly  err  in  facts. 

Statistics,  tactics,  politics,  and  geography)  — 
Having  been  used  to  serve  on  horses'  backs, 

And  no  great  dilettanti  in  topography 
Of  fortresses,  but  fighting  where  it  pleases 
Their  chiefs  to  order,—  were  all  cut  to  pieces. 

LXXV. 
Their  column,  though  the  Turkish  batteries  thunder'd 

Upon  them,  ne'ertheless  had  reach  d  the  rampart, 
And  naturally  thought  they  could  have  plunder  d 

The  city,  without  being'farther  hamper'd  ; 
But  as  it  happens  to  brave  men,  they  blunder'd  — 

The  Turks  at  first  pretended  to  have  scamper'd, 
Onlv  to  draw  them  'twixt  two  bastion  corners, 
Froin  whence  they  sallied  on  those  Christian  scomerfc 

LXXV  I. 
Then  being  taken  by  the  tail  —  a  taking 

Fatal  to  bishops  as  to  soldiei-s  —  these 
Cossacques  were  all  cut  oft'  as  day  was  breaking, 

And  found  their  lives  were  let  at  a  iliort  lease  — 
But  perish 'd  without  shivering  or  shaking. 

Leaving  as  ladders  their  heap'd  carcasses. 
O'er  which  Lieutenant-Colonel  Vesouskoi 
March'd  with  the  brave  batulion  of  Polouzki : 


1  A  'Cavalier'  is  an  ele ration  of  earth,  situateO  ordi- 
narily in  itie  gorge  of  a  bastion,  liordereO  with  a  paraiirti 
and  cut  into  more  or  fewer  embrasurea,  according  to  ill 
capacity.— «(7if.  Vict.—  K 


552 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  VIII. 


LXXVII. 
This  valiant  man  kiird  all  the  Turks  he  met, 

But  could  not  eat  them,  bein?  in  his  turn 
Slain  by  some  Mussulmans,  who  would  not  yet, 

Without  resistance,  see  their  city  burn. 
The  walls  were  won,  but  't  was  an  even  bet 

Which  of  the  armies  would  have  cause  to  mourn  : 
T  was  blow  for  blow,  disputing  inch  by  inch, 
For  one  would  not  retreat,  nor  t'  other  flinch. 

LXXVIII. 
Another  column  also  sulferd  much : 

And  here  we  may  remark  with  the  historian, 
You  should  but  give  few  cartridges  to  such 

Troops  as  are  meant  to  march  with  greatest  glory  on: 
When  matters  must  be  carried  by  the  touch 

Of  the  bright  bayonet,  and  they  all  should  hurry  on, 
They  sometimes,  with  a  hankering  for  existence, 
Keep  merely  tiring  at  a  foolish  distance. 

LXXIX. 

A  junction  of  the  General  Meknop's  men 

(Without  the  General,  who  had  fallen  some  time 

Before,  being  badly  seconded  just  then) 

Was  made  at  length  with  those  who  dared  to  climb 

The  death-disgorging  rampa;  t  once  again  j 
And  though  the  1  urk's  rsistance  was  sublime. 

They  took  the  bastion,  which  the  Seraskier 

Defended  at  a  price  extremely  dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan  and  Johnson,  and  some  volunteers 
Among  the  foremost,  ofi'er'd  him  good  quarter; 

A  word  which  little  suits  with  Seraskiers, 
Or  at  least  suited  not  this  valiant  Tartar. 

He  died,  deserving  well  his  country's  tears, 
A  savage  sort  of  military  martyr. 

An  English  naval  oiEcer,  who  wish"d 

To  make  him  prisoner,  was  also  dish'd : 

Lxxxr. 

For  all  the  answer  to  his  proposition 

Was  from  a  pistol-shot  that  laid  him  dead  ; 

On  which  the  rest,  without  more  intermission. 
Began  to  lay  about  wi'h  steel  and  lead  — 

The  pious  metals  most  in  requisition 
On  such  occasions:  not  a  smgle  head 

Was  spared  J— three  thousand  Moslems  perish'd  here, 

And  sixteen  bayonets  pierced  the  t-eraskier. 

LXXXII. 

The  city 's  taken  — only  part  by  part  — 

Anl  Death  is  drunk  with  gore  :  there 's  not  a  street 
Where  fis:hts  not  to  the  last  some  desperate  heart 

For  those  for  whom  it  soon  shall  cease  to  beat. 
Here  War  forgot  his  own  destructive  art 

In  more  destir.j  ing  Nature  ;  and  the  heat 
Of  carnage,  like  the  Nile's  sun-sodden  slime, 
Engender'd  monstrous  shapes  of  every  crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A  Russian  officer,  in  martial  tread 

Over  a  heap  of  bodies,  felt  his  heel 
Sei7^  fast,  as  if  't  were  by  the  serpent's  head 

Whose  fangs  Eve  taught  her  human  seed  to  feel : 
In  vain  he  kickd,  and  swore,  and  wTithed,  and  bled. 

And  howl'd  for  help  as  wolves  do  for  a  meal  — 
The  teeth  still  kept  their  gratifying  hold, 
As  do  the  subtle  snakes  described  of  old. 

LXXXIV. 

A  dyin*  Moslem,  who  had  felt  the  foot 
Of  a  foe  o'er  him,  snatch'd  at  it,  and  bit 

The  very  tend  m  which  is  most  acute  — 
(That  which  some  ancient  Muse  or  modern  wit 

Named  after  thee,  Achilles)  and  quite  through  't 
He  made  t!-e  teeth  meet,  nor  relinquish'd  it 

Even  with  his  life  —  for  (but  they  lie)  't  is  said 

To  the  live  leg  still  clung  the  sever'd  head. 


LXXXV. 

However  this  may  he,  "t  is  prett/  stire 
The  Russian  officer  for  life  -vas  lamed. 

For  the  Turk's  teeth  stuck  faster  than  a  skewer 
And  left  him  'midst  the  invalid  and  maim'd  : 

The  regimental  surgeon  could  not  cure 
His  p'atient,  and  perhaps  was  to  be  blamed 

More  than  the  head  of  the  inveterate  foe. 

Which  was  cut  oli",  and  scarce  even  then  let  go. 


LXXXVI. 

But  then  the  fact  "s  a  fact  —  and  't  is  the  part 

Of  a  true  poet  to  escape  from  fiction 
Whene'er  he  can ;  for  there  is  little  art 

In  leaving  verse  more  free  from  the  i  -istriction 
Of  truth  than  prose,  unle.«s  to  suit  the  m  irt 

For  what  is  sometimes  call  d  poetic  diction, 
And  that  outrageous  appetite  for  lies 
Which  Satan  angles  with  for  souls,  like  flies. 

LXXXVII. 

The  city 's  taken,  but  not  render'd  !  —  No  ! 

There  's  not  a  Moslem  that  hath  yielded  sword; 
The  blood  may  gush  out,  as  the  Danube's  flow 

Rolls  by  the  city  wall ;  but  deed  nor  word 
Acknowledge  aught  of  dread  of  death  or  foe  : 

In  vain  the  yell  of  victory  is  roar'd 
By  the  advancing  Muscovite  —  the  groan 
01  the  last  foe  is  echoed  by  his  own. 

LXXXVIII. 

The  bayonet  pierces  and  the  sabre  cleaves, 
And  human  lives  are  lavish 'd  everj-where, 

As  the  year  closing  whirls  the  scarlet  leaves 
W  hen  the  stripp'd  forest  bows  to  the  bleak  air. 

And  groans  J  and  thus  the  pe-^pled  city  grieves. 
Shorn  of  its  best  and  loveliest,  and  left  bare  ; 

But  still  it  falls  in  vast  and  awful  splinters. 

As  oaks  blown  down  with  all  their  thousand  winter*. 

LXXXIX. 

It  IS  an  awful  topic  —  but  H  is  not 

My  cue  for  any  time  to  be  terrific : 
For  checker'd  as  is  seen  our  human  lot 

With  good,  and  bad,  and  worse,  alike  prolific 
Of  melancholy  merriment,  to  quote 

Too  much  of  one  sort  would  be  soporific  ;  — 
Without,  or  with,  offence  to  friends  or  foes, 
I  sketch  your  world  exactly  as  it  goes. 

XC. 

And  one  good  action  in  the  midst  of  crimes 
Is  "quite  refreshinz-."'  in  the  affected  phrase 

Of  these  ambrosial,  Pharisaic  times. 

With  all  their  prefy  milk-and-water  ways. 

And  may  serve  therefore  to  bedew  these  rhymes, 
A  little  scorch'd  at  present  with  the  blaze 

Of  conquest  and  its  consequences,  which 

Make  epic  poesy  so  rare  and  rich. 

XCI. 

Upon  a  taken  bastion,  where  there  lay 

Thousands  of  slaughter'd  men,  a  yet  warm  group 
Of  murder'd  women^  whohad  found  their  way 

To  this  vain  refuge,  made  the  good  heart  droop 
And  shudder ;  —  «  hile,  as  beautiful  as  May, 

A  female  child  of  ten  years  tried  to  stoop 
And  hide  her  little  palpi'ating  breast 
Amidst  the  bodies  luU'd  in  bloody  rest. 

XCII. 

Two  villanous  Cossacques  pursued  the  child 
With  flashingeves  and  weapons:  match'd  \v;th  them. 

The  rudest  brute 'that  roams  Siberia's  wild. 
Has  feelings  pure  and  polish'd  as  a  gem, — 

The  bear  is  civilised,  the  wolf  is  mild  : 
And  whom  for  this  at  last  must  we  condemn  ? 

Their  natures  ?  or  their  sovereigns,  who  employ 

All  arts  to  teach  their  subjects  to  destroy  ? 


Canto  VIII.! 


DON  JUAN, 


553 


xcni. 

Their  sabres  glitter  d  o'er  her  little  head, 

Whence  her  fair  hair  rose  twining  « ith  affright, 

Her  hidden  face  was  plunsred  amidst  the  dead  : 
When  Juan  cauglit  a  glimpse  of  this  sad  sight, 

I  shall  not  say  exactly  what  he  said, 

Because  it  might  not  solace  '•  ears  polite  j  " 

But  what  he  did,  was  to  lay  on  their  backs, 

The  readiest  way  of  reasoning  with  Cossacques. 

XCIV. 
One's  hip  he  slasb'd,  and  split  the  other's  nhoulder, 

And  drove  them  with  their  brutal  yells  to  seek 
K  there  might  be  rhirurgeons  who  could  solder 
j      The  wounds  they  richly  merited,  and  shriek 
I  Their  baffled  rage  and  nam ;  while  waxine  colder 
i      As  he  turn'd  o'er  each  pale  and  sory  cheek, 
'  Don  Juan  raised  his  little  captive  from 
The  heap  a  moment  more  hod  made  her  tomb. 

I  XCV. 

And  she  was  chill  as  they,  and  on  her  face 

A  slender  streak  of  blood  announced  how  near 
Her  fate  had  Leen  to  that  of  all  her  race  ; 
!      For  the  same  blow  which  laid  her  mother  here 
'  Had  scarrd  her  brow,  and  left  its  crimson  trace 
As  the  last  link  with  all  she  had  held  dear; 
bit  else  unhurt,  she  open  d  her  large  eyes, 
And  gazed  on  Juan  with  a  wild  suqjrise. 

XCVI. 
Just  at  this  instant,  while  their  eyes  were  fix'd 

Upon  each  other,  with  dilated  glance, 
In  Juan's  look,  pain,  pleasure,  hope,  fear,  mix'd 

With  joy  to  save,  and  dread  of  some  mischance 
Unto  his  prntege  ;  while  hers,  transfix'd 

With  infant'terrors,  glared  as  from  a  trance, 
A  pure,  transparent,  pale,  yet  radiant  face, 
Like  to  a  lighted  alabaster  vase  j  — 

XCVII. 

Up  came  John  Johnson  (I  will  not  say  "Jack," 
for  that  were  vulgar,  cold,  and  common-place 

On  great  occasions,  such  as  an  attack 
On  cities,  as  hath  been  the  present  case) : 

Up  Johnson  came,  with  hundreds  at  his  back, 
Exclaiming — "Juan!  Juau  !  On,  boy  !  brace 

Your  arm,  and  I  'II  bet  Moscow  to  a  dollar. 

That  you  and  I  will  win  St.  George's  collar.* 

xcvni. 

"  The  Seraskier  is  knock "d  upon  the  head. 

But  the  stone  bastion  still  remains,  wherein 
The  old  Pacha  sits  amsng  some  hundreds  dead, 

Smoking  his  pipe  quite  calmly  'midst  the  din 
Of  our  artillery  and  his  own  :  't  is  said 

Our  kill'd,  already  piled  up  to  the  chin, 
Lie  round  the  batterj' ;  but  sii'l  it  batters. 
And  grape  in  volleys,  like  a  vineyard,  scatters. 

XCIX. 
"  Then  up  with  me  !  "  —  But  Juan  answer'd,  "  Look 

Upon  this  child  —  I  saved  her  —  must  not  leave 
Her  life  to  chance ;  but  point  me  out  some  nook 

Of  safety,  where  she  less  may  shrink  and  grieve, 
And  I  am  with  you.'' — Whereon  Johnson  took 

A  glance  around  — and  shrugg'd  —and  twitch'd  hb 
sleeve 
And  black  silk  neckcloth-and  replied,  "You  're  right; 
Poor  thing !  what 's  to  be  done  ?  1  'm  puzzled  quite." 

C. 
Said  Juan  —  "  Whatsoever  is  to  be 

Pone,  I  11  not  quit  her  till  she  seems  secure 
Of  present  life  a  good  deal  more  than  we.  '  — 

Quuth  Johnson  —  "  Neither  will  1  quite  ensure ; 
But  at  the  least  you  may  die  gloriously." 

Juan  replied  —  "  At  least  1  will  endure 
Whate'er  is  to  be  borne  —  but  not  resign 
This  child,  who  is  pare  itless,  and  therefore  mine." 


\  KustiMi  tnilit.-iT7  oriler 


CI. 

Johnson  said  —  "  Juan,  we  've  no  time  to  lose  ; 

The  ehild's  a  pretty  child  —  a  very  pretty  — 
I  never  saw  such  eyes  —  but  hark  I  now  ch'o,  se 

Between  your  fame  and  feelings,  pride  and  pity  ;- 
Hark  !  how  the  roar  increases  1  —  no  excuse 

Will  serve  when  there  is  plunder  in  a  city;  - 
I  should  be  loath  to  march  without  you,  but, 
By  God !  we  '11  be  too  late  for  the  fii-st  cut." 

CIL 
But  Juan  was  immoveable ;  until 


Such  as  he  thought  the  least  given  up  to  prey ; 
And  swearing  if  the  infant  came  to  ill 

That  they  should  all  be  shot  on  the  nesrt  day ; 
But  if  she  were  deliverd  safe  and  sound, 
They  should  at  least  have  fifty  rubles  round, 

cm. 

And  all  allowances  besides  of  plunder 
In  fair  proportion  with  their  comrades ;  —  then 

Juan  consented  to  march  on  throush  'hunder. 
Which  thinn'd  at  every  step  their  ranks  of  men  : 

Ajid  yet  the  rest  rushd  eagerly  —  no  wonder, 
For  they  were  heated  by  the  hope  of  gain, 

A  thing  which  happens  everywhere  each  day  — 

No  hero  trusteth  wholly  to  half-pay. 

CIV. 

And  such  is  victor}',  and  such  is  man  ! 

At  least  nine  teutlis  of  what  we  call  so ;  —  God 
May  have  another  name  for  half  we  scan 

As  human  beings,  or  his  ways  are  odd. 
But  to  our  subject :  a  brave  Tartar  khan  - 

Or  "  sultan,"  as  the  author  (to  whose  nod 
In  prose  I  bend  my  humble  verse)  doth  call 
This  chieftain  —  somehow  would  not  yield  at  all  : 

CV. 

But  flank'd  by_^ue  brave  sons,  (such  is  polygamy. 
That  she  spawns  warriors  by  the  score,  where  none 

Are  prosecuted  for  that  false^crime  bigamy), 
He  never  would  believe  the  city  won 

While  courage  clung  but  to  a  single  twig.— Am  I 
Describing  I'riam's,  Feleus',  or  Jove's  son  ? 

Neither  —  but  a  good,  plain,  old,  teniperate  man, 

Who  fought  with  his  five  children  in  the  van. 

CVI. 
To  tahi  him  was  the  point.    The  truly  brave. 

When  Ihey  benold  the  brave  oppressd  with  odds. 
Are  touch'd  with  a  desire  to  shield  and  save;  — 

A  mixture  of  wild  beasts  and  demi-gods 
Are  they  —  now  furious  as  the  sweeping  wave, 

Now  moved  with  pity :  even  as  sometimes  nods 
The  rugged  tree  unto  the  summer  wind. 
Compassion  b:ealhes  along  the  savage  mind. 

CVil. 
But  he  would  not  be  taken,  and  replied 

To  all  the  projiositions  of  surrender 
By  mowing  Christians  down  on  every  side. 

As  obstinate  as  Swellish  Charles  at  Bender.* 
His  five  brave  boys  no  less  the  foe  defied  ; 

Whereon  the  Russian  pathos  grew  less  tender. 
As  being  a  virtue,  like  terrestrial  patience. 
Apt  to  wear  out  on  trifling  provocations. 


2  "At  Brnder. after  the  fat,;!  battle  of  Pultawa,  Cbcrlea 
gave  a  pruof  of  that  unreutmD.ible  <'t>slii)acy,  which  occa- 
oiied  all  hi8  mUforlunei!  in  Turkey.  When  advised  to 
rile  to  the  grand  vizier,  according  to  the  custom  of  the 
TuikH,  he  said  it  was  beneath  his  dignity.  The  same 
obstinacy  placed  him  nece^ea^ily  at  variance  with  all  the 
ministers  of  the  Porte."— VOLTAIRE.— E. 


554 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  Vlll. 


cvur. 

And  spite  of  Johnson  and  o(  Juan,  who 
Expended  all  their  Eas'ern  phraseology 

In  bejfini  him,  for€oJ's  salie,  just  to  show 
So  much  less  fijht  as  might  form  an  apology 

For  tfieni  in  siving  such  a  desperate  foe  — 
He  hew'd  avvay,  like  doctors  of  theolog)' 

When  they  dispute  with  sceptics ;  and  with  curses 

Struck  at  his  friends,  as  babies  beat  their  nurses. 

CIX. 

Nay,  he  had  wounded,  though  but  slightly,  both 
Juan  and  Johnson  ;  wliereupon  they  fell, 

The  first  w  ith  sighs,  the  second  with  an  oath, 
Upon  his  angry  sultanship,  pell-mell. 

And  all  around  were  grown  exceeding  wroth 
At  such  a  pertinacious  infidel, 

And  pour'd  upon  him  and  his  sons  like  rain, 

Which  they  resisted  like  a  sandy  plain 

ex. 

That  drinks  and  still  is  dry.     At  last  they  perish "d  — 

His  second  son  was  level)  d  by  a  shot ; 
His  third  was  sabred  ;  and  the  fourth,  most  cherish'd 

Of  all  the  five,  on  bayonets  met  his  lot ; 
The  fifth,  who,  by  a  Christian  mother  nourish'd, 

Had  been  neglected,  ill-used,  and  what  not. 
Because  deform "d,  yet  died  all  Ranie  and  bottom, 
To  save  a  sire  who  blush'd  that  he  begot  him. 

CXI. 

The  eldest  was  a  true  and  tameless  Tartar, 

As  great  a  scorner  of  the  Nazarene 
As  ever  Mahomet  pick'd  out  for  a  martyr. 

Who  only  saw  the  black-eyed  girls  in  green. 
Who  make  the  beds  of  those  who  won't  take  quarter 

On  earth,  in  Paradise;  and  when  once  seen, 
Those  houris,  like  all  other  pretty  creatures. 
Do  just  whate'er  they  please,  by  dint  of  features. 

CXI  I, 

And  what  they  pleased  to  do  with  the  young  khan 
In  heaven  1  know  not,  nor  pretend  to  guess  j 

But  doubtless  they  prefer  a  fine  young  man 
To  tough  old  heroes,  and  can  do  no  less; 

And  that  "s  the  cause  no  doubt  why,  if  we  scan 
A  field  of  battle  s  ghastly  wilderness, 

For  one  rough,  weather-beaten,  veteran  lx)dy. 

You  'U  find  ten  thousand  handsome  coxcombs  bloody. 


CXIII. 

Your  houris  also  have  a  natural  pleasur 
In  lopping  off  your  lately  married  m 

Before  the  bridal  hours  have  danced  tb 
And  the  sad,  second  moon  grows  dim  again, 

Or  dull  repentance  hath  had  dreary  leisure 
To  wish  him  back  a  bachelor  now  and  then 

And  thus  your  houri  (it  may  be)  disputes 

Of  these  b'rief  blossoms  the  immediate  fruits. 


CXIV. 

Thus  the  young  khan,  with  houris  in  his  sight. 
Thought  not  upon  the  charms  of  four  young  brides, 

But  bravely  rush'd  on  his  first  heavenly  night 
In  short,  howe'er  our  better  faith  derides. 

These  black-eyed  virgins  make  the  Moslems  fight, 
As  though  there  were  one  heav  n  and  none  besides— 

Whereas,"if  all  be  true  we  hear  of  heaven 

And  hell,  there  must  at  leait  be  six  or  seven. 

cxv. 

So  fully  flash'd  the  phantom  on  his  eves, 
That  when  the  very  lance  was  in  his  heart, 

He  shouted  "  Allah  !  "  and  saw  Paradise 
With  all  its  veil  of  mystery  drawn  apart, 

And  bright  eternity  without  disguise 
On  his  soul,  like'a  ceaseless  sunrise,  dart :  — 

With  prophets,  hotiris,  angels,  saints,  descried 

In  one  voluptuous  blaze, —  and  then  he  died  : 


I  CXVI, 

But  with  a  heavenly  rapture  on  his  face, 

The  good  old  khan,  who  long  had  ceased  to  see 
Houris,  or  aught  except  his  florid  race 

Who  grew  like  cedars  round  him  gloriously  — 
When  he  beheli  his  latest  hero  grace 

The  earth,  which  he  became  like  a  fell'd  tree, 
Paused  for  a  moment  from  the  fight,  and  cast 
A  glance  on  that  slain  son,  his  first  and  last. 

CXVII. 

The  soldiers,  who  beheld  him  drop  his  point, 
Stopp  d  as  if  once  more  willing  to  concede 

Quarter,  in  case  he  bade  them  not  "aroynt ! " 
As  he  before  had  done.     He  did  not  heed 

Their  pause  nor  signs  :  his  heart  was  out  of  joint, 
And  shook  (till  now  unshaken)  like  a  reed. 

As  he  look'd  down  upon  his  children  gone, 

And  felt—  though  done  with  life  —  he  was  alone. 


But 


CXVIII. 

was  a  transient  tremor :  —  with  a  spring 


Upon  the  Russian  steel  his  breast  he  flung, 
As  carelessly  as  hurls  the  moth  her  wing 

Against  the  light  wherein  she  dies  :  he  clung 
Closer,  that  all  the  deailier  they  might  wring, 

Unto  the  bayonets  which  had  pierced  his  young; 
And  throwing'back  a  dim  look  on  his  sons, 
In  one  wide  wound  pour"d  forth  his  soul  at  once. 

CXIX. 

'T  is  strange  enough— the  rough,  tough  soldiers,  who 
Spared  neither  sex  nor  age  in  their  career 

Of  carnage,  when  this  old  man  was  pierced  through, 
And  lay  before  them  with  his  children  near, 

Tourh'd  by  the  heroism  of  him  they  slew, 
Were  melted  for  a  moment ;  though  no  tear 

Flow'd  from  their  bloodshot  eyes,  all  red  with  strife, 

They  honour'd  such  determined  scorn  of  life. 

CXX. 

But  the  stone  bastion  still  kept  up  its  fire, 
Where  the  chief  pacha  calmly  held  his  post : 

Some  twenty  times  he  made  the  Russ  retire. 
And  bartled  the  assaults  of  all  their  host ; 

At  length  he  condescended  to  inquire. 
If  5-et  the  cit\-"s  rest  were  won  or  lost  ; 

And  being  told  the  latter,  sent  a  bey 

To  answer  Ribas'  summons  to  give  way. 

CXXI. 

In  the  mean-time,  cross-legg'd,  with  great  sang-froid, 
Amon;  the  scorching  ruins  he  sat  smoking 

Tobacco  on  a  little  carpet ;  —  Troy 
Saw  nothing  like  the  scene  around  ;  —  yet  looking 

With  martial  stoicism,  nought  seeni'd  to  annoy 
His  stern  philosophy  ;  but  gently  stroking 

His  beard,  he  puft'd  his  pipe's  ambrosial  gales, 

As  if  he  had  three  lives,  as  well  as  tails. 

CXXII. 

The  town  was  taken  —  whether  he  might  yield 
Himself  or  bastion,  little  matter'd  now  :' 

His  stubborn  valour  was  no  future  shield. 

Ismail 's  no  more  !     The  crescent's  silver  bow 

Sunk,  and  the  crimson  cross  glared  o'er  the  field. 
But  red  with  no  redcfmiji?  gore:  the  glow 

Of  burning  streets,  like  moonlight  on  the  water, 

Was  imaged  back  in  blood,  the'sea  of  slaughter. 

CXXIII. 

All  that  the  mind  would  shrink  from  of  excesses; 

All  that  the  body  perpetrates  of  bad  ; 
All  that  we  read,  hear,  dream,  of  man's  distresses  ; 

All  that  the  devil  would  do  if  run  stark  mad  ; 
All  that  defies  the  worst  which  pen  expresses ; 

All  by  which  hell  is  peopled,  or  as  sad 
As  hell  —  mere  mortals  who  their  power  abuse  — 
Was  here  (as  heretofore  and  since)  let  loote. 


Canto  VI I  I.J 


DON  JUAN. 


555 


CXXIV. 
I(  here  and  there  some  transient  trait  of  pity 

Was  shown,  and  some  more  noble  heart  broke 
through 
Its  bloody  bond,  and  saved,  perhaps,  some  pretty 

Child,  or  an  ajed  helpless  man  or  two  — 
What 's  this  in  one  annihilated  city, 

Where  thousand  loves,  and  ties,  and  duties  grew? 
Cockneys  of  London!  Muscabinsof  Paris  I 
Just  poiider  what  a  pious  pastime  war  is. 

cxxv. 

Think  how  the  joys  of  reading  a  Gazette 
Are  purchased  by  all  agonies  and  crimes : 

Or  if  these  do  not  move  you,  don  t  forget 
Such  doom  may  be  your  own  in  after-times. 

Meantime  the  I  axes,  Castlereash,  and  Debt, 
Are  hints  as  gTod  as  sermons,  or  as  rhjines. 

Read  your  own  hearts  and  Ireland's  present  story, 

Then  feed  her  famine  fat  with  VVellesley  s  glor)-. 

CXXVI. 

But  still  there  is  unto  a  patriot  nation, 

Which  loves  so  well  its  country  and  its  king, 
A  subject  of  suLlimest  exultation' — 

Bear  it,  ye  Muses,  on  your  brightest  wing ! 
Howe"er  the  mighty  locust.  Desolation, 

Strip  your  green 'fields,  and  to  your  harvests  cling, 
Gaunt  famine  never  shall  approach  the  throne  — 
Though  Ireland  star\'e,  great  George  weighs  twenty 
stone. 

CXXVII. 
But  let  me  put  an  end  unto  my  theme : 

There  was  an  end  of  Ismail'—  hapless  town  ! 
Far  flash "d  her  burning  towers  o'er  Danube's  stream, 

And  redly  ran  his  blushing  waters  down. 
The  horrid  war-whoop  and  the  shriller  scream 

Rose  still ;  but  fainter  were  the  thunders  grown: 
Of  forty  thousand  who  had  mann'd  the  wall. 
Some  hundreds  breathed  —  the  rest  were  silent  all. 

cxxvm. 

In  one  thtns  ne'ertheless  t  is  fit  to  praise 
The  Russian  army  upon  this  occasion, 

A  virtue  much  in  fashion  now-a-days. 
And  therefore  worthy  of  commemoration : 

The  topic  's  tender,  so  shall  be  my  phrase  — 
Perhaps  the  season's  chill,  and  their  long  station 

In  winter's  depth,  or  want  of  rest  and  victual. 

Had  made  them  chaste ;  —  they  ravish'd  very  little. 

CXXIX. 

Much  did  they  slay,  more  plunder,  and  no  less 
Might  here"  and  there  occur  some  violation 

In  the  other  line ;  —  l,ut  not  to  such  excess 
As  when  the  French,  that  dissipated  nation, 

Take  towns  by  storm  ;  no  causes  can  I  guess. 
Except  cold  weather  and  commiseration  j 

But  all  the  ladies,  save  some  twenty  score, 

Were  almost  as  much  virgins  as  before. 

CXXX. 

Some  odd  mistakes,  too.  happen'd  in  the  dark, 
Which  show'd  a  want  of  lanterns,  or  of  taste  — 

Indeed  the  smoke  was  such  they  scarce  could  mark 
Their  friends  from  foes, —  besides  such  things  from 
haste 

Occur,  though  rarely,  when  there  is  a  spark 
Of  light  to  save  the  venerably  chaste  : 

But  six  old  damsels,  each  of  seventv  years, 

Were  all  deflower'd  by  dili'erent  grenadiers. 

CXXXI. 

But  on  the  whole  their  continence  was  great ; 

So  that  some  disappointment  there  ensued 
To  those  who  had  felt  the  inconvenient  state 

Of  "single  blessedness,"  and  thought  it  good 
(Since  it  was  not  their  fault,  but  only  fate, 

To  bear  these  crosses)  for  each  waning  prude 
To  make  a  Roman  sort  of  Sabine  wedding. 
Without  the  expense  and  the  suspense  of  bedding. 


CXXXII. 

Some  voices  of  the  buxom  middle-aged 

Were  also  heard  to  wonder  in  the' din 
(Widows  of  forty  were  these  birds  long  caged) 

"  Wherefore  the  ravishiiis  did  not  begin ! ' 
But  while  the  thirst  for  gore  and  plunde'r  raged 

There  was  small  leisure  for  superfluous  sin  } 
But  whether  they  escaped  or  no,  lies  hid 
In  darkness  —  1  can  only  hope  they  did. 

CXXXIII. 
Suwarrow  now  was  conqueror  —  a  match 

For  Timour  or  for  Ziiighis  in  his  trade. 
While   mosques  and  streets,  beneath  his  ejf?.  like 
thatch 

Blazed,  and  the  cannon's  mar  was  scarce  allay'd, 
With  bloody  hands  he  wrote  his  first  despatch  j 

And  here  exactly  follows  what  he  said  :  — 
"  Glory  to  God  and  to  the  Empress ! "  (Powers 
Eternal !  such  na)nes  mingled!)  "Ismail 's  ours."* 

CXXXIV. 
Methinks  these  are  the  most  tremendous  words, 

Since  "  Mene,  Mene,  Tekel,"  aud  "  Upharsiu," 
Which  hands  or  pens  have  ever  traced  of  swordi. 

Heavpn  help  me!  I  'm  but  little  of  a  parson  : 
What  Daniel  read  was  short-hand  of  the  Lord's, 

Severe,  sublime ;  the  prophet  wrote  no  farce  oa 
The  fate  of  nations ;  —  but  this  Russ  so  witty 
Could  rhyme,  like  Nero,  o'er  a  burning  city. 

cxxxv. 

He  wrote  this  Polar  melodyj  and  set  it. 
Duly  accompanied  by  shrieks  aud  groans, 

Which  few  will  sing,  i  trust;  but  none  forget  it 
For  1  will  teach,  it  possible,  the  stones 

To  rise  against  earth's  tyran's.     >>ever  let  it 
Be  said  iliat  we  still  truckle  unto  thrones ;  — 

But  ye  —  our  children's  children !  think  how  we 

Show'd  what  things  were  before  the  world  was  free ! 

cxxxvi. 

That  hour  is  not  for  us,  but 't  is  for  you : 
And  as,  in  the  great  joy  of  your  millennium, 

You  hardly  will  believe  such  things  were  true 
As  now  occur,  1  thought  that  I  would  pen  you  'em; 

But  may  their  verj-  memory  perish  too  !  — 
Yet  if  perchance  remember'd,  still  disdain  you  'em 

More  than  you  scorn  the  savages  of  yore, 

Who  painted  their  bare  liml  s,  but  not  with  gore. 

cxxxvii. 

And  when  you  hear  historians  talk  of  thrones, 

And  those  that  sate  upon  them,  let  it  be 
As  we  now  gaze  upon  the  manmioths  bones. 

And  wonder  wliat  old  world  such  things  could  see, 
Or  hieroglyphics  or  Egyptian  stones, 

Tne  pleasant  riddles  of  futurity  — 
Guessiucf  at  what  shall  happily  be  hid, 
As  the  real  purpose  of  a  pyramid. 

CXXXVIII. 
Reader  !  I  have  kept  my  word,—  at  least  so  far 

As  the  first  Canto  promised.     You  have  now 
Had  sketches  of  love,  tempest,  travel,  war, — 

All  very  accurate,  you  must  allow. 
And  epic,  if  plain  truth  should  prove  no  bar ; 

For  I  have  drawn  much  less  with  a  long  bow 
Than  my  forerunners.    Carelessly  I  sin?. 
But  Phoebus  let-ds  me  now  and  then  a  string, 

CXXXIX. 
With  which  I  still  can  harp,  and  carp,  and  fiddle. 

What  farther  hath  befallen  or  may  befall 
The  hero  of  this  srand  poetic  riddle, 

I  by  and  by  may  tell  vou,  if  at  all  : 
But  now  I  choose  to  break  otF  in  the  middle. 

Worn  out  with  batterinj  Ismail's  stubljorn  wall, 
While  Juan  is  sent  off  with  the  despatch, 
For  which  all  PetersburgL  is  on  the  watch. 


1  In  the  originil  Russian  — 

"  Slava  boaa '  slava  vam  I 
Krepost  Vzala  y  is  'sm' 
K  kind  of  couplet;  for  he  was  a  poet. 


556 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  IX.  i' 


CXL. 
This  special  honour  was  conferred,  because 

He  had  behaved  with  courage  and  humanity  — 
Which  last  men  like,  when  they  have  time  to  pause 

From  their  ferocities  produced  by  vanity. 
His  little  captive  gain'd  him  some  applause 

For  saving  her  amidst  the  wild  insanity 
Of  carnage,—  and  I  think  he  was  more  glad  m  her 
Safety,  than  his  new  order  of  St.  Vladimir. 

CXLI. 
The  Moslem  orphan  went  with  her  protector, 

For  she  was  homeless,  houseless,  helpless  j  all 
Her  friends,  like  the  sad  family  of  Hector, 

Had  perishd  in  the  field  or  by  the  wall : 
Her  very  place  of  birth  was  but  a  spectre 

Of  whit  it  had  been;  there  the  Muezzin's  call 
To  prayer  was  heard  no  more  !  and  Juan  wept, 
Ana  n    ■ 


1  made  a  vo 


I  shield  her,  which  he  kept. 


CANTO  THE   NINTH. » 
I. 

Oh,  Wellington  !  (or  "  Villainton  "  —  for  Fame 

Sounds  the  heroic  syllables  both  ways ; 
France  could  not  even  conquer  your  great  name, 

But  punn'd  it  down  to  this  facetious  phrase  — 
Beating  or  beaten  she  will  laugh  the  same,) 

You  nave  obtain'd  great  pensions  and  much  praise: 
Glory  like  yours  should  any  dare  gainsay, 
Humanity  would  rise,  and  thunder  "  Nay  !'■!> 

II. 
I  don't  think  that  you  used  Kinnaird  quite  well 

In  Marinefs  afiair  3  _  in  fact,  't  was  shabby, 
And  like  some  other  things  won't  do  to  tell 

Upon  your  tomb  in  U  estminster'sold  abbey. 
Upon  the  rest 't  is  not  worth  while  to  dwell, 

Such  tales  being  for  the  tea-hours  of  s^me  tabby  j 
But  though  your  years  as  man  ten  J  fast  to  zero, 

In  fact  your  grace  is  still  but  a  young  hero. 
III. 
Though  Britain  owes  (and  piys  you  too)  so  much, 

Yet  Eurojie  doubtless  owes  you  greatly  more  : 
You  have  repair'd  1  egitimicy's  cru  ch, 

A  prop  not  quite  so  certain  as  before: 
The  Spanish,  and  the  French,  as  well  as  Dutch, 

Have  seen,  and  felt,  how  stronjly  you  re-Uon  ; 
And  Waterloo  has  made  the  world  your  debtor 
(1  wish  your  bards  would  sing  it  rather  better). 

IV. 
You  are  "  the  best  of  cut-throats :  "  —  do  not  start ; 

The  phrase  is  >hakspeare  s,  and  not  misapplied  :  — 
War  s  a  braiu-spattering,  windpipe-slitting  art, 

Unless  her  cause  by  right  be  sanctified. 
If  you  have  acted  cnicc  a" generous  part. 

The  world,  not  the  world  s  masters,  will  decide. 
And  1  shall  be  delighted  to  learn  who, 
Save  you  and  yours,  have  gain'd  by  Waterloo  ? 


1  Cantos  IX.,  X.,  and  XI.  were  written  at  Pisa,  and 
published  in  London,  in  August,  !&23.— E. 

2  Uucry,  Kexj?  —  Printer's  Devil. 

3  Tlie  late  L>'rd  Kinnaird  was  received  in  Paris,  in 
1814,  with  ereat  livilny  t);-  ilie  Duke  rf  Weilingto'  and 
the  ruyaJ  family  of  France,  but  he  had  himself  presented 
to  Buonaparte  durini^  the  hundred  days,  and  intrigued  on 
with  those  of  that  faction,  in  sp.Ie  of  the  Duke's  remon- 
Btrances.  until  the  re-restored  Kovernmenl  ordered  him 
oat  of  the  French  territory,  in  iei6.  In  1617,  he  became 
acquainted  at  Rrussels.  with  one  A/arinef,  an  adventurer 
mixed  up  in  acoUKpiracy  to  assassin  le  the  Duke  in  the 
streets  at  Paiis.  This  fellow  at  first  promised  to  discover 
the  man  who  actually  shot  at  his  Grace,  but,  on  leaching 
Paris,  shuffied  and  would  say  nitliing;  and  I»rd  Kin- 
oaird's  acowed  cause  of  complaint  aeaiiisl  the  Duke,  was, 
that  he  did  not  protect  this  creature  from  ihe  Frenrh 
police,  who,  u»t  doubting  that  he  had  been  one  of  the 
conspirators  against  hi»  Urace's  life,  arrested  him  accord- 
ingly, lie  was  tried  along  with  the  actual  assassin,  and 
both  weie  accjuilled  by  the  Parisian  jury.—  E. 


V. 
I  am  no  flatterer  —  you  've  supp'd  full  of  flattery: 

They  say  you  like  it  too  —  't  is  no  great  wonder. 
He  whose  whole  life  has  been  assault  and  battery. 

At  last  may  get  a  little  tirel  of  thunder; 
And  swallowing  eulogy  much  more  than  satire,  he 

May  like  being  praised  for  every  lucky  blunder, 
Call'd  '-Saviour  of  the  Nations "  —  not  yet  saved. 
And  "  Europe's  Liberator  "  —still  enslaved.* 

VI. 
I  've  done.    Now  go  and  dine  from  off  the  plate 

Presented  by  the  Prince  of  the  Brazils, 
And  send  the  sentinel  before  your  gate 

A  slice  or  two  from  your  luxurious  meals : 
He  fought,  but  has  not  fed  so  well  of  late. 

Some  hunger,  too,  they  say  the  people  feels  :  — 
There  is  no  doubt  that  you  deserve  your  ration, 
But  pray  give  back  a  little  to  the  nation. 

VII. 
I  don't  mean  to  reflect  —  a  man  so  great  as 

You,  my  lord  duke !  is  far  above  reflection  . 
The  high  Roman  fashion,  too,  of  Cincinnatus, 

VVith  molern  history  has  but  small  connection 
Though  as  an  Irishmaii  you  love  potatoes. 

You  need  not  take  them  under  your  direction  ; 
And  half  a  million  for  your  Sabine  farm 
Is  rather  dear  !  —  I  "m  sure  I  mean  no  harm. 

VIII. 
Great  men  have  always  scorn'd  great  recompenses  : 

Epaminondas  saved  his  Thebes,  and  died. 
Not  leaving  even  his  funeral  expenses  : 

George  Washington  had  thanks,  and  nought  beside, 
Except  the  all-cloudless  dory  (which  few  men's  is) 

To  free  his  country :  Pitt  too  had  his  pride, 
And  as  a  high-soul'd  minister  of  state  is 
Renown'd  for  ruining  Great  Britain  gratis. 

IX. 
Never  had  mortal  man  such  opportunity, 

Except  Napoleon,  or  abused  it  more  : 
You  might  have  freel  fallen  Europe  from  the  unity 

Of  tyrants,  and  been  blest  from  shore  to  shore: 
And  new  —  what  is  your  fame  ?  Shall  the  Muse  ttine 
it  ye? 

Now  —  that  the  rabble's  first  vain  shouts  are  o'er  ? 
Go  !  hear  it  in  your  faniish'd  country  s  cries  ! 
Behold  the  world  !  and  curse  your  victoiies  ! 


As  these  new  cantos  touch  on  warlike  feats. 

To  yoit  the  unflattering  Muse  deigns  to  inscribe 
Truths,  that  you  will  not  read  in  the  Gazettes, 

Put  which  't  is  time  to  teach  the  hireling  tribe 
Who  fatten  on  their  country's  gore,  and  debts, 

Must  be  recited  —  ai:d  without  a  bribe. 
You  did  great  things  ;  but  not  being  p'cat  in  mind, 
Have  left  undone  the  p-catest  —  and  mankind. 

XI. 
Dea'h  laughs  —  Go  ponder  o'er  the  skeleton 

With  which  men  imaje  out  the  unknown  thing 
That  hides  the  past  world,  like  to  a  set  sun 

W  hich  s'  il  I  elsewhere  may  rouse  a  brishter  spring- 
Death  laughs  at  all  vou  weep  for:  —  look  upon 

'I  his  hourly  dread  of  all !  whose  threaten'd  sting 
Turns  life  to  terror,  even  though  in  its  sheath  : 
Mark  I  how  its  lipless  mouth  grins  without  breath  ! 

XII. 

Mark !  how  it  laughs  and  scorns  at  all  you  are ! 

And  yet  was  what  you  are:  from  ear  to  ear 
It  laughs  ntt  —  there  is  now  no  fleshy  bar 

So  call'd  ;  the  Antic  long  hath  ceased  to  hear. 
But  still  he  smiles  ;  and  whether  near  or  far 

lie  strips  from  man  that  mantle  (far  more  dear 
Than  even  the  tailor's),  his  incarnate  skin. 
White,  black,  or  copper—  the  dead  bones  will  grin. 


J 


Canto  IX.] 


DON  JUAN. 


557 


And  thus  Death  laughs,—  it  is  sad  merriment, 
B'lt  still  it  ii  so  ;  and  with  such  example 

Why  should  not  Life  be  equally  content 
With  his  superior,  in  a  smile' to  trample 

Upon  the  nothings  which  are  daily  spent 
Like  bubbles  on  an  ocean  much  less  ample 

Than  the  eternal  deluge,  w  hich  devours 

Suns  as  rays  —  worlds  like  atoms  —  years  like  hours  ? 

XIV. 
"  To  be,  or  not  to  be  ?  that  is  the  question," 

Says  Shakspeare,  v\ho  just  now  is  much  in  fashion. 
I  am  neither  Alexander  nor  Hephaestion, 

Nor  ever  had  for  abstract  fame  much  passion  j 
But  would  much  rather  have  a  sound  digestion, 

Than  Buonaparte's  cancer :  —  could  I  dash  on 
Through  fifty  victories  to  slu-ime  or  fame, 
Without  a.  stomach  —  what  were  a  good  name? 

XV. 

"Oh  dura  ilia  messorum!"  —  "Oh 
Ye  rigid  guts  of  reapers  ! "    I  translate 

For  the  great  benefit  of  those  who  know 
What  indigestion  is  —  that  inward  fate 

Which  makes  all  Styx  through  one  small  liver  flow. 
A  peasant's  sweat  is  worth  his  lord's  estate : 

Let  this  one  toil  for  bread  —  that  rack  for  rent, 

He  who  sleeps  Lest  may  be  the  most  content. 

XVI, 

"  To  be,  or  not  to  be  ?  " — Ere  I  decide, 

I  should  be  glad  to  know  that  which  is  being? 

'T  is  true  we  speculate  both  far  and  wide. 

And  deem,  because  we  see,  we  are  all-seeing: 

For  my  part,  I  '11  enlist  on  neither  side, 
Until  I  see  both  sides  for  once  agreeing. 

For  me,  I  sometimes  think  that  life  is  death, 

Rather  than  life  a  mere  alfair  of  breath. 

XVII. 

"  Que  scais-je?"  was  the  motto  of  Montaigne, 

As  also  of  the  first  academicians  ; 
That  all  is  dubious  which  man  may  attain. 

Was  one  of  their  most  favourite  positions. 
There  's  no  such  thing  as  certainty,  that 's  plain 

As  any  of  Mortality's  conditions  ; 
So  little  do  we  know  what  we  're  about  in 
This  world,  I  doubt  if  doubt  itself  be  doubting. 

XVIII. 
It  is  a  pleasant  voyage  perhaps  to  float, 

Like  Pyrrho,  on  a  sea  of  speculation  ; 
But  what  if  carrying  sail  capsize  the  boat  ? 

Your  wise  men  don't  know  much  of  navigation  j 
And  swimming  long  in  the  abyss  of  thought 

Is  apt  to  tire  :  a  calm  and  shallow  station 
Well  nigh  the  shore,  where  one  stoops  down  and 

gathers 
Some  pretty  shell,  is  best  for  moderate  bathers. 

XIX. 

"  But  heaven,"  as  Cassio  says,  "  is  above  all  >  — 
No  more  of  this,  then,  let  us  pray  I "     We  have 

Souls  to  save,  since  Eve"s  s  ip  and  Adam's  fall, 
Which  tumbled  all  mankind  into  the  grave, 

Besides  fish,  beasts,  and  birds.     '•  I  he  sparrows  fall 
Is  special  providence,''  thoujh  how  it  gave 

Oflence,  we  know  not ;  probably  it  perch'd 

Upon  the  tree  which  Eve  so  fondly  search'd. 

XX. 

Oh  !  ye  immortal  Gods !  what  is  theogony  ? 

Oh  :  thou,  too  mor:al  man  !  what  is  philanthropy  ? 
Oh !  world,  which  was  and  is,  «hat  is  cosmogony  ? 

Some  people  have  accused  me  of  misanthropy'; 
And  yet  i  know  no  more  than  the  mahogany 

That  forms  this  desk,  of  what  they  mean;  lykan- 
I  comprehend,  for  without  transformation  [t'hrojjy 
Men  become  wolves  on  any  slight  occasion. 


XXI. 

But  I,  the  mildest,  meekest  of  mankind, 

Like  Moses,  or  Melancthon,  who  have  ne'er 
Done  anv  thing  exceedingly  unkind,— 

And  ilhoush  1  could  not  now  and  then  forbear 
Following  the  bent  of  body  or  of  mind, 

Have  always  had  a  tendency  to  spare,— 
Why  do  they  call  me  misanthrope  ?     Because 
They  hate  me,  not  I  them  :  —  and  here  we  '11  pause. 

XXIL 
'T  is  time  we  should  proceed  with  our  good  poem, — 

For  1  maintain  that  it  is  really  good, 
Not  only  in  the  body  but  the  proem, 

However  little  both  are  understood 
Just  now,—  but  by  and  by  the  Truth  will  show  'em 

Herself  in  her  sublimest  attitude  : 
And  till  she  doth,  I  fain  must  be  content 
To  share  her  beauty  and  lier  banishment. 

XXIII. 
Our  hero  (and,  I  trust,  kind  reader !  yours  — ) 

Was  left  upon  his  way  to  the  chief  city 
Of  the  immortal  Peter's  polish'd  boors. 

Who  still  have  shown  themselves  more  brave  than 
I  know  its  mi'hty  empire  now  allures  [witty. 

Much  flattery  —  even  Voltaire's,  and  that 's  a  pity. 
For  me,  I  deem  an  absolute  autocrat 
Not  a  barbarian,  but  much  worse  than  that. 

XXIV. 
And  I  will  war,  at  least  in  words  (and  —  should 

My  chance  so  happen  —  deeds)  with  all  who  war 
With  Thought ;  —  and  of  'I  houghfs  foes  by  far  most 

Tyrants  and  sycophants  have  been  and  are.     [rude, 
I  know  not  who'  may  conquer  :  if  I  could 

Have  such  a  presc'ience,"it  should  be  no  bar 
To  this  my  plain,  sworn,  downright  detestation 
Of  every  despotism  in  every  nation. 

XXV. 
It  is  not  that  I  adulate  the  people  : 

Without  me,  there  are  demagogues  enough, 
And  infidels,  to  pull  down  every  steeple, 

And  set  up  in  their  stead  some  proper  stuff. 
Whether  they  may  sow  scepticism  to  reap  hell. 

As  is  the  Christian  dogma  rather  rough, 
I  do  not  know  ;  —  I  wish  men  to  be  free 
As  much  from  mobs  as  kings  —  from  you  as  me. 

XXVI. 
The  consequence  is,  being  of  no  party, 

I  shall  offend  all  parties :  —  never  mind  ! 
My  words,  at  least,  are  more  sincere  and  hearty 

Than  if  I  sought  to  sail  before  the  wind. 
He  who  has  nouerht  to  gain  can  have  small  art :  he 

Who  neither  wishes  to  be  bound  or  bind, 
May  still  expatiate  freely,  as  will  I, 
Nor  give  my  voice  to  slavery's  jackal  cry. 

XXVI  f. 

That 's  an  appropriate  simile,  that  jackal ;  — 

I  've  heard  them  in  the  Ephesian  ruins  howl « 
By  night,  as  do  that  mercenary  pack  all, 

Power's  base  purveyors,  who  for  pickings  prowl, 
And  scent  the  prey  their  masters  would  atta:.'k  all. 

However,  the  poor  jackals  are  less  foul 
(As  being  the  brave  lions"  keen  providers) 
Than  human  insects,  catering  for  spiders. 

.XXVIII. 
Raise  but  an  arm  ;  't  w  ill  brush  their  web  away. 

And  without  that,  their  poison  and  their  claws 
Are  useless.     Mind,  good  people  !  what  I  say  — 

(Or  rather  peoples)  —  go  on  without  pause  ! 
The  web  of  these  tarantulas  each  day 

Increases,  till  you  shall  make  common  cause: 
None,  save  the  Spanish  fly  and  Attic  bee, 
As  yet  are  strongly  stinging  to  be  free. 


1  See  Othello. 


I     2  In  Greece  I  never  Baw  or   beard  these  animals ;  but 
1  among  the  ruing  of  Ephesus  I  have  beard  ihem  by 


47* 


558 


DON   JUAN 


[Canto  IX. 


XXIX. 

Don  Juan,  who  had  shone  in  the  late  slaughter, 

Was  left  upon  liis  way  with  the  despatch, 
Where  blond  was  talk'd  of  as  we  would  of  water  j 

And  carcasses  that  lay  as  thick  as  thatch 
O'er  silenced  cities,  merely  served  to  flatter 

F*ir  Catherine's  pastime— who  look  d  on  the  match 
Between  these  nations  as  a  main  of  cocks, 
Wlijrein  she  liked  her  own  to  stand  like  rocks, 

XXX. 
And  there  in  a  hihitka  he  roU'd  on, 

(A  cursed  sort  of  carriage  without  springs, 
Which  on  roujh  roads  leaves  scarcely  a  whole  bone,) 

Pondering  on  glory,  chivalr)-,  and  kinsrs, 
And  orders,  and  on  all  that  he  had  done  — 

And  wishing  that  post-horses  had  the  wings 
Of  Fegasus,  or  at  the  least  post-chaises 
Had  feathers,  when  a  traveller  on  deep  ways  is. 

XXXI. 
At  every  jolt  —  and  they  were  many  —  still 

He  turn'd  his  eyes  upon  his  little  charge, 
As  if  he  wish'd  that  she  should  fare  less  ill 

Than  he,  in  these  sad  hijhways  left  at  large 
To  ruts,  and  flints,  and  lovely  Nature's  skill 

Who  is  no  paviour,  nor  admits  a  bar?e 
On  lier  canals,  where  God  takes  sea  and  lana, 
Fisher)-  and  farm,  both  into  liis  own  hand. 

XXXII. 
At  least  he  pays  no  rent,  and  has  best  right 

To  be  the  first  of  what  we  used  to  call 
"  Gentlemen  farmers  "  —  a  race  worn  out  quite, 

Since  lately  there  have  been  no  rents  at  all. 
And  "gentlemen  "  are  in  a  piteous  plight. 

And  "  farmers "'  can't  raise  Ceres  from  her  fall : 
She  fell  with  Buonaparte  —What  strange  thoughts 
Arise,  when  we  see  emiierors  fall  with  oats  I 

XXXIII. 
But  Juan  turn'd  his  eyes  on  the  sweet  child 

Whom  he  had  saved  from  slaughter— what  a  trophy! 
Oh  !  ye  who  build  up  monuments,  defiled 

With  gore,  like  Nadir  Shah,  that  costive  sophy, 
Who,  after  leaving  Hindostan  a  wild, 

And  scarce  to  the  Mogul  a  cup  of  cofl'ee 
To  soothe  his  woes  withal,  was  slain,  the  sinner! 
Because  he  could  no  more  digest  his  dinner  j  —  i 

XXXIV. 
Oh  ye  !  or  we  !  or  he !  or  she  !  reflect, 

'1  hat  07ie  life  saved,  especially  if  young 
Or  pretty,  is  a  thing  to  re'collect 

Far  sweeter  than  the  greenest  laurels  sprung 
From  the  manure  of  human  clay,  though  deck'd 

With  all  the  praises  ever  said  or  sung : 
Though  hymn'd  by  every  harp,  imless 'within 
Your  heart  joins  chorus, 'Fame  is  but  a  din. 

XXXV. 
Oh  :  ye  great  authors  luminous,  voluminons  ! 

Ye  twice  ten  hundred  thousand  daily  scribes ! 
Whose  pamphlets,  volumes,  newspapers,  illumine  us! 

Whether  you  -re  paid  by  government  in  bribes, 
To  prove  the  public  debt  is  "not  consuming  us  — 

Or,  roughly  treading  on  the  "courtier's  kibes" 
With  clownish  heel,  your  popular  circulation 
Feeds  you  by  printing  half  the  realm  s  starvation ;  — 

XXXVI. 
Oh,  ye  great  authors  !  —  "  Apropos  des  bottes,"  — 

I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant  to  say. 
As  sometimes  have  been  greater  sages'  lots ;  — 

'T  was  something  calculated  to  allay 
All  wra'-h  in  bari-acks,  palaces,  or  cots  : 

Ceres  it  would  have  been  but  thrown  away. 
And  that's  one  comfort  for  my  lost  advice. 
Although  no  doubt  it  was  beyond  all  price. 


XXXVII. 

But  let  it  go  :  —  it  will  one  day  be  found 
With  other  relics  of  "  a  former  world," 

When  this  world  shall  be  former,  underground, 
Thrown  topsy-turvy,  twisted,  crisp'd,  and  curl'd, 

Baked,  fried,  or  burnt,  turn  d  inside-out,  or  drown'd. 
Like  all  the  worlds  before,  which  have  been  hurl'd 

First  out  of,  and  then  back  again  to  chaos. 

The  superstratum  which  will  overlay  us.' 

XXXVIII. 

So  Cuvier  says :  —  and  then  shall  come  again 

Unto  the  new  creation,  rising  out 
From  our  old  crash,  some  mysiic,  ancient  struin 

Of  things  destroy'd  and  left  in  air)-  doubt 
Like  to  the  notions  we  now  entertain 

Of  Titans,  giants,  fellows  of  about 
Some  hundred  feet  in  height,  not  to  say  miles, 
And  mammoths,  and  your  winged  crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think  if  then  George  the  Fourth  should  be  dug  up  ! 

How  the  new  worldlings  of  the  then  new  East 
Will  wonder  where  such  animals  could  sup  ! 

(For  they  themselves  will  be  but  of  the  least: 
Even  worlds  miscarr)-,  when  too  oft  they  pup, 

And  every  new  creation  hath  decreased 
In  size,  from  overworking  the  material  — 
Men  are  but  maggots  of  some  huge  Earth's  burial.) 

XL. 

How  will  —  to  these  young  people,  just  thrust  0(it 
From  some  fresh  Paradise,  and  set  to  plough. 

And  dig,  and  sweat,  and  turn  themselves  about. 
And  plant,  and  reap,  and  spin,  and  grind,  and  sow, 

Till  all  the  arts  at  length  are  brought  about, 
Especially  of  war  and  taxing, —  how, 

I  say,  will  these  great  relics,  when  they  see  'em, 

Look  like  the  monsters  of  a  new  museum  ? 

XLI. 

But  I  am  apt  to  grow  too  metaphysical : 
"  The  time  is  out  of  joint,"  —  and  so  am  I ; 

I  quite  forget  this  poem  's  merely  quizzical. 
And  deviate  into  matters  rather  dr)-. 

I  ne'er  decide  what  I  shall  say,  and  this  I  call 
Much  too  poetical :  men  should  know  why 

They  write,  and  for  what  end  ;  but,  note  or  text, 

I  never  know  the  word  which  will  come  next. 

XLII. 
So  on  I  ramble,  now  and  then  narrating. 

Now  pondering:  —  it  is  time  we  should  narrate. 
I  left  Don  Juan  with  his  horses  baiting  — 

Now  we  'II  get  o'er  the  ground  at  a'great  rate. 
I  shall  not  be  particular  in  stating 

His  journey,  we  've  so  many  tours  of  late : 
Suppose  him' then  at  Petersburgh ;  suppose 
That  pleasant  capital  of  painted  snows; 

XLllL 
Suppose  him  in  a  handsome  uniform  ; 

A  scarlet  coatj  black  facings,  a  long  plume, 
Waving,  like  sails  new  shiver'd  in  a  storm, 

Over'a  cock'd  hat  in  a  crowded  room, 
And  brilliant  breeches,  bright  as  a  Cairn  Gorme,' 

Of  yellow  casimere  we  may  presume, 
White  stockings  drawn  uncurdled  as  new  milk 
O'er  limbs  whose  symmetry  set  off  the  silk  j 

XLIV. 

Suppose  him  sword  by  side,  and  hat  in  hand, 
Made  up  bv  youth,  fame,  and  an  army  tailor  — 

That  CTeat  enchanter,  at  whose  rod's  command 
Beauty  springs  forth,  and  Nature's  self  turns  paler, 


2  A  yellow-coloured  crystal,  denominated  from  a  hill  in 
nvernefs- shire,  wtiere  it  is  found.     Thia  has   been  gen- 
rally  called  the  Scottish  lopaz:  but  it  now  gives  place  lo 
I  another  crysttl  of  a  far  harder  iiuality,  found  near  InYtr- 
cauld.— JAMIESOX.— E. 


Canto  IX.] 


DON  JUAN. 


559 


Seeine  how  Art  can  make  her  work  more  grand 

(When  she  dont  pin  mens  limbs  in  like  a  gaoler},— 
Behold  him  placed  as  if  upon  a  pillar !     He 
Seems  Love  njrn'd  a  lieutenant  of  artillery ! 

XLV. 
His  bandage  slipp'd  down  into  a  cravat ; 

His  wings  subdued  to  epaulettes ;  his  quiver 
Slirunk  to  a  scabbard,  with  his  arrows  at 

His  side  as  a  small  sword,  Lut  sharp  as  ever ; 
His  bow  converted  into  a  cock'd  hat ; 

But  still  so  like,  that  Psyche  were  more  clever 
Than  some  wives  (who  make  blunders  no  less  stupid,) 
If  f  he  had  not  mistaken  him  for  Cupid. 

XLVI. 
The  courtiers  stared,  the  ladies  whisper'd,  and 

The    empress    smiled :     the    reigning    favourite 
!  miite  forget  which  of  them  was  in  hand  [frown'd  — 

Just  then  ;  as  they  are  rather  numerous  found, 
Who  took  by  turns  that  difficult  command 

Since  first  her  majesty  was  singly  crown'd  : 
But  they  were  mostly  nervous  six-foot  fellows, 
All  fit  to  make  a  Fatagouian  jealous. 

XLvn. 

Juaa  was  none  of  these,  but  slight  and  slim. 
Blushing  and  beardless ;  and  yet  ne'erlheless 

There  was  a  something  in  his  turn  of  limb. 
And  still  more  in  his  eye,  which  seem'd  to  express, 

That  though  he  look'd  one  of  the  seraphim, 
There  liirk'd  a  man  beneath  the  spirit's  dress. 

Besides,  the  empress  sometimes  liked  a  boy, 

And  had  just  buried  the  fair-faced  Lanskoi.» 

XLvni. 

No  wonder  then  that  Yermolofif,  or  Momonoff, 

Or  Scherbatoff,  or  any  other  off 
Or  on.  might  dread  her  majesty  had  not  room  enough 

Within  ner  bosom  (which  was  not  too  toujh) 
For  a  new  flame ;  a  thought  to  cast  of  gloom'  enough 

Along  the  aspect,  whether  smooth  or  rough, 
Of  him  who,  in  the  language  of  his  station, 
Then  held  that  "  high  o£Scial  situation." 

XLIX. 

0,  gentle  ladies  !  should  vou  seek  to  know 
The  imporfof  this  diplomatic  phrase. 

Bid  Ireland's  London  jerry's  Marquess  2  show 
His  parts  of  speech ;  and  in  the  strange  displays 

Of  that  odd  string  of  words,  all  in  a  row, 
Which  none  divine,  and  every  one  obeys. 

Perhaps  you  may  pick  out  some  queer  no  meaning, 

Of  that  weak  wordy  harvest  the  sole  gleaning. 


I  think  I  cau  explain  myself  without 
That  sad  inexplicable  beast  of  prey  — 

That  Sphinx,  whose  words  would  ever  be  a  doubt, 
Did  not  his  deeds  unriddle  them  each  day  — 

That  monstrous  hieroglyphic  —  that  long  spout 
Of  blood  and  water,  leaden  Castlereagh ! 

And  here  1  must  an  anecdote  relate. 

But  luckily  of  no  great  length  or  weight. 


1  He  wa4  ttie  grarde  rassidn  of  the  grande  Catherine. 
See  her  Lives  under  the  head  of  "Lanskoi."  —  [■■  Laoskoi 
was  a  yf.ulh  of  ai  fine  and  interesting  a  figure  as  the 
imagination  can  paint.  Of  al)  C<itheriue*8  favouiiles,  he 
wag  the  man  whom  she  loved  the  most.  His  eduralion 
having  been  neglected,  she  look  the  care  of  his  improve- 
ment upnn  heiseif.  In  17b4,  he  was  attacked  with  a 
tever,  and  perished  in  the  flower  nf  his  age.  in  Ihe  arms 
of  her  majesty.  When  he  was  no  more,  Catherine  gave 
herself  up  to  the  most  poignant  grief,  and  remained  three 
months  without  going  out  of  her  palace  at  'l'zar^ko-selo. 
She  afterwards  raised  a  superb  monument  to  his  memory, 
io  Ihe  gardens  of  that  impeiial  seat.  Lanskoi's  fortune 
was  estimated  at  three  million  rubles.  He  bequeathed  it 
to  the  empress,  who  returned  it  to  the  sisters  of  that 
favourite,  reserving  only  to  herself  Ihe  right  nf  purchas- 
ing the  pictures,  medals,  and  librarj."  — TOOKE.  — K.] 

3  This  Wat  written  long  before  the  suicide  of  that 
person. 


LI. 

An  English  lady  ask'd  of  an  Italian, 
What  were  the  actual  and  official  duties 

Of  the  strange  thing,  some  women  set  a  value  on. 
Which  hovers  oft  aLout  some  maiTied  beauties, 

Called  "  Cavalier  servente  ?  "  a  Pygmalion 
Whose  statues  warm  ( I  fear,  alas  !  too  true  t  is) 

Beneath  his  art.    The  dame,  press'd  to  disclose  them, 

Said  —  "  Lady,  I  beseech  you  to  suffose  them." 

LII. 

And  thus  I  supplicate  your  supposition. 
And  mildest,  matron-like  interpretation. 

Of  the  imperial  favourite's  condition. 
'T  was  a  hish  place,  the  highest  in  the  nation 

In  fact,  if  not'in  rank;  and  the  suspicion 
Of  any  one's  attaining  to  his  station, 

No  doubt  gave  pain,where  each  new  pair  of  shoulden, 

If  rather  broad,  made  stocks  rise  and  their  holders. 

LI  1 1. 

Juan,  I  said,  was  a  most  beauteous  boy. 
And  had  retain'd  his  boyish  look  beyond 

The  usual  hirsute  seasons  which  destroy. 

With  beards  and  whiskers,  and  the  like,  the  fond 

Parisian  aspect,  which  upset  old  Troy 

And  founded  Doctors'  Commons  :  —  I  have  conn'd 

The  history  of  divorces,  which,  though  chequer  d. 

Calls  Uions  the  first  damages  on  record. 

LIV. 

And  Catherine,  who  loved  all  things,  (save  her  lord, 
Who  was  gone  to  his  place,)  and'pass'd  formuch, 

Admiring  those  (by  dainty  dames  abhorr'd) 
Gigantic  gentlemen,  yet  had  a  touch 

Of  sentiment;  and  he  she  most  adored 
Was  the  lamented  Lanskoi,  who  was  such 

A  lover  as  had  cost  her  many  a  tear. 

And  yet  but  made  a  middling  grenadier. 

LV, 

Oh  thou  "teterrima  causa"  of  all  "belli  "3  — 
Thou  gate  of  life  and  death  —  thou  nondescript ! 

Whence'is  our  exit  and  our  entrance,— well  I 
May  pause  in  pondering  how  all  souls  are  dipt 

In  thy  perennial  fountain  :  —  how  roan  fell,  I 
Know  not,  since  knowledge  saw  her  branches  stript 

Of  her  first  fruit ;  but  how  he  falls  and  rises, 

Stnce,  thou  hast  settled  beyond  all  surmises. 

LVI. 

Soae  call  thee  "  the  worst  cause  of  war,"  but  I 
Maintain  thou  art  the  lest  :  for  after  all 

From  thee  we  come,  to  thee  we  go,  «Lnd  why 
To  get  at  thee  not  batter  down  a  wall. 

Or  waste  a  world  ?  since  no  one  can  deny 
n  hou  dost  replenish  worlds  both  great  and  small ; 

With,  or  without  thee,  all  things  at  a  stand 

Are,  or  would  be,  thou  sea  of  life  s  dry  land ! 

LVIL 

Catherine,  who  was  the  grand  epitome 

Of  that  great  cause  of  «ar,  or  peace,  or  what 

You  ple.asp  (it  causes  all  the  things  which  be. 
So  you  may  take  your  choice  of  this  or  that)  — 

Catherine,  Isay,  was  very  glad  to  see 
The  haindsonie  herald,  on  whose  plumage  sat 

Victory  ;  and,  pausing  as  she  saw  him  kneel 

With  his  despatch,  fofgot  to  break  the  seal. 

Lvin. 

Then  recollecting  the  whole  empress,  nor 
Forgetting  quite  the  woman  (which  comiwsed 

At  least  three  parts  of  this  great  whole),  she  tore 
T  he  letter  open  with  an  air  which  posed 

The  court,  that  watch 'd  each  look  her  visage  wore, 
Until  a  royal  smile  at  length  disciosed 

Fair  weather  for  the  day.    '1  hough  rather  spacious, 

Her  face  was  noble,  her  eyes  fine,  mouth  gracious. 


3  Hor.  Sat.  lib.  i. 


560 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  IX. 


LIX. 

Great  joy  was  hers,  or  rather  joys  :  the  first 
Was  a  ta'en  city,  thirty  thousand  slain. 

Glory  and  triumph  o  er  tier  aspect  burst, 
As  an  East  Indian  sunrise  on  the  main. 

These  quench'd  a  moment  her  ambition's  thirst  — 
So  Arab  deserts  drink  in  summer's  rain: 

In  vain !  —  As  fall  the  dews  on  quenchless  sands, 

Blood  only  serves  to  wash  Ambition's  hands  '. 

LX. 

Her  next  amusement  was  more  fanciful ; 

She  smiled  at  mad  Suwarrow's  rhymes,  who  threw 
Into  a  Russian  couplet  rather  dull 

The  whole  eazette  of  thousands  whom  he  slew.t 
Her  third  was  feminine  enoueh  to  annul 

The  shudder  which  runs  naturally  throush 
Our  veins,  when  things  caird  sovereigns  think  it  best 
To  kill,  and  generals  turn  it  into  jest. 

LXI. 

The  two  first  feelinjs  ran  their  course  complete. 
And  lisrhted  first  her  eye,  and  then  her  mouth : 

The  whole  court  lookd  immediately  most  sweet, 
Like  flowers  well  n^ater'd  after  a  long  drouth :  — 

But  when  on  the  lieutenant  at  her  feet 
Her  majesty,  who  liked  to  gaze  on  youth 

Almost  as  much  as  on  a  new  despatch, 

Glanced  mildly,  all  the  world  was  on  the  watch. 

LXII. 

Though  somewhat  large,  exuberant,  and  truculent 
When  uxroth—-\vhi\epleased,she  was  as  fine  a  figure 

As  those  who  like  things  rosy,  ripe,  and  succulent. 
Would  wish  to  look  on,  while  "they  are  in  vigour. 

Shu  could  repay  each  amatory  look  you  lent 

With  interest,  and  in  turn  was  wont  with  rigour 

To  exact  of  Cupid's  bills  the  full  amount 

At  sight,  nor  would  permit  you  to  discount. 

LXIII. 

With  her  the  latter,  thoujh  at  times  convenient, 

Was  not  so  necessary  ;  7or  they  tell 
That  she  was  hanisome,  and   though  fierce  look'd 
lenient, 

And  always  used  her  favourites  too  well. 
If  once  beyond  her  boudoir's  precincts  in  ye  went, 

Your  "  fortune  "  was  in  a  fjiir  way  "  to  swell 
A  man  "  (as  Giles  says;  3 ;  for  though  she  would  widow 
Nations,  she  liked  man  as  an  individual.  [all 

LXIV. 

What  a  strange  thing  is  man  !  and  what  a  stranger 
Is  woman  !  What  a  whirlwind  is  her  head, 

And  what  a  whirlpool  full  of  depth  and  danger 
Is  all  the  rest  about  her !     Whether  wed. 

Or  widow,  maid,  or  mother,  she  can  change  her 
Mind  like  the  wind  :  whatever  she  has  said 

Or  done,  is  light  to  what  she  '11  say  or  do ;  — 

The  oldest  thing  on  record,  and  yet  new  1 

Lx^^ 

Oh  Catherine  !  (for  of  all  interjections. 
To  thee  both  oh !  and  ah !  belong  of  right 

In  love  and  war)  how  odd  are  the  connections 
Of  human  thoughts,  which  jostle  in  their  flight ! 

Just  now  yours  vcere  cut  out  in  different  sections : 
First  Ismail's  capture  caught  your  fancy  quite; 

Next  of  new  knights,  the  fresh  and  glorious  batch  j 

Aiid  thirdly  he  who  brought  you  the  despatch  I 

1  "STTarrow  is  as  singular  for  the  brevity  of  his  ntyle 
an  for  the  rapidity  of  his  conquests.  On  lh»  taking  Tour- 
tourkaya,  in  Bulgaria,  he  actually  wrote  no  more  to  the 
empress  than  two  lines  of  Russ  poetry: 

'  Slaivo  Bogon,  Slawo  bowam, 
Glory  to  God,  plory  to  you, 
Tourtourinya  aviala,  ia  tarn, 
Tourtuurkayaid  taken,  here  I  am.'  "— TOOKE.—  E. 

2  "  His  fortune  swells  him,  it  is  rank,  he 's  mirrieil."— 
fir  Giles  Overreach;  MASSIA'GER'S  "  jVeui  Vt'ay  to  pay 
Old  Debts." 


LXVI. 

Shakspeare  talks  of  "  the  herald  Mergry 

New  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing-mn  ;  "» 
And  some  such  visions  cross'd  her  majesty. 

While  her  young  herald  knelt  before  her  still. 
'T  is  verv'  true  thehill  seem'd  rather  high. 

For  a  lieutenant  to  climb  up  ;  but  skill 
Smoolh'J  even  the  Simplon  s  steep,  and  by  God% 

blessing 
With  youth  and  health  all  kisses  are  "heaven-kissjng." 

LXVII. 
Her  majesty  look'd  down,  the  youth  look'd  up  — 

And  so  they  fell  in  love;  — she  with  his  face. 
His  grace,  his  God-knows-what :  for  Cupid's  cup 

With  the  first  draught  intoxicates  apace, 
A  quintessential  laudanum  or  "black  drop," 

■Which  makes  one  drunk  at  once,  without  the  baae 
Expedient  of  full  bumpers;  for  the  eye 
In  love  drinks  all  life's  fountains  (save  tears)  drj'. 

LXVIII. 

He,  on  the  other  hand,  if  not  in  love. 
Fell  into  that  no  less  imperious  passion, 

Self-love  —  which,  when  some  sort  of  thing  above 
Ourselves,  a  singer,  dancer,  much  in  fashion. 

Or  duchess,  princess,  empress,  "deigns  to  prove"  * 
('T  is  Pope's  phrase)  a  great  longing,  though  a  rash 
one. 

For  one  especial  person  out  of  many. 

Makes  us  believe  ourselves  as  good  as  any. 

LXIX. 

Besides,  he  was  of  that  delighted  age 

Which  makes  all  female  ages  equal  —  when 

We  don't  much  care  with  whom  we  may  en^ge, 
As  bold  as  Daniel  in  the  lions  den. 

So  that  we  can  our  native  sun  assuage 

In  the  next  ocean,  which  may  flow  just  then. 

To  make  a  twilight  in,  just  as  Sol's  heat  is 

Quench'd  in  the  lap  of  Uie  salt  sea,  or  Thetis. 

LXX. 

And  Catherine  (we  must  say  thus  much  for  Catherine), 
Though  bold  and  bloody,  was  the  kind  of  thing 

Whose  temporary  passion  was  quite  flattering, 
Because  each  lover  look'd  a  sort  of  king. 

Made  up  upon  an  amatory  pattern, 
A  roj'al  husband  in  all  save  tht  ring  — 

Which,  being  the  damn'dest  part  of  matrimony, 

Seem'd  taking  out  the  sting  to  leave  the  honey. 

LXXI. 

And  when  you  add  to  this,  her  womanhood 
In  its  meridian,  her  blue  eyes  s  or  grey  — 

(The  last,  if  they  have  soul,  are  quite  as  good, 
Or  better,  as  the  best  examples  say  : 

Napoleon's,  Mary's,  queen  of  Scotland,  should 
Lend  to  that  colour  a  transcendent  ray; 

And  Pallas  also  sanctions  the  same  hue, 

Too  wise  to  look  through  optics  black  or  blue)  — 

Lxxn. 

Her  sweet  smile,  and  her  then  majestic  figure, 
Her  plumpness,  her  imperial  condescension, 

Her  preference  of  a  boy  to  men  much  bijger 
(Fellows  whom  Messalina's  self  would  pension), 

Her  prime  of  life,  just  now  in  juicy  vigour. 
With  other  extras,  which  we  need  not  mention, — 

All  these,  or  any  one  of  these,  explain 

Enough  to  make  a  stripling  very  vain. 

3  Ilamlet,  act  iii.  sc.  iv.— E. 

4  "  Not  Cesar's  empress  would  I  deign  to  prove : 

No  !  make  me  mistress  to  the  mnn  I  love."  — 

POPE:  Eloisa.—  E. 
6  "Several  persons  who  lived  at  the  court,  adlrm  that 
Catherine    had  very  blue  eves,  and  not  grey,  as  M.  Rul* 
hieres  has  staled."  — TOOKE.— E. 


Canto  IX.] 


DON  JUAN. 


5G1 


LXXIII. 

And  that 's  enoufh,  for  love  is  vanity, 

Selfish  in  its  beginning  as  its  end, 
Except  where  "t  is  a  mere  insanity, 

A  maddening  spirit  which  would  strive  to  blend 
Itself  with  beauty  s  frail  inanity, 

On  which  the  passion's  self  seems  to  depend  : 
And  hence  some  heathenish  philosophers 
Make  love  the  main-spring  of  the  universe. 

LXXIV. 
Besides  Platonic  love,  besides  the  love 

Of  God,  the  love  of  sentiment,  the  loving 
Of  faithful  pairs  —  (I  needs  must  rhyme  with  dove. 

That  good  old  steam-boat  which  keeps  verses  movii  g 
^Gainst  reason  —  Reason  ue"er  v\'as  hand-and-glove 

With  rluane,  but  always  leant  less  to  improving 
The  sound  than  sense)  —  besides  all  these  pretences 
To  love,  there  are  those  things  which  words  name 
senses ; 

LXXV. 

Those  movements,  those  improvements  in  our  bodies 
Which  make  all  bodies  anxious  to  get  out 

Of  their  own  sand-pits,  to  mix  with  a  goddess, 
For  such  all  women  are  at  first  no  doubt. 

How  beautiful  that  moment !  and  how  odd  is 
That  fever  which  precedes  the  langnid  rout 

Of  our  sensations  !  What  a  curious  way 

The  whole  thing  is  of  clothing  souls  in  clay ! 

LXXVI. 

The  noblest  kind  of  love  is  love  Platonical, 
To  end  or  to  begin  with  ;  the  next  grand 

Is  that  which  may  be  christen'd  love  canonical, 
Because  the  clergy  take  the  thing  in  hand ; 

The  third  sort  to  be  noted  in  our  chronicle 
As  flourishing  in  every  Christian  land. 

Is,  when  chaste~matrons  to  their  other  ties 

Add  what  may  be  call'd  marriage  in  disguise. 

LXXVII. 

Well,  we  won't  analyse  —  our  story  must 
Tell  for  itself:  the  sovereign  was  smitten, 

Juan  much  tlatter'd  jy  her  love,  or  lust ;  — 
I  cannot  stop  to  a  iter  words  once  written, 

And  the  two  are  sr.  mix'd  with  human  dust^ 
That  he  who  narnes  one,  both  perchance  may  hit  on : 

But  in  such  matt<  rs  Russia's  mighty  empress 

Behaved  no  better  than  a  common  sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The  whole  court  melted  into  one  wide  whisper. 
And  all  lips  were  applied  unto  all  ears  ! 

The  elder  ladies'  wrinkles  curl'd  much  crisper 
As  they  beheld  ;  the  younger  cast  some  leers 

On  one  another,  and  each  lovely  lisper 
Smiled  as  she  talk'd  the  matter  o"er;  but  tears 

Of  rivalship  rose  in  each  clouded  eye 

Ot  all  the  standing  army  who  stood  by. 

LXXIX. 

All  the  ambassadors  of  all  the  powers 
■  Inquired,  Who  was  this  very  new  young  man. 
Who  promised  to  be  great  in  some  few  hours  ? 

Which  is  full  soon  "(though  life  is  but  a  span). 
Already  they  beheld  the  silver  showers 

Of  rubles  rain,  as  fast  as  specie  can. 
Upon  his  cabinet,  besides  the  presents 
of  several  ribands,  and  some  thousand  peasants. « 

LXXX. 

Catherine  was  generous,—  all  such  ladies  are : 
Love,  that  great  opener  of  the  heart  and  all 

The  ways  that  lead  there,  be  they  near  or  far. 
Above,  below,  by  turnpikes  great  or  small,— 


36 


Love  —  (though  she  had  a  cursed  taste  for  war, 

And  was  not  the  best  wife,!*  unless  we  call 
Such  Clytemnestra,  though  perhaps  't  is  better 
That  one  should  die,  than  two  drag  on  the  fetter)  — 
I  LXXXI. 

Love  had  made  Catherine  make  each  lover's  fortune, 

Unlike  our  own  half-chaste  Elizabeth, 
Whose  avarice  all  disbursements  di>."  li-^ortune. 

If  history,  the  grand  liar,  ever  saith 
The  truth  ;'and  though  grief  her  old  age  might  shorten, 

Because  she  put  a  favourite  to  deafh. 
Her  vile,  ambiguous  method  of  flirtation, 
And  stinginess,  disgi-ace  her  t;T  and  station. 

LXXMl. 

But  when  the  levee  rose,  and  all  was  bustle 
I      In  the  dissolving  circle,  all  the  nations' 
Ambassadors  began  as  't  were  to  hustle 

Round  the  young  man  w  ith  their  congratulations. 
j  Also  the  softer  si  ks  were  heard  to  rust'e 

of  gentle  dames,  among  whose  recreations 
'  It  is  to  specuiate  on  handsome  faces, 
Especially  when  such  lead  to  high  places. 

j  Lxxxin. 

'Juan,  who  found  himself,  he  knew  not  hove, 
I     A  general  object  of  attention,  made 
His  answers  with  a  very  graceful  bow, 

As  if  born  for  the  ministerial  trade. 
Though  modest,  on  his  unembarrass'd  brow 

Nature  had  written  "  gentleman."    He  said 
Little,  but  to  the  purpose ;  and  his  manner 
Flung  hovering  graces  o'er  him  like  a  banner. 

LXXX  IV. 
An  order  from  her  majesty  consign'd 

Our  young  lieutenant  to' the  genial  care 
Of  those  in  office:  all  the  world  lookd  kind, 

(As  it  will  look  sometimes  with  tlie  first  stare, 
Which  youth  would  not  act  ill  to  keep  in  mind,) 

As  also  did  Miss  Protasoff  then  there. 
Named  from  her  mystic  office  "  I'Eprouveuse," 
A  term  inexplicable  to  the  Muse. 

LXXXV. 
With  her  then,  as  in  humble  duty  bound, 

Juan  retired,  — and  so  will  I,  until 
My  Pegasus  shall  tire  of  touching  ground. 

We  have  just  lit  on  a  "  heaven-kissing  hill," 
So  lofty  that  1  feel  my  brain  turn  round." 

And  all  my  fancies  whirling  like  a  mill ; 
Which  is  a  signal  to  my  nerves  and  brain, 
To  take  a  quiet  ride  in  some  green  lane. 


CANTO  THE   TENTH. 
I. 

When  Newton  saw  an  apple  fall,  he  found 
In  that  slight  startle  from  his  contemplation  — 

T  is  said  (for  1  '11  not  answer  above  ground 
For  any  sage's  creed  or  calculation)  — 

A  mode  of  proving  that  the  earth  turn'd  round 
!     In  a  most  natural  whirl,  called  "gravitation;' 

And  this  is  the  sole  mortal  who  could  grapple, 

Since  Adam,  with  a  fall,  or  with  an  apple. 

i  "• 

.Man  fell  with  apples,  and  with  apples  rose, 

I     If  this  be  true ;  for  we  must  deem  the  mode 

In  which  Sir  Isaac  Newton  could  disclose 
Through  the  then  unpaved  stai-s  the  turnpike  road, 

A  thing  to  counterbalance  human  woes : 
I     For  ever  since  immortal  man  h.atli  glow'd 

With  all  kinds  of  mechanics,  and  full  soon 

Steam-engines  will  conduct  him  to  the  moon. 


2  Prter  the  Third  died  in  July,  1762,  just  one  week 
arier  1)18  drposili' n,  Altlioi'gti  it  is  pr::t>able  that  the 
hand  of  viulrnce  shortened  his  days,  there  seems  no  good 
reason  for  t-narging  Catherine  with  so  atrociona  aa 
act.— E. 


562 


DON   JUAJN 


[Canto  X. 


III. 

And  wherefore  this  exordium  ?  — Why,  just  now, 
In  taking  up  this  paltry  sheet  of  paper, 

My  bosom  underwent  a  glorious  glow, 
And  my  internal  spirit  cut  a  caper: 

And  though  so  much  inferior,  as  1  know, 
To  those  who,  by  the  dint  of  glass  and  vapour, 

Discover  stars,  and  sail  in  the  wind  s  eye, 

I  wish  to  do  as  much  by  poesy. 

IV. 
In  the  wind's  eye  I  have  sail'd,  and  sail ;  but  for 

The  stars,  I  own  my  telescope  is  dim  ; 
But  at  the  least  I  have  shunn'd  the  common  shore. 

And  leaving  land  far  out  of  sight,  would  skim 
The  ocean  of  eternity  :  the  roar 

Of  breakers  has  not  daunted  my  slight,  trim, 
But  still  sea-worthy  skiffj  and  she  may  float 
Where  ships  have  founder'd,  as  doth  many  a  boat. 


We  left  our  hero,  Juan,  in  the  bloom 
Of  favouritism,  but  not  yet  in  the  blush;  — 

And  far  be  it  from  my  Mu':es  to  presume 
(For  I  have  more  than  one  Muse  at  a  push) 

To  follow  him  beyond  the  drawing-room  : 
It  is  enough  that  Fortune  found  him  flush 

Of  youth,  and  vigour,  beauty,  and  those  things 

Which  for  an  instant  clip  enjoyment's  wings. 

VI. 


Pinions  to  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest !  » 

And  who  that  recollects  young  years  and  loves,— 
Though  hoary  now,  and  with  a  withering  breast. 

And  palsied  fancy,  which  no  longer  roves 
Beyond  its  dimm'd  eye's  sphere,  —  but  would  much 

rather 
Sigh  like  his  son,  than  cough  like  his  grandfather  ? 


VII. 


So  narrow  as  to  shame  their  wintry  brink, 

Which  threatens  inundatioiu"!  deep  and  yellow  ! 

Such  difference  doth  a  few  months  make.  You  'd  think 
Grief  a  rich  field  which  never  would  lie  fallow  ; 

No  more  it  doth,  its  ploughs  but  change  their  boys, 

Who  furrow  some  new  soil  to  sow  for  joys. 

VIII. 

But  coughs  will  come  when  sighs  depart  —  and  now 
And  then  before  sighs  cease  ;  for  oft  the  one 

Will  bring  the  other,  ere  the  lake-like  brow 
Is  ruffled  by  a  wrinkle,  or  the  sun 

Of  life  reach'd  ten  o'clock  :  and  while  a  glow, 
Hectic  and  brief  as  summer's  day  nigh  done, 

O'erspreads  the  cheek  which  seems  too  pure  for  clay, 

Thousands  blaze,  love,  hope,  die,— ho  w  happy  they  !— 

IX. 

But  Juan  was  not  meant  to  die  so  soon. 
.We  left  him  in  the  focus  of  such  glory 

As  may  be  won  by  favour  of  the  moon 
I      Or  ladies'  fancies  —  rather  transitory 

Perhaps ;  but  who  would  scorn  the  month  of  June, 
'      Because  December,  with  his  breath  so  hoary, 
I  Must  come  ?    Much  rather  should  he  court  the  ray, 

To  hoard  up  warmth  against  a  wintry  day. 

I  X. 

Besides,  t.i  /.aj  some  qualities  which  fix 

Middle-aged  ladies  even  more  than  young: 
The  former  know  what's  what;  while  new-fledged 
chicks 

Know  little  more  of  love  than  what  is  sung 
In  rhymes,  or  dreamt  (for  fancy  will  play  tricks) 

In  visions  of  those  skies  from  whence  Love  sprung. 
Some  reckon  women  by  their  suns  or  years, 
1  nther  think  the  moon  should  date  the  dears. 


XI. 

And  why  ?  because  she's  changeable  and  chaste. 

I  know  no  other  reason,  whatsoe'er 
Suspicious  people,  who  find  fault  in  haste, 

May  choose  to  tax  me  with  ;  which  is  not  fair, 
Nor  flattering  to  "  their  temper  or  their  taste,'' 

As  my  friend  Jeffrey  writes  with  such  an  air 
However,  I  forgive  him,  and  [  trust 
He  will  forgive"  himself;  —  if  not,  I  must. 

Xll. 
Old  enemies  who  have  become  new  friends 

Should  so  continue  —  't  is  a  point  of  honour; 
And  I  know  nothing  which  could  make  amendis 

For  a  return  to  hatred  :  I  would  shun  her 
Like  garlic,  howsoever  she  extends 

Her  hundred  arms  and  legs,  and  fain  outrun  her. 
Old  flames,  new  wives,  become  our  bitterest  foes  — 
Converted  foes  should  scorn  to  join  with  those. 

XIII. 
This  were  the  worst  desertion  :  —  renegadoes. 

Even  shuttling  Southey,  that  incarnafe  lie, 
Would  scarcely  join  again  the  "  refjrmadoes,"  * 

Whom  he  forsook  to  fill  the  laureate's  s'y  : 
And  honest  men  from  Iceland  to  Barl.adoes, 

Whether  in  Caledon  or  Italy, 
Should  not  veer  round  with  every  breath,  nor  seize 
To  pain,  the  moment  when  you  cease  to  please. 

XIV. 
The  lawyer  and  the  critic  but  behold 

The  baser  sides  of  literature  and  life. 
And  nought  remains  unseen,  but  much  untold, 

Fy  those  who  scour  those  double  vales  of  strife. 
While  common  men  grow  ignorantly  old, 

'I  he  lawyer's  brief  "is  like  the  surgeon's  knife. 
Dissecting  the  w  hole  inside  of  a  question, 
And  with  it  all  the  process  of  digestion. 

XV. 

A  legal  bronm  's  a  moral  chimney-sweeper, 
And  that  s  the  reason  he  himself  "s  so  dirty; 

The  endless  soot  2  bestons  a  tint  far  deeper 
Than  can  be  hid  by  altering  his  shirt;  he 

Retains  the  sable  stains  of  the  dark  creeper. 
At  least  some  twenty-nine  do  out  of  thirty. 

In  all  their  habits ;  —  not  so  you,  1  o«  n ; 

As  Caesar  «  ore  his  robe,  you  wear  your  gown. 

XVI. 

And  all  our  little  feuds,  at  least  all  mine, 
Dear  Jeffrey,  once  my  most  redoubted  foe 

(As  far  as  rhyme  and  criticism  combine 
To  make  such  puppets  of  us  things  below), 

Are  over  :  Here's  a  health  to  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  !" 
1  do  not  kno\v  you,  and  may  never  know 

Tour  face  —  but  you  have  acted  on  the  u  hole 

Most  nobly,  and  I  own  it  from  my  soul. 

XVII. 

And  n  hen  I  use  the  phrase  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  ! » 
'  r  is  not  address'd  to  you  —  the  more  's  the  pity 

For  me,  for  I  would  rather  take  my  w ine 

With  you,  than  aught  (save  Scott)  in  your  proud 
city. 

But  somehow,  —  it  may  seem  a  schoolboy's  whine. 
And  yet  I  seek  not  to  be  grand  nor  witty, 

But  I  am  half  a  ScQt  by  birth,  and  bred 

A  whole  one,  and  my  neart  flies  to  my  bead, — 

XVIII. 

As  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  brings  Scotland,  one  and  ill, 
Scotch  plaids,  Scotch  snoods,  the  blue  hills,  and  clear 
streams. 

The  Dee,  the  Don,  Balgounie's  brig's  black  waU,^ 
All  my  boy  feelings,  all  my  gent.er  dreams 

1  " Reformers."   or   rather   "Reformed."    The  Baroa 
Bradwardine,  in  Waverley,  is  authority  for  the  word. 
'i  Query,  tuil  ? —  Printer's  Devil. 
3  The  brig  of  Don,  near  the  "  auld  toon  "  of  Aberdeen, 


F--- 


Canto  X.] 


DON  JUAN. 


563 


Of  what  I  then  dreamt,  clothed  in  their  own  pall, 

Like  Banquo's  otrsprin?:  —  floating  past  me  seems 
M    childhood  in  this  chilJishness  of  mine  : 
I  are  not  —  't  is  a  glimpse  of  "  Auld  Lang  Sj-ne." 

XIX. 

And  thouffh,  as  you  remember,  in  a  fit 
Of  wrath  and  rhynie,  when  juvenile  and  curly, 

I  rail'd  at  Scots  to  show  my  wrath  and  wit. 
Which  must  be  own'd  was  sensitive  and  surly, 

Yet  t  is  in  vain  such  sallies  to  permit. 
They  rannot  quench  youn?  feelings  fresh  and  early : 

I  ^'scotch'd  not  kiird"'the  Scotchman  in  my  blood, 

And  love  the  land  of  "  mountain  and  of  flood." 

XX. 

Don  Juan,  who  was  real,  or  ideal,  — 

For  both  are  much  the  same,  since  what  men  thmk 
Exists  when  the  once  thinkers  are  less  real 

Than  what  they  th:iujht,  for  mind  can  never  sink. 
And  "gainst  the  body  makes  a  strong  appeal ; 

And  yet 't  is  very  puzzling  on  the  brink 
Of  what  is  called  eternity,  to  stare. 
And  know  no  more  of  what  is  here,  than  there  j  — 

XXL 

Don  Juan  grew  a  very  polish 'd  Russian  — 
How  we  won't  mention,  why  we  need  not  say: 

Few  youthful  minds  can  stand  ihe  strong  concussion 
Of  any  slight  temptation  in  their  way  ; 

But  Aw  just  now  were  spread  as  is  a  cushion 
Sniooth"d  for  a  monarch's  seat  of  honour :  gay 

Damsels,  and  dances,  revels,  ready  money, 

Made  ice  seem  paradise,  and  winter  sunny. 

xxn. 

The  favour  of  the  empress  was  agreeable  ; 

And  though  the  duty  wax  d  a  little  hard, 
Young  people  at  his  time  of  life  should  be  able 

To  come  off  handsomely  in  that  regard. 
He  was  now  growing  up  like  a  green  tree,  able 

For  love,  war,  or  ambition,  which  reward 
Their  luckier  votaries,  till  old  ages  tedium 
Make  some  prefer  the  circulating  medium. 

XXIM. 

About  this  time,  as  might  have  been  anticipated. 
Seduced  by  youth  and  dangerous  examples, 

Don  Juan  grew,  I  tear,  a  little  dissipated  ; 
Which  is  a  saxl  thing,  and  not  only  tramples 

On  our  fresh  feelings,  but  —  as  being  participated 
With  all  kinds  of  incorrigible  saniples 

Of  frail  humanity  —  must  make  us  selfish. 

And  shut  our  souls  up  in  us  like  a  shell-fisb. 

XXIV. 

This  we  pass  over.    We  will  also  pass 

The  usual  progress  of  intrigues  between 
Unequal  matches,  such  as  are,  alas  ! 
ji      A  young  lieutenants  with  a  iiot  old  queen, 
I  j  But  one  who  is  not  so  youthful  as  she  was 
In  all  the  royalty  of  sweet  seventeen. 
Sovereigns  may  sway  materials,  but  not  matter, 
And  wrinkles,  the  d d  democrats,  won't  flatter. 

XXV. 

And  death,  the  sovereign's  sovereign,  though  the  great 
Gracchus  of  all  mortality,  who  levels. 

With  his  Agrarian  laws,»'the  lii^h  estate 
Of  him  who  feasts,  and  fights,  and  loars,  and  revels, 

with  its  one  arch,  and  its  black  deep  salmon  etream  below, 
i«  in  my  niemory  as  yenlviday.  I  siill  remember,  Ihnuiih 
perba|M  I  may  mi«(|unle,  It.e  awful  proverb  wbicti  made 
me  pause  to  crosa  it,  and  y.-i  lean  over  il  »ilh  a  childiiili 
deb^hl,  beiug  ao  only  mhi,  at  lea>t  by  the  roolher'a  side. 
The  Baying  as  recollecied  by  uie  was  this,  but  I  have 
never  beard  or  seen  it  siiu-e  1  was  nine  years  of  age;.— 
"Brig  of  Ral^ouiue,  black  '»  your  tea', 

Wi'  a  wife's  ae  son,  and  a  loear'a  ae  foal, 

Doun  ye  shall  fa' ;  " 
1  Tiberiua  Gracchus,  being  tribune  of  the   people,  de- 


To  one  small  grass-g-own  patch  (which  must  await 

Corruption  for  its  crop)  with  the  poor  devils 
Who  never  had  a  foot  of  land  till  now,— 
Death's  a  reformer,  all  men  must  allow. 

XXVI. 
He  lived  (not  Death,  but  Juan)  in  a  hurry 

Of  waste,  and  has'e.  and  glare,  and  gloss,  and  glitter, 
In  this  gay  clime  of  bear-skins  black  and  furry  — 

Which  (though  I  hate  to  say  a  thing  that 's  bitter) 
Peep  out  sometimes,  when  things  are  in  a  flurrv", 

'I  hrough  all  the  "  purple  and  fine  linen,"  fitter 
For  Babylon's  than  Russia's  royal  harlot  — 
And  neutralise  her  outward  show  of  scarlet. 

XXVII. 

And  this  same  state  we  won't  describe :  we  would 
Perhaps  from  hearsay,  or  from  recollection  ; 

But  getting  nigh  grim  Dante's  '-obscure  wood,"  a 
That  horrid  equinox,  that  hateful  section 

Of  human  years,  that  half-way  house,  that  rude 
Hut,  whence  wise  travellers  drive  with  circum- 
spection 

Life's  sad  post-horses  o'er  the  dreary  frontier 

Of  age,  and  looking  back  to  youth,  give  one  tear  j  — 

XXVIII. 

I  won't  describe,  —  that  is,  if  I  can  help 

Description  ;  and  I  wont  reflect,  —  that  is. 
If  I  can  stave  oft  thought,  which  —  as  a  whelp 

Clings  to  its  teat  —  slicks  to  nie  through  the  abyst 
Of  this"  odd  labyrinth  ;  or  as  the  kelp 

Holds  by  the  rock  ;  or  as  a  lover's  kiss 
Drains  its  first  draught  of  lips :  —  but,  as  I  said, 
1  wont  philosophise,  and  will  be  read. 

XXIX. 
Juan,  instead  of  courting  courts,  was  courted, — 

A  thin^  which  happens  rarely  :  this  he  owed 
Much  to  his  youth,  aind  much  to  his  rejjorted 

Valour  ;  much  also  to  the  blood  he  show'd. 
Like  a  race-h^l'se  ;  much  to  each  dress  he  sported, 

Which  set  the  beauty  o8'  in  which  he  glow'd, 
As  purple  clouds  befringe  the  sun  j  but  most 
He  owed  to  an  old  woman  and  his  post. 

XXX. 

He  wrote  to  Spain  :  —  and  all  his  near  relations, 
Perceiving  he  was  in  a  handsome  way 

Of  getting  on  himself,  and  finding  stations 
For  cousins  also,  answered  the  same  day. 

Several  prepared  themselves  for  emigrations; 
And,  eating  ices,  were  o'erheard  to  say, 

That  with  the  addition  of  a  slight  pelisse, 

Madrid's  and  Moscow's  climes  were  of  a  piece. 

XXXL 

His  mother,  Donna  Inez,  finding,  too. 
That  in  the  lieu  of  drawing  oli  his  banker, 

Where  his  assets  were  waxing  rather  few. 
He  had  brought  his  spending  to  a  handsome  an- 
chor, — 

Rep'ied,  "  that  she  was  g'ad  to  see  him  through 
'1  hose  p!easu>es  after  which  wild  youth  will  hankerj 

As  the  so  e  sign  of  man's  being  in  tiis  senses 

Is,  learning  to  reduce  his  past  expenses. 

XXXII. 

"  She  also  recommended  him  to  God, 

And  no  less  to  God's  Son,  as  well  as  Mother, 
:  Waru'd  him  against  Cireek  worship,  which  looks  odd 
I      In  Catholic  eyes ;  but  told  him,  too,  to  smother 
Outward  dislike,  which  don  t  look  well  abroad  ; , 

Inform  d  him  that  he  had  a  litt  e  brother 
Born  in  a  second  ivedock;  and  above 
.  All,  praised  the  empress  s  muterual  love. 

— 

manded  in  Iheir  name  the  execution  of  the  Agrarian  law; 
by  which  all  peri-ons  possrs-iiig  above  a  certain  oumher 
of  acres  were  to  be  deprived  of  the  surplus  for  the  beueflt 
of  (he  poor  citizens, 
2  "Mi  retrovai  per un  selvaoscnra."— /n/smo,  C«»l»i 


564 


DON  JUAN. 


[C.INTO  X. 


XXXIII. 

"  She  could  not  too  much  ;ive  her  approbation 
Unto  an  empress,  who  preferr'd  young  men 

Whose  a;e,  and  what  was  better  still,  whose  nation 
And  climate,  stopp'd  all  scandal  (now  and  then)  :— 

At  home  it  mi^ht  have  gjiven  her  some  vexation  ; 
But  where  thermometers  sink  down  to  ten, 

Or  five,  or  one,  or  zero,  she  could  never 

Believe  that  virtue  thaw'd  before  the  river." 

XXXIV. 

Oh  for  a  fwty-parson  power  •  to  chant 
Thy  praise.  Hypocrisy !     Oh  for  a  hymn 

Loud  as  the  virtues  thou  dost  loudly  vaunt, 
Not  practise !     Oh  for  trump  of  cherubim  ! 

Or  the  ear-trumpet  of  my  £;ood  old  aunt. 

Who,  though  her  spectacles  at  last  g;rew  dim, 

Drew  quiet  consolation  through  its  hint. 

When  she  no  more  could  read  tlje  pious  print. 


XXXV. 


She 


hj'pocrite  at  least,  poor  soul. 
But  went  to  heaven  in  as  sincere  a.  way 


As  any  body  on  the  elected  roll. 

Which  portions  out  upon  the  judgment  day 
Heaven's  neeholds,  in  a  sort  of  doomsday  scroll. 

Such  as  the  conqueror  William  did  repay 
His  knights  with,  lottinsr  others'  properties 
Into  same  sixty  thousand  new  knights'  fees. 

XXXVI. 

I  can't  complain,  whose  ancestors  are  there, 
Erneis,  Radulphus  —  eijht-and-forty  manors 

(If  that  my  memory  doth  not  ^eat'y  err) 
Were  their  reward  for  foUowina:  Billy's  banners;' 

And  though  I  can't  help  thinking  •(  was  scarce  fair 
To  strip  the  Saxons  of  their  hydes,^  like  tanners ; 

Yet  as  they  founded  churches  with  the  produce. 

You  U  deem,  no  doubt,  they  put  it  to  a  good  use. 

XXXVII. 

The  gentle  .luan  flourished,  though  at  times 
He  felt  like  other  plants  called  sensitive, 

Which  shrink  from   touch,  as  monarchs  do    from 
rhvmes. 
Save  such  as  Southey  can  afford  to  give. 

Perhaps  he  bng'd  in  bitter  frosts  for  climes 
In  which  the" Neva  s  ice  would  cease  to  live 

Before  May-day :  perhaps,  despite  his  duty. 

In  royalty's  vast  arms  he  sigh'd  for  beauty  : 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps  —  but,  sans  perhaps,  we  need  not  seek 
For  causes  young  or  old  :  the  canker-worm 

Will  feed  upon  the  fairest,  freshest  cheek. 
As  well  as  further  drain  the  wither  d  form  : 

Care,  like  a  housekeeper,  brings  every  week 
His  bills  in,  and  however  we  may  storm. 

They  must  be  paid :  though  six  days  smoothly  run, 

The  seventh  will  bring  blue  devils  or  a  dun. 

XXXIX. 

I  dont  know  how  it  was,  but  he  grew  sick : 
The  empress  was  a^arni'd,  and  her  physician 

(The  s\me  who  physick'd  Feter)  found  the  tick 
Of  h  s  fierce  pulse  betoken  a  condition 

Which  augur'd  of  the  dead,  however  tfuick 
Itselt,  and  show'd  a  feverish  disposition; 

At  which  the  whole  court  was  extremely  troubled, 

The  sovereign  shock  d  and  ail  his  medicines  doubled. 


1  A  mPtaptior  taken  from  the  "  forty-horse  power  "  of  a 
steam-fr.ginr.  Tliat  mad  wag,  the  Reverend  Sydney 
Saiilh.iiitliL:;  hy  &  brnlher  clrr^^yman  at  dinner,  observed 
afterwards  ihjl  hiKdull  oeiglibour  bad  a  "  twelve-parson 
fower"  of  I'ouversalioo. 

3  See  Cnihoa'a  Peerage,  vol.  vii.  p.  7J. —  E. 

3  •'  Hyde."—  1  believe  a  liydeof  land  to  be  a  legitimate 
word,  and,  as  such,  oubject  to  the  tax  of  a  ((nibble. 


XL. 

Low  were  the  whispers,  manifold  the  rumours. 
Some  said  he  had  been  poison'd  by  Potemkin; 

Others  talkd  learnedly  of  certain  tumours. 
Exhaustion,  or  disorders  of  the  same  kin  ; 

Some  said  "t  was  a  concoction  of  the  humours. 
Which  with  the  blood  too  readily  will  claim  kin  J 

Others  again  were  re^dy  to  maintain, 

"  "T  was  only  the  fatigue  of  last  campaign." 

XLI. 

But  here  is  one  prescription  out  of  many  : 
"  Sodae  sulphat.  gvj.  3fs.  Mannse  optinn. 

Aq.  fervent.  i.-$\h.  jij.  tinct.  Sennae  [him) 

Haustus  "  (And  here  the  surgeon  came  and  cupj  'd 

"R.  Pulv.  Com.  gr.  iij.  Ipecacuanhse" 
(With  more  beside  if  Juan  had  not  stopp'd  'em). 

"  Bolus  Potassae  Sulphuret.  sumendus, 

Et  haustus  ter  in  die  capiendus." 

XLII. 
This  is  the  way  physicians  mend  or  end  us, 

Secundum  arteni :  but  although  we  sneer 
In  health  —  when  ill,  we  call  them  to  attend  us. 

Without  the  least  propensity  to  jeer: 
While  that  "hiatus  maxime  deflendus" 

To  be  fiU'd  up  by  spade  or  mattocks  near. 
Instead  of  gliding  eraciously  down  Lethe, 
We  tease  mild  Baillie,  or  so'ft  Abernethy.* 

XLin. 

Juan  demurr'd  at  this  first  notice  to 

Quit;  and  though  death  had  threaten'd  an  ejection. 
His  you'h  and  constitution  bore  him  through. 

And  sent  the  doctors  in  a  new  direction. 
But  still  his  state  was  delicate  :  the  hue 

Of  health  but  flicker"d  « ith  a  faint  reflection 
Along  his  wasted  cheek,  and  seem'd  to  gravel 
The  faculty  —  who  said  that  he  must  travel. 

XLIV. 

The  climate  was  too  cold,  they  said,  for  him. 

Meridian-born,  to  bloom  in.     This  opinion 
Made  the  chaste  Catherine  look  a  little  grim, 

V\  ho  did  not  like  at  first  to  lose  her  minion : 
But  when  she  saw  his  d.azzling  eye  wax  dim, 

And  drooping  like  an  eagles  with  dipt  pinion. 
She  then  resolved  to  send  him  on  a  mission, 
But  in  a  style  becoming  his  condition. 

XLV, 
There  was  just  then  a  kind  of  a  discussion, 

A  sort  of  treaty  or  negotiation 
Between  the  British  cabinet  and  Russian, 

Maintained  with  all  the  due  prevarication 
With  which  great  states  such  things  are  apt  to  push  on; 

Something  about  the  Baltics  navigation. 
Hides,  train-oil,  tallow,  and  the  rights  of  Thetis, 
Which  Britons  deem  their  "uti  possidetis." 

XLV  I, 

So  Catherine,  who  had  a  handsome  way 

Of  fitting  out  her  favourites,  conferr  d 
This  secret  charge  on  Juan,  to  display 

At  once  her  niyal  splendour,  and  reward 
His  services.     He  kiss  d  hands  the  next  day. 

Received  instructions  how  to  play  his  card. 
Was  laden  with  all  kinds  of  gifts  and  honour*. 
Which  show'J  what  great  discernment  was  thedonorV 

XLV  1 1. 
But  she  was  lucky,  and  luck  "s  all.    Vour  queens 

Are  generally  prosperous  in  reigning  ; 
Which  puzzles  us  to  know  what  Fortune  meaiif. 

But  to  continue  :  though  her  vears  were  waning, 
Her  climacteric  teased  her  like  her  teens ; 

And  though  herdigni'y  biookd  no  complaining, 
So  much  did'  Juiu's  setting  od'  distress  her, 
bhe  could  not  find  at  first  a  fit  successor. 


4  Both  Dr.  Baillie  and  John  Abernethy,  the  great  i 
I  geon,  were  remarkable  for  plainnets  of  speech. —  £• 


Canto  X. 


DON  JUAN. 


)65 


XLvm, 

But  time ,  the  comforter,  will  come  at  last ; 

And  four-and-twenty  hours,  and  twice  that  number 
Of  candidates  requesting  to  be  placed, 

Made  Catherine  taste  next  nig^ht  a  quiet  slumber :  — 
Not  that  she  meant  to  fix  again  iu  haste, 

Nor  did  she  find  the  quantity  encumber, 
But  always  choosing  with  deliberation, 
Kept  the  place  open  for  their  emulation. 

XLIX. 

While  this  high  post  of  honour  "s  in  abe_vance, 
For  one  or  two  daj-s,  reader,  we  requ^t 

Fou  '11  m^unt  with  our  youn^  hem  the  conveyance 
Which  wafted  him  from  Petersburgh :  the  best 

Barouche,  which  had  the  glory  to  display  once 
The  fair  czarina's  autocratic  crest, 

When,  a  new  Iphijene,  she  went  to  Tauris, 

Was  given  to  her  fiivourite,»  and  now  iore  his. 

L. 

A  bull-dog,  and  a  bullfinch,  and  an  ermine. 

All  private  favourite^  of  Don  Juan  ;  —  hr 
(Let  deeper  sages  the  true  cause  determine) 

He  had  a  kiud  of  inclination,  or 
Weakness^  for  what  most  peop  e  deem  mere  vermm, 

Live  animals:  an  old  maid  of  threescore 
For  cats  and  birds  more  penchant  neer  displayed, 
Although  he  was  not  old,  uor  even  a  maid ;  — 

LI. 
The  animals  aforesaid  occupied 

'1  heir  station  :  there  were  valets,  secretaries, 
In  other  vehicles ;  but  at  his  side 

Sat  little  Leila,  whi  survived  the  parries 
He  made  'gaiust  Cossacque  sabres,  in  the  wide 

Slaughter  of  Ismail.    Though  my  will  Muse  varies 
Her  note,  she  J'jn  t  forget  the  infant  girl 
Whom  he  preserved,  a  pure  and  living  pearl. 

LIL 

Poor  little  thmg !    She  was  as  fair  as  docile, 
And  with  that  gentle,  serious  character. 

As  rare  in  living  beings  as  a  fassil 
Man,    'midst"  thy  ' mouldy    mammoths,    "grand 

III  fitted  Was  her  ignorance  to  jostle  [Cuvier : ' 

With  thiso"erwhelmiag  world,  where  all  must  err : 

But  she  was  yet  I  ut  ten  years  old,  and  therefore 

Was  tranquil,  though  she  knew  not  why  or  wherefore. 

Lin. 

Don  Juan  loved  her,  and  she  loved  him,  as 
Nor  brother,  father,  sister,  daughter  love. 

I  cannot  tell  exactly  what  it  was; 

He  was  not  vet  quite  old  enough  to  prove 

Parental  feeliiizs,  and  the  other  class, 

Calld  brotherly  affection,  could  not  move 

His  bosom,  —  for  he  never  had  a  sister : 

Ah !  if  he  had,  how  much  he  would  have  miss'd  her ! 

LIV. 
And  still  less  was  it  sensual ;  for  besides 

That  he  was  not  an  accient  debauchee, 
(Who  like  sour  fruit,  to  sir  their  veins'  salt  tides, 

As  acids  rouse  a  dormant  alkali,) 
Although  Ct  will  happen  as  our  planet  guides) 

His  youth  was  not  the  chastest  that  might  be. 
There  was  the  purest  Platonism  at  bottom 
Of  all  his  feelings  —  only  he  forgot  'em. 

LV. 
Just  now  there  was  no  peril  of  temptation  ; 

He  loved  the  infant  orphan  he  had  saved^ 
As  patriots  tnow  and  then)  may  love  a  nation  ; 

his  pride,  too,  felt  that  she  was  not  enslaved 
Owing  to  him  ;  —  as  also  her  salvation 

Throuih  his  means  and  the  church  s  might  be  paved. 
But  one  thin?  s  odd,  which  here  must  be  inserted. 
The  little  Turk  refused  to  be  converted. 


1  The  eiupna*  wtul  to  the  Crimea,  accompauied  by  the 
jiror  Jjwph,  in  Hit  yrar  —  I  fnrgrt  wliirh. 


LVI. 

'T  was  strange  enough  she  should  retain  the  impression 
Through  such   a  scene  of  change,  and  dread,  and 
slaughter ; 

But  though  three  bishops  told  her  the  transgression, 
^he  show"d  a  great  dislike  to  holy  water: 

She  also  had  no  (lassion  for  confetsion ; 

Perhaps  she  had  nothins  to  confess  :  —  no  matter 

Whate'er  the  cause,  the  church  made  little  of  it  — 

She  still  held  out  that  Mahomet  was  a  prophet 

LVIL 

In  fact,  the  only  Christian  she  could  bear 

Was  Juan ;  whom  she  seem"d  to  have  selected 
In  place  of  what  her  ht^me  and  friends  once  were. 

He  naturally  loved  what  he  protected  : 
And  thus  Ihey  form'd  a  rather  curious  pair, 

A  guardian  green  in  years,  a  ward  connected 
In  neither  clirne,  time, 'blood,  with  her  defender  ; 
Aiid  yet  this  want  of  ties  made  theirs  more  tender. 

LVIW. 
They  joiimey'd  on  through  Poland  and  through  War- 
saw, 

Famous  for  mines  of  salt  and  yokes  of  iron : 
Through  Courland  also,  which  that  famous  farce  saw 

Which    gave   her   dukes  the   graceless  name  of 
"Bifon"a 
'T  is  the  same  landscape  which  the  modern  Mars  saw, 

Who  march  d  to  Moscow,  led  by  Fame,  the  sireu  I 
To  lose  by  one  month's  frost  some  twenty  years 
Of  conquest,  and  his  guard  of  grenadiers. 

LIX. 
Let  this  not  seem  an  anti-climax  :  —  "Oh ! 

My  guard  1  my  old  guard  '. "  3  exclaim'd  that  god  of 
chy. 
Think  of  the  Thunderer's  falling  down  below 

Carotid-arter3-cutting  Castlereagh ! 
Alas!  that  glory  should  be  chill'd  by  snow  ! 

Rut  should  we  wish  to  warm  us  on  our  way 
Throuzh  Poland,  there  is  Kosciusko's  name 
Might  scatter  fire  through  ice,  like  Hecla  s  flame. 

LX. 
From  Poland  they  came  on  through  Prussia  Proper, 

And  Konigsberg  the  capital,  whose  vaunt, 
Besides  some  veins  of  iron,  lead,  or  copper, 

Has  lately  been  the  great  Professor  Kant.* 
Juan,  who  cared  not  a  tobacco-stopper 

About  philosophy,  pursued  his  jaunt 
To  Germany,  whose  somewhat  tardy  millions 
Have  princes  who  spur  more  than  their  postilions. 

LXI. 
And  thence  through  Berlin,  Dresden,  and  the  like, 

Until  he  reach'd  the  castellated  Rhine  :  — 
Ye  glorious  Gothic  scenes  !  how  much  ye  strike 

AH  phantasies,  not  even  excepting  mine  j 
A  grey  wall,  a  green  ruin,  rusty  pike. 

Make  my  soul  pass  the  equinoctial  line 
Between  the  present  and  past  worlds,  and  hover 
Upon  their  airy  confine,  half-seas-over. 

LXII. 
But  Juan  posted  on  through  Manheim,  Bonn, 

W  hich  Drachenfels  frowns  over  like  a  spectre 
Of  the  sood  feudal  tinics  for  ever  gone. 

On  which  1  have  not  time  just  now  to  lecture. 


In  the  EropreFS  Anne'?  lime,  Bircn,  her  favourite,  ss- 
led  the  name  and    arms  of  the   "Birons"  of  Franre, 

ch  families  are  yet  extant  with  Ihal  of  Kngland. 
There  are  still  Ihe  diughlera  of  Courland  of  Ihal  name: 

of  them  I  remember  seeing  in  Knglanil,  in  the  bleKsed 
year  of  the  Allies.  (Ibl4)  — the  Durhrss  o  S.  — to  whom 
the  English  Duchess  of  Somerset  presented  me  as  a  name- 
sake. 

3  Napoleon's  exclamation  at  the  Elvsee  Bourbon,  June 
the  23tl,  lal5.— E. 

4  Immanuel  Kant,  Ihe  celebrated  founder  of  a  new 
philosophical  seel,  was  born  at  Koniestwrg.  He  died  ia 
1W4.— E. 


48 


566 


DON  JUAI\ 


[Canto  X. 


From  thence  he  was  drawn  onwards  to  Cologne, 

A  city  which  presents  to  the  inspector 
Eleven'thousand  maidenheads  of  bone, 
The  greatest  number  flesh  hath  ever  known.* 

LXIII, 
From  thence  to  Holland's  Hague  and  Helvoetsluys, 

That  water-land  of  Dutchmen  and  of  ditches. 
Where  juniper  expresses  its  best  juice, 

The  poor  man's  sparkling  substitute  for  riches. 
Senates  and  sa^ss  have  condemned  its  use  — 

But  to  deny  the  mob  a  cordial,  which  is 
Too  often  all  the  clothing,  meat,  or  fuel. 
Good  government  has  left  them,  seems  but  cruel. 

LXIV. 

Hire  he  embirk'd,  and  with  a  fiowinj  sail 
Went  bounding  for  the  island  of  the  free, 

Towards  which  the  impatient  wind  blew  half  a  sale; 
High  dash'd  the  spray,  the  bows  dippd  in  the  sea : 

And  sea-sick  passengers  turn'd  somewhat  pale  ; 
But  Juan,  season'd,  as  he  well  might  be. 

By  former  voyages,  stood  to  watch  the  skitTs 

Which  pass-d,  or  catch  the  fii-st  glimpse  of  the  cliffs. 

LXV. 

At  length  they  rose,  like  a  white  wall  along 
The  blue  sea's  border;  and  Don  Juan  felt  — 

What  even  young  stranrers  feel  a  little  strong 
At  the  hrst  sight  of  Albions  chalky  belt  — 

A  kind  of  pride  that  he  should  be  among 
Those  haughty  shopkeepers,  who  sternlv  dealt 

Their  goods  and  edicts  out  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  made  the  very  billows  pay  them  to:l. 

LXVI. 

I  've  no  great  cause  to  love  that  spot  of  earth. 
Which  holds  what  might  have  been  the  noblest 
nation  ; 

But  tho>jgh  I  owe  it  little  but  my  birth, 
I  feel  a  mix'd  regret  and  veneration 

For  its  decaying  fame  and  former  worth. 
Seven  years  (the  usual  term  of  transportation) 

Of  absence  lay  one's  old  resentments  level. 

When  a  man's  country 's  going  to  the  devil. 

LXVII. 

Alas !  could  she  but  fully,  truly,  know 

How  her  ereat  name  is  now  throughout  abhorr'd  ; 
How  eoser  all  the  earth  is  for  the  blow 

Which  shall  lay  bare  her  bosom  to  the  sword  j 
How  all  the  nations  deem  her  their  worst  foe, 

That  worse  than  worst  of  foes,  the  once  alored 
False  friend,  who  held  out  freedom  to  mankind. 
And  now  would  chain  them,  to  the  very  mind  ;  — 

LXVIH. 

Would  she  be  proud,  or  boast  herself  the  free. 
Who  is  but  first  of  slaves  ?    The  nations  are 

In  prison,  —  but  the  gaoler,  what  is  he  ? 
No  less  a  victim  to  the  bolt  and  bar. 

Is  the  poor  privilege  to  turn  the  key 
Upon  the  captive,  freedom  ?     He  's  as  far 

From  the  enjoyment  of  the  earth  and  air 

Who  watches  o'er  the  chain,  as  they  who  wear. 

LXIX. 
Don  Juan  now  saw  Albion's  earliest  beauties, 

Thy  clitls,  dear  Dover !  harbour,  and  hotel ; 
Thy  custom-house,  with  all  its  delicate  duties  j 

Thy  W3  ters  running  mucks  at  every  bell  ; 
Thy  packets,  all  wnose  passengers  are  booties 

To  those  who  upon  land  or  water  dwell ; 
And  last,  not  least,  to  strangers  uninstructed. 
Thy  long,  long  bills,  whence  nothing  is  deducted. 


it 


SI.  Urs  ila  ! 


her  < 


LXX. 

Juan,  though  careless,  young,  and  magnifique, 
And  rich  in  rubles,  d'iamonds.  cash,  aud  crejlt, 

WIk)  did  not  limit  much  his  bills  per  week, 
Yet  stared  at  this  a  little,  thou;h  he  paid  it,  — 

(His  Maggior  Duomo,  a  smart,  subtle  Greek, 

Before  him  summ'd  the  awful  scroll  and  read  it:) 

But  doubtless  as  the  air,  thouzh  seldom  sunny, 

Is  free,  the  respiration  "s  worth  the  money. 

LXXI. 

On  with  the  horses  !     Off  to  Canterbury  ! 

Tramp,  trampoer  pebble,  and  splash,  splash  throuRh 
puddle; 
Hurrah  !  how  swiftly  speeds  the  post  so  merry ! 

Not  like  slow  Germany,  wherein  they  muddle 
Along  the  road,  as  if  they  went  to  bury 

■|  heir  fare  :  and  also  pause  besides,  to  fuddle, 
With  " schn.-ipps "  —  sad  dogs!  whom  "Mundsfot," 


or  "Verflucter, 
Affect  no  more  than  lightn 


;  a  conductor. 


LXXII. 

Now  there  is  nothing  gives  a  man  such  spirits, 
Leavening  his  blood  as  cayenne  doth  a  curry, 

As  going  atTull  speed  —  no  matter  where  its 
Direction  be,  so  'tis  but  in  a  hurry. 

And  merely  for  the  sake  of  its  own  merits ; 
For  the  less  cause  there  is  for  a'l  this  flurry, 

The  greater  is  the  pleasure  in  arriving. 

At  the  great  end  of  travel  —  which  is  driving. 

LXXIII. 
They  saw  at  Canterbury  the  cathedral ; 

Black  Edward's  helm, 2  and  Beckefs  bloody stone,» 
Were  (Kiinted  out  as  usual  by  the  bedral. 

In  the  same  quaint,  uninterested  tone :  — 
There  s  glon,-  again  for  you,  gentle  reader  !    All 

Ends  in  a  fusty  casque"  and  dubious  bone, 
Half-solved  into  those  sodas  or  magnesias. 
Which  form  that  bitter  draught,  the  human  species. 

LXXIV. 

The  effect  on  Juan  was  of  course  sublime : 
He  breathed  a  thousand  Cressys,  as  he  saw 

That  casque,  «  hich  never  stoop'd  except  to  Time. 
Even  the  bold  Churchman's  tomb  excited  awe, 

Who  died  in  the  then  great  attempt  to  cUmb 
O'er  kinss,  who  now  at  least  must  talk  of  law 

Before  they  butcher.     Little  Leila  gazed. 

And  ask'd  why  such  a  structure  had  been  raised  : 

LXXV, 

And  being  told  it  was  "God's  house,"  she  said 
He  was  well  lodged,  but  only  wonder'd  how 

He  suffer'd  Infidels  in  his  homestead, 
'I  he  cruel  Nazarenes,  who  had  laid  low 

His  holy  temples  in  the  lands  which  bred 
The  True  Relievers ;  —  and  her  infant  brow 

Was  bent  with  grief  that  Mahomet  should  resign 

A  mosque  so  noble,  flung  like  pearls  to  swine. 

LXXVI. 

On !  on !  through  meadows,  managed  like  a  garden, 
A  paradise  of  hops  and  high  production ; 

For,  after  years  of  travel  by  "a  bard  in 
Countries  of  greater  heat,  but  lesser  suction,' 

A  green  field  is  a  sight  which  makes  him  pardon 
The  absence  of  that  more  sublime  construction  I 

Which  mixes  up  vines,  olives,  precipices, 

Glaciers,  volcanoes,  oranges,  and  ices. 


2  On  the  tomb  of  the  prince  lies  a  wholr-lenglh  braf 
figuie  i)f  him,  hisarmnur  with  a  hood  of  mail,  and  a  sknl 
nrifhed  with  a  coronet,  which  has  been  once  studded 


3  Becket  was  assassinated  ; 


I  the  cathedral,  i 


Canto  X.] 


DON  JUAN. 


LXXVII. 
At~'  when  I  think  upon  a  pot  of  beer 

B:it  I  won't  weep  !  —  and  so  drive  on,  postilions  ! 
As  the  smart  boys  spurr'd  fast  in  their  career, 

Juan  admired'  these  hishways  of  free  millions ; 
A  country  in  all  senses  the  most  dear 

To  foreisner  or  native,  save  some  silly  ones, 
Who  "kiclt  against  the  pricks  "just  at  this  juncture, 
And  for  their  pains  get  only  a  fresh  puncture. 

Lxxvur. 

What  a  delightful  thing's  a  turnpike  road  ! 

So  smooth,  so  level,  such  a  mode  of  shaving 
The  earth,  as  scarce  the  eajle  in  the  broad 

Air  can  accomplish,  with  his  wide  winscs  waving. 
Had  such  been  cut  in  Phaeton's  time,  the  god 

Had  told  his  son  to  satisfy  his  craving 
With  the  York  mail ;  —  but  onward  as  we  roll, 
''  Surgit  amari  aliquid  "  —  the  toll ! 

LXXIX. 
Alas !  how  deeply  painful  is  all  payment !      [purses. 

Take  lives,  take  wives,  take  aught  except  men's 
As  Machiavel  shows  those  in  purple  raiment, 

Such  is  the  shortest  way  to  general  curses. 
They  hate  a  murderer  much  less  than  a  claimant 

On  that  sweet  ore  which  every  body  nurses. — 
Kill  a  man's  family,  and  he  may  brook  it, 
But  keep  your  hands  out  of  his  breeches'  pocket: 

LXXX. 
So  said  the  Florentine :  ye  monarchs,  hearken 

To  your  instructor.  Juan  now  was  borne. 
Just  as  the  day  began  to  wane  and  darken. 

O'er  the  high  hill,  which  looks  with  pride  or  scorn 
Toward  the  great  city.  —Ye  who  have  a  spark  in 

Your  veins  of  Cockney  spirit,  smile  or  mourn 
According  as  you  take  tHings  well  or  ill ; 
Bold  Britons,"we  are  now  on  Shooter's  Hill  I 

LXXXI. 
The  sun  went  down,  the  smoke  rose  up,  as  from 

A  half-unquench'd  volcano,  o'er  a  space 
Which  well  beseem'd  the  "  Devil's  drawing-room," 

As  some  have  qualitied  that  wondrous  place  : 
But  Juan  felt,  though  not  approaching  home, 

As  one  who,  though  he  were  not  of  the  race. 
Revered  the  soil,  of  those  true  sons  the  mother, 
Who  butcherd  half  the  earth,  and  bullied  t'  other.* 

LXXXII. 
A  mighty  mass  of  brick,  and  smoke,  and  shipping. 

Dirty  and  dusky,  but  as  wide  as  eye 
Could  reach,  with  here  and  there  a  sail  just  skipping 

In  sight,  then  lost  amidst  the  forestry 
Of  masts ;  a  wilderness  of  steeples  peeping 

On  tiptoe  through  their  sea-coal  canopy  ; 
A  huge,  dun  cupola,  like  a  foolscap  crown 
On  a  fool's  head  —  and  there  is  London  Town ! 

Lxxxnr. 

But  Juan  saw  not  this :  each  wreath  of  smoke 

Appear'd  to  him  but  as  the  magic  vapour 
Of  some  alchymic  furnace,  from  whence  broke 

/"he  wealth  of  worlds  (a  wealth  of  tax  and  paper) : 
T^e  gloomy  clouds,  which  o'er  it  as  a  yoke 

Are  bow'd,  and  put  the  sun  out  like  a  taper, 
Were  nothin?  but  tLe  natural  atmosphere, 
Extremely  wholesome,  though  but  rarely  clear, 

LXXXIV. 
He  paused  —  and  so  will  I ;  as  doth  a  crew 

Before  they  give  their  broadside.    By  and  by, 
My  gentle  countrymen,  we  will  renew 

Our  old  acquaintance ;  and  at  least  1  '11  try 
To  tell  you  truths  you  will  not  take  as  true, 

Because  they  are  so  ;  —  a  male  Mrs.  Fry,» 
With  a  soft  besom  will  I  sweep  your  halls. 
And  brush  a  web  or  two  from  ofi  your  walls. 


1  India;  Amerka.— G. 

2  I  he  Quaker  lady,  whose  twnevolent  exertionB  have 
effected  so  great  a  change  in  the  condition  of  the  female 
pribouerb  in  Newgale.—  E. 


Oh  Mrs.  Fry  !     Why  go  to  Newgate  ?    Why  \ 

Preach  to  poor  rosrues  ?    And  Wherefore  not  begiQ  >. 

With  Carlton,  or  with  other  houses?    Try 
Your  hand  at  harden'd  and  imperial  sin. 

To  mend  the  people  s  an  absurdity, 
A  jargon,  a  mere  philanthropic  din. 

Unless  you  make  their  betters  better  :  —  Fy ! 

1  thought  you  had  more  religion,  Mrs.  Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach  them  the  decencies  of  good  threescore , 

Cure  them  of  tours,  hussar  and  highland  dresses;  | 

Tell  them  that  youth  once  gone  returns  no  more,  i 

That  hired  huzzas  redeem  no  land  s  distresses  j  i 

Tell  them  Sir  William  Curtis^  is  a  bore,  [ 

Too  dull  even  for  the  dullest  of  excesses,  ', 

The  witless  Falstaif  of  a  hoary  Hal,  ' 

A  fool  whose  bells  have  ceased  to  ring  at  all. 


Lxxxvir, 

Tell  them,  though  it  may  1  e  perhaps  too  late 
On  life's  worn  confine,  jaded,  bloated,  sated, 

To  set  up  vain  pretences  of  being  great, 
' T  is  not  so  to  be  good ;  and  be  it  stated, 

The  worthiest  kings  have  ever  loved  least  state  ; 
And  tell  them But  you  won't,  and  1  have  prated 

Just  now  enough  ;  but  by  and  by  1  'II  prattle 

Like  Roland  s  horn  in  Roncesvalles'  battle. 


CANTO  THE  ELEVENTH. 
I. 

When  Bishop  Berkeley  said  "  there  was  no  matter," 
And  proved  it  —  't  was  no  matter  what  he  said  : 

They  say  his  system  't  is  in  vain  to  batter, 
'J'oo  subtle  for  the  airiest  human  head  : 

And  yet  who  can  believe  it  ?    I  would  shatter 
Gladly  all  matters  down  to  stone  or  lead. 

Or  adamant,  to  find  the  world  a  spirit, 

And  wear  my  head,  denying  that  I  wear  it. 

n. 

What  a  sublime  discovery  t  was  to  make  the 

Universe  universal  egotism, 
That  all 's  ideal  —  all  ourselves ;  I  '11  stake  the 

World  (be  it  what  vou  will)  that  tliat  's  no  schism  : 
Oh  Doubt !  —  if  thou  be'st  Doubt,  for  which  some  take 
thee, 

But  which  I  doubt  extremely  —  thou  sole  prism 
Of  the  Truth's  ravs,  spoil  not  my  draught  of  spirit! 
Heaven's  brandy,  though  our  brain  can  hardly  bear  it. 

HL 

For  ever  and  anon  comes  Indigestion, 
(Not  the  most  "  dainty  Arief,'*)  and  perplexes 

Our  soarings  with  another  sort  of  question  : 
And  that  which  after  all  my  spirit  vexes. 

Is,  that  I  find  no  spot  where  man  can  rest  eye  on, 
Without  confusion  of  the  sorts  and  sexes. 

Of  beinjs,  stars,  and  this  unriddled  wonder. 

The  world,  which  at  the  worst 's  t  glorious  blunder 

IV. 
If  it  be  chance ;  or  if  it  be  according 

To  the  old  text,  still  better :  —  lest  it  should 
Turn  out  so,  we  '11  say  nothing  'gainst  the  wording. 

As  several  people  think  such  hazards  rude. 
They  're  right ;  our  days  are  too  brief  for  affording 

Space  to  dispute  what  no  07ie  ever  could 
Decide,  and  eve>-y  body  one  day  w;ill 
Know  very  clearly  —  or  at  least  lie  still. 


S  This  worthy  alderman  died  i 


568 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  XI. 


And  therefore  will  I  leave  off  metaphysical 
Discussion,  w  hich  is  neither  here  nor  there : 

If  I  agree  that  what  is,  is ;  then  this  I  call 
Beinsr  quite  perspicuous  and  extremely  fair; 

The  truth  is,  I  've  ^rown  lately  rather  phthisical : 
I  don't  know  u  hat  the  reason  is  —  the  air 

Perhaps ;  but  as  I  suffer  from  the  shocks 

Of  illness,  I  grow  much  more  orthodox. 

VI. 

The  first  attack  at  once  proved  the  Diviuity 
(But  that  1  never  doubted,  nor  the  Devil); 

The  next,  the  Virgin's  nivs'ical  virginity; 
Tfie  third,  the  usual  Orisin  of  Evil ; 

The  fourth  at  once  established  the  whole  Trinity 
On  so  uncontrovertible  a  level, 

That  I  devoutly  wish'd  the  three  were  four, 

On  purpose  to  believe  so  much  the  more. 

VII. 

To  our  theme.  —  The  man  who  has  stood  on  the 
Acropolis, 

And  look'd  down  over  Attica ;  or  he 
Who  has  sail'd  where  picturesque  Constantinople  is, 

Or  seen  Timbuctoo,  or  hath  taken  tea 
In  small-eyed  China's  cmckerr-ware  metropolis, 

Or  sat  ahiidst  the  bricks  of  Nineveh, 
May  not  think  much  of  London's  first  appearance  — 
But  ask  him  what  be  thinks  of  it  a  year  hence  ? 

VIII. 
Don  Tuan  had  eot  out  on  Shooter's  Hill ; 

Sunset  the  time,  the  place  the  same  declivity 
Which  looks  along  that  vale  of  jood  and  ill 

Where  London  streets  fermenf  in  full  activity; 
While  every  thing:  around  was  calm  and  still. 

Except  the  creak  of  wheels,  which  on  their  pivot  he 
Heard,  —and  that  bee-like,  bubbling,  busy  hum 
Of  cities,  that  boil  over  with  their  scum  :  — 

IX. 

I  say,  Don  Juan,  wrapt  in  contemplation, 

U'alk'd  on  behind  his  carriage,  o'er  the  summit, 

And  lost  in  wonder  of  so  great  a  nation, 
Gave  way  to  't,  since  he  could  not  overcome  it. 

"  And  here,"  he  cried,  '■  is  Freedom's  chosen  station; 
Here  peals  the  people's  voice,  nor  can  entomb  it 

Racks,  prisons,  inquisitions  ;  resurrection 

Awaits  it,  each  new  meeting  or  f:lection. 


"  Here  are  chaste  wives,  pure  lives;  here  |?ecpie  pay 

But  what  they  please ;  and  if  that  things  be  dear, 
T  is  only  that  tl.ey  love  to  throw  avv:iy 

Their  cash,  to  show  how  mucli  they  have  a  year. 
Here  laws  are  all  inviolate;  none  iiy 

Traps  for  the  travel'er:  every  Mghway  's  clear: 
Here  —  "  he  was  iuierruptpd  by  a  knifo. 
With, —  "Damn  yoar  eyes!  your  n.oney  or  your 
life !  "  — 

XL 
These  freebom  sounds  proceeded  from  four  pads 

In  ambush  laid,  who  had  perceived  him  loiter 
Behind  his  carriage  ;  and,  like  handy  lads. 

Had  seized  the  fiicky  hour  to  reconnoitre, 
In  which  the  heedless  gentleman  who  gads 

Upon  the  road,  unless  he  prove  a  fighter, 
May  find  himself  within  that  isle  of  riches 
Exposed  to  lose  his  life  as  well  as  breeches. 

XIL 
Juan,  who  did  not  understand  a  word 

Of  English,  save  their  shibboleth,  "  Cod  damn!  "J 
And  even  that  he  had  so  rarely  heard, 

H'-  sometimes  thought  't  was  only  their  "  Salam," 
Or  '  God  he  with  you  !  "  —  and  't  is  not  absurd 

To  think  so  :  for  half  English  as  I  am 
(To  my  misfortune)  never  can  I  say 
I  heard  them  wish  "God  with  you," save  that  way  ;— 


Juan  yet  quickly  understood  their  gesture, 

And  being  somewhat  choleric  and  sudden. 
Drew  forth  a  pocket-pistol  from  his  vesture. 

And  fired  it  into  one  assailant's  pudding  — 
■Who  fell,  as  rolls  an  ox  o'er  in  his  pasture, 

And  roar'd  out,  as  he  writhed  his  native  mud  in, 
Unto  his  nearest  follower  or  henchman, 
"  Oh  Jack  !  I  'm  floor 'd  by  that  'ere  bloody  French- 
man ! " 

XIV. 
On  which  Jack  and  his  tram  set  off  at  speed, 

And  Juan's  suite,  late  scatter  d  at  a  distance. 
Came  up  all  marvelling  at  such  a  deed. 

And  otJerin?,  as  usual,  late  assistance. 
Juan,  who  sav>  the  moon's  late  minion  blesii 

As  if  his  veins  would  pour  out  his  existence, 
Stood  callinj  out  for  bandages  and  lint, 
And  wish'd  he  had  been  less  hasty  with  his  flint. 

XV. 
"  Perhaps,'"  thought  he,  "  it  is  the  country's  wont 

To  welcome  foreigners  in  this  way;  now 
I  recollect  some  innkeepers  who  don't 

Differ,  except  in  robbing  with  a  bow, 
In  lieu  of  a  bare  blade  and  brazen  front. 

But  what  is  to  be  done  ?     I  can't  aU"w 
The  fellow  to  lie  groaning  on  the  road ; 
So  take  him  up ;  1  '11  help  you  with  the  lo«d." 

XVL 

But  ere  they  could  perform  this  pious  duty, 
The  dying  man  cried,  "  Hold  !  I  've  got  my  gruel ! 

Oh  !  for  a  glass  of  inax  '.  i    VVe  "ve  miss'd  our  booty ; 
Let  me  die  where  I  am  ! "    And  as  the  fuel 

Of  life  shrunk  in  his  heart,  and  thick  and  sooty 
The  d  rops  fall  from  his  death-wound,  and  he  drew  ill 

His  breath,  —  he  from  his  swelling  throat  untied 

A  kerchief,  cr)'ing,  "  Give  Sal  that  1  "  —  and  died. 

XVIL 

The  cravat  stain'd  with  bloody  drops  fell  down 

Before  Don  Juan's  feet :  he  could  not  tell 
Exactly  why  it  was  before  him  thrown. 

Nor  what  the  meaning  of  the  man's  farewell. 
Poor  Tom  was  once  a  kiddy  2  upon  town, 

A  thorough  varmint,  and  a  rtal  swell, 3 
Full  flash, 1  all  fancy,  until  fairly  diddled. 
His  pockets  first  and  then  his  body  riddled. 

XVIII. 
Don  Juan,  having  done  the  best  he  could 

In  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case. 
As  soon  as  "  Crowner's  quest"  5  allow'd,  pursued 

His  travels  to  the  capi'al  apace  ;  — 
Esteeming  it  a  iittle  hard  he  should 

In  twelve  hours'  time,  and  very  little  space. 
Have  been  obliged  to  slay  a  freebom  native 
In  self-defence :  this  made  him  meditative, 

XIX. 
He  from  the  world  had  cut  off  a  great  man, 

Who  in  his  time  had  made  heroic  bustle. 
Who  in  a  row  like  Tom  could  lead  the  van. 

Booze  in  the  ken,6  or  at  the  spellken  i  hustle  ? 


IGiD,  or  Hollands.— E. 

2  A  thief  of  ttie  lower  order,  who.  when  he  is  breechei 
by  a  course  of  successful  depredation,  dreiiees  in  the  ex- 
treme of  vulgar  genliliiy,  and  affects  a  knowingness  in 
his  air  and  conversation,  which  renders  hiin  in  reality  an 
object  of  ridicule. —  E. 


4  A  fellow  who   affects    any  particnlar  habit,  as  swear- 
ng,   dressing  in   a    particular    manner,  tailing   snutt  &c 
nerely  to  be  noticed,  is  said  to  do  it  out  oC  Jiash. —  E. 
6"2iCloicn.     But  is  this  law? 

Isl  Ctown,     Ay  marry  is 't;  crowner's  quest  taw. " — 
HAMLET.— E. 
0  A  house  that  harbours  thieves  is  called  a  ken.     7  The 
rIayhuus.-.-E. 


Canto  XI.] 


DON  JUAN. 


569 


Who  queer  a  flat?  •  Who  (spite  of  Bow-street's  baa) 

On  the  high  toby-spice'  so  flash  the  muzzle  ? 
Who  oa  a  lark,3  with  black-eyed  Sal  (his  blowing),* 
So  prime,  so  swell,'  so  nutty,!"  and  so  knowing?  " 

XX. 
But  Tom  "s  no  more  —  and  so  no  more  of  Tom. 

Heroes  must  die ;  and  by  God's  blessing  't  is 
Not  long  before  the  most  of  them  go  home. 

Hail  !   I  hamis,  hail  I  Upon  thy  verge  it  is 
That  Juan's  chariot,  rolling  like  a  drum 

In  thunder,  holds  Ihe  way  it  can't  well  miss, 
1  hrough  Keunington  and  a  1  Ihe  other  "  tons," 
Which  make  us  wish  ourselves  iu  town  at  once ;  — 

XXI. 
Tbroufh  Groves,  so  call'd  as  being  void  of  trees, 

(LikeZucuifroni  no  light) ;  through  prospects  named 
Jlount  Pleasant,  as  containing  nought  to  please. 

Nor  much  to  climb;  through  little  boxes  framed 
Of  bricks,  to  let  the  dust  in  at  your  ease. 

With  "  To  be  let,"  upon  their  doors  proclaim'd  ; 
Through  "Rows"  most  modestly  call  d  "Paradise," 
Which  Eve  might  quit  without  much  sacrifice;  — 

XXII. 
Through  coaches,  drays,  choked  turnpikes,  and  a  whirl 

Of  wheels,  and  roar  of  voices,  and  confusion ; 
Here  taverns  wooing  to  a  pint  of  purl. 

There  mai's  fast  flying  off  like  a  delusion  ; 
There  barbers'  blocks  with  periwigs  in  curl 

In  windows ;  here  the  lamp-lighter's  infusion 
Siowly  distilld  into  the  glimmering  glass 
(For  in  those  days  we  haH  not  got  to  gas  — ) ;  * 

XXIII. 
Throush  this,  and  much,  and  more,  is  the  approach 

Of  travellers  to  mighty  Babylon  : 
Whether  they  come  by  horse,  or  chaise,  or  coach, 

With  slight  exceptions,  all  the  ways  seem  one. 
I  could  say  more,  but  do  not  choose  to  encroach 

Upon  the  Guide-book's  privilege.  T  he  sun 
Had  set  same  time,  and  night  was  on  the  ridge 
Of  twilight,  as  the  party  cross 'd  the  bridge. 

XXIV. 
That 's  rather  fine,  the  gentle  sound  of  Thamis  — 

Who  vindicates  a  moment,  too,  his  s'ream  — 
Though   hardly  heard  through  multifanous  "dam- 
me's.'' 

The  lamps  of  Westminster's  more  regular  gleam. 
The  breadth  of   pavement,  and  yon  shrine  where 

A  spectral  resident  —  whose  pallid  beam     [fame  is 
In  shape  of  moonshine  hovers  o'er  the  pile  — 
Make  this  a  sacred  part  of  Albion's  isle. 


1  10  puzzle  or  confound  a  gull,  or  silly  fellow.  2  Rol>- 
bery  nu  horerback.  3  Fua  or  sport  of  any  kind.  4  A 
pickpocket's  trull.  6  So  geoilemauly.  See  Slang  Die- 
tionarg.—  R. 

6  To  be  nuts  upon,  is  to  be  very  much  pleased  nr  grati- 
fied with  any  Ihiog :  thuK,  a  person  who  conceives  a 
Strang  iDcliuation  for  amlher  of  Ihe  opposite  fex  is  said 
to  be  quite  nutty  upon  him  or  her.—  Slang  Die— E. 

7  The  advance  of  science  and  of  language  has  rendered 
it  unnecessary  to  translate  the  above  good  and  true  Eng- 
lish, spoken  in  its  original  purity  by  ihe  select  mobility 
and  their  patrons.  The  following  is  a  stanza  of  a  song, 
which  was  very  popular,  at  least  in  my  eaily  days  :— 

On  the  high  toby-spice  flash  the  muzzle, 

In  spite  of  each  gallows  old  scoul; 
If  ycu  at  the  sprllken  can't  hustle. 

You  'II  be  hobbled  in  making  a  Clout. 
Then  yiur  Blowing  will  wax  gallnws  haughty, 

When  she  hears  of  your  s.aly  mistake, 
She  'II  surely  turn  snitch  for  the  forty  — 
Th^t  her  Jack  may  be  regular  weight." 
If  there  be  any  gemman  so  ignorant  as  to  require  a  tra- 
duction, I  refer  him  to  :ny  old  friend  and  corporeal  pastor 
and    master,  J<jhn    Jackson.  Esq.,  Professor  of  Pugilism; 
who,  I  tiust,  slill  r.'ta'iis  the  strength  and  symmetry  of 
his  m'Klel  of  u  form,  together  with  his  good  humour,  and 
athletic  as  well  as  mental  accomplishments. 

8  The  plreets  of  London  were  first  regularly  lighted 
with  gas  in  1812.— E. 


4d 


XXV. 

The  Druids'  groves  are  gone  —  so  much  the  tetter . 

Stone-Henge  is  not— but  what  the  devil  is  it?  — 
But  Bedlam  still  exists  with  its  sage  fetter. 

That  madmen  may  not  bite  you  on  a  visit ; 
The  Bench  too  seats  or  suits  full  many  a  debtor ; 

The  Mansion  House  too  (though  some  people  quiz  it) 
To  me  appears  a  stifl  yet  grand  erection  ; 
But  then  the  Abbey  s  worth  the  whole  collection. 

XXVI. 

The  line  of  lights,  too,  up  to  Charing  Cross, 
Fall  Mall,  a"nd  so  forth,  have  a  coruscation 

Like  gold  as  in  comparison  to  dross, 

Match'd  with  the  Continents  illumination. 

Whose  cities  Nizht  by  no  means  deigns  to  gloss. 
The  French  were  not  yet  a  lamp-lighting  nation. 

And  when  they  grew  so-^on  their  new-found  lantern, 

Instead  of  wicks,  they  made  a  wicked  man  turn. 

XXVII. 

A  row  of  gentlemen  along  the  streets 

Suspended,  may  illuminate  mankind. 
As  also  boiifires  made  of  country-seats  ; 

But  the  old  way  is  best  for  the  purblind : 
The  other  looks  like  phosphorus  on  sheets, 

A  sort  of  ignis  fatuus  to  the  mind. 
Which,  though  't  is  certain  to  perplex  and  frighten, 
Must  burn  more  mildly  ere  it  can  enlighten. 

XXVIII, 

But  London 's  so  well  lit,  that  if  Diogenes 
Could  recommence  to  hunt  his  honest  man. 

And  f-iund  him  not  amidst  the  various  progenies 
Of  this  enormous  city's  spreading  spawn, 

'T  were  not  for  want  of  lamps  to  aid  his  dodging  his 
Yet  undiscoverd  treasure.     What  /  can, 

I  've  done  to  find  the  same  throughout  life's  journey, 

But  see  the  world  is  only  one  attorney. 

XXIX. 

Over  the  stones  still  rattling,  up  Pall  Mall, 

'I  hrouzh  crowds  and  carriages,  but  waxing  thinner 

As  thunder  d  knockers  broke  the  long-seal'd  spell 
Of  doors  'gainst  duns,  and  to  an  eajly  dinner 

Admitted  a  small  party  as  night  fell,  — 
Don  Juan,  our  young  dijilomatic  sinner. 

Pursued  his  path,' and  drove  past  some  hotels, 

St.  James's  Palace  and  St.  James's  "  Hells."  » 

XXX. 

They  reach'd  the  hotel :  forth  stream 'd  from  the  front 
door 

A  tide  of  well-clad  waiters,  and  around 
The  mob  stood,  and  as  usual  several  score 

Of  those  pedestrian  Papbi.ons  who  abound 
In  decent  London  when  the  daylight  s  o'er; 

Commodious  I  ut  immoral,  they  are  found 
Useful,  like  Malthus.  in  promoting  marriage.— 
But  Juan  now  is  stepping  from  his  carriage 

XXXI. 

Into  one  of  the  sweetest  of  hotels. 
Especially  for  foreigners  —  and  mostly 

For  those  whom  favour  or  whom  fortune  swells, 
And  cannot  find  a  bill's  small  items  costly. 

There  many  an  envoy  either  dwelt  or  dwells 
(Ihe  den  of  many  a  diplomatic  bst  lie'. 

Until  to  some  conspicuous  square  they  pass. 

And  blaznn  o'er  the  door  their  names  in  brass. 

9  "  Hells,"  gaming-houses.  What  their  number  may 
now  he,  in  this  life,  I  know  not.  Before  I  was  of  age  I 
knew  them  pretty  accurately,  bulh  "goM  "  and  silver." 
[  was  once  nearly  called  out  by  an  acquaintance,  because 
when  he  asked  me  where  I  thought  that  his  soul  woaU 
be  found  hereafter,  I  answered,  '•  In  Silver  Hell." 


570 


DOr^   JUAJN. 


[Canto  XI. 


XXXII. 

Ju:\n,  whose  was  a  delicate  commission, 
Private,  though  publicly  important,  bore 

No  title  to  point  out  with  due  precision 
The  exact  affair  on  which  he  was  sent  o'er. 

"1  was  merely  known,  that  on  a  secret  mission 
A  foreifrner  of  rank  had  jraced  our  shore, 

Youns,  handsome,  and  accomplished,  who  was  said 

(In  whispers)  to  have  turn'd  his  sovereign's  head. 

XXXIII. 

Some  rua  our  also  of  some  strange  adventures 
Had  gone  before  him,  and  his  wars  and  loves; 

And  as  romantic  heads  are  pretty  painters. 
And,  above  all,  an  Englishwoman's  roves 

Into  the  excursive,  breaking  the  indentures 
Of  siber  reason,  wheresoe'er  it  moves, 

He  found  himself  extremely  in  the  fashion, 

Which  serves  our  thinking  people  for  a  passion. 

XXXIV. 

I  don't  mean  that  they  are  passionless,  but  quite 
The  contrary  ;  but  then  t  is  in  the  head  ; 

Yet  as  the  consequences  are  as  bright 
As  if  they  acted  with  the  heart  instead, 

What  after  all  can  signify  the  site 
Of  ladies'  lucubrations  ?    So  they  lead 

In  safety  to  the  place  for  which  you  start, 

What  matters  if  the  road  be  head  or  heart? 

XXXV. 

Juan  presented  in  the  proper  place. 

To  proper  placemen,  every  Russ  credential  } 

And  was  received  with  all  the  due  grimace, 
By  those  who  govern  in  the  mood  potential. 

Who,  seeing  a  handsome  stripling  with  smooth  face, 
Thought  (what  in  state  affairs  is  most  essential) 

That  they  as  easily  might  do  the  youngster. 

As  hawks  may  pounce  upon  a  woodland  songster. 

XXXVI. 

They  err 'd,  as  aged  men  will  do  ;  but  by 
And  by  we  'II  talk  of  that ;  and  if  we'  don't, 

Twill  be  because  our  notion  is  not  hish 
Of  politicians  and  their  double  front. 

Who  live  by  lies,  yet  dare  not  boldly  lie  :  — 
Now  what  I  love  in  women  is,  they  wont 

Or  can't  do  otherwise  tlian  lie,  but  do  it 

So  well,  the  very  truth  seems  falsehood  to  it. 

XXXVII. 

And,  after  all,  what  is  a  lie  ?    'T  is  but 

The  truth  in  masquerade  ;  and  1  defy 
Historians,  heroes,  lawyers,  priert?,  to  put 

A  fact  without  some  ieiveh  of  ;t  )fe. 
The  very  shadow  of  true  Truiii  'Ruuiu  shut 

Up  annals,  revelations,  poesy. 
And  prophecy  —  except  it  shnuld  be  dated 
Some  years  before  the  incidents  related. 

XXXVIII. 

Praised  be  all  liars  and  all  lies !     Who  now 

Can  tax  my  mild  Muse  with  misanthropy  ? 
She  rin?s  the' world's  "  Te  Deum,"  and  her  brow 

Rlushes  for  those  who  will  not :  —  but  to  sigh 
Is  idle  ;  let  us  like  mnst  others  bow, 

Kiss  hands,  feet,  any  part  of  majesty. 
After  the  sood  example  of  "Green  Erm," 
Whose  shamrock  now  seems  rather  worse  for  wear- 
ing. 

XXXIX. 
Don  Juan  was  presented,  and  his  dress 

And  mien  excited  ??neral  admiration  — 
I  don't  know  which  was  more  admired  or  less: 


(In  love  or  brandy's  fervent  fermentation) 
Be'-tow'd  upon  hini,  as  the  public  learn'd  ; 
And,  to  say  truth,  it  had  been  f.\iriy  earn'd. 


XL. 

Besides  the  ministers  and  underlinis. 

Who  must  be  courteous  to  the  accredited 
Diplomatists  of  rather  wavering  kings, 

Until  their  royal  riddle's  fully  read. 
The  very  clerks,  —  those  somewhat  dirty  springs 

Of  office,  or  the  house  of  off:ce,  fed 
By  foul  corruption  into  streams,  —  even  they 
Were  liardly  rude  enough  to  earn  their  pay : 

XLI. 
And  insolence  no  doubt  is  what  they  are 

Employ'd  for,  since  it  is  their  daily  labour, 
In  the  dear  offices  of  peace  or  war; 

And  should  you  doubt,  pray  ask  of  your  next  neigh* 
bour. 
When  for  a  passport,  or  some  other  bar 

To  freedom,  he  applied  (a  grief  and  a  bore), 
If  he  found  not  this  spawn  of  taxborn  riches, 
Like  lap-dogs,  the  least  civil  sons  of  b s. 

XLIL 

But  Juan  was  received  with  much  "  empressement  :"— 
Ihese  phrases  of  refinement  1  must  borrow 

From  our  next  neighbours'  land,  w  here,  like  a  chess- 
man. 
There  is  a  move  set  down  for  joy  or  sorrow 

Not  only  in  mere  talking,  but  the  press.     Man 
In  islands  is,  it  seems,  downright  and  thorough, 

More  than  on  continents  —  as  if  the  sea 

(See  Billingsgate)  made  even  the  tongue  more  free. 

XLIII. 

And  yet  the  British  "  Damme "'s  rather  Attic; 

Your  continental  oaths  are  but  incontinent, 
And  turn  on  things  which  no  aristocratic 

Spirit  would  name,  and  therefore  even  I  won't  anentl 
This  subject  quote  ;  as  it  wouli  be  schismatic 

In  polilesse,  and  have  a  sound  affronting  in  't :  — 
But  "  Damme  "  's  quite  ethereal,  though  too  daring- 
Platonic  blasphemy,  the  soul  of  swearing. 

XLIV. 
For  downright  rudeness,  ye  may  stay  at  home  j 

For  true  or  false  politeness  (and  scarce  that 
Now)  you  may  cross  the  blue  deep  and  white  foam  — 

The'first  the  emb'em  (rarely  though)  of  what 
You  leave  behind,  the  next  of' much  you  come 

To  meet.     However,   t  is  no  time  to  chat 
On  general  topics:  poems  must  confine 
Themselves  to  unity,  like  this  of  mine. 

XLV. 
In  the  great  world,  —  which,  being  interpreted, 

Meaneth  the  west  or  worst  pnd  of  a  city. 
And  about  twice  two  thousand  people  bred 

By  no  means  to  be  very  wise  or  witty, 
But'to  sit  up  while  others  lie  in  bed. 

And  look  down  on  the  universe  with  pity, — 
Juan,  as  an  inveterate  patrician. 
Was  well  received  by  persons  of  condition. 

XLVI. 
He  was  a  bachelor,  which  is  a  matter 

Of  import  both  to  virgin  and  to  bride. 
The  former's  hymeneal  hopes  to  flatter; 

And  (should  she  not  hold  fast  by  love  or  pride) 
'T  is  also  of  some  moment  to  the  latter : 

A  rib  's  a  thorn  in  a  wed  gallant's  side, 
Requires  decorum,  and  is  apt  to  double 
The  horrid  sin— and  what 's  still  worse,  tte  trouble. 

XLVI  I. 
But  Juan  was  a  bachelor  —  of  arts, 

And  parts,  and  hearts  :  he  danced  and  sung,  and  had 
An  air  as  sentimental  as  Mozart's 

Softest  of  melodies;  and  could  be  sad 


l"Anent"wa9  a  Scolrh  phrase  meanir 
ing  "  —  "wilh  regard  lo  :  "  il  has  been  made  Kngltsh  bj 
the  Si-otch  novels;  ami,  as  the  Frenchman  said,  "If  it  tt 
nut,  ought  to  be  English." 


Canto  Xf.] 


DON  JUAN. 


571 


Or  cheerfui,  without  any  "flaws  or  starts," 

Just  at  the  proper  time  :  and  thoujli  a  lad, 
Had  se«n  the  world  —  which  is  a  curious  sight, 
And  very  much  unlike  what  people  write. 

XLVIII. 
Fair  virgins  blush'd  upon  him  ;  wedded  dames 

Bloom'd  also  in  less  transitory  hues  ; 
For  both  commodities  dwell  by  the  Thames, 

The  paintin?  and  the  painted  ;  youth,  ceruse. 
Against  his  heart  preferr"d  their  usual  claims. 

Such  as  nn  gentleman  can  quite  refuse  ; 
Daughters  admired  his  dress,  and  pious  mothers 
Inquired  his  income,  and  if  he  had  brothers. 

XLIX. 
The  milliners  who  furnish  "drapery  Misses"! 

Throughout  the  season,  upon  sjieculation 
Of  payment  ere  the  honey-moon  s  last  kisses 

Have  waned  into  a  crescent's  coruscation, 
Thought  such  an  opportunity  as  this  is. 

Of  a  rich  fDreisrner's  initiation, 
Not  to  be  overlook'd  —  and  gave  such  credit, 
That  future  bridegrooms  swore,  and  sigh'd,  and  paid  it. 

L. 

The  Blues,  that  tender  tribe,  who  sigh  o'er  sonnets, 
And  with  the  pages  of  the  last  Review 

Lme  the  interior  of  their  heads  or  bonne's, 
Advanced  in  all  their  azure "s  highest  hue  : 

They  talk"d  bad  French  or  J^panish,  and  upon  its 
Late  authors  asked  him  for  a  hint  or  two  ; 

And  which  was  softest,  Russian  or  Castilian? 

And  whether  in  his  travels  he  saw  llion  ? 

LI. 
Juan,  who  was  a  little  superficial, 

And  not  in  literature  a  great  Drawcansir, 
Examined  by  this  learned  and  especial 

Jury  of  matrons,  scarce  knew  what  to  answer: 
His  duties  warlike,  loving  or  official. 

His  steady  application  as  a  dancer, 
Had  kept  him  from  the  brink  of  Hippocrene, 
Which  now  he  found  was  blue  instead  of  green. 

LII. 

However,  he  replied  at  hazard,  with 
A  modest  confidence  and  calm  assurance. 

Which  lent  his  learned  lucubrations  pith. 
And  pass'd  for  arguments  of  good  endurance. 

That  proiigy,  Miss'Aramin'a  Smith 
(Who  at  sixteen  translated  "  Hercules  Furens" 

Into  as  furious  English),  with  her  best  look, 

Set  down  his  sayings  in  her  common-place  book. 

LIII. 

Juan  knew  several  languages  —  as  well 

He  misht— and  brought  them  up  with  skill,  in  time 
To  save  his  fame  with  each  accomplished  belle, 

Who  still  regretted  that  he  did  not  rhyme. 
There  wanted  but  this  requisite  to  swell 

His  qualities  (with  them)  into  sublime : 
Lady  Fitz-Frisky,  and  Miss  Maevia  Mannish, 
Both  long'd  extremely  to  be  sung  in  Spanish. 


1  "Drapery  Missps." — This  term  is  pmbiblf  any 
thiop  now  hul  a  mystery^  It  was,  however,  almost  so  to 
me  when  I  first  relumed  fiom  the  East  in  1811-1812. 
It  means  a  pretty,  a  high-born,  a  fashionable  young  Female, 
well  instructed  by  her  friends,  and  furnished  by  her  mil- 
liner with  a  wardiobe  upon  credit,  to  be  repaid,  when 
married,  by  the  hushand.  The  riddle  was  first  read  to 
xne  by  a  youn^  and  pretty  heiress,  on  my  praising  the 
"  drajiery  **  of  the  '•  untvchered  "  but  *'  pretty  virginities  '* 
(like  Mrs.  Anne  Pajje)  of  the  then  day,  which  has  now 
been  some  years  yesterday:  she  assured  me  that  the 
thing  was  common  in  l^ondon;  and  as  her  own  tht)usands, 
and  blooming  looks,  and  nth  simplirity  of  array,  put  any 
suspicion  in  her  own  case  out  of  the  question,  1  confess  I 
fave  some  credit  In  the  allegation.  If  necessary,  authori- 
ties might  be  cited;  in  which  case  I  could  quote  both 
"drapery"  and  the  wearers.  Let  us  hope,  however,  that 
it  i»  MOW  obsolete. 


LI7. 

However,  he  did  pretty  well,  and  was 

Admitted  as  an  aspirant  to  all 
The  coteries,  and,  as  in  Banquo's  glass, 

At  great  assemblies  or  in  parties  small, 
He  saw  ten  thousand  living  authors  pass. 

That  being  about  their  average  numeral 
Also  the  eighty  "greatest  living  poets," 
As  every  paltrj-  magazine  can  show  ii '«. 

LV. 

In  twice  five  years  the  "  greatest  living  poet," 
Like  to  the'cliampion  in  the  fisty  ring. 

Is  called  on  to  support  his  claim,  or  shov/  it, 
Although  't  is  an  imaginary  thing. 

Even  I  —  albeit  I  "m  sure  I  did  not  know  it, 
Nor  sought  of  foolscap  subjects  tc  be  kin^,  — 

Was  reckon"d  a  considerable  time, 

The  grand  Napoleon  of  the  realms  of  rhyme. 

LVL 

But  Juan  was  my  Moscow,  and  Faliero 

My  Leipsic,  and  my  Mont  Saint  Jean  seems  Cain  s 
"  La  Belle  Alliance  "  of  dunces  down  at  zero. 

Now  that  the  Lion's  fall'n,  may  rise  again : 
But  I  will  fall  at  least  as  fell  my  hero ; 

Nor  reign  at  all,  or  as  a  monarch  reign; 
Or  to  some  lonely  isle  of  gaolers  go, 
With  turncoat  Southey  for  my  turnkey  Lowe. 

LVII. 
Sir  Walter  reign 'd  before  me ;  Moore  and  Campbell 

Before  and  after;  but  now  grown  more  holy. 
The  Muses  upon  Sion's  hill  must  ramble 

With  poets  almost  clergymen,  or  wholly; 
And  Pegasus  hath  a  psalm'odic  amble 

Beneath  the  very  Reverend  Rowley  Powlejr, 
Who  shoes  the  glorious  animal  with  stilts, 
A  modern  Ancient  Pistol  —  by  the  hilts  ! 

LVIIL 

Still  he  excels  that  artificial  hard 

1  abourer  in  the  same  vineyard,  though  tlie  vine 
Yields  him  but  vinegar  for  his  reward,  — 

That  neutralised  dull  Dnrus  of  the  Nine  ; 
That  swarthy  Spcrus,  neither  man  nor  bard ; 

That  ox  of  verse,  who  jilovghs  for  every  line:  — 
Cambyses'  roaring  Romans  beat  at  least 
The  howling  Hebrews  of  Cybeles  priest. — 

LIX. 
Then  there's  my  gentle  Euphiies ;  who,  they  say 

Sets  up  for  being  a  sort  of  moral  me;  2 
He  '11  find  it  rather  difficult  some  day 

lo  turn  out  both,  or  either,  it  may  be. 
Some  persons  think  that  Coleridge  hath  the  sway; 

And  Wordsworth  has  supporters,  two  or  three; 
And  that  deep-mouth'd  Bceotian  "Savage  Landor"> 
Has  taken  for  a  swan  rogue  Southey 's  gander. 

LX. 

John  Keats,  who  was  killed  off  by  one  critique. 
Just  as  he  really  piomised  something  great, 

If  not  intelliffible,  without  Greek 
Contrived  fo  talk  about  the  Gods  of  late, 

Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed  to  speak. 
Poor  fellow  !  H  is  was  an  untoward  fate  ; 

'T  is  stranee  the  mind,  th.at  very  fierj-  particle,* 

Should  let  "itself  be  snufi'd  out  by  an  attcle. 

2  Some  Reviewer  had  bestowed  the  title  of  "a  Moral 
Byrun"  on  Mr.  Bryan  Procter,  author  of  'Dramatic 
Siietches,'  *c.  i-c.  all  published  under  the  oaiae  of 
•  Barry  Cornwall.'— E. 

3  Walter  Savage  Landor,  author  of  "  Imaginary  Con- 
versations," &.C.  &c.—  E. 

4  "  Divinae  particukim  aurae." 


572 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  XI. 


LXI. 

The  list  grows  lon^  of  live  and  dead  pretenders 

To  that  ivhich  none  will  ^ain— or  none  will  know 
The  conqueror  at  least ;  who,  ere  Time  renders 
His  last  award,  will  have  the  Ion?  ?ras3  zrow 
Above  his  burnt-out  brain,  and  sapless  cinders. 

If  I  Blight  au^ur,  I  should  rate  but  low 
Their  chances  ;— they  're  too  numerous,  like  the  thirty- 
Mock  tyrants,  when  Rome's  annals  waxd  but  dirty. 

LXII. 

This  is  the  literary  lower  empire, 

Where  the  praetorian  bands  take  up  the  matter ;  — 
A  "  dreadful  trade,''  like  his  who  "  gathers  samphire," 

The  insolent  soldiery  to  soothe  ani  flatter, 
With  the  same  feelings  as  you  'd  coax  a  van^pire. 

Now,  were  I  once  at  h^me,  and  in  good  satire, 
I  'd  try  conclusions  wi'.h  those  Janizaries, 
And  show  them  what  an  intellectual  war  is. 

LXIII. 
I  think  I  know  a  trick  or  two,  would  turn 

Their  flanks;  —  but  it  is  hardly  worth  my  while. 
With  such  small  gear  to^ive  myself  concern: 

Indeed  I  've  not  the  necessary  bile; 
My  natural  temper's  really  aught  but  stern. 

And  even  my  Muse'i  worst  reproof's  a  smile; 
And  then  she  imps  a  brief  and  modest  curtsy, 
And  glides  away,  assured  she  never  bui  ts  ye. 

LXIV. 

My  Juan,  whom  I  left  in  deadly  peril 
Amongst  live  poets  and  blue  ladies,  past 

With  some  small  profit  through  that  field  so  sterile, 
Bein»  tired  in  time,  and  neither  least  nor  last, 

Left  it  before  he  had  been  trea'ed  very  ill ; 

And  henceforth  found  himself  more  gaily  class'd 

Amongst  the  higher  spirits  of  the  day. 

The  sun's  true  son,  no  vapour,  but  a  ray. 

LXV. 

His  moms  he  pass'd  in  business  —  which  dissected, 

Was  like  all  business,  a  laborious  nothing 
That  leads  to  lassitude,  the  most  infected 

And  Centaur  Nessus  garb  of  mortal  clothing,* 
And  on  our  sofas  makes  us  lie  dejected, 

And  talk  in  tender  horrors  of  our  loathing 
All  kinds  of  toil,  save  for  our  country's  good  — 
Which  grows  no  better,  though  't  is  time  it  should. 

LXVI. 
His  afternoons  he  pass'd  in  visits,  luncheons. 

Lounging,  aud  boxing;  and  the  twilight  hour 
In  riding  round  those  vegetable  puncheons       [flower 

Call'd   "Parks,"  where  there  is  neither  fruit  nor 
Enough  to  gratif)'  a  bee's  slight  munchings; 

But  after  all  it  is  the  only  "bouer," 
(In  Moore's  phrase)  where  the  fashionable  fair 
Can  form  a  slight  acquaintance  with  fresh  air. 

LXVII. 
Then  dress,  then  dinner,  then  awakes  the  world  ! 

Then  glare  the  lamps,  then  n  birl  the  wheels,  then 
roar 
Through  street  and  square  fast  flashing  chariots  hurl'd 

Like  harness'd  meteors;  then  along  the  floor 
Chalk  mimics  painting ;  then  festoons  are  twirl'd  ; 

Then  roll  the  brazen  thunders  of  the  door, 
Which  opens  to  the  thousand  liappv  few 
An  earthly  Paradise  of  "  Or  Molu.'' 

LXVIH. 
There  stands  the  noble  hostess,  nor  shall  sink 

With  the  three-thousandth  curtsy  ;  there  the  waltz. 
The  only  dance  which  teaches  girls  to  think. 

Makes  one  in  love  even  with  its  very  faults. 
Saloon,  room,  hall,  o'erflow  beyond  their  brink, 

And  long  the  latest  of  arrivals  halts, 
'Midst  royal  dukes  and  dames  condemn'd  to  climb, 
And  gain  an  inch  of  staircase  at  a  lime. 


•  Illila  Neese: 


iveneno."— OVID.  Epist.  ix. 


LXIX. 

Thrice  happy  he  who,  after  a  survey 
Of  the  good  company,  can  win  a  corner, 

A  door  that 's  in  or  boudoir  mtt  of  the  way. 
Where    he    may   fix    himself   like   small   "Jack 

And  let  the  Babel  round  run  as  it  may,         [Horner," 
And  look  on  as  a  mourner,  or  a  scomer, 

Or  an  approver,  or  a  mere  spectator, 

Yawning  a  little  as  the  night  grows  later. 

LXX. 

But  this  wont  do,  save  by  and  by  ;  and  he 

Who,  like  Don  Juan,  takes  an  active  share, 
Must  steer  with  care  through  all  that  gliiter'ngsea 

Of  gems  and  plumes  and  pearls  and  silks,  ^o  Trhe!< 
He  deems  it  is  his  proper  place  to  be  ;  I  ■ 

Dissolving  in  the  walty.  to  some  soft  air,  i  I 

Or  prnudlier  prancinff  wi'h  mercurial  skill. 
Where  Science  marshals  forth  her  own  quadrilie. 

LXXI. 
Or,  if  he  dance  not,  but  hath  higher  views 

Upon  an  heiress  or  his  neighbour's  bride, 
Let  him  take  care  that  that  which  he  pursues 

Is  not  at  once  too  palpably  descried. 
Full  many  an  eager  jentleman  oft  rues 

His  haste :  impatience  is  a  blundering  guide, 
Amonsst  a  people  famous  for  reflection, 
Who  like  to  play  the  fool  with  circumspection. 

LXXH. 

But,  if  you  can  contrive,  get  next  at  supper ; 

Or  if  forestalled,  set  opposite  and  ogle  :  — 
Oh,  ye  ambrosial  moments  !  always  upper 

In'mind,  a  sort  of  sentimental  bbgle,^ 
Which  sits  for  ever  upon  memory's  crupper. 

The  ghost  of  vanish'd  pleasures  once  in  vogue !  Ill 
Can  tender  souls  relate  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  hopes  and  fears  which  shake  a  single  ball. 

LXXIII. 

But  these  precautionary  hints  can  touch 
Only  the  common  run,  who  must  pursue, 

And  watch,  and  ward  ;  whose  plans  a  word  too  much 
Or  little  overturns;  and  not  the  few 

Or  many  [for  the  number  's  sometimes  such) 
Whom  a  good  mien,  especially  if  new. 

Or  fame,  or  name,  for  wit,  war,  sense,  or  nonsense, 

Permits  vvhate'er  they  please,  or  did  not  long  since. 

LXXIV, 

Our  hero,  as  a  hero,  young  and  handsome, 

Noble,  rich,  celebrated,  and  a  stranjer, 
Like  other  slaves  of  course  must  pay  his  ransom, 

Before  he  can  escape  from  so  much  danger 
As  will  environ  a  conspicuous  man.     Some 

Talk  a'^iit  poetry,  and  "  rack  and  manger," 
And  ugliness,  disease,  as  toil  and  trouble  ;  — 
I  wish'they  knew  the  life  cf  a  young  noble. 

LXXV. 

They  are  young,  but  know  not  youth  —  it  is  antici- 
pated ; 

Handsome  but  wasted,  rich  without  a  sou  ; 
Their  vigour  in  a  thousand  arms  is  dissipated  ; 

Their  cash  comes  from,  their  wealth  goes  to  a  Jew  j 
Both  senates  see  their  nightly  votes  participated 

Between  the  tyrant's  and  the  tribunes'  crew  ; 
And  having  voted,  dined,  drunk,  gained,  fud  whored, 
The  family  vault  receives  another  lord. 

LXXVL 

"  Where  is  the  world  ?  "  cries  Young,  at  eighty  —  ' 
"  Where 

The  world  in  which  a  man  was  born  ?  "    Alas  ! 
Where  is  the  world  of  ei^ht  years  past  ?  'Twos  then— 

1  look  for  it  —  't  is  gone,  a  globe  of  glass ! 


2  Srotch  for  goblin. 

a  'i'nung  wan  more  than  eighty  years  old.  when  he  | 
shed  his  poem,  entitled,  "Resignation,"  ic. —  E. 


Canto  XI.l 


DON  JUAN. 


573  I 


Crack'd,  shiver'd,  vanish'd,  scarcely  ^zed  on,  ere 

A  silent  change  dissolves  the  glit'enn;  nnss. 
Statesmen,  chiefs,  orators,  queens,  patriots,  kin^s, 
And  dandies,  all  are  eone  on  the  wind  s  wings. 

LXXVH. 
Where  is  Napoleon  the  Grand  ?    God  knows : 

Where  little  Castlereagh  ?    The  devil  can  tell : 
Where  Gratfan,  Curran,  Sheridan,  all  those 

Who  bound  the  bar  or  senate  in  their  spell  ? 
Where  is  the  unhappy  Queen,  with  all  her  woes? 

And  where  the  Daughter,  whom  the  Isles  loved 
well  ? 
Where  are  those  martyr"d  saints  the  Five  per  Cents  ? 
And  where  —  oh,  where  the  devil  are  the  Rents? 

LXXVIII. 
Where's  Brummel?    Dish'd.    Where's  Long  Pole 
Welleslev?     Diddlei. 
Where 's  Whitbread  ?   Romilly  ?  Where 's  George 
the  Third? 
Where  is  his  will  ? «  (That 's  not  so  soon  unriddled.) 
And  where  is  "  Fum "  the  Fourth,  our  ''royal 
bird?  "5 
Gone  down,  it  seems,  to  Scotland  to  be  fiddled 

Unto  by  Sawney's  violin,  we  have  heard  : 
"  Caw  me,  caw  thee  "  —  for  six  months  hath  been 

hatching 
This  scene  of  royal  itch  and  loyal  scratching. 

LXXIX. 

Where  is  Lord  This  ?    And  where  my  Lady  That  ? 

The  Honourable  Mistresses  and  Misses? 
Some  laid  aside  like  an  old  Opera  hat. 

Married,  unmarried,  and  remarried  :  (this  is 
An  evolution  oft  performed  of  late.) 

Where  are  the  Dublin  shouts— and  London  hisses? 
Where  are  the  Grenvilles?  Turn  d  as  usual.  Where 
My  friends  the  Whigs  ?    Exactly  where  they  were. 

LXXX. 

Where  are  the  Lady  Carolines  and  Franceses  ? 

Divorced  or  doing  thereanent.    Ye  annals 
So  brilliant,  where  the  list  of  routs  and  dances  is, — 

Thou  Morning  Post,  sole  record  of  the  panels 
Broken  in  carriages,  and  all  the  phantasies 

Of  fashion,— say  what  streams  now  fill  those  chan- 
nels ? 
Some  die,  some  fly,  some  languish  on  the  Continent, 
Because  the  times  have  hardly  left  them  one  tenant. 


LXXXL 

Some  who  once  set  their  caps  at  cautious  dukes 
Have  taken  up  at  length  with  younger  brothers : 

Some  heiresses  have  bit  at  sharpers'  hooks  : 
Some  maids  have  been  made  wives,  some  merely 
mothers ; 

Others  have  lost  their  fresh  and  fairy  looks : 
In  short,  the  list  of  alterations  bothers. 

There  s  little  strange  in  this,  but  somethingstrange  is 

The  unusual  quickness  of  these  common  changes. 

Lxxxn. 

Talk  not  of  seventy  years  as  age ;  in  seven 
I  have  seen  more  changes,  down  from  monarchs  to 

The  humblest  individuafundar  heaven. 
Than  might  suffice  a  moderate  century  through. 

I  kncA  that  nought  was  lasting,  but  now  even 
Change  grows  too  changeable,  without  being  new : 

Nought  s  permanent  among  the  human  race, 

Except  tlie  Whigs  net  getting  into  place. 

1  The  nid  stury  of  the  will  of  Gtorge  I.,  said  to  have 
Iwen  dfslroyed  by  (ieorgf  II.  No  such  calurauy  was  ever 
beard  o(  a>  lu  George  III. —  E. 

2  See  Moore's  "Fum  and  Hum,  the  Two  Birxia  of 
Boyalty."  appended  lo  his  "Fudge  Family."  —  E. 


Lxxxiir. 

I  have  seen  Napoleon,  who  seem'd  quite  a  Jupiter, 

Shrink  to  a  Saturn.     1  have  seen  a  IJuke 
(No  matter  which)  turn  politician  stupi.ler, 

If  that  can  well  be,  than  his  wooden  look. 
But  it  is  time  that  1  should  hoist  my  "  blue  Peter," 

And  sail  for  a  new  theme:  —  I  have  s'jen  — and 
To  see  it  —  the  king  hiss'd,  and  then  carest ;  [shook 
But  don't  pretend  to  settle  which  was  best. 

LXXXIV. 
I  have  seen  the  Landholders  without  a  rap  — 

I  have  seen  Joanna  Southcote  —  I  have  seen 
The  House  of  Commons  turn'd  to  a  tax-trap  — 

I  have  seen  that  sad  aftair  of  the  late  Queen  — 
I  have  seen  crowns  worn  instead  of  a  fools  cap  — 

I  have  seen  a  Congress  3  doing  all  that 's  mean  — 
I  have  seen  some  nations  like  o  erioaded  asses. 
Kick  otf  their  burthens— meaning  the  high  classe*. 

LXXXV. 
I  have  seen  small  poets,  and  great  prosers,  and 

Interminable  —  ?iot  eUma^  —  speakeis  — 
I  have  seen  the  funds  at  war  with  house  and  land  — 

I  have  seen  the  country  gentlemen  turn  squeakers— 
I  have  seen  the  people  ridden  o'er  like  sand 

By  slaves  on  horseback  —  1  have  seen  malt  liquors 
Exchanged  for  "  thin  potations  "  by  John  Bull  — 
1  have  seen  John  half  detect  himself  a  fool. — 

LXXXV  I. 
But  "  carpe  diem,"  Juan,  "  carpe,  carpe  I " 

To-morrow  sees  another  race  as  gay 
And  transient,  and  devour'd  by  the  sa'nie  harpy. 

"  Life 's  a  poor  player,"— then  "  play  out  the  play, 
Ye  villains  !  "  and  above  all  keep  a  sharp  eye 

Much  less  on  what  you  do  than  what  you  say  : 
Be  hypocritical,  be  cautious,  be 
Not  what  you  seem,  but  always  what  you  see. 

Lxx.xvn. 

But  how  shall  I  relate  in  other  cantos 

Of  what  befel  our  hero  in  the  land, 
Which  't  is  the  common  cry  and  lie  to  vaunt  as 

A  moral  country  ?    But  1  hold  my  hsmd  — 
For  I  disdain  to  write  an  Atalantis  ;  * 

But 't  is  as  well  at  once  to  understand 
You  are  not  a  moral  people,  and  you  know  it 
Without  the  aid  of  too  sincere  a  poet. 

LXX.WIII. 
What  Juan  saw  and  underwent  shall  be 

Sly  topic,  with  of  course  the  due  restrictioD 
Which  is  lequired  by  proper  courtesy; 

And  recollect  the  work  is  only  fiction, 
And  that  1  sing  of  neither  mine  nor  me, 

Though  every  scribe,  in  some  slight  turn  of  diction, 
Will  hint  allusions  never  meant.    Ne  er  doubt 
This  —  when  I  speak,  I  rfon  t  hint,  but  sptah  out. 

LXXXIX. 
Whether  he  married  with  the  third  or  fourth 

Otl'spring  of  some  sage  husband-hunting  countess, 
Or  whether  with  some  virgin  of  more  worth 

(I  mean  in  Fortune's  matrimonial  bounties) 
He  took  to  regularly  peopling  Earth, 

Of  which  your  Ian  ful  awful  wedlock  fount  is,— 
Or  whether  he  was  taken  in  for  damages. 
For  being  too  excursive  in  his  homages,  — 

XC. 
Is  yet  within  the  unread  events  of  time. 

'J'hus  far,  zo  forth,  thou  lay,  which  I  will  back 
Against  the  same  gtven  quau'tity  of  rhyme. 

For  being  as  much  the  subject  of  attack 
As  ever  yet  was  any  »ork  sublime. 

By  those  v%  ho  love  to  say  that  white  is  black. 
So  much  the  better  1  —  I  may  stand  alone. 
But  would  not  change  my  free  t.'iouglits  for  a  throne. 

3  The  Coi.grpus  at  Verona,  in  ]e22.  — E. 

4  See  the  ''  New  Aia'anii.<:,  or  Memoirs  and  Manners  of 
several  Persons  of  duality," —  a  work  in  whiin  the  au- 
thoress, Mrs.  Manley.  makes  very  I'ice  wiih  many  dis- 
linguiahed  charailers  of  her  liay.—  E. 


574 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  XII.  ij 


CANTO  THE  TWELFTH.* 
I. 

Of  all  the  barbarous  middle  a^es,  that 

Which  i«  most  barbarous  is  the  middle  ase 

Of  man  :  it  is  —  I  really  scarce  know  whaf; 
But  when  we  hover  between  fool  and  saje, 

And  don't  know  justly  what  we  would  be  at  — 
A  period  something  like  a  printed  paje, 

Black  letter  upon  foolscap,  while  our  hair 

Grows  grizzled,  and  we  are  not  what  we  were  j  — 

II. 

Too  old  for  youth,  —  too  youne,  at  thirty-five, 
To  herd  with  boys,  or  hoard  with  good  threescore, — 

I  wonder  people  should  be  left  alive  ; 
But  since  they  are,  thar  epoch  is  a  bore  : 

Love  lingers  still,  although  't  were  late  to  wive; 
And  as  for  other  love,  the  illusion  's  o'er; 

And  money,  that  most  pure  imagination. 

Gleams  only  through  the  dawn  of  its  creation. 

IIL 

0  Gold  !  Why  call  we  misers  miserable  ? 

Theirs  is  the  p'easure  that  can  never  pall ; 
Theirs  is  the  best  bower  anchor,  the  chain  cable 

Which  holds  fast  other  pleasures  great  and  small. 
Ye  who  but  see  the  saving  man  at  table. 

And  scorn  his  temperate  board,  as  none  at  all, 
And  wonder  how  the  wealthy  can  be  sparing. 
Know  not  what  visions  spring  from  each  cheese-paring. 

IV. 
Love  or  lust  makes  man  sick,  and  wine  much  sicker; 

Ambition  rends,  and  gaming  gains  a  loss; 
But  making  money,  slowly  first,  then  quicker, 

And  adding  still' a  little  through  each  cross 
(Which  will  come  over  things),  beats  love  or  liquor, 

The  gamester's  counter,  or  the  statesman's  dross. 
0  Gold  !  I  still  prefer  thee  unto  paper. 
Which  makes  bank  credit  like  a  bark  of  vapour. 

V. 
Who  hold  the  balance  of  the  world  ?  Who  reign 

O'er  congress,  whether  royalist  or  liberal  ? 
Who  rouse  the  shirtless  patriots  of  Spain.' 3 

(That  make  old  Europe's  journals  squeak  and  gib- 
ber all.) 
Who  keep  the  world,  both  old  and  new,  in  pain 

Or  pleasure  ?  VVho  make  politics  run  glibber  all  ? 
The  shade  of  Buonaparte's  nolle  daring?  — 
Jew  Riithschild,  and  his  fellow-Christian,  Baring. 

VI. 
Those,  and  the  truly  liberal  Lafitte, 

Are  the  true  lords  of  Europe.    Every  loan 
Is  not  a  merely  speculative  hit. 

But  seats  a  nation  or  upsets  a  throne. 
Republics  also  get  involved  a  bit ; 

Colombia's  stock  hath  hilders  not  unknown 
On  'Change  ;  and  even  thy  silver  soil,  Peru, 
Must  get  itself  discounted  by  a  Jew. 

VU. 

Why  call  the  miser  miserable  ?  as 

I  said  before  :  the  frugal  life  is  his 
Which  in  a  saint  or  cynic  ever  was 

The  theme  of  praise :  a  hermit  would  not  miss 
Canonization  for  the  self-same  cause. 

And  wtierefore  blame  gaunt  wealth's  austerities  ? 
Because,  you  'II  say,  nought  calls  for  such  a  trial ;  — 
Then  there 's  more  merit  in  his  self-denial. 

VIII. 

He  is  your  only  poet ;—  passion,  pure 
And  sparkling  on  from  heap  to  heap,  displays. 

Possessed,  the  ore.  of  which  mere  hopes  allure 
Nations  athwart  the  deep :  the  golden  rays 


1  Cantos  XII.  XIII.  and  XIV.  appeared   in  London, 
Novemtrer,  lf2S.—  E. 
3  The  Descnmisadcs. 


Flash  up  in  ingots  from  the  mine  obscure  : 

(In  him  the  diamond  pours  its  brilliant  maze; 
While  the  mild  emeralds  beam  shades  down  the  ( 
Of  other  stones,  to  soothe  the  misers  eyes. 

IX. 

The  lands  on  either  side  are  his  :  the  ship 
From  Ceylon,  Inde,  or  far  Cathay,3  unloads 

For  him  the  fragrant  produce  of  each  trip; 
Beneath  his  cars  of  Ceres  groan  the  roads, 

And  the  vine  blushes  like  Aurora's  lip  : 
His  very  cellars  might  be  kings'  abodes; 

While  he,  despising  e~very  sensual  call. 

Commands  —  the  intellectual  lord  of  all. 

X. 

Perhaps  he  hath  great  projects  in  his  mind, 
To  build  a  college,  or  to  found  a  race, 

A  hospital,  a  church,  —  and  leave  behind 
Some  dome  surmounted  by  his  meagre  face : 

Perhaps  be  fain  would  libenite  mankind 
Even  with  the  very  ore  which  makes  them  baa 

Perhaps  he  would  be  wealthiest  of  his  nation, 

Or  revel  in  the  joys  of  calculation. 

XL 

But  whether  all,  or  each,  or  none  of  these 


What  is  his  mvn  '<'  Go  —  look  at  each  transaction. 
Wars,  revels,  loves  —  do  these  bring  men  more  ease 

Than  the  mere  plodding  through  each  "  vulgar 
fraction  ?" 
Or  do  they  benefit  mankind  ?  Lean  miser  ! 
Let  spendthrifts' heirs  inquire  of  yours— who 's  wiser  ? 

XII. 

How  beauteous  are  rouleaus  1  hnw  charming  chests 

Containing  ingots,  bags  of  dollars,  coins 
(Not  of  old  victors,  all  whose  heads  and  crests 
.  Weijh  not  the  thin  ore  where  their  visage  shines, 
But)  of  fine  unclipt  gold,  where  dully  rests" 

Some  likeness,  which  the  slitiering cirque  confines, 
Of  modem,  reisniug,  sterlin?,  stupid  stamp  :  — 
Yes!  ready  money  is  Aladdin's  lamp. 

XIII. 


Is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love :"— so  sings  the  bard ; 
Which  it  were  rather  difficult  to  prove 

(K  thing  with  poetry  in  general  hard). 
Perhaps  there  may  be  something  in  "  the  grove," 

At  least  it  rhymes  to  "  love  :  "  liut  I  m  prepared 
To  doubt  (no  less  than  landlords  of  their  rental) 
If  "courts"  and  "  camps"  be  quite  so  sentimental. 

XIV. 

But  if  Love  don't,  Caah  does,  and  Cash  alone: 
Cash  rules  the  grove,  and  tells  it  too  beside  ; 

Without  cash,  c.inips  were  thin,  and  courts  were  none ; 
Without  cash,  Malllius  tells  you— '  take  no  brides." 

So  Cash  rules  Love  the  ruler,  on  his  own 
Hi:h  ground,  as  virgin  Cynthia  sways  the  tides: 

And  as  for  "  Heaven  being  Love,"  why  not  say  honey 

Is  wax  ?  Heaven  is  not  Love,  't  is  Matrimony. 

XV. 

Is  not  all  love  prohibited  w'.-.atever, 
Excepting  marriage?  which  is  love,  no  douU, 

After  a  sort ;  but  somehow  people  never 

With  the  same  thought  the  two  worJs  have  help'd 
nut ; 

Love  may  exist  with  marriage,  and  shmtld  ever, 
And  marriage  also  may  exist  without ; 

But  love  sans  l>ans  is  both  a  sin  and  shame, 

And  ought  to  go  by  quite  anotlier  name. 

3  China.— E. 


Canto  XII.] 


DON  JUAN. 


575 


Now  if  the  "court,"  and  "camp," and  "grove,"  be 
Recruited  all  with  constant  married  men,  [not 

Who  never  coveted  their  neighbour's  lot, 
I  say  that  line 's  a  lapsus  of  the  pen ;  — 

Stran»e  too  in  my  "bmn  camerado"  Scott, 
So  celebrated  for  his  morals,  when 

My  Jeffrey  held  him  up  as  an  example 

To  me ;  —  of  which  these  morals  are  a  sample. 

XVII. 
Well,  if  I  don't  succeed,  I  have  succeeded. 

And  that 's  enoujh  ;  succeeded  in  my  youth, 
The  only  time  when  much  success  is  needed : 

And  my  success  produced  what  I,  in  sooth. 
Cared  most  about ;  it  need  not  now  be  pleaded  — 

Whatever  it  was,  "t  was  mine ;  1  've  paid,  in  truth, 
Of  late,  the  penalty  of  such  success. 
But  have  not  learn'd  to  wish  it  any  less. 

XVIII. 
That  suit  in  Chancery.— which  some  persons  plead 

In  an  appeal  to  the  unborn,  whom  they 
In  the  faith  of  their  procreative  creed, 

Baptize  posterity,  or  future  clay, — 
To  me  seems  but  a  dubious  kind  of  reed 

To  lean  on  for  support  in  any  way  ; 
Since  odds  are  that  posterity  will  know 
No  more  of  them,  than  they  of  her,  I  ti-ow, 

XIX. 
Why,  1  'm  posterity  —  and  so  are  you  ; 

And  whom  do  we  remember?  Not  a  hundred. 
Were  every  memory  written  down  all  true,     [der'd  ; 

The  tenth  or  twentieth  name  would  be  but  blun- 
Even  Plutarch's  Lives  have  but  pick'd  out  a  few. 

And  'gainst  those  few  your  annalists  have  thunder'dj 
And  Mitford  >  in  the  nineteenth  century 
Gives,  with  Greek  truth,  the  good  old  Greek  the  lie. 

XX. 

Good  people  all,  of  every  degree. 
Ye  gentle  readers  and  "ungentle  writers. 

In  this  twelfth  Canto  t  is  my  wish  to  be 
As  serious  as  if  I  had  for  inditers 

Malthus  and  Wilberforce :  —  the  last  set  free 
The  Negroes,  and  is  worth  a  million  fighters, 

While  Wellington  has  but  enslaved  the  Whiles, 

And  Malthus  does  the  thing  'gainst  which  he  writes. 

XXI. 

I  'm  serious  —  so  are  all  men  upon  paper ; 

And  why  should  I  not  form  my  speculation, 
And  hold  up  to  the  sun  my  little  taper  ? 

Mankind  just  now  seem  wrapt  in  meditation 
On  constitutions  and  steam-boats  of  vapour  j 

While  sages  write  against  all  procreation, 
Unless  a  man  can  calculate  his  means 
Of  feeding  brats  the  moment  his  wife  weans. 

xxir. 

That 's  noble  !  That 's  romantic  !  For  my  part, 
I  think  that  "  Philo-genitiveness"  is  — 

(Now  here 's  a  word  quite  after  my  own  heart. 
Though  there 's  a  shorter  a  good  deal  than  this, 

If  that  politeness  set  it  not  apart ; 

But  1  'in  resolved  to  say  nought  that 's  amiss)  — 

I  say,  metbinks  that  "Philo-genitiveness  "!» 

Might  meet  from  men  a  little  more  forgiveness. 


1  See  Mitford'8  Greece.  '•  Giaec'ia  Veraz."  His  great 
pTeasure  consists  in  praising  tyrants,  abusing  Plutnrcti. 
Bf*!;:ng  o<ldly.  ami  writing  quaintly  ;  and  whul  is  strange, 
•ftcr  bD  his  is  the  best  mudern  liistory  of  Greece  in  any 
language,  and  he  is  perhaps  the  best  uf  all  modern  hihlnri- 
ans  whLlscever.  Having  named  his  sins,  it  is  but  fair  to 
•tale  his  virtues  — Icarii.ng,  labour,  research,  wrath,  and 
partiality.  I  call  the  latter  virtues  in  a  writer,  because 
they  make  bim  write  in  earnest.  i 

2  Philo-progeniliveness.  Spuriheim  and  Gall  discover 
tbe  organ  o!  (his  name  in  a  bump  behind  the  ears,  and 
M)r  it  is  remarkably  developed  in  the  bull.— E. 


xxm. 

to  business.  —  0  my  gentle  Juan  ! 


And 

'1  hou  art  in  London  —  in  that  pleasant  pl:ice, 
Where  every  kind  of  mischief's  daily  brewing, 

Which  can  await  warm  youth  in  its  wild  race. 
"T  is  true,  that  thy  career  is  not  a  new  one ; 

Thou  art  no  novice  in  the  headlong  thase 
Of  early  life ;  but  this  is  a  new  land. 
Which  foreigners  can  never  understand. 

XXIV. 

What  with  a  small  diversity  of  climate, 

Of  hot  or  cold,  mercurial  or  sedate, 
I  could  send  forth  my  mandate  like  a  primate 

Upon  the  rest  of  Europe  s  social  state  j 
But  thou  art  the  most  difficult  to  rhyme  at. 

Great  Britain,  which  the  Muse  may  penetrate. 
All  countries  have  their  "  Lions,"  but  in  thee 
There  is  but  one  superb  menagerie. 

XXV. 

But  I  am  sick  of  politics.    Begin, 

"  Paulo  Majora."    Juan,  undecided 
Amongst  the  paths  of  being  "  taken  in," 

Above  the  ice  had  like  a  skater  glided  : 
When  tired  of  play,  he  flirted  without  sin 

With  some  of  those  fair  creatures  who  have  prided 
Themselves  on  innocent  tantalisation. 
And  hate  all  vice  except  its  reputation. 

XXVI. 

But  these  are  few,  and  in  the  end  they  make 
Some  devilish  escapade  or  stir,  which  shows 

That  even  the  purest  people  may  mistake 
Their  way  through  virtue's  primrose  paths  of  snows ; 

And  then  men  stare,  as  if  a  new  ass  spake 
To  Balaam,  and  from  tongue  to  ear  o'erflows 

Quicksilver  small  talk,  ending  (if  you  note  it) 

\Vith  the  kind  world's  amen  —  "  Who  would  have 
thought  it  ?  " 

xxvn. 

The  little  Leila,  with  her  orient  eyes, 

And  tacitu'n  Asiatic  disposition, 
(Which  saw  all  western  things  with  small  surprise, 

To  the  surprise  of  people  of  condition, 
Who  think  that  novelties  are  butterflies 

To  be  pursued  as  food  for  inanition,) 
Her  charming  figure  and  romantic  history 
Became  a  kind  of  fashionable  mystery. 

XXVIIL 
The  women  much  divided  —  as  is  usual 

Amongst  the  sex  in  little  things  or  great. 
Think  not,  fair  creatures,  that  I  mean  to  abuse  you  all— 

I  have  always  liked  you  better  than  I  state : 
Since  I  've  gro'wn  moral,  still  I  must  accuse  you  all 

Of  being  apt  to  talk  at  a  great  rate  ; 
And  now  there  was  a  general  sensation 
Amongst  you,  about  Leila's  education. 

XXIX. 

In  one  point  only  were  you  settled  —  and 
You  had  reason  ;  t  was  that  a  young  child  of  grace, 

As  beautiful  as  her  own  native  land, 
And  far  away,  the  last  bud  of  her  race, 

Howe'er  our  friend  Don  Juan  miffht  command 
Himself  for  five,  Sour,  three,  or  two  years'  space, 

Would  be  much  better  tausht  beneath  the  eye 

Of  peeresses  whose  follies  had  run  dry. 

XXX. 

So  first  there  was  a  generous  emula'ion. 
And  then  there  was  a  general  competition. 

To  undertake  the  orphan's  education. 
As  Juan  was  a  person  of  condition. 

It  had  been  an  affront  on  this  occasion 
To  talk  of  a  subscription  or  petition  ; 

But  sixteen  dowagers,  ten  unwed  she  sages, 

Whose  tale  belongs  to  "  Uallam's  Vliddle  Age** 


576 


DOiN   JUAN. 


[Canto  XII. 


XXXI. 

And  one  or  two  sad,  separate  wives,  without 
A  fruit  to  bloom  upon  their  withering  bough  — 

Begg'd  to  bring  up  the  little  girl,  and  "  oiit,"  — 
For  that 's  the  phrase  that  settles  all  things  now, 

Meaning  a  virgin's  first  blush  at  a  rout. 
And  all  her  points  as  thorough-bred  to  show: 

And  1  assure  you,  that  like  virgin  honey 

Tastes  their  first  season  (mostly  if  they  nave  money). 

XXXII. 

How  all  the  needy  honourable  misters, 
Each  out-at-elbow  peer,  or  desperate  dandy, 

The  watchful  mothers,  and  the  careful  sisters, 
(Who,  by  the  by,  when  clever,  are  more  handy 

At  miking  nia'ch'es,  where  "'t  is  gold  that  glisters," 
Ttin  their  lie  relatives.)  like  flies  o'er  candy 

BuTZ  round  •'  the  Fortune ''  with  their  busy  battery. 

To  tij-n  her  head  with  waltzing  and  with  flattery ! 

XXXIII. 

Each  aunt,  each  cousin,  hath  her  speculation  ; 

Nay,  married  dames  will  now  and  then  discover 
Such  pure  disinterestedness  of  passion, 

I  've  known  them  court  an  heiress  for  their  lover. 
"Tantaene  1  "    Such  the  virtues  of  high  station, 

Even  in  the  hopeful  Isle,  whose  outlet 's  "  Dover  ! " 
While  the  poor  rich  wretch,  object  of  these  cares. 
Has  cause  to  wish  her  sire  had  had  male  heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some  are  soon  bagg'd,  and  some  reject  three  dozen. 

'T  is  fine  to  see  them  scattering  refusals 
And  wild  dismay  o'er  everj'  angry  cousin 

(Friends  of  the  party),  who  begin  accusals 
Such  as — "  Unless  iVIiss  (Blank)  meant  to  have  chosen 

Poor  Frederick,  why  did  she  accord  perusals 
To  his  billets?  W^j/ waltz  with  him  ?  Why,  I  pray. 
Look  yes  last  night,  and  yet  say  no  to-day  ? 

XXXV. 
"  Why  ?— Why  ?-Besides,  Fred  really  was  attacVd; 

'T  was  not  her  fortune  —  he  has  enough  without : 
The  time  will  come  she  '11  wish  that  she  h.\d  snatch'd 

So  good  an  opportunitj',  no  doubt :  — 
But  the  old  Marchioness" some  jjlan  had  hatch'd. 

As  I  'II  tell  Aurea  at  to-morrow's  rout : 
And  after  all  poor  Frederick  may  do  better  — 
Pray  did  you  see  her  answer  to  his  letter  ?" 

XXXVI. 
Smart  uniforms  and  si)arkling  coronets 

Are  spurn'd  in  turn,  until  her  turn  arrives, 
After  male  loss  of  time,  and  hearts,  and  bets 

Upon  the  sweepstakes  for  substantial  wives ; 
And  when  at  last  the  pretty  creature  gets 

Some  gentleman,  who  fights,  or  writes,  or  drives, 
It  soothes  the  awkward  squad  of  the  rejected 
To  find  liow  verj'  badly  she  selected. 

XXXVII. 

For  sometimes  they  accept  some  long  pursuer. 

Worn  out  with  importunity  ;  or  fall 
(But  here  perhaps  the  instances  are  fewer) 

To  the  lot  of  him  who  scarce  pursued  at  all. 
A  hazy  widower  turn'd  of  forty  's  sure  i 

(If  't  is  not  vain  examples  to  recall) 
To  draw  a  high  prize  :  now.  howe'er  he  got  her,  I 
See  nought  more  strange  in  this  than  t'other  lottery. 

XXXVIII. 
I.  for  my  part  —  (one  "  modern  instance  "  more, 
'  «<  True,  't  is  a  pity  ~  pity  't  is,  't  is  true  ") 
Was  chosen  from  out  an  ama'or>-  score. 

Albeit  my  years  were  less  discreet  than  few; 
But  though  I  also  had  reform "d  before 

Those  became  one  who  soon  were  to  be  two, 
I  '11  not  gainsay  the  generous  public's  voice, 
Tliat  the  young  lady  made  a  monstrous  choice. 


XXXIX. 

Oh,  pardon  my  digression  —  or  at  least 
Peruse  '  "T  is  always  with  a  moral  end 

That  I  dissert,  like  grace  before  a  feast : 
For  like  an  aged  aunt,  or  tiresome  friend, 

A  rigid  guardian,  or  a  zealous  priest, 
My  Muse  by  exhortation  means  to  meni 

All  people,  at  all  times,  and  in  most  places. 

Which  puts  my  Pegasus  to  these  grave  paces. 

XL. 

But  now  I  'm  going  to  be  immoral ;  now 
I  mean  to  show  things  really  as  they  are. 

Not  as  they  ought  to  be :  for  I  avow. 
That  till  we  "see  what 's  "hat  in  fact,  we  're  far 

From  much  improvement  with  that  virtuous  plough 
Which  skims  the  surface,  leaving  scarce  a  scar 

Upon  the  black  loam  long  manured  by  Vice, 

Only  to  keep  its  corn  at  the  old  price. 

XLT. 

But  first  of  little  Leila  we  11  dispose ; 

For  like  a  day-dawn  she  w  as  young  and  pare, 
Or  like  the  old  comparison  of  snows, 

Which  are  more  pure  than  pleasant  to  be  sure. 
Like  many  people  every  body  knows, 

Don  Juan  was  delighted  to 'secure 
A  goodly  guardian  for  his  infant  charge. 
Who  might  not  profit  much  by  being  at  large. 

XLII. 
Besides,  he  had  found  out  he  was  no  tutor 

(I  wish  that  others  would  find  out  the  same) ; 
And  ralher  wish'd  in  such  things  to  stand  neuter, 

For  wUy  wards  will  bring  their  guardians  blame: 
So  when  he  saw  each  ancient  dame  a  suitor 

To  make  his  little  wild  Asiatic  tame. 
Consulting  "  the  Society  for  Vice 
Suppression,"  I.ady  Pinchbeck  was  his  choice. 

XLIII. 

Olden  she  was  —  but  had  been  very  young ; 

Virtuous  she  was  —  and  had  been,  I  believe; 
Although  the  world  has  such  an  evil  tongue 

1  hat but  my  chaster  ear  will  not  receive 

An  echo  of  a  syllable  that 's  wrong : 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  makes  me  so  much  grieve, 
As  that  abominable  tittle-tattle. 
Which  is  the  cud  eschew'd  by  human  cattle. 

XLIV. 
Moreover  I  've  remark 'd  (and  I  was  once 

A  slijht  observer  in  a  modest  way), 
And  so  "may  every  one  except  a  dunce. 

That  ladies  in  "their  youth  a  little  gay, 
Besides  Iheir  knowleJge  of  the  world,  and  sense 

Of  the  sad  consequence  of  going  astray. 
Are  wiser  in  their  warnings  'gainst  the  woe 
Which  the  mere  passionless  can  never  know. 


XLV, 

While  the  harsh  prude  indemnifies  her  virtue 
By  railing  at  the  unknown  and  envied  passion. 

Seeking  far  less  to  save  you  than  to  hurt  you, 
Or,  what 's  still  worse,  to  put  you  out  of  fashion, — 

The  kinder  veteran  with  calm  words  will  court  you. 
Entreating  you  to  pause  before  vou  dash  on  ; 

Expounding  and  illustrating  the  riddle 

Of  epic  love's  beginning,  end,  and  middle. 

XLVI. 
Now  whether  it  be  thus,  or  that  they  are  stricter, 

As  better  knowing  «  by  they  should  be  so, 
I  think  you  '11  find  from  many  a  family  picture, 

T  hat  daughters  of  such  mothers  as  may  know 
The  world  by  experience  rather  than  by 'lecture, 

Turn  out  much  better  for  the  Smithfield  Show 
Of  vestals  brought  into  the  marriage  mart, 
Than  those  bred  up  by  prudes  without  a  heart. 


Canto  XII.] 


DON  JUAN. 


577 


XLVH. 
I  said  that  Lady  Pinchbeck  had  been  talk'd  about  — 

As  who  has  not,  if  female,  young,  and  pretty  ? 
But  no«-  no  more  the  ghost  of  Scandal  s'alk-J  about; 

She  merely  was  deem'd  amiable  and  witty. 
And  several  of  her  best  bon-mots  were  hawk'd  about : 

Then  she  was  given  to  charity  and  pity. 
And  pass  d  (at  least  the  latter  years  of  life) 
For  being  a  most  exemplary  wife. 

XLvin. 

High  in  high  circles,  gentle  in  her  own, 
She  was  the  mild  reprover  of  the  young, 

Whenever— which  means  everj-  Jay— they  d  shown 
An  awkward  inclination  to  go  wrong. 

The  quantity  of  good  she  did  "s  unknown, 
Or  at  the  least  would  lengthen  out  my  song: 

In  brief,  the  little  orphan  o7  the  East 

Had  raised  an  interest  in  her,  which  increased. 

XLIX. 

Juan,  too,  was  a  sort  of  favourite  with  her. 

Because  she  thought  him  a  good  heart  at  bottom, 

A  little  spoil'd,  but  not  so  altogether; 

Which  was  a  wonder,  if  you  think  who  got  him. 

And  how  he  had  1  een  toss'd,  he  scarce  knew  whither : 
Though  this  might  ruin  others,  it  did  not  him, 

At  least  entirely  —  for  he  had  seen  too  many 

Changes  in  youth,  to  be  surprised  at  any. 


And  these  vicissitudes  tell  best  in  youth; 

For  when  they  happen  at  a  riper  age, 
People  are  apt  to  blame  the  Fates,  forsooth, 

And  wonder  Providence  is  not  more  sage. 
Adversity  is  the  first  path  to  truth  : 

He  who  hath  proved  war,  storm,  or  woman's  rage, 
Whether  his  winters  be  eighteen  or  eighty, 
Hath  won  the  experience  which  is  deem"d  so  weighty. 

LI. 

How  far  it  profits  is  another  matter.— 

Our  hero  gladly  suw  his  little  charge 
Safe  with  a  lady,  whose  last  groivn-up  daughter 

Bein^  long  married,  and  thus  set  at  largcj 
Had  left  all  the  accomplishments  she  taught  her 

To  be  transmitted,  like  the  Lord  Mayor's  barge, 
To  the  next  comer;  or  —  as  it  will  tell" 
More  Muse-like  —  like  to  Cytherea's  shell. 

LII. 

I  call  such  things  transmission ;  for  there  is 
A  floating  balance  of  iccomplishment. 

Which  forms  a  pedigree  from  Miss  to  Miss, 
According  as  their  minds  or  backs  are  bent. 

Some  waltz ;  some  draw  ;  some  fathom  the  abyss 
Of  metaphysics  ;  others  are  content 

With  music;  the  most  moderate  shine  as  wits; 

While  others  have  a  genius  tum'd  for  fits. 

LIH. 
But  whether  fits,  or  wits,  or  harpsichords. 

Theology,  fine  arts,  or  finer  stays, 
May  be  the  baits  for  gentlemen  or  lords 

With  regular  descent,  in  these  our  days. 
The  last  year  to  the  new  transfers  its  hoards ; 

New  vestals  claim  men's  eyes  w  ith  the  same  praise 
Of  '•  elegant"  et  cxtera,  in  fresh  batches  — 
All  matchless  creatures,  and  yet  bent  on  matches. 

LIV 
But  now  1  v.i'l  begin  my  poem.    'T  is 

Perhaps  a  little  strange,  if  not  quite  new, 
Thai  from  the  first  of  Cantos  up  to  this 

I  've  not  begun  what  we  liave  to  go  through. 
These  first  twelve  books  aro  merely  flourishes, 

Preludios,  trying  just  a  string  or  two 
Upon  my  lyre,  or  making  the  pegs  sure ; 
And  when  sn,  you  shall  have  the  overture. 


LV. 

My  Muses  do  not  care  a  pinch  of  rosin 
About  what 's  call'd  success,  or  not  succeeding: 

Such  thoughts  are  quite  below  the  strain  they  have 
chosen ; 
'T  is  a  '■  great  moral  lesson  "  they  are  reading. 

I  thought,  at  setting  off,  about  two  dozen 
Cantos  would  do;  but  at  Apollo's  pleading, 

If  that  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  founder 'd, 

1  think  to  canter  gently  through  a  hundred. 

LVL 

Don  Juan  saw  lliat  microcosm  on  stilts, 

Yclept  the  Great  W  orid ;  for  it  is  the  least, 
i  Although  the  highest :  but  9s  swords  have  hilts 
j     By  which  their  power  of  mischief  is  increased, 
When  man  in  battle  or  in  ([uarrel  tilts, 

Thus  the  low  world,  north,  south,  or  west,  or  east, 
Must  still  obey  the  high  —  which  is  their  handle. 
Their  moon,  their  sun,  their  gas,  their  farthing  candle. 

LVII. 

He  had  many  friends  who  had  manv  wives,  and  was 
Well  lookd  upon  by  both,  to  that' extent 

Of  friendship  which  you  may  accept  or  pass, 
It  does  not  good,  nor  hami':  being  merely  meant 

To  keep  the  wheels  going  of  the  higher  class, 
And  draw  them  nightly  when  a  ticket's  sent ; 

And  "hat  with  masquerades,  and  fetes,  and  balls, 

For  the  first  season  such  a  life  scarce  palls. 

LVIII. 
A  young  unmarried  man,  with  a  good  name 

And  fortune,  has  an  awkward  part  to  jday ; 
For  good  society  is  but  a  game, 

"  The  royal  game  of  Goose,''  as  I  may  say, 
Where  every  fody  has  some  separate  aim, 

An  end  to  answer,  or  a  plan  to  lay  — 
The  single  ladies  wishing  to  be  double, 
The  married  ones  to  save  the  virgins  trouble. 

LIX. 

i  I  don't  mean  this  as  general,  but  particular 

Examples  may  be  found  of  such  pursuits: 
I  Though  several  also  keep  their  perpendicular 
I     Like  poplars,  with  good  nrinciples  for  roots ; 
j  Yet  many  have  a  method  more  reticular  — 
1     " Fishers  for  men,"  like  sirens  with  soft  lutes : 
i  For  talk  six  times  with  the  same  single  lady, 
'  And  you  may  get  the  wedding  dresses  ready, 

LX. 
Perhaps  you  '11  have  a  letter  from  the  mother. 

To  say  her  daughter's  feelings  are  trepann'2 
Perhaps  you  'II  have  a  visit  from  the  brother 

All  strut,  and  stays,  and  whiskers,  to  demand 
What  "  your  intentions  are  ?  "  —  One  way  or  other 

It  seems  the  virgin's  heart  expects  your  hand : 
And  between  pity" for  her  case  and  yours, 
You  "11  add  to  Matrimony's  list  of  cures. 


1  've  known  a  dozen  weddings  made  even  thus. 

And  some  of  them  high  names  :  I  have  also  known 
Young  men  who  —  though  they  hated  to  discuss 

Pre'tensions    which    they  never  dream'd  to  have 
shown  — 
Yet  neither  frighten'd  Ly  a  female  fuss. 

Nor  b\'  mustachios  moved,  were  let  alone, 
And  live'd,  as  did  the  iiroken-hearted  fair. 
In  happier  plight  than  if  they  form'd  a  pair. 

LXII. 

There 's  also  nightly,  to  the  uninitiated, 
A  peril  —  not  indeed  like  love  or  marriage, 

But  not  the  less  for  this  to  le  depreciated  : 
It  is  —  I  meant  and  mean  not  to  disparage 

The  show  of  virtue  even  in  the  vitiated  — 
It  adds  an  outward  grace  unto  their  carriage — 

But  to  denounce  the  anijihiLious  sort  of  harlot, 

"Couleur  de  rose,"  who  's  neither  white  nortcsr.fC 


49 


37 


578 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  XII 


LXIII. 
Such  is  your  cold  coquette,  who  can't  say  "  No," 

And  won  *  say  "  Yes,"  and  keeps  you  on  and  off-ing 
On  a  lee-shore,  till  it  begins  to  blow  — 

Then  sees  your  heart  wreck'd,  with  an  inward 
scoffing." 
This  works  a  world  of  sentimental  woe. 

And  sends  new  Werters  yearly  to  their  coffin  ; 
But  yet  is  merely  innocent  flirtation, 
Not  quite  adultery,  but  adulteration. 

LXIV. 
"Te  5ods,  I  grow  a  talker ! "    Let  us  prate. 

The  next  of  perils,  though  I  place  it  sternest, 
Is  when,  without  regard  to  "  church  or  state," 

A  wife  makes  or  takes  love  in  upright  earnest. 
Abroad,  such  things  decide  few  women's  fate  — 

(Such,  early  traveller!  is  the  truth  thou  leamest)— 
But  in  old  England,  when  a  young  bride  errs, 
Poor  thing  !  Eve's  was  a  triHing  case  to  hers. 

LXV. 
For  't  is  a  low,  newspaper,  humdrum,  lawsuit 

Country,  where  a  young  couple  of  the  same  ages      i 
Can't  form  a  friendship,  but  the  world  o'erawes  it.       ! 

Then  there 's  ihe  vulgar    trick  of  those  d— d 
damages !  i 

A  verdict  —  grievous  foe  to  those  who  cause  it !  — 

Forms  a  sad  climax  to  romantic  homages  ; 
Besides  those  soothing  speeches  of  the  pleaders, 
And  evidences  which  regale  all  readers.  ' 

LXVI. 

But  they  who  blunder  thus  are  raw  beginners; 

A  little  genial  sprinkling  of  hypocrisy 
Has  saved  the  fame  of  thousand  Bjjlendid  sii 

The  loveliest  oligarchs  of  our  gynocracy ; 
You  may  see  such  at  all  the  balls  and  dinners, 

Among  the  proudest  of  our  aristocracy. 
So  gentle,  charming,  charitable,  chaste  — 
And  all  by  having  tact  as  well  as  taste. 

LXVII. 

Juan,  who  did  not  stand  in  the  predicament 
Of  a  mere  novice,  had  one  safeguard  more ; 

For  he  was  sick no,  't  was  not  the  word  sick  I 

meant  — 
But  he  had  seen  so  much  good  love  before. 

That  he  was  not  in  heart  so  very  weak ;  —  I  meant 
But  thus  much,  and  no  sneer  against  the  shore 

Of  white  clitts,  white  necks,  Hue  eyes,  bluer  stockings,  '  i^\i] 


I  With  such  a  chart  as  may  le  safely  stuck  to  — 
I     For  Europe  ploughs  in  Afric  like  "  bos  pigtr;" 
But  if  I  had  betn  at  Timbuctoo,  there 
No  doubt  1  should  be  told  that  black  is  fair.> 

,  LXXI. 

I  It  is.  I  will  not  swear  that  black  is  white ; 
But  I  suspect  in  fact  that  white  is  black, 
1  And  the  whole  matter  rests  upon  eye-sight. 
'  Ask  a  Llind  man,  the  best  judge.  You  "II  attack 
Perhaps  this  new  position  —  but  I  'm  right ; 
!  Or  if  I  'm  wrong,  I  '11  not  be  ta'en  aback  :  — 
I  He  hath  no  morn  nor  night,  but  all  is  dark 
i  Within ;  and  what  seest  thou  ?    A  dubious  spark. 

I  LXXII. 

I  But  I  'm  relapsing  into  metaphysics, 

[     That  labyrinth^  whose  clue  is  of  the  same 

!  Construction  as  your  cures  for  hectic  phthisics, 

I     Those  bright  moths  fluttering  round  a  dying  flame: 

And  this  reflection  brines  me  to  plain  physics, 
!      And  to  Ihe  beauties  of  a  foreign  dame, 

Compared  with  those  of  our  pure  pearls  of  price, 
;  Those  polar  summers,  all  sun,  and  some  ice. 

LXXIII. 

Or  say  they  are  like  virtuous  mermaids,  whose 
i      Beginnings  are  fair  face-!,  ends  mere  fishes  ;  — 

Not  that  there  's  not  a  quantity  of  those 

Who  have  a  due  respect  for  their  own  wishes. 

Like  Russians  rushing  from  hot  baths  to  snows^ 
'      Are  they,  at  bottom  virtuous  even  when  vicious; 

They  warm  into  a  scrape,  but  keep  of  course, 

As  a  reserve,  a  plunge  into  remorse. 

LXXIV. 

But  this  has  nought  to  do  with  their  oufsides. 

I  said  that  Juan  did  not  think  them  pretty 
'  At  the  first  blush ;  for  a  fair  Briton  hides 

Half  her  attractions  —  probably  from  pity  — 
And  rather  calmly  into  the  heart  glides, 
■      Than  storms  it  as  a  foe  would  take  a  city  ; 
I  But  once  there  (if  you  doubt  this,  prithee  trj-) 
I  She  keeps  it  for  you  like  a  true  ally. 

I  LXXV. 

She  cannot  s'ep  as  does  an  Arab  barb. 
Or  Andalusian  girl  from  mass  returning. 

Nor  wear  as  gracefully  as  Gauls  her  garb. 
Nor  in  her  eye  Ausonia's  glance  is  burning; 

Her  voice,  though  sweet,  is  not  so  fit  to  warb- 
le those  bravuras  (which  I  still  am  learning 


„.  ,  .,  ,.  -.;  J     u.    I        I-   -       .- ..ke,  though  I  have  been  seven  vears  in  Italy, 

Tithes,  taxes,  duns,  and  doors  with  double  knockings.  i  ^^j  ^^^.^^  or  had,  an  ear  that  served  me  prettily)  ;— 

LXVIH 


But  coming  young  from  lands  and  scenes  romantic, 
Where  lives,  not  lawsuits,  must  be  riskd  for  Pas- 
sion, 

And  Passion's  self  must  have  a  spice  of  frantic. 
Into  a  country  where  't  is  half  a  fashion, 

Seem'd  to  him  half  commercial,  half  pedantic, 
Howe'er  he  might  esteem  this  moral  nation  : 

Besides  (alas!  his  taste  —  forgive  and  pity  !) 

At  first  he  did  not  think  the  women  pretty. 

LXIX. 

I  say  at  first  —  for  he  found  out  at  last, 
But  by  degrees,  that  they  were  fairer  far 

Than  the  more  glowing  dames  whose  lot  is  cast 
Beneath  the  influence  of  the  eastern  star. 

A  further  proof  we  should  not  judge  in  haste  ; 
Yet  inexperience  could  not  be  his  bar 

To  taste  :  —  the  truth  is,  il  men  would  confess, 

Thit  ni  velties  p/eote  less  than  they  imj.ress. 

LXX. 

Though  travell'd,  I  hare  never  had  the  luck  to 
Trace  up  those  shuffling  negroes,  Nile  or  Niger, 

To  that  impracticable  place  Timbuctoo, 
Where  Geography  finds  no  one  to  oblige  her 


LXXVI. 

She  cannot  do  these  things,  nor  one  or  two 
Others,  in  that  oft-hand  and  dashing  style 

Which  takes  so  much  —  to  give  the  devi'l  his  due ; 
Nor  is  she  quite  so  ready  with  her  smile. 

Nor  settles  all  things  in  oiie  interview, 
(A  thing  approved  as  saving  time  and  toil);  — 

But  though  the  soil  may  give  you  time  and  trouble, 

Well  cultivated,  it  will  fender  double. 

Lxxvn. 

And  if  in  fact  she  fakes  to  a  "  grande  passion," 

It  is  a  very  serious  thing  indeed  : 
Nine  times  in  ten  't  is  but  caprice  or  fashion, 

Coquetry,  or  a  wish  to  take  the  lead. 
The  pride  of  a  mere  child  with  a  new  sash  on, 

Or  wish  to  make  a  rival's  bosom  bleed  : 
But  the  tenth  instance  will  be  a  tornado, 
For  there  s  no  saying  what  they  will  or  may  do. 


1  Major  Denham  says,  that  when  he  firtt  saw  Eurcpean 
women  after  hia  travels  in  Africa,  they  appeared  lo  him  to 
have  unnatural  sickly  countenances.  — K. 

!2  The  Russian*,  as  is  well  known,  run  out  from  their 
hot  baths  to  plunge  into  the  Neva;  a  pleasant  pr»utli»l 
antithesis,  which  it  seems  does  them  no  harra. 


Canto  Xlf.] 


DON  JUAN. 


579 


LXXVIII. 
TTie  reason  's  obvions ;  if  there  's  an  eclat, 

They  lose  their  caste  at  once,  a«  do  the  Farias ; 
And  when  the  delicacies  of  the  law 

Have  fill'd  their  papers  with  their  comments  vari- 
ous. 
Society,  that  china  without  flaw, 

(The  hypocrite!)  will  binish  them  like  Marius, 
To  sit  amidst  the  ruins  ot  their  guilt : 
For  Fame  "s  a  Carthage  not  so  soon  rebuilt, 

LXXIX. 

Perhaps  this  is  as  it  should  be  ;  —  it  is 
A  comment  on  the  Gospel's  "  Sin  m  more, 

And  be  thy  sins  forgiven :  "  —  but  upon  this 
I  leave  the  saints  to  settle  their  own  score. 

Abroad,  though  doubtless  they  do  much  amiss, 
An  errin;  woman  finds  an  opener  door 

For  her  return  to  Virtue  —  as  they  call 

That  lady,  who  should  be  at  home  to  all. 

LXXX. 

For  me.  I  leave  the  matter  where  I  find  it, 

Knowing  that  such  uneasy  virlue  leads 
People  some  ten  times  less  in  fact  to  mind  if. 

And  care  but  for  discoveries  and  not  deeds. 
And  as  for  chastity,  you  "II  never  bind  it 

By  all  the  laws'the  strictest  lawyer  pleads, 
But  ajzravate  the  crime  you  have'not  prevented, 
By  rendering  desperate  those  who  had  else  repented. 

Lxxxr. 

But  Juan  was  no  casuist,  nor  had  ponder'd 

Upon  the  moral  lessons  of  mankind  : 
Besides,  he  had  not  seen  of  several  hundred 

A  lady  altogether  to  his  mind. 
A  little  "  blase  "  —  't  is  not  to  be  wonder'd 

At,  that  his  heart  had  got  a  tougher  rind  : 
And  though  not  vainer  from  his  past  success, 
No  doubt  his  sensibilities  were  less. 

LXXXII. 

He  also  had  been  busy  seeing  sights  — 
The  Parliament  ani  all  the  ether  houses; 

Had  sat  benea!h  the  galler)'  at  nights, 
To  hear  debates  whose  thunder  roused  (not  rouses) 

The  world  to  gaze  upon  those  northern  lights 
Which  flash'd  as  far  as  where  the  musk-bull  brow- 
ses ;  1 

He  had  also  stood  at  times  behind  the  throne  — 

But  Grey  »  was  not  arrived,  and  Chatham  gone.3 

Lxxxnr. 

He  saw,  however,  at  the  closing  session, 
That  noble  sight,  when  really  free  the  nation, 

A  kin»  in  constitutional  possession 

Of  such  a  throne  as  is  the  proudest  station. 

Though  despots  know  it  not  —  till  the  progression 
Of  freedom  shall  complete  their  education. 

'T  is  not  mere  splendour  makes  the  show  august 

To  eye  or  heart  —  it  is  the  people's  trust. 

LXXXIV. 
There,  too,  he  saw  (whate'er  he  may  be  now) 

A  IVince,  the  prince  of  princes  at  the  time, 
With  fascination  in  his  very  bow. 

And  full  of  promise,  as  the  spring  of  prime. 
Though  royalty  was  written  on  his  brow. 

He  had  thtn  the  grace,  too  rare  in  every  clime, 
Of  being,  without  alloy  of  fop  or  beau, 
A  finished  gentleman  from  top  to  toe. 

1  For  a  description  and  print  of  this  inhabitant  of  ttie 
polar  region  and  native  country  of  Ihe  Aurora  Borealie, 
•ee  Parry'«  Voy  ge  in  search  of  a  Norlh-weel  Passage. 

2  Charles,  second  Earl  Grey,  succeeded  to  the  peerage  in 
1K)7.-E. 

3  William  Pitt,  first  Earl  of  Chatham,  died  in  May. 
1778,  afier  having  been  carried  home  from  ihe  House  of 
L,onla,  where  he  had  fainted  away  at  the  close  of  a  re- 
markable speech  ou  the  American  war.  — E. 


LXXXV, 

And  Juan  was  received,  as  hath  been  said, 

"nto  the  best  s'>ciety ;  and  there 
Occurrd  what  often  happens,  1  "m  afraid, 

However  disciplined  and  debonnaire :  — 
The  talent  and  gsod  humour  he  display'd. 

Resides  the  mark'd  distinction  of  his  air. 
Exposed  him,  as  was  natural,  to  temptation, 
Even  though  himself  avoided  the  occasion. 

LXXXVI. 

But  what,  and  where,  with  whom,  and  when,  and 
why. 

Is  not  to  be  put  hastily  together; 
And  as  my  object  is  morality 

(Whatever  people  say),  Idon't  know  whether 
I  'II  leave  a  single  reader's  eyelid  dry, 

But  harrow  up  his  feelings  till  they  wither, 
And  hew  out  a  huge  monument  of  pathos. 
As  Philip's  son  proposed  to  do  with  Athos.* 

LXXXVH. 

Here  the  tv.-elfth  Canto  of  our  introduction 
Ends.     When  the  body  of  the  book 's  begun, 

You  11  find  it  of  a  difierent  construction 

From  what  some  people  say  t  will  be  whe'j  done : 

The  plan  at  present  "s  simply  in  concoction. 
I  can't  oblige  you,  reader,  to  read  on  ; 

That  "s  your  aifair,  not  mine  :  a  real  spirit 

Should  neither  court  neglect,  nor  dread  lO  bear  it. 

Lxxxvni. 

And  if  my  thunderbolt  not  always  rattles. 
Remember,  reader  !  you  have  had  before 

The  worst  of  tempests  and  Ihe  best  of  battles. 
That  e'er  were  brew'd  from  elements  or  gore, 

Besides  the  most  sublime  of —  Heaven  knows  what 
else: 
An  usurer  could  scarce  expect  much  more  — 

But  my  best  canto,  save  one  on  astronomy, 

Will  turn  upon  "political  economy." 

LXXX  IX. 

That  is  your  present  theme  for  popularity : 
Now  that  the  public  hedge  hath  scarce  a  stake, 

It  grows  an  act  of  patriotic  c-harity. 
To  show  the  people  the  best  vs'ay  to  break. 

My  plan  (but  I,  if  but  for  singularity. 
Reserve  it)  will  be  very  sure  to  take. 

Meantime,  read  all  the  national-debt  sinkers, 

And  tell  me  what  you  think  of  our  great  thinker*. 


CANTO  THE   THIRTEENTH. 


I  now  mean  to  be  serious ;  —  it  is  time, 
Since  laughter  now-a-days  is  Jeem'd  too  serious, 

A  jest  at  Vice  by  Virlue  's  call'd  a  crime. 
And  critically  held  as  deleterious : 

Besides,  the  sad  "s  a  source  of  the  sublime. 
Although  when  long  a  little  apt  to  weary  us ; 

And  therefore  shall  my  lay  soar  high  and  solemn. 

As  an  old  temple  dwindled  to  a  column. 

II. 

The  I.ady  Adeline  Amundeville 

('T  is  an  old  Norman  name,  and  to  be  found 
In  pedigrees,  by  those  who  wander  still 

Along  the  last  fields  of  that  Gothic  gn^-.-nd) 
Was  high-born,  wealthy  by  her  father's  will. 

And  beauteous,  even  where  beauties  most  abound, 
In  Britain  —  which  of  course  true  patriots  find 
The  goodliest  soil  of  body  and  of  mind. 

4  A  sculptor  protected  to  hew  Mount  Athos  Into  a  statne 
of  Alexander,  with  a  city  in  one  hand,  and,  I  belieTe,  a 
ri^er  in  his  porkei,  with  various  other  similar  devtcea. 
But  Alexander's  gone,  and  Athos  remains,  I  Irutt  <tf 
long  to  look  over  a  nation  of  freemen. 


580 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  XIII. 


III. 

I  '11  not  gainsay  them  ;  it  is  not  my  cue  ; 

I  '11  leave  them  to  their  las'e,  nii  doubt  the  test: 
Ati  eye  's  ai.  eye,  and  whether  black  or  blue, 

Is  no  great  matter,  so  'f  is  in  request, 
T  is  nonsense  to  dispute  about  a  hue  — 

The  kindest  may  be  taken  as  a  test. 
The  fair  sex  should  be  always  fair ;  and  no  man. 
Till  thirty,  should  perceive  there's  a  plain  woman. 

IV. 
And  after  that  serene  and  somewhat  dull 

Epoch,  that  awkward  comer  turn'd  for  daj-s 
More  quiet,  when  our  moon  's  no  more  at  full, 

We  may  presume  to  criticise  or  praise  ; 
Because  inditFerence  begins  to  lull 

Our  passions,  and  we  walk  in  wisdoM's  ways; 
Also  because  the  tisure  and  the  face 
Hint,  that 't  is  time' to  give  tbe  younger  place. 

V. 
I  know  that  some  would  fain  postpone  this  era. 

Reluctant  as  all  placemen  to  resisrn 
Their  post ;  but  theirs  is  merely  a  chimera, 

For  they  have  pass'd  life  s  equinoctial  line  : 
But  then  they  have  their  claret  and  Madeira 

To  irrisrate  the  dryness  of  decline  ; 
And  county  meetings,  and  the  parliament. 
And  debt,  and  what  not,  for  their  solace  sent. 

vr. 

And  is  there  not  religion,  and  reform, 

Peace,   war,    the    taxes,    and    what's   called   the 
The  strugjle  to  be  pilots  in  a  storm  ?        ["  Nation  .■"' 

The  landed  and  the  monieJ  speculation  ? 
The  joys  of  mutual  hate  to  keep  them  warm, 

Instead  of  love,  that  mere  hallucination  ? 
Now  hatred  is  by  far  the  longest  pleasure ; 
Men  love  in  haste,  but  they  detest  at  leisure. 

VII. 
Rough  Johnson,  the  great  moralist,  profess'd, 

Right  honestly,  "  he  liked  an  honest  hater!  "—  « 
The  only  truth  that  yet  has  been  confest 

VViinin  these  latest  thousand  years  or  later. 
Perhaps  the  fine  old  fellow  spoke  in  jest :  — 

For  my  part,  I  am  but  a  mere  spectator. 
And  saze  where'er  the  palace  or  the  hovel  is. 
Much  in  the  mode  of  Goethe's  Mephistopheles ;  a 

VIII. 
But  neither  love  nor  hate  in  much  excess  ; 

Though  't  was  not  once  so.     If  I  sneer  sometimes, 
It  IS  because  I  cannot  well  do  less, 

And  now  and  then  it  also  suits  my  rhymes, 
1  should  be  very  willing  to  redress 

Men's  wrongs,  and  rather  check  than  punish  crimes, 
Had  not  Cervantes,  in  that  too  true  tale 
Of  Quixote,  shown  how  all  such  eftorts  fail. 

IX. 

Of  all  tales  1  is  the  saddest  —  and  more  sad. 

Because  it  makes  us  smile  :  his  hero  's  right, 
And  still  pursues  the  right ;  —  to  curb  the  bad 

His  only  object,  and  "gainst  odds  to  P.gbt 
His  guerdon :  't  is  his  virtue  makes  him  mad  ! 

But  hi»  adventures  form  a  sorry  sight  j  — 
A  sorrier  still  is  the  great  moral  taught 
B/  that  rtil  epic  unto  all  who  have' thought. 

X. 
Redressing  injury,  revenging  wrong. 

To  aid  the  damsel  and  destroy  the  caitiff; 
Opposing  singly  the  united  strong. 

From  foreign  yoke  to  free  the  helpless  native  :  — 
Alas  I  must  noblest  views,  like  an  old  son?. 

Be  for  mere  fancy's  sport  a  theme  creative, 
A  jest,  a  riidle.  Fame  throueh  thick  and  thin  sought ! 
And  Socrates  himself  but  Wisdom's  Quixote? 


1  •*  Sii 


hater."-See  BOSVVELL'8  John- 
r  of  the  Devil  In  Goethe't 


XI. 

Ceri-antes  smiled  Spain's  chivalry  away ; 

A  single  laugh  demolish  d  the  risht  arm 
Of  his  own  country  ;  —  seldnm  since' that  day 

Has  Spain  had  heVoes.  While  Romance  could  charm, 
The  world  gave  ground  before  her  brisht  array; 

Aud  therefore  have  his  volumes  done  such  hann. 
That  all  their  glory,  as  a  composition. 
Was  dearly  purchased  by  his  land's  perdition. 

XII. 

I  'm  "at  my  old  lunes"  —  digression,  and  forget 

T  he  I  ady  Adeline  Amundeville  ; 
The  fair  most  fa'al  Juan  evjr  n)et. 

Although  she  was  not  evil  nor  meant  ill ; 
But  Destiny  and  Passion  spread  the  net 

(Fate  is  a  good  excuse  fir  our  own  will), 
Aud   caught  them ;  —  what  do  they  not  catch,  bM' 

thinks  ? 
But  1  'm  not  CEdipus,  and  life 's  a  Sphinx 

XIII. 

I  tell  the  tale  as  it  is  to'd,  nor  dare 
'I  o  venture  a  solution  :  "  Uavus  sum  1 " 

And  now  I  will  proceed  upon  the  pair. 
Su  eet  Adeline,  amidst  the  gay  world's  hum, 

Was  the  Queen-Bee,  the  g'ass  o'f  all  that 's  fair ; 
Whose  champs  made  all  men  speak,  and  women 
dumb. 

The  last 's  a  miracle,  and  such  was  reckon'd. 

And  since  that  time  there  has  not  been  a  second. 

XIV. 
Chaste  was  she,  to  detraction's  desperation, 

Aud  wedded  unto  one  she  had  loved  well  — 
A  man  known  in  the  councils  of  the  nation, 

Cool,  and  quite  English,  imjierlurbable, 
Thoujh  apt  to  act  with  fire  upon  occasion, 

Proud  of  himself  and  her :  the  world  could  fell 
Nought  against  either,  and  both  seem'd  secure  — 
She  in  her  virtue,  he  in  his  hauteur. 

XV. 
It  chanced  some  diplomatical  relations. 

Arising  out  of  business,  often  brought 
Hirase  f  and  Juan  in  their  mutual  stations 

Into  close  contact.     'I  hough  reserved,  nor  caught 
By  specious  seeming,  Juan's  youth,  and  patience, 

And  talent,  on  his  haughty  spirit  wrought, 
And  formd  a  basis  of  esteem,  which  end's 
In  making  men  what  courtesy  calls  friends. 

XVI. 
And  thus  Lord  Henry,  who  was  cautions  as 

Reserve  and  pride  could  make  him,  and  full  slow 
In  judging  men  —  when  once  his  judgment  was 

Determined,  right  or  wrong,  on  friend  or  foe. 
Had  all  the  pertinacity  pride'has. 

Which  knows  no  ebb  to  its  imperious  flow, 
And  loves  or  hates,  disdaining  to  be  guided. 
Because  its  own  good  pleasure  hath  decided. 

XVII. 

His  friendships,  therefore,  and  no  less  aversions, 
Thoujh  oft  well  founded,  which  confirm 'd  but  mcflW 

His  prepossessions,  like  the  laws  of  Persians 
And  .Medes,  would  ne'er  revoke  what  went  before. 

His  feelings  had  not  those  strange  fits,  like  tertians, 
Of  common  likines,  which  make  some  depiore 

What  they  should  laush  at  —  the  mere  ague  still 

Of  men's  regard,  the  fever  or  the  chill. 

XVIII. 

"  'T  is  not  in  mortals  to  command  success : 
But  do  you  more,  Sempronius  —  don't  deserve  it," 

And  take  my  word,  you  wont  have  any  less. 
Be  wary, '«  atch  the  time,  aud  always  serve  it ; 

Give  gently  v>ay,  when  there  's  too  great  a  press; 
And  for  your  conscience,  only  learn  to  nerve  i^ 

For,  like  a  racer,  or  a  boxer  training, 

:T  will  make,  if  proved,  vast  efforts  without  paining 


Canto  XIII.] 


DON  JUAN. 


581 


XIX. 

Lord  Henry  also  liked  to  be  superior, 
As  most  men  do,  the  little  or  the  great ; 

The  ;ery  lowest  find  out  an  inferior, 
At  least  they  think  so,  to  exert  their  slate 

Upon :  for  there  are  very  few  things  wearier 
Than  solitary  Pride's  oppressive  wei?ht. 

Which  mortals  generously  would  divide, 

By  bidding  others  carry  while  they  ride. 

XX. 

In  birth,  in  rank,  in  fortune  likewise  equal, 

O'er  Juan  he  could  no  distinction  claim ; 
In  years  he  had  the  advantage  of  time's  sequel ; 

And,  as  he  thought,  in  country  much  the  same  — 
Be  ;ause  bold  Britons  have  a  tongue  and  free  quill, 

At  which  all  modern  nations  vainly  aimj 
And  the  I^rd  Henry  was  a  great  debater, 
So  that  few  members  kept  the  house  up  later. 

XXI. 
These  were  advantages:  and  then  he  thought  — 

It  was  his  foible,  but  by  no  means  sinister  — 
That  few  or  none  more  than  himself  had  caug:ht 

Court  mysteries,  havin»  been  himself  a  minister : 
He  liked  to  teach  that  which  he  had  been  taught. 

And  grea'ly  shone  whenever  there  had  been  a  stir  j 
And  reconciled  all  qualities  which  grace  man, 
Always  a  patriot,  and  sometimes  a  placeman. 

XXII. 
He  liked  the  gentle  Spaniard  for  his  gravity  ; 

He  almost  honour'd  him  for  his  docility. 
Because,  though  young,  he  acquiesced  « ith  suavity, 

Or  contradicted  but  with  proud  humility. 
He  knew  the  world,  and  would  not  see  depravity 

In  faults  which  sometimes  show  the  soil's  fertility, 
If  that  the  weeds  o'erlive  not  the  first  crop  — 
For  then  they  are  very  diflScult  to  stop. 

XXIII. 
And  then  he  talk'd  with  him  about  Madrid, 

Constantinople,  and  such  distant  places ; 
Where  people  always  did  as  they  were  bid. 

Or  did  what  they  should  not  with  foreign  graces. 
Of  coursers  also  spake  they  :  Henry  rid 

Well,  like  most  Englishmen,  and  loved  the  races; 
And  Juan,  like  a  true-born  Andalusian, 
Could  back  a  horse,  as  despots  riie  a  Russian. 

XXIV. 
And  th»is  acquaintance  grew,  at  noble  routs. 

And  diplomatic  dinnei-s,  or  at  other  — 
For  Juan  stood  well  both  with  Ins  and  Outs, 

As  in  freemasonry  a  higher  brother. 
Upon  his  talent  Henry  had  no  doubts ; 

His  manner  show'd  him  sprung  from  a  high  mother; 
And  all  men  like  to  show  their  hospitality 
To  him  whose  breeding  matches  with  his  quality. 

XXV. 
At  Blank-Blank  Square ;  —  for  we  will  break  no 
squares. 

By  naming  streets :  s'nce  men  are  so  censorious, 
And  apt  to  sow  an  author  s  wheat  with  lares, 

Reaping  allusions  private  and  inglorious, 
VVhye  none  were  dreamt  of,  unto  love's  atfairs, 

VVnich  were,  or  are,  or  are  to  be  notorious, 
That  therefore  do  I  previously  declare. 
Lord  Henry's  mansion  was  in  Blank-Blank  Square. 

XXVI. 
Also  there  bin  >  another  pious  reason 

For  making  squares  and  streets  anonymous; 
Which  is,  that  there  is  scaui  a  single  season 

Which  doih  no!  shake  some  very  splendid  house 
With  some  slight  heart-cjuake  of  domestic  treason  — 

A  topic  scandal  doth  de  i^Ut  to  rouse: 
Such  I  might  stumble  over  unawares. 
Unless  1  knew  the  very  chastest  squares. 


4U 


XXVII. 
'T  is  true,  I  might  have  chosen  Piccadilly, 

A  place  where  peccadillos  are  unknown; 
But  I  have  motives,  whether  wise  or  silly, 

For  letting  that  pure  sanctuary  alone. 
Therefore  I  name  not  square,  street,  place,  until  I 

Find  one  where  nothing  naughty  can  be  shown, 
A  vestal  shrine  of  innocence  of  heart : 
Such  are but  1  have  lost  the  Loudon  Chart. 

XXVIIL 

At  Henry's  mansion  then,  in  Blank-Blank  Square, 
Was  Juan  a  recherche,  welcome  guest. 

As  many  other  noble  scions  were  ; 
And  some  who  had  but  talent  for  their  crest ; 

Or  wealth,  which  is  a  passport  everywhere; 
Or  even  mere  fashion,  which  indeed  "s  the  best 

Recommendation  j  and  to  be  well  drest 

Will  very  often  supersede  the  rest. 

XXIX. 

And  since  "  there 's  safety  in  a  multitude 
Of  counsellors,"  as  Solomon  has  said. 

Or  some  one  for  him,  in  some  sage,  grave  mood  ;  — 
Indeed  we  see  the  daily  proof  displayed 

In  senates,  at  the  bar,  in  wordy  feud. 
Where'er  collective  wisdom  can  parade. 

Which  is  the  only  cause  that  we  can  guess 

Of  Britain's  present  wealth  and  happiness;  — 


But  as  "  there 's  safety  "  grafted  in  the  number 
"Of  counsellors"  f'^r  men,  —  thus  for  the  sex 

A  large  acquaintance  lets  not  Virtue  slumber; 
Or  should  it  shake,  the  choice  will  more  perplex— 

Variety  itself  will  more  encumber. 
'Midst  many  rocks  we  guard  more  against  wrecks ; 

And  thus  with  women  :  howsoe'er  it  shocks  some  s 

Self-love,  there 's  safety  in  a  crowd  of  coxcombs. 

XXXL 

'  But  Adeline  had  not  the  least  occasion 

1     For  such  a  shield,  which  leaves  but  little  merit 
To  virtue  proper,  or  good  education. 
Her  chief  resource  was  in  her  own  high  spirit, 

I  Which  judged  mankind  at  their  due  estimation; 

;     And  for  coquetry,  she  disdain'd  to  wear  it : 
Secure  of  admiration,  its  impression 
Was  faint,  as  of  an  every-day  possession. 

I 

I  XXXIL 

I  To  all  she  was  polite  without  parade  ; 

j     To  some  she  show'd  attention  of  that  kind 
Which  flatters,  but  is  flattery  convey 'd 

}      In  such  a  sort  as  cannot  leave  behind 

!  A  trace  unworthy  either  wife  or  maid  ;  — 

1     A  gentle,  genial  courtesy  of  mind. 
To  those  who  were,  or  pass'd  for  meritorious. 
Just  to  console  sad  glory  for  being  glorious; 

I  XXXIIL 

Which  is  in  all  respects,  save  now  and  then, 

A  dull  and  desolate  appendage.     Gaze 
Upon  the  shades  of  those  distinguish'd  men, 
I     Who  were  or  are  the  puppet-shows  of  praise. 
The  praise  of  persecution.    Gaze  again 

On  the  most  favour'd  ;  and  amidst  the  blaze 
Of  sunset  halos  o'er  the  laurel-brovv'd. 
What  can  ye  recognise  ?  —  a  gilded  cloud. 

XXXIV. 

There  also  was  of  course  in  Adeline 
That  calm  pa'rician  polish  in  the  address. 

Which  ne'er  can  pass  the  eauinoctial  line 
Of  any  thing  v»iiich  nature  would  express; 

Just  as  a  mandarin  finds  nothing  fine,— 
At  least  his  manner  sufl'ers  not  to  guess, 

That  any  thing  he  views  can  greatly  please. 

Perhaps  we  have  borrow'd  this  from  the  Chine»e  — 


582 


-\ 


DON  JUAN 


LCanto  XIII. 


XXXV. 

Perhaps  from  Horace:  his  "A^7  admirari" 
Was  what  he  calld  the  "  Art  of  Happiness ; 

An  art  on  which  the  artists  sreatly  van,', 
And  have  not  yet  attained  to  mucli  success. 

However,  't  is  expedient  to  be  wary  : 

Indifference  certes  don't  produce  distress; 

And  rash  enthusiasm  in  jiod  s^ciely 

Were  nothing  but  a  moral  inebriety. 

xxxvr. 

But  Adeline  was  not  indiflFerent :  for 
(Now  for  a  common-place !)  beneath  the  snow, 

As  a  volcano  holds  the  lava  more 

Within  — fit  cxtera.    J^hall  I  ?o  on  ?  — No! 

I  hate  to  hunt  down  a  tired  metaphor, 
So  let  the  often-used  volcano  50. 

Poor  thing !  How  frequently,  by  me  and  others, 

It  hath  been  stirr'd  up  till  its  smoke  quite  smothers ! 

xxxvir. 

I  '11  have  another  figure  in  a  trice :  — 
What  say  you  to  a  bottle  of  champagne  ? 

Frozen  into  a  very  vinous  ice, 

Which  leaves  few  drops  of  that  immortal  rain, 

Yet  in  the  very  centre,  past  all  price, 
About  a  liquid  glassful  will  remain  ; 

And  this  is  stronger  than  the  strongest  grape 

Could  e'er  express  in  its  expanded  shape : 

XXXV  nr. 

T  is  the  whole  spirit  brought  to  a  quintessence  j 
And  thus  the  chilliest  aspects  may  concentre 

A  hidden  nectar  under  a  cild  presence. 

And  such  are  many  —  thoujh  I  only  meant  her 

From  whom  I  now  deduce  these  moral  lessons. 
On  which  the  Muse  has  always  siught  to  enter. 

And  your  cold  people  are  beyond  all  price. 

When  once  you  have  broken  their  confounded  ice. 

XXXIX. 

But  after  all  they  are  a  North- West  Passage 

Unto  the  glowing  India  of  the  soul ; 
And  as  the  eood  ships  sent  upnn  that  message 

Have  not  exactly  ascertain'd  the  Pole 
(Though  Parry's  efforts  look  a  lucky  presage), 

Thus  gentlemen  may  run  upon  a  shoal ; 
For  if  the  Pole  's  not  open,  but  all  frost 
(A  chance  still),  H  is  a  voyage  or  vessel  lost. 

XL. 

And  young  bejinners  may  as  well  commence 
With  quiet  cruising  o'er  the  ocean  woman  ; 

While  thnse  who  are  not  beginners  should  have  sense 
Enough  to  make  for  port,  ere  time  shall  summon 

With  his  grey  signal-flaz;  and  the  past  tense, 
The  dreary  "  Fuimus"  of  a'l  things  human. 

Must  be  declined,  while  life's  thin  thread  's  spun  out 

Between  the  gaping  heir  and  gnawing  gout. 

XLI. 

But  heaven  must  be  diverted ;  its  diversion 
Is  sometimes  truculent  —  but  never  mind  : 

The  world  upon  the  whole  is  worth  the  assertion 
(If  but  for  comfort)  that  all  things  are  kind  : 

And  that  same  devilish  doctrine  of  the  Persian, 
Of  the  two  principles,  but  leaves  behind 

As  many  doubts  as  any  other  doctrine 

Has  ever  puzzled  Faith  withal,  or  yoked  her  in. 

XLII. 

The  English  winter  —  ending  in  July, 

To  recommence  in  Aujust'—  now'was  done. 

T  is  the  postilion's  paradise  :  wheels  fly  ; 
On  roads,  east,  south,  mrth,  west,  there  is     -un. 

But  for  post-horses  who  finds  sympathy  ? 
Man's  pity  's  for  himself,  or  for  his  son, 

Always  premising  that  said  son  at  col'ege 

Has  not  contracted  much  more  debt  ftiah  knowledge. 


XLII  I. 

The  London  winter 's  ended  in  July  — 

Sometimes  a  little  later.     I  don't  err 
In  this  :  whatever  other  blunders  lie 

Upon  my  shoulders,  here  I  must  aver 
My  Muse  a  glass  of  weatherology  ; 

For  parliameut  is  our  barometer : 
Let  radica's  its  other  acts  a'tack. 
Its  sessions  form  our  only  almanack. 

XLIV. 
When  its  quicksilver  s  down  at  zero, —  .0 . 

Coach,  chariot,  luggase,  baggage,  equipage ! 
Wheels  whirl  from  Carlton  palace  to  >:oho, 

Anl  happiest  they  who  horses  can  ensrage  ; 
The  turnpikes  glow  with  dust  ;  and  Rotten  Row 

Sleeps  from  the  chivalry  of  this  bright  a?e  ; 
And  tradesmen,  with  long  bills  and  longer  faces. 
Sigh  —  as  the  postboys  fasten  on  the  traces. 

XLV. 
They  and  their  bills,  "  Arcadians  both.'' «  are  left 

To  the  Greek  kalends  of  another  session. 
Alas !  to  them  of  ready  cash  bereft. 

What  hope  remains'?    Of  hojie  the  full  possession, 
Or  generous  draft,  conceded  as  a  gift, 

At  a  long  date  —  till  they  can  get  a  fresh  one  — 
Hawk'd  about  at  a  discount,  small  or  large; 
Also  the  solace  of  an  overcharge. 

XLVL 
But  these  are  trifles.    Downward  flies  my  lord, 


And  chanjed  as  quickly  as  hearts  after  marriage; 

j  The  obsequious  landlord  hath  the  change  restored; 

I     The  postboys  have  no  reason  to  disparage 
Their  fee;  but  ere  the  water'd  wheels  may  hiss  hence. 
The  ostler  pleads  too  for  a  reminiscence. 

XLVII 

'T  i<  eranted ;  and  the  valet  mounts  the  dickey  — 
That  gentleman  of  lords  and  senflemen  ; 

Also  my  lady's  gentlewoman,  tricky, 

Trick'd  out,  but  modest  more  than  poet's  pen 

Can  paint,—  "  Cosi  viaggino  i  Ricchi !  " 
(Excuse  a  foreign  slipslop  now  and  then, 

If  but  to  show  1  've  travell  d  ;  and  what 's  travel, 

Unless  it  teaches  one  to  quote  and  cavil  ?) 

XLVUI. 
The  London  winter  and  the  country  summer 

Were  well-nigh  over.     '  I'  is  perhaps  a  pity, 
When  nature  wears  the  gown  that  doth  become  her, 

To  lose  those  best  months  in  a  sweaty  city. 
And  wait  until  the  nightingale  grows  dumber. 

Listening  debates  not  very  wise  or  witty. 
Ere  patriots  their  true  country  can  remember ;  — 
But  there  's  no  shooting  (save  grouse)  till  September. 

XLIX. 


Were  vanish'd  to  be  what  they  call  alone  — 
That  is,  with  thirty  servants  for  parade, 

As  many  guests,  or  more ;  before  whom  groan 
As  manv  covers,  duly,  daily  laid. 

I.et  none  accuse  old  F.ng'and's  hospitality  — 

Its  quantity  is  but  condensed  to  quality. 

L. 

Lord  Henryand  the  Lady  Adeline 
Departed  like  the  rest  of  their  compeers. 

The  peerare,  to  a  mansion  very  fine  ; 
The  Gothic  Babel  of  a  thousand  years. 

None  thin  themselves  could  boast  a  longer  line, 
Where  time  through  heroes  and  through  beantiet 

And  oaks  as  olden  as  their  peJigree  [steen ; 

Told  of  their  sires,  a  tomb  in  every  tree. 


1  "Arcades  ambo." 


Canto  XII  f.] 


DON  JUAN. 


583 


LI. 

A  paragraph  in  every  paper  told 
Of  their  departure  :  such  is  modem  fame  : 

'T  is  pity  that  it  talies  no  farther  hold 
Than  an  advertisement,  or  much  the  same  ; 

When,  ere  the  ink  be  dry,  the  sound  p-ows  cold. 
The  Morninsc  I'ost  was  foremost  to  proclaim  — 

"  Departure,  for  his  country-seat,  to-day, 

Lord  H.  Amundeville  and  Lady  A. 

LII. 

"  We  understand  the  splendid  host  intends 

To  entertain,  this  autumn,  a  select 
And  numerous  party  of  his  noble  friends  ; 

'Midst  whom  we  have  heard,  from  sources  quite 
correct, 
The  Duke  of  D the  shooting  season  spends. 

With  many  more  by  rank  and  fashion  deck'd  ; 
Also  a  foreigner  of  hish  condition, 
The  envoy  of  the  secret  Russian  mission." 

Lin. 

And  thus  we  see  —  who  doubts  the  Morning  Post  ? 

(Whose  articles  are  like  the  "  Thirty-nine," 
Which  those  most  swear  to  wiio  believe  them  most)— 

Our  e:ay  Russ  Spaniard  was  ordain'd  to  shine, 
Deck'd  by  the  rays  reflected  from  his  host, 

With    those    who,    Pope   says,    "greatly   daring 
dine." — 
T  is  odd,  but  true,—  last  war  the  News  abounded 
More  with  these  dinners  than  the  kiiid  or  wounded  ;— 


As  thus :  "  On  Thursday  there  was  a  srrand  dinner ; 

Present,  Lords  A.  B.  C'  —  Earis,  uukes,  by  name 
Announced  with  no  less  pomp  than  victory's  winner  : 

Then  underneath,  and  in  the  very  same 
Column:  date,  "Falmouth.     There  has  lately  been 
here 

The  Slap-dash  regiment,  so  well  known  to  fame; 
Whose  loss  in  the  late  action  we  regret : 
The  vacancies  are  fill'd  up  —  see  Gazette." 

LV. 

To  Norman  Xbbey  whirled  the  noble  pair, — 

An  old,  old  monastery  once,  and  now 
Still  older  mansion,—  of  a  rich  and  rare 

Mix'd  Gothic,  such  as  artists  all  allow 
Few  specimens  yet  left  us  can  compare 

Withal :  i  it  lies  perhaps  a  little  low. 
Because  the  monks  preferr'd  a  hill  behind, 
To  shelter  their  devotion  from  the  wind. 

LVL 
It  stood  embosom'd  in  a  happy  valley, 

Crown'd  by  high  woodlands,  where  the  Druid  oak 
Stood,  like  Caractacus,  in  act  to  rally 

His  host,   with  broad  arms  'gainst  the  thunder- 
stroke, 
And  from  beneath  his  boughs  were  seen  to  sally 

The  dappled  foresters  —  as  day  awoke, 
The  branching  slag  swept  down  With  all  his  herd, 
To  quaff  a  brook  which  murmur'd  like  a  bird.i 

LVIL 
Before  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  Lake, 

Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 
By  a  river,  which  its  soften'd  way  did  take  | 

In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spread 


1  "The  front  of  Newstead  Abbe^  has  9  in</iit  Dnble  and 
majestic  appraracce  ;  being  built  in  the  form  of  the  west 
end  of  a  cathedral,  adorned  with  rich  rarvines  and  loOy 
piDOocles.**  —  Art.  Newstead,  in  Beauties  of  England,  vol. 
sii.—  E. 

a  "The  beautiful  park  of  Newstead,  which  once  was 
richly  ornamented  with  two  thousand  seven  hundred  head 
of  deer,  and  numberless  tine  spreading  oaks,  is  now  di- 
vided and  subdivided  into  farms."  — THOROTON'S  Not- 
tinghaiiuliire. —  E. 


I  Around :  the  wildfowl  nestled  in  the  brake 
And  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed  : 
I  The  woods  sloped  downwards  to  its  brink,  and  itood 
I  With  their  green  faces  fix'd  upon  the  flood. 

!  LVin. 

I  Its  outlet  dash'd  into  a  deep  cascade. 

Sparkling  with  foam,  until  again  si'.bsiding, 
Its  shriller  echoes  —  like  an  infant  made 

Quiet  —  sank  into  softer  ripples,  gliding 
Into  a  rivulet ;  and  thus  allay'd, 
I     Pursued  its  course,  now  gleaming,  and  now  hiding 
I  Its  windings  through  the  woods  ;  now  clear,  now  blue, 
According  as  the  skies  their  shadows  threw. 

LIX. 
A  glorious  remnant  of  the  Gothic  pile 

( While  yet  the  church  was  Rome's)  stood  half  apart 
In  a  grand  arch,  which  once  screen'd  many  an  aisle. 

'I  hese  last  had  disappear'd  —  a  loss  to  art : 
The  first  yet  frown'd  superbly  o'er  the  soil, 

And  kindled  feelings  in  the  roughest  heart. 
Which  mourn'd  the  power  of  time's  or  tempest's 
In  gazing  on  that  venerable  arch.  [march, 

LX. 

Within  a  niche,  nigh  to  its  pinnacle. 

Twelve  saints  had  once  stood  sanctified  in  stone  ; 
But  these  had  fallen,  not  when  the  friars  fell. 

But  in  the  war  which  struck  Charles  from  bis 
When  each  house  was  a  fortalice  —  as  tell      [throne. 

The  annals  of  full  many  a  line  undone, — 
The  gallant  cavaliers,  who  fought  in  vain 
For  those  who  knew  not  to  resign  or  reign.s 

LXL 

But  in  a  higher  niche,  alone,  but  crown'd, 
The  Virgin-Mother  of  the  God-bom  Child,* 

With  her  Son  in  her  blessed  arms,  look'd  round, 
Spared  by  some  chance  when  all  beside  was  spoil'd ; 

She  male  the  earth  below  seem  holy  ground. 
This  may  be  superstition,  weak  o'r  wild, 

But  even  the  faintest  relics  of  a  shrine 

Of  any  wonhip  wake  some  thoughts  divine. 

LXIL 

A  mighty  window,  hollow  in  the  centre. 
Shorn  of  its  glass  of  thousand  colourings, 

Through  which  the  deepen'd  glories  once  could  enter, 
Streaming  from  oft  the  sun  like  seraph's  wings. 

Now  yawns  all  desolate  :  now  loud,  now  fainter. 
The  gale  sweeps  through  its  fretwork,  and  oft  sings 

The  owl  his  anthem,  where  the  silenced  choir 

Lie  with  their  hallelujahs  quench'd  like  fire. 

Lxin. 

But  in  the  noontide  of  the  moon,  and  when 
The  wind  is  winged  from  one  point  of  heaven, 

There  moans  a  strange  unearthly  sound,  which  then 
Is  musical  —  a  dying  accent  driven 

Through  the  huge  arch,  which  soars  and  sinks  again. 
Some  deem  it  but  the  distant  echo  given 

Back  to  the  night  wind  by  the  waterfall. 

And  harmonised  by  the  o'ld  choral  wall : 

LXIV. 

Others,  that  some  original  shape,  or  form 
Shaped  by  decay  perchance,  hath  given  the  power 

(Though  less  than  f  hat  of  Meninon's  statue,  warm 
In  Egypt's  rays,  to  harp  at  a  fix'd  hour) 

To  this  grey  ruin,  with  a  voice  to  charm. 
Sad,  but  serene,  it  sweeps  o'er  tree  or  tower ; 

The  cause  I  know  not,  nor  can  solve  :  but  such 

The  fact:— I  've  heard  it,— once  perhaps  too  much.* 

3  See  Miscellanie$,  ante,  p.  9.— E. 

4  "  In  the  bow-window  of  thM  Hall,  there  are  yet  the 
arms  of  Newstede  Priory,  viz.  England,  with  a  chief 
azure,  in  the  middle  whereof  is  the  Virgin  Mary  with 
Babe  or."  — THOROTON.— E. 

6  "  Next   to   the   opartment   railed   King   Edward  lh« 


584 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  XHI. 


LXV. 
Amidst  the  court  a  Gothic  fountain  play'd, 

fiymmetrical,  but  deck'd  with  carvings  quaint  — 
Stranjc  faces,  Vike  to  men  in  masquerade, 

And  here  perliaps  a  monster,  there  a  saint : 
The  spring  gush'd  through  grim  mouths  of  granite 
made, 

And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent 
Its  little  torrent  in  a  thousand  buLil.les, 
Like  man's  vain  glor)',  and  his  vainer  troubles, 

Lxvr. 

The  mansion's  self  was  vast  and  venerable, 
With  more  of  the  monastic  than  has  been 

Elsewhere  preserved  :  the  cloisters  still  were  stable, 
The  cells,  too,  and  refectory,  I  ween  : 

An  exquisite  small  chapel  had  been  able, 
Still  unimpaird,  to  decorate  the  scene ; 

The  rest  had  been  reform"d,  replaced,  or  sunk, 

And  spoke  more  of  the  baron  than  the  monk. 

LXVII. 
Huge  hal's,  long  galleries,  spacmus  chambers,  joined 

Ry  no  quite  lawful  marna»e  of  the  arts, 
Might  sh  )ck  a  connoisseur;  but  when  combined, 

Forni'd  a  whole  which,  irregular  in  parts, 
Yet  left  a  grand  impression  on  the  mind. 

At  least  of  those  whose  eyes  are  in  their  hearts  : 
We  gaze  upon  a  giant  for  his  stature, 
Nor  judge  at  first  if  all  be  true  to  nature. 

LXVIII. 

Steel  barons,  molten  the  next  generation 
To  silken  rows  of  gay  and  garter'd  earls, 

Glanced  from  the  walls' in  goodly  preservation: 
And  I^dy  Marys  blooming  into  girls, 

With  fair  long  locks,  had  also  ktpt  their  station: 
And  countesses  mature  in  robes  and  pearls  : 

Also  some  beauties  of  Sir  Peter  Lely, 

Whose  drapery  hints  we  may  admiie  them  freely. 

LXIX. 

Judges  in  very  formidable  ermine 

Were  there,  with  brows  that  did  not  much  invite 
The  accused  to  think  their  lordships  would  determine 

His  cause  by  leaning  much  from  might  to  right : 
Bishops,  who  had  not  left  a  single  sermon  : 

Attorneys-general,  awful  to  the  sight, 
As  hinting  more  (unless  our  judgments  warp  us) 
Of  the  "  Star  Chamber"  than  of  •'  Habeas  Corpus." 

LXX. 

Generals,  some  all  m  armour,  of  the  old 
And  iron  time,  ere  lead  had  taen  the  lead  : 

Others  in  wigs  of  Marlborough's  martial  fold, 
Huger  than  twelve  of  our  degenerate  breed  : 

Lordlings,  with  staves  of  white  or  keys  of  gold  : 
Nimrods,  whose  canvass  scarce  cont'ain'd  the  s'eed ; 

And  here  and  there  some  stern  hijh  patriot  stood, 

Who  could  not  get  the  place  for  which  be  sued. 

LXXI. 

But  ever  and  anon,  to  soothe  your  vision, 
Fatigued  with  these  hereditarv-  glories, 

There  rose  a  Carlo  Dolce  or  a  I'itian, 
Or  wilder  group  of  savage  SalvaTore's : ' 

Here  danced  Albano's  boys,  and  here  the  sea  slioue 
In  Vernet's  ocean  lights ;  and  there  the  stories 

Of  martyrs  awed,  as  Spagnolelto  tainted 

His  brush  with  all  the  blood  of  all  the  sainted. 

LXXII. 
Here  sweetly  spread  a  landscape  of  Lorraine ; 

There  Rembrandt  made  his  darkness  equal  light. 
Or  gloomy  Caravaggio's  g  ooinier  stain 

Bronzed  o'er  some  lean  and  stoic  anchorite :  — 


Third's  room,  on  acriiunt  of  that    monarrli    having   slept 
there,  Is  the  sounding  gallery,—  so  called  from  a  very  re- 
markatde  echo  which  it  possesses. "  —  Art,  T^ewitead,  in 
Beauties  of  England,  vol.  xii.—  B^ 
I  SalTBtor  Rosa. 


But,  lo  !  a  Teniers  woos,  and  not  in  vain, 

Your  eyes  to  revel  in  a  livelier  sight : 
His  bell-mou'h  d  goblet  makes  me  (eel  Quite  Danish,* 
Or  Dutch  with  thirst— What,  ho !  a  flask  of  Rhenish. 
LXXIU. 

0  reader !  if  that  thou  canst  read,—  and  knOTT, 
'T  is  not  enough  to  spell,  or  even  lo  read, 

To  constitute  a  reader ;  there  must  go 

Virtues  of  which  both  you  and  1  have  need. 
Firstly,  begin  with  the  beginning  —  (though 

That  clause  is  hard) ;  and  secondly,  proceed : 
Thirdly,  commence  not  with  the  eni  —  or,  sinning 
In  this  sort,  end  at  last  with  the  beginning. 

LXXIV. 
But,  reader,  thou  hast  patient  been  of  late, 

While  I,  without  remorse  of  rhyme,  or  fear, 
Have  built  and  laid  out  ground  at  such  a  rate, 

Dan  Phtebus  takes  me  for  an  auctioneer. 
That  poets  were  so  from  their  earliest  date, 

By  Homer's  "  Catalogue  of  ships"  is  clear; 
But  a  mere  modern  must  be  moderate  — 

1  spare  you  then  the  furniture  and  plate. 

LXXV 

The  mellow  autumn  came,  and  with  it  came 
The  promised  party,  to  enjoy  its  s"eets. 

The  corn  is  cut,  the  manor  full  of  game ; 
The  pointer  ranges,  and  the  sportsman  beats 

In  russet  jacket:  —  lynx-like  is  his  aim; 
Full  grows  his  bag,  and  wonderful  his  feats. 

Ah,  nutbrown  partridges  !  Ah,  brilliant  pheasants  ! 

And  ah,  ye  poachers  I  —  'T  is  no  sport  for  peasants. 

LXXVL 

An  English  autumn,  though  it  hath  no  vines, 

Blushing  with  Bacchant  coronals  along 
The  paths,  o'er  which  the  far  festoon  entwines 

The  red  grape  in  the  sunny  lands  of  song. 
Hath  yet  a  purchased  choice  of  choicest  wines; 

The  claret  light,  and  the  Madeira  strong. 
If  Britain  mourn  her  bleakness,  we  can  tell  her, 
The  very  best  of  vineyards  is  the  cellar. 

LXX  VI  f. 
Then,  if  she  hath  not  that  serene  decline 

Which  makes  the  southern  autumn's  day  appear 
As  if  't  would  to  a  second  spring  resign  ] 

1  he  season,  rather  than  to  «  inter  drear, —  j 

Of  in-door  comforts  still  she  hath  a  mine,— 

The  sea-coal  fires,  the  " earliest  of  the  year ;  "  I 

Without  doors,  too,  she  may  compete  in  mellow,  I 

As  what  is  lost  in  green  is  gain'd  in  yellow. 

LXXVIII.  ' 

And  for  the  effemina'e  villeggiafura  —  1 

Rife  with  more  horns  than  hounds  —  she  hath  the 
diase. 

So  animated  that  it  mijht  allure  a 
Saint  from  hisbeads  to  join  the  jocund  race; 

Even  Nimrod's  self  might  leave  the  plains  of  Dura,' 
And  wear  the  Melton  jacket  *  for  a  space  : 

If  she  hath  no  wild  boars,  she  hath  a  tame 

Preserve  of  bores,  who  ought  to  be  made  game. 

LXXIX. 

The  noble  guests,  assembled  at  the  Al  bey. 
Consisted  of—  we  give  the  sex  the  j.as  — 

The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fuike;  the  Countess  Crabby  ; 
The  I  .adies  Scilly,  Busey  :  —  Miss  F-clat, 

Miss  Romlazeen,  Miss  Mackstav,  MissO'Tabby, 
And  Mrs.  Rabbi,  the  rich  banker's  squaw ; 

Also  the  honourable  Mrs.  Sleep, 

Who  look'd  a  white  lamb,  yet  was  a  black  sheep: 


,  "your  Dane"  ia  one  of  lago's  catalocoe 
luisile  in  their  drinking." 

4  For  a  uraphic  arcnnnt  of  Mellon  Mowbray,  the  hri^ 
luarlera  of  the  English  chase,  see  Quarterly  Keview,  vol. 
dvii.  p.  218.— E. 


1  Assyria. 


Canto  XIII.] 


DON  JUAN. 


585 


LXXX. 
Will-  other  Countesses  of  Blank  —  but  rank  j 

At  once  the  '■  lie  "  and  the  "  elite  "  of  crowds ; 
Who  pass  like  water  fil'erd  in  a  tank, 

All  pursed  and  pious  from  their  native  clouds; 
Or  paper  furn'd  to  money  by  the  Bank  : 

No  matter  how  or  wliy,  the  passport  shroud* 
The  "  passee  "  and  the  past ;  for  good  society 
Is  no  less  famed  for  tolerance  than  piety, — 

LXXXI. 

That  is,  up  to  a  certain  point ;  which  point 
Forms  the  most  difficult  in  punctuation. 

Appearances  appear  to  form  the  joint 
On  which  it  hinges  in  a  liisher  station; 

And  so  that  m  explosion  cry  '-Aroint 
Thee,  witch  !  "  or  each  Medea  has  her  Jason ; 

Or  (to  the  point  with  Horace  and  with  Pulci) 

"  Omne  tvlit  punctum,  quae  miscuit  utile  duUi.^ 

LXXXir. 

I  can't  exactly  trace  their  rule  of  rijht. 

Which  hath  a  little  leaning  to  a  tottery. 
I  've  seen  a  virtuous  woman  put  down  quite 

By  the  mere  combination  of  a  coterie ; 
Also  a  so-so  matron  bolcfly  fight 

Her  way  back  to  the  world  by  dint  of  plotlery, 
And  shine  the  very  Siria  »  of  the  spheres, 
Escaping  with  a  few  slight,  scarless  sneers. 

Lxxxni. 

I  have  seen  more  tlun  1  'II  say :  —  but  we  will  see 

How  our  villegsiatura  will  get  on. 
The  party  might  consist  of  thirty-three 

Of  highest  caste  —  the  Brahmins  of  the  ton. 
I  have  named  a  few,  not  foremost  in  degree, 

But  ta'en  at  hazard  as  the  rhyme  may  run. 
By  way  of  sprinkling,  scatter'd  amongst  these 
There  also  were  some  Irish  absentees. 

LXXXIV. 
There  was  Parolles,  too,  the  legal  bully, 

Who  limits  all  his  battles  to  "the  bar 
And  senate :  when  invited  elsewhere,  truly. 

He  shows  more  appetite  for  words  than  war. 
There  was  (he  young  bard  Rackrhjme,  who  had  newly 

Come  out  and  elimmer'd  as  a  six  weeks'  star. 
There  was  Lord  Pyrrho,  too,  the  great  freethinker ; 
And  Sir  John  Pottl'edeep,  the  mighty  drinker. 

LXXXV. 
There  was  the  Duke  of  Dash,  who  was  a  —  duke, 

"  Ay,  every  inch  a  "  duke ;  there  were  twelve  peers 
Like  Charlemagne's  —  and  all  such  peers  in  look 

And  intellect,  that  neither  eyes  nor  ears 
For  commoners  had  ever  thern  mistook. 

There  were  the  six  Miss  Rawbolds  —  pretty  dears  ! 
All  song  and  sentiment ;  whose  hearts  were  set 
Less  on  a  convent  than  a  coronet. 

LXXXVL 

There  were  four  Honourable  Allsters,  whose 
Honour  was  more  before  their  names  than  after; 

There  was  the  preux  Chevalier  de  la  Russ, 
Whom  France  and  Fortune  lately  deign'd  to  waft 
here. 

Whose  chiefly  harmless  talent  was  to  amuse ; 
But  the  clubs  found  it  rather  serious  laughter, 

Because  —  such  was  his  magic  power  to  please  — 

The  dice  scem'd  charm"d,  too, "with  his  repartees. 

LXXXVU. 
There  was  Dink  Dubious,  the  metaphysician, 

Who  loved  philosophy  and  a  good  dinner; 
Angle,  the soi-disant  mathematician; 

Sir  Henry  Silvercup,  the  great  race-winner. 
There  was  the  Reverend  Rodomont  Precisian, 

Who  did  not  hate  so  much  the  sin  as  sinner; 
And  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet, 
Good  at  all  things,  but  better  at  a  bet. 


LXXXVIIL 

There  was  Jack  Jargon,  the  gigantic  guardsman; 

And  General  Fireface,  famous  in  the  field, 
A  great  tactitian,  and  no  less  a  swordsman, 

Vv'ho  ate,  last  war,  more  Yankees  than  he  kill'd. 
There  was  the  waggish  Welsh  Judge,  Jeti'eries  Hardi. 
man,2 
In  his  grave  office  so  completely  skill'd, 
That  when  a  culprit  came  for  condemnation, 
j  He  had  his  judges  joke  for  consolation. 

LXXXIX. 

Good  company 's  a  chess-board  —  there  are  kings, 
I      Queens,  bishops,  knights,  rooks,  pawns ;  the  world '» 

a  game ; 
Save  that  the  puppets  puH  at  their  own  strings, 

Methinks  gay  Punch  hath  something  of  the  same. 
My  Muse,  the  butterfly  hath  but  her  wings, 
I     Not  stings,  and  flits  through  ether  without  aim, 
'  Alighting  rarely :  —  were  she  but  a  hnrnet. 
Perhaps  there  might  be  vices  which  would  mourn  it 

XC. 
I  had  forgotten  —  but  must  not  forget  — 
j      An  orator,  the  latest  of  the  session. 
Who  had  deliver'd  well  a  verj-  set 
I     Smooth  speech,  his  first  and  maidenly  transgression 
Upon  debate  :  the  papers  echoed  yet 

With  his  debut,  which  made  a  stronj  impression, 
I  And  rank'd  with  what  is  every  day  display 'd  — 
"The  best  first  speech  that  ever  yet  was  made." 

XCI. 
Proud  of  his  "  Hear  hims ! "  proud, 

And  lost  virginity  of  oratorj'. 
Proud  of  his  learning  (just  enough  to  quote) 
He  revelld  in  his  Ciceronian  glory 
:t  by  r( 
'  tell  a 
,  Graced  with  some  merit,  and  with  more  effrontery, 
I  "  His  country's  pride,"  he  came  down  to  the  country. 

xcn. 

[  There  also  were  two  wits  by  acclam.ation, 

I      Longbow  from  Ireland,  Strongbow  from  the  Tweed,3 

i  Both  lawyers  and  both  men  of  education  ; 

But  Strongbow's  wit  was  of  more  polisb'd  breed ; 
I  Longbow  was  rich  in  an  imagination 
!      As  beautiful  and  bounding  as  a  steed, 
I  But  s-)metimes  stumbling  over  a  potato. — 
I  While  Strongbow  s  best  "things  might  have  come  from 


,  of  his  vote 


With  memory  excellent  to  get  by  rote. 
With  wit  to  hatch  a  pun  or  tell  a  story. 


Cato. 

XCIU. 
Strongbow  was  like  a  new-tuned  harpsichord  ; 

But  Longbow  wild  as  an  .Slolian  harp. 
With  which  the  winds  of  heaven  can  claim  accord, 

And  make  a  music,  whether  flat  or  sharp. 
Of  Strongbow's  talk  you  would  not  change  a  word  : 

At  Longbow's  phrases  you  might  sometimes  carp: 
Both  « its  —  one  born  so,  and  the  other  bred, 
This  by  his  heart  —  his  rival  by  his  head. 

XCIV. 
If  all  these  seem  an  heterogeneous  mass 

To  be  assembled  at  a  country-seat. 
Yet  think,  a  specimen  of  every  class 

Is  better  than  a  humdrum  tete-a-tete. 
The  days  of  Comedy  are  gone,  alas  ! 

When  Congreve'sfool  could  vie  with  Moliere's  Itti: 
Society  is  smooth  d  to  that  excess. 
That  manners  hardly  ditler  more  than  dress. 


1  Siria,  t.  «.  bitch-i 


!2  George    Harilinge,    Esq.,    M.  P.,    one   of    the   Weltb 
,  jiidgeir,  (lied  in  1B16.     Hi>  works  were  colkvted,  ia  18i8, 
!  by  Mr.  Nichols.—  E. 
I     3  Curran  and  Eraliine.—  E. 


586 


DON  J  U  A  iN 


LCanto  XIII. 


xcv. 

Our  ridicules  are  kept  in  the  back  ground  — 

Ridiculous  enough,  but  also  dull ; 
Professions,  too,  are  no  more  to  be  found 

Protessional ;  and  there  is  nousht  to  cull 
Of  folly's  fruit;  for  thou5h  your  fools  abound, 

Tbey  're  barren,  and  not  worth  the  pains  to  pull. 
Society  is  now  one  poiish'd  horde, 
Form'd  of  two  mi;hty  tribes,  the  Bores  and  Bored. 

XCV  I. 
But  from  being  farmers,  we  turn  gleaners,  gleanin? 

The  scanty  but  right-well  thresh "d  ears  of  truth  j 
And,  gentle  reader!  when  you  gather  meaning, 

You  may  be  Boaz,  and  I  —  modest  Ruth. 
Farther  I  'd  quote,  but  Scripture  inter\'ening 

Forbids.  A  great  impression  in  my  youth 
Was  made  by  iSlrs.  Adams,  where  she  cries 
"  'Jhat  Scriptures  out  of  church  are  blasphemies." i 

XCVII. 
But  what  we  can  we  glean  in  this  vile  age 

Of  chaff,  although  our  gleaninis  be  not  grist. 
I  must  not  quite  omit  the  talking  sa^e, 

Kit-Cat.  the  famous  Conversationist, 
Who,  in  his  common-place  book,  had  a  page 

Prepared    each    morn    for   evenings.     "  List,    oh 
list!"  — 
"  Alas,  poor  gliost !  " — What  unexpected  woes 
Await  those  who  have  studied  their  bous-mots ! 

xcvm. 

Firstly,  they  must  allure  the  conversation 
By  many  windings  to  their  clever  clinch ; 

And  secondly,  must  let  slip  no  Decision, 
Nor  bate  (abate)  their  hearers  of  an  inch, 

But  take  an  ell  — and  make  a  great  sensation, 
If  possible;  and  thirdly,  ne\er  flinch 

When  some  smart  talker  puts  them  to  the  test, 

But  seize  the  last  word,  which  no  doubt 's  the  best. 

XCIX. 

Lord  Henry  and  his  lady  were  the  hosts ; 

The  party  we  have  touch'd  on  were  the  guests. 
Their  table  was  a  board  to  tempt  even  ghosts 

To  pass  the  Styx  for  more  substantial  feasts. 
I  will  not  dwell'upon  ragouts  or  roasts, 

Albeit  all  human  historj-  attests 
That  happiness  for  man  —  the  Iiungrj-  sinner !  — 
Since  £ve  ate  apples,  much  depends  on  dinner. 


Witness  the  lands  which  "flow'd  with  milk  and 
honey," 

Held  out  unto  the  hungry  Israelites: 
To  this  we  have  added  since,  the  love  of  money, 

The  only  sort  of  pleasure  which  requites. 
Youth  fades,  and  leaves  our  days  no  longer  sunny  ; 

We  tire  of  mistresses  and  parasites  ; 
But  oh,  ambrosial  cash  !  Ah  !  who  would  lose  thee  ? 
When  we  no  more  can  use,  or  even  abuse  thee ! 

CI. 
The  gentlemen  got  up  betimes  to  shoot. 

Or  hunt:  the  young,  because  they  liked  the  sport— 
The  first  thing  boys  like,  after  play  and  fruit ; 

'I'he  middle-aged,  to  make  the  day  more  short, 
For  ennui  is  a  growth  of  English  root, 

Though  nameless  in  our  language  :  —  we  retort 
The  fact  for  words,  and  let  the  French  translate 
That  awful  yawn  which  sleep  can  not  abate. 

CII. 

The  elderly  walk'd  through  the  library, 
And  tumbled  books,  or  criticised  the  pictures, 

Ot  iaunter'd  through  the  gardens  piteously. 
And  made  upon'the  hot-huuie  several  strictures, 

1  "Mra.  Adams  answered  Mr.  Adams,  that  it  was  blas- 
pliemnuH  to  ta'k  of  Scripture  out  of  cliurcn."  This 
d'>gma  was  bro&ched  to  her  husband  —  the  best  CbristiaD 
in  anf  t>ook. —  See  Joseph  Andrewt, 


Or  rode  a  nag  which  trotted  not  too  high, 

Ur  on  the  morning  papers  read  their  lectures, 
Or  on  the  watch  their  longing  eyes  would  fix. 
Longing  at  si.xty  for  the  hour  of  six. 

Gin. 

But  none  were  "  gene  : "  the  great  hour  of  union 
I  Was  rung  by  dinners  knell ;  till  then  all  were 
Masters  of  their  own  time  —  or  in  communion, 

Or  solitar)-,  as  they  chose  to  bear 
The  hours,  which  how  to  pass  is  but  to  few  known. 

Each  rose  up  at  his  own,  aiid  had  to  spare 
What  time  he  chose  for  dress,  and  broke  his  fast 
When,  where,  and  how  he  chose  for  that  repast. 


CIV. 

The  ladies  —  some  rouged,  some  a  little  pale  — 
Met  the  morn  as  they  might.     If  fine,  they  rodo. 

Or  walk'd  ;  if  foul,  they  read,  or  told  a  tale. 
Sung,  or  rehearsed  the  last  dance  from  abroad; 

Discuss d  the  fashion  vihich  might  next  prevail. 
And  settled  bonnets  by  the  newest  code, 

Or  cramm'd  twelve  sheets  into  one  little  letter. 

To  make  each  correspondent  a  new  debtor. 


CV. 

For  some  had  absent  Ijvers,  all  had  friends. 

The  earth  has  nothing  like  a  she  epistle. 
And  hardly  heaven  —  because  it  never  ends. 

I  love  the  mystery  of  a  female  missal. 
Which,  like  a  creed,  ne'er  siys  all  it  intends. 

But  full  of  cunning  as  Ulysses'  whistle, 
When  he  allured  DOor  Dolon :  —  you  had  better 
Take  care  what  you  reply  to  such  a  letter. 


CVI. 
Then  there  were  billiards;  cards,  too,  but  jio  dice; 

Save  in  the  clubs  no  man  of  honour  plays ;  — 
Boats  when  't  was  water,  skating  when  't  was  ice. 

And  the  hard  frost  destroy  d  the  scenting  days  : 
And  angling,  too,  that  solitary-  vice. 

Whatever  Izaak  Walton  sings  or  says: 
The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb,  in  his  gullet 
Should  have  a  hook,  and  a  small  trout  to  pull  iL9 

CVII. 

With  evening  came  the  banquet  and  the  wine  ; 

The  conversazione  ;  the  duet. 
Attuned  by  voices  more  or  less  divine 

(My  heart  or  head  aches  with  the  memory  yet). 
The  four  Miss  Rawbolds  in  a  glee  v<  ould  shine ; 

But  the  two  youngest  loved  more  to  be  set 
Down  to  the  harp  —  because  to  musics  charms 
1  hey  added  graceful  necks,  white  hands  and  arms. 


2  It  would  have  taught  him  humanity  at  least.  This 
sentimental  savage,  whom  it  is  a  m«ie  to  quote  (araonpst 
the  novelists)  to  show  their  sympathy  fur  innocent  sporla 
and  old  si.nfs,  teaches  hnw  to  sew  up  frogs,  and  break 
their  legs  by  way  of  experiment,  in  addition  to  the  .irt  of 
angling,— the  crudest,  the  coldest,  and  the  stupidest  of 
pretended  sports.  They  may  talk  about  the  beauties  of 
nature,  but  the  angler  merely  thinks  of  his  dish  of  fish; 
he  has  no  leisure  to  take  his  eyes  from  otf  the  streams, 
and  a  single  fti/e  is  worth  to  him  more  than  ail  the  scenery 
around.  Besides,  some  fish  bite  best  on  a  rainy  day. 
The  whale,  the  shark,  and  the  tunny  fishery  have  Siime- 
what  of  nobie  and  perilous  in  them;  even  iiel  fi«hiug, 
trawling.  &c.  are  more  humane  and  useful.  But  angling  ! 
—  No  angler  can  be  a  go'-d  man. 

"One  of  the  best  men  I  ever  knew,— as  humane,  deli- 
cate-minded, generous,  and  excellent  a  creature  as  any  in 
the  world,— was  an  angler:  true,  he  angled  with  painted 
flies,  and  would  have  been  incapable  of  the  extravagancies 
of  I.  Walton." 

The  above  addition  wa^  made  by  a  friend  in  readiDg 
over  the  MS.— "  Audi  alteram  partem."  — I  leave  it  to 
counterbalance  my  own  observation. 


Canto  XIV.] 


DON  JUAN. 


587~] 


CVIII. 

a  dance  (though  rarely  on  field  days, 
For  then  the  gentlemen  were  rather  tired) 
Display  d  some  sylph-ike  fisiures  in  its  maze ; 
I      '1  hen  there  was  small-talk  ready  when  required; 
I  Flirtation  —  but  decorous ;  the  mere  praise 

Of  charms  that  shou'd  or  should  not  be  admired 
The  h'm'ers  fiu?ht  their  fox-hunt  o'er  again, 
And  then  retreated  soberly  —  at  ten. 

CIX. 
The  politicians,  in  a  nonk  apart. 

Discuss 'd  the  world,  and  settled  all  the  spheres ; 
The  wits  wa'ch'd  every  loophole  for  their  art, 

To  introduce  a  bon-mot  head  and  ears; 
Small  is  the  rest  of  those  who  would  be  smart, 

A  moment's  good  thing  may  have  cost  them  years 
Before  they  find  an  hour  to  introduce  it ; 
And  then,  even  then,  some  bore  may  make  them  lose  it 

ex. 

But  all  was  gentle  and  aristocratic 

In  this  our  party  ;  polish'd,  smooth,  and  cold, 
As  Phidian  forms  cut  out  of  marble  Attic. 

There  now  are  no  Squire  Westerns  as  of  old  ; 
And  our  Sophias  are  not  so  emphatic. 

But  fair  as  then,  or  fairer  to  behold.  [Jones, 

We  have  no  accomplish'd   blackguards,  like  Tom 
But  gentlemen  in  stays,  as  «. iff  as  stones. 

CiU 
Thev  separated  at  an  early  hour; 

That  is,  ere  midnight  —  which  is  London's  noon: 
But  in  the  country  ladies  seek  their  bower 

A  little  earlier  than  the  waninp  moon. 
Peace  to  the  slunibers  of  each  fo' Jed  flower  — 

May  the  rose  call  back  its  tn-.?  colour  soon  ! 
Good  hours  of  fair  cheeks  are  the  fairest  tinters, 
And  lower  the  price  of  rouge— at  least  some  winters. 


CANTO  THE   FOURTEENTH. 
I. 
If  from  great  nature's  or  our  ow.i  abyss 
Of  thought  we  could  but  sn.atch  a  certainty, 
'  Pe'hajs  m.  -Jcind  might  find  the  path  they  miss  — 
But  then  't  would  spoil  much  good  philosophy. 
One  system  eats  another  up,  and  this 

Much  as  old  Saturn  ate  his  progeny  ; 
For  when  his  pious  consort  gave  him  stones 
In  lieu  of  sons,  of  these  he  made  no  bones. 

n. 

But  System  doth  reverse  the  Titan's  breakfast, 

And  eats  her  parents,  albeit  the  digestion 
Is  difficult.     Pray  tell  me,  can  you  make  fast. 

After  due  search,  your  faith  to  any  question  ? 
Look  back  o'er  ages,  ere  unto  the  stake  fast 

You  bind  yourself,  and  call  some  mode  the  best  one. 
Nothing  more  true  than  not  to  trust  your  senses; 
And  yet  what  are  your  other  evidences  ? 

Ui. 
For  me,  I  know  nought ;  nothing  I  deny. 

Admit,  reject,  contemn  ;  and  what  know  you, 
Except  perhaps  that  you  were  born  to  die  ? 

And  both  may  after  all  turn  out  untrue. 
An  age  may  come,  Font  of  Elernity, 

When  nothing  sha'l  be  either  old  or  new. 
Death,  so  calld,  is  a  thing  which  makes  men  weep, 
And  yet  a  third  of  life  is  pass'd  in  sleep. 

IV. 
A  sleep  without  dreams,  after  a  rough  day 

Of  toil,  is  what  we  covet  most ;  and  yet 
How  clay  shrinks  back  from  more  quiescent  clay  ! 

The  verj'  Suicide  that  pays  his  debt 
At  once  without  instalments  (an  old  way 

Of  paying  debts,  which  creditors  regret) 
Lets  out  impatiently  his  rushing  breath, 
liMS  from  disgust  of  life  than  dread  of  death. 


V. 

T  is  round  him,  near  him,  here,  there,  eveiywhere ; 

And  there  's  a  courage  which  errows  out  of  fear, 
Perhaps  of  all  most  desperate,  nhich  will  dare 

The  worst  to  hnou]  it :  —  when  the  mountains  rear 
Their  peaks  beneath  your  human  foot,  and  there 

You  look  down  o'er  Ihe  precipice,  and  drear 
The  gulf  of  rock  yawns,— you  can't  gaze  a  minute, 
Without  an  awful  wish  to  plunge  within  it. 

VI. 

T  is  true,  you  don't— but,  pale  and  struck  with  terror, 
Retire  :  but  look  into  your  past  impres'ion  ! 

And  you  will  find,  though  shuddering  at  the  mirror 
Of  your  own  thoughts,  in  all  their  self-confession, 

The  lurking  bias,  beit  truth  or  error. 
To  the  unknown ;  a  secret  prepossession, 

To  plunge  with  all  your  fears  — but  where?    You 
know  not. 

And  that 's  the  reason  why  you  do  —  or  do  not. 

VIL 
But  what's  this  to  the  purpose  ?  you  will  say. 

Gent,  reader,  nothing  ;  a  mere  speculation. 
For  which  my  sole  excuse  is  —  't  is  my  way, 

Sometimes  wUh  and  sometimes  without  occasion 
I  write  what 's  uppermost,  without  delay ; 

'1  his  narrative  is  not  meant  for  narration. 
But  a  mere  airy  and  fantastic  basis, 
To  build  up  common  things  w  ith  common  places. 

VI 11. 

You  know,  or  don't  know,  that  great  Bacon  saith, 

"Fling  up  a  straw,  'twill  show  the  way  the  -wind 
blows ; " 
And  such  a  straw,  borne  on  by  human  breath, 

Is  poesy,  according  as  the  mind  glows  ; 
A  paper  kite  which  flies  'twixt  life  and  death, 

A  shadow  which  the  onward  soul  behind  throws: 
And  mine 's  a  bubble,  not  blown  up  for  praise, 
But  just  to  play  with,  as  an  infant  plays. 

IX. 
The  world  is  all  before  me  —  or  behind  ; 

For  I  have  seen  a  portion  of  that  same, 
And  quite  enough  for  me  to  keep  in  mind ;  — 

Of  passions,  too,  I  have  provwl  enough  to  blame, 
To  the  great  pleasure  of  our  friends,  mankind. 

Who  like  to  mix  some  slight  alloy  with  fame ; 
For  I  was  rather  famous  in  my  time, 
Until  I  fairly  knock'd  it  up  with  rhyme. 

X. 

I  have  brought  this  world  about  my  ears,  and  eke 
The  other ;  that  "s  to  say,  the  clergy  —  who 

Upon  my  head  have  bid  their  thunders  break 
In  pious  lil;els  bv  no  means  a  few. 

And  yet  I  can't  help  scribbling  once  a  week, 
Tirin?  old  readers,  nor  discovering  new. 

In  youth  I  wrote  because  my  mind  was  full, 

And  now  because  I  feel  it  growing  dull. 

XI. 

But  "  why  then  publish  ? "  —  There  are  no  rewards 
Of  fame  or  profit  when  the  world  grows  weary. 

I  ask  in  turn,— Why  do  you  play  at  cards  ? 

Why  drink?     Why  read?— To  make  some  hour 
less  dreary. 

It  occupies  me  to  turn  back  regards 
(In  w  hat  I  've  seen  or  ponder'd,  sad  or  cheery  ; 

And  what  I  write  I  cast  upon  Ihe  stream. 

To  swim  or  sink  —  1  have  had  at  least  my  dream. 

XIL 

1  think  that  were  I  certain  of  success, 

1  hardly  could  compose  another  line : 
So  long  I  've  battled  either  more  or  less, 

That  no  defeat  can  drive  me  from  the  Nine. 
This  feeling  't  is  not  e.iv  to  express. 

And  yet  tis  not  aflect'ed,  I  opine. 
In  play,  there  are  two  pleasures  for  your  c! 
The  one  is  winning,  and  the  other  losing. 


588 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  XIV. 


xiit. 

Besides,  my  Mi.se  by  no  means  deals  in  fiction : 

She  gathers  a  repertory  of  facfs, 
Of  course  with  some  reserve  and  sU'ht  restriction, 

But  mostly  sinjs  of  human  'hiiip  and  acts  — 
And  that 's  one  cause  she  meets  with  contradiction  ; 

For  too  much  truth,  at  first  si?ht,  neer  attracts; 
And  were  her  object  only  what  s  called  glory, 
With  more  ease  too  she  'd  tell  a  didferent  story. 

XIV. 
Love,  war,  a  tempest  —  surely  there's  variety: 

Also  a  seasoning  slight  of  lucubration ; 
A  bird's-eye  view,  too,  of  that  wild.  Society  ; 

A  slight  glance  thrown  on  men  of  every  station. 
If  you  have  mught  else,  here  "s  at  least  satiety, 

Both  in  performance  and  in  preparation ; 
And  though  these  lines  should  ouly  line  portmanteaus, 
Trade  will  be  all  the  better  for  these  Cantos. 

XV. 

The  portion  of  this  world  which  I  at  present 
Have  taken  up  to  fill  the  following  sermon, 

Is  one  of  which  there  's  no  description  recent : 
The  reason  why,  is  easy  to  determine: 

Although  it  seems  both  prominent  and  p'easant, 
n  here  is  a  saimeness  in  its  gems  and  ermine, 

A  dull  and  family  likeness  through  all  ages, 

Of  no  great  promise  for  poetic  pages. 

XVI. 
With  much  to  excite,  there  's  little  (o  exalt ; 

Nothing  that  speaks  to  ail  men  and  all  times ; 
A  sort  of  varnish  over  every  fault ; 

A  kind  of  common-place,  even  in  their  crimes; 
Factitious  passions,  » it  without  much  salt, 

A  want  of  that  true  nature  which  sublimes 
Whate'er  it  shows  with  truth  ;  a  smooth  monotony 
Of  character,  in  those  at  least  who  have  got  any. 

XVU. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  like  soldiers  off  parade, 

They  break  their  ranks  and  gladly  leave  the  drill ; 
But  then  the  roll-call  draws  them  back  afiaid, 

And  they  must  be  or  seem  what  they  were:  still 
Doubtless  it  is  a  brilliant  masquerade  ; 

But  when  of  the  first  sight  you  Lave  had  your  fill, 
It  palls  —  at  least  it  did  so  upon  me. 
This  paradise  of  pleasure  and  ennui. 

XVIII. 

When  we  have  made  our  love,  and  gamed  our  gaming, 
Drest,  voted,  shone,  and,  may  be,  something  more  ; 

With  dandies  dined  ;  heard  senators  declaiming; 
Seen  beauties  bro>ight  to  market  by  the  score, 

Sad  rakes  to  sadder  husbands  chastely  taming; 
There  's  little  left  but  to  be  bored  or  bore. 

Witness  those  ^^ ci-devant  jeunes  hummes  "  who  stem 

The  stream,  nor  leave  the  world  which  leaveth  them. 

XIX. 

'T  is  said  —  indeed  a  general  complaint  — 
That  no  one  has  succeeded  in  describing 

The  monde,  exactly  as  they  ought  to  paint : 
Some  say,  that  authors  only  snatch,  by  bribing 

The  porter,  some  slight  scandals  strange  and  quaint, 
'lo  furnish  matter  for  their  moral  gibing; 

And  that  their  books  have  but  one  style  in  common  — 

My  lady's  prattle,  filter'd  through  her  woman. 

XX. 

But  this  can't  well  be  true,  just  now  ;  for  writers 
Are  grown  of  the  beau  monde  a  part  |)otential : 

I've  seen  tliem  balance  even  the  scale  with  fighters, 
Especially  when  young,  for  that  s  essential. 

\\  hy  do  their  sketches  fail  them  as  inditei-s 
Uf  what  they  deem  themselves  most  consequential, 

The  real  portrait  of  the  highest  tribe  ? 

'T  is  that,  in  fact,  there 's  little  to  describe. 


"  ffaud  ignara loqtuxr ;  '  these  are  Nugx,  " quartan 
Pars  parva  fui,''  but  sti  1  art  and  part. 

Now  I  could  much  more  easily  sketch  a  harem, 
A  baUle,  wreck,  or  history  of  the  heart, 

Than  Ihese  things  ;  and  besides.  I  wish  to  spare  "em, 

For  reasons  which  I  choose  to  keep  apart. 
I  "  Vetabo  Cerens  sacrum  qui  vulgar<t  " —  i 

Which  means,  that  vulgar  people  must  not  sture  it. 

I  xxn. 

I  And  therefore  what  I  throw  off  is  ideal  — 

Lower d,  leaven'd,  like  a  history  of  freemasons; 

Which  bears  the  same  relation  to  the  real. 
As  Cajitain  Parry's  voyage  may  do  to  Jason's. 

The  grand  arcanum  's  not  for  men  to  see  all ; 
My  music  has  some  mystic  diapasons; 

And  there  is  much  which  could  not  be  appreciated 

In  any  manner  by  the  uninitiated. 

XXIII. 

Alas '.  worlds  fall  —  and  woman,  since  she  fell'd 
The  world  (as,  since  that  history,  less  polite 

Than  true,  hath  been  a  creed  so  strictly  held) 
Has  not  yet  given  up  the  practice  quite. 

Poor  thing  of  usages  I  coerced,  compelld. 
Victim  when  wrong,  and  martyr  oft  when  right, 

Condemn!  to  child-bed,  as  men  for  their  sins 

Have  shaving  too  entail  d  upon  their  chins. — 

XXIV. 
A  daily  plague,  which  in  the  aggregate 

May  average  on  the  whole  with  parturition. 
But  as  to  women,  who  can  penetrate 

The  real  sufferings  of  their  she  condition? 
Man's  very  sympathy  with  their  estate 

Has  much  of  selfishness,  and  more  suspicion. 
Their  love,  their  virtue,  beauty,  education. 
But  form  good  housekeepers,  to' breed  a  nation. 

XXV. 

All  this  were  very  well,  and  can't  be  better; 

But  even  this  is  difficult.  Heaven  knows. 
So  many  troubles  from  her  birth  beset  her, 

Such  small  distinction  between  friends  and  foes. 
The  gilding  wears  so  soon  from  oft  her  fetter, 

1  hat but  ask  any  woman  if  she  'd  choose 

(Take  her  at  f  hirtj',  that  is)  lo  have  been 
Female  or  male  ?  a  schoolboy  or  a  queen  ? 

XXVI. 

"  Petticoat  influence  "  is  a  great  reproach, 
I      Which  even  those  who  obey  would  fain  be  thoughl 

To  fly  from,  as  from  hungry  pikes  a  roach  ; 
But  since  beneath  it  upon  earth  we  are  brought, 

By  various  joltings  of  life's  hackney-coach, 
I      I  for  one  venerate  a  petticoat  — 
I  A  garment  of  a  mystical  sublimity, 
I  No  matter  whether  russet,  si:k,  or  dimity. 

j  XXVI  I. 

Much  I  respect,  and  much  I  have  adored. 

In  my  young  days,  that  chaste  and  goodly  veil, 
Which  holds  a  treasure,  like  a  miser's  hoard, 

And  more  a'tracts  by  all  it  doth  conceal  — 
A  golden  scabbard  on  a  Damasque  sword, 

A  loving  letter  with  a  mystic  seal, 
A  cure  for  grief—  for  what  can  ever  rankle 
Before  a  pelticoat  and  peeping  ankle  ? 

I  XXVIII. 

And  when  upon  a  silent,  sullen  day, 

With  a  sirocco,  for  example,  blowing, 
I  When  even  the  sea  looks  dim  with  all  its  sprty, 
I     And  sulkily  the  river's  ripple  "s  flowing, 
j  And  the  sky  shows  that  very  ancient  grey, 
■)  he  sober,  sad  antithesis  to  glowing.— 
'T  is  pleasant,  if  tlie7i  any  thing  is  pleasant, 
I  To  catch  a  glimpse  even  of  a  p'retty  peasanC 


Hor.  Carni.  I.  iii.  od.S.— ] 


Canto  XIV.] 


DON  JUAN. 


589 


XXIX, 

We  left  our  herods  and  our  heroines 

In  that  fair  clime  which  don't  depend  on  climate, 
Quite  independent  of  the  Zodiac  s  signs, 

'I'houjh  certainly  more  ditficult  to  rhyme  at, 
Because  tlic  sun,  and  stars,  and  auglit  that  shines, 

Mountains,  and  all  we  can  be  most  sublime  at, 
Are  there  ofi  dull  and  dreary  as  a  dun  — 
Whether  a  sky's  or  tradesman  s  is  all  one. 

XXX. 

An  in-door  life  is  less  prietjcal ; 

And  out  of  door  hath  showers,  and  mists,  and  sleet, 
With  which  I  could  not  brew  a  pastoral. 

But  be  it  as  it  may,  a  bard  must  meet 
All  difficulties,  whether  great  or  smill, 

'J'o  spoil  his  undertaking,  or  comjilete, 
And  work  away  like  spirit  upon  matter, 
Emtoxrassd  somewhat  both  with  tire  and  water. 

xxxr. 

Juan  —  in  this  respect,  at  least,  like  samts  — 

Was  all  things  unto  peop  e  of  all  sorts. 
And  lived  contentedly,  without  complaints. 

In  camps,  iu  ships,  in  cottages,  or  courts  — 
Born  with  that  happy  soul  which  seldom  faints, 

And  mingling  modesty  in  toils  or  sports. 
He  likewise  could  be  most  things  to  all  women, 
Without  the  coxcombry  of  certain  she  men, 

XXXII. 
A  fox-hunt  to  a  foreigner  is  strange ; 

'  r  is  also  subject  to  the  double  danger 
Of  tumbling  first,  and  having  in  exchange 

Some  pleasant  jesting  at  the  awkward  stranger; 
But  Juan  had  been  early  taught  to  range 

The  wilds,  as  doth  an  Arab  turn'd  avenger, 
So  that  his  horse,  or  charij-cr,  hunter,  hack, 
Knew  that  he  had  a  rider  on  his  back, 

xxxm. 

And  now  in  this  new  field,  with  some  applause, 
He  clear'd  hedge,  ditch,  and  double  post,  and  rail, 

And  never  craiu'd,'-  and  made  but  few  •■•  faitx  fas,'" 
And  only  fretted  when  the  scent  'gan  fail. 

He  broke,  't  is  true,  some  slalutes  of  the  laws 
Of  hunting  —  for  the  sagest  youth  is  frail ; 

Rode  o'er  the  hounds,  it  ni-iy  be,  now  and  then. 

And  once  o"er  several  country  gentlemen, 

XXXIV. 

But  on  the  whole,  to  general  admiration 
He  acquitted  both  himself  and  horse :  the  squires 

Marvell  d  at  merit  of  another  nation  ; 
The  boors  cried   "Dang  itl  who'd  have  thought 
it?"  —  Sires, 

The  Nestors  of  the  sporting  generation. 
Swore  praises,  and  recall'd  their  former  fires; 

The  huntsman's  self  relented  to  a  grin. 

And  rated  him  almost  a  whipper-in, 

XXXV. 

Such  were  his  trophies  —  not  of  spear  and  shield. 
But  leaps,  and  bursts,  and  sometimes  foxes'  brushes ; 

Yet  I  must  own,— although  in  this  I  yield 
To  patriot  sympathy  a  Briton's  blushes, — 

He  thought  atneart  like  courtly  Chestertield, 
Who,  after  a  long  chase  o'er  hills,  dales,  bushes. 

And  what  not,  though  he  rode  beyond  all  price, 

Ask'd  next  day,  "  If  men  ever  hunted  twice  ?  "  2 


\Cranins- — "To  crane  "  is,  or  was,  an  expression 
used  to  denote  a  gentleman's  stretching  i,ut  his  neck  over 
g  hedge,  "to  look  before  he  leaped:"  — a  pause  in  his 
•'  vaulting  ambition,"  which  iu  the  field  dolh  occasion 
some  delay  and  execration  in  those  who  may  be  imme- 
diately behind  the  equestrian  sceptic.  "Sir,  if  you  di>n't 
choose  to  take  the  leap,  let  me!  "  — ws  a  phrase  which 
geoerallysent  the  aspir,int  on  again;  and  to  good  purpose  : 
for  though  "the  horse  and  rider"  might  fall,  they  made  a 
pip  through  which,  and  over  him  and  his  steed,  the  field 
might  follow." 

a  See  bis  Letteri:  to  his  Son. 


XXXVI. 

He  also  had  a  quality  uncommon 

To  early  risers  after  a  long  chase. 
Who  wake  in  winter  ere  the  cock  can  suminoa 

December's  drowsy  day  to  his  dull  race,— 
A  quality  agreeable  to  woman. 

When  her  soft,  liquid  words  run  on  apace, 
Who  likes  a  listener,  whether  saint  or  sinner, — 
He  did  not  fall  asleep  just  after  dinner; 

XXXVII. 

But,  light  and  airy,  stood  on  the  alert. 

And  ^hone  in  the  best  part  of  dialogue. 
By  humouring  always  what  they  might  assert, 

And  listening  to  the  topics  most  in  vogue ; 
Now  grave,  now  gay,  but  never  dull  or  pert ; 

Anl  smiling  but  in  secret  —  cunning  rogue! 
He  ne'er  jjresumed  to  make  an  error  clearer;  — 
In  short,  there  never  was  a  better  hearer. 

XXXVIII. 
And  then  he  danced  :  —  all  foreigners  excel 

The  serious  Angles  in  the  eloquence 
Of  pantomime ;  —  he  danced,  I  say,  right  well, 

With  emphasis,  and  also  with  good  sense  — 
A  thing  iu  footing  indispensable ; 

He  danced  without  theatrical  pretence. 
Not  like  a  ballet-master  in  the  van 
Of  his  drill'd  nymphs,  but  like  a  gentleman. 

XXXIX. 
Chaste  were  his  steps,  each  kept  within  due  bound. 

And  elegance  was  sprinkled  o'er  his  figure; 
Like  swift  Camilla,  he  scaice  skimm'd  the  ground, 

And  rather  held  in  than  put  forth  his  vigour; 
And  then  he  had  an  ear  for  music's  sound. 

Which  might  defy  a  crotchet  critic's  rigour. 
Such  classic  pas  —  sans  flaws  —  set  oil'  our  hero, 
He  glanced  like  a  personified  Bolero ;  3 

XL. 

Or,  like  a  flying  Hour  before  Aurora, 

In  Guido's  famous  fresco,*  which  alone 
Is  worth  a  tour  to  Rome,  although  no  more  a 

Remnant  were  there  of  the  old  world's  sole  throne. 
The  "  tout  ensemble'"  of  his  movements  wore  a 

Grace  of  the  soft  ideal,  seldom  sho>\  n, 
And  ne  er  to  be  described  ;  for  to  the  dolour 
Of  bards  and  prosers,  words  are  void  of  colour. 

XLL 
No  marvel  then  he  was  a  favourite ; 

A  full-grown  Cupid,  very  much  admired  ; 
A  little  spoilt,  but  by  no  means  so  quite ; 

At  least  he  kept  his  vanity  retired. 
Such  was  his  tact,  he  could  alike  delight 

'1  he  chaste,  and  those  »  ho  are  not  so  much  inspired. 
The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fuike,  who  loved  '' tracasserie,'" 
Began  to  treat  him  with  some  small  "agacerie." 

XLII, 
She  was  a  fine  and  somewhat  full-blown  blonde, 

Desirable,  distinguish'd,  celebrated 
For  several  winters  in  the  grand,  grand  monde. 

I  'd  rather  not  say  what  might  be  related 
'  Of  her  exploits,  for  this  were  ticklish  ground; 
I     Besides  there  might  be  falsehood  in  «hat  "s  stateJ  : 
Her  late  performance  had  been  a  dead  set 
At  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

•      XLIH. 

This  noble  personage  began  to  look 
A  little  b  ack  upon,  this  new  flirtation ; 

But  such  small  licenses  must  lovers  brook. 
Mere  freedoms  of  the  female  corporation. 

Woe  to  the  man  who  ventures  a  rebuke  ! 
'T  will  but  precipitate  a  situation 

Extremely  disagreeable,  but  common 

To  calculators  when  they  count  on  woman. 

3  A  Spanish  dance  noted  for  its  liveliness.  — E. 

4  Guido's  most  celebrated  work,  in  the  palaces  of  Borne, 
is  his  frescoof  the  Aurora,  in  the  Palazzo  Rotpiglio»i.— S. 


50 


590 


DON  JUAN. 


'Canto  XI^^ 


XLIV. 
Tlie  circle  smiled,  then  whisper'd,  and  then  sneer'd; 

The  misses  bridled,  and  the  matrons  frown  d  ; 
Some  hoped  things  might  not  turn  out  as  they  fear'd  ; 

Some  would  no't  deeni  such  women  could  be  found  ; 
Some  ne'er  believed  one  half  of  what  they  heard  ; 

Some  look'd  perplejt  d,  and  others  look  d  profound  j 
And  several  pitied  with  sincere  regret 
Poor  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Hantagenet 

XLV. 
But  what  is  odd,  none  ever  named  the  duke, 

Who,  one  might  think,  was  something  in  the  affair : 
True,  he  was  absent,  and  "t  was  rumouf-d,  took 

But  small  concern  about  the  when,  or  where, 
Or  what  his  consort  did  :  if  he  could  brook 

Her  gaieties,  none  had  a  right  to  stare  : 
Theirs  was  that  best  of  unions,  past  all  doubt. 
Which  never  meets,  and  therefore  can't  fall  out. 

XLvr. 

But,  oh  !  that  I  should  ever  pen  so  sad  a  line  ! 

Fired  with  an  abstract  love  of  virtue,  she, 
My  Dian  of  the  Ephesians,  Lady  Adeline, 

Began  to  think  the  duchess'  conduct  free; 
Regretting  much  that  she  had  chosen  so  bad  a  line, 

And  waxing  chiller  in  her  courtesy, 
Look'd  grave  and  pale  to  see  her  friend's  fragility, 
For  which  most  friends  reserve  their  sensibility. 

XLVII. 
There  's  nought  in  this  bad  world  like  sympathy ; 

'T  is  so  becoming  to  the  soul  and  face. 
Sets  to  soft  music  the  harmonious  sigh. 

And  robes  sweet  friendship  in  a  Brussels  lace. 
Without  a  friend,  what  were  humanity. 

To  hunt  our  errors  up  with  a  good  grace  ? 
Consoling  us  with  —  "  Would  you  had  thought  twice! 
Ab  !  if  you  had  but  foUow'd  my  advice  !  " 

XLviir. 

0  Job !  you  had  two  friends  :  one  's  quite  enough, 
Especially  when  we  are  ill  at  ease ; 

They  are  but  bad  pilots  when  the  weather 's  rough, 
Doctors  less  famous  for  their  cures  than  fees. 

Let  no  man  grumble  when  his  friends  fall  off. 
As  they  will  do  like  leaves  at  the  first  breeze: 

When  your  affairs  come  round,  one  way  or  t'  other, 

Go  to  the  coffee-house,  and  take  another.' 

XLIX. 

But  this  is  not  my  maxim  :  had  it  been,  [not  — 

Some  heart-aches  had  been  spared  mc :  yet  I  care 

1  would  not  be  a  tortoise  in  his  screen  [not. 
Of  stubborn  shell,  which  waves  and  weather  wear 

"T  is  better  on  the  whole  to  have  felt  and  seen 

'I  hat  which  humanity  may  bear,  or  bear  not : 
'Twill  teach  discernment  to  the  sensitive, 
And  not  to  pour  their  ocean  in  a  sieve. 


The  Lady  Adeline's  serene  severity 

Was  not  confined  to  feeling  for  her  friend, 

VVh^se  fame  she  rather  d'uMed  with  posterity, 
Unless  her  habits  should  begin  to  mend  : 

But  Juan  also  shared  in  her  austerity. 

But  mix'd  with  pi'y,  pure  as  e'er  was  pena'd  : 

His  inexperience  moved  her  gentle  ruth, 

And  (as  her  junior  by  six  weeks;  his  youth. 


These  forty  days'  advantage  of  her  years  — 
And  hers  were  those  which  can  face  calculation. 


Of  all  the  horrid,  hideous  notes  of  woe. 
Sadder  than  owl-songs  or  tne  midnight  blast, 

Is  that  portentous  phrase,  "  I  told  you  so," 
Utter'd  by  friends,  those  prophets  of  the  past. 

Who,  'stead  of  saying  what  you  now  should  do. 
Own  they  foresaw  that  you  would  fall  at  last. 

And  solace  your  slight  lapse  'gainst  "iorioj  mores,' 

With  a  long  memorandum  of  old  stories. 


1  In  Swiffs  or  Horace  Walpole'e    letters,  I  think  it  is 
tentioned  that  somebody,  regretting  the  loss  of  a  friend, 
as   answered    by  an  universal  Pylailes :  "  \Vlien  I  lose 
je,  I  go  10  the  Saint  Jamea'a  Cutfee-tinuse,  and  talie  an- 
other."    I  recolleet  liaving  tieard  an  anecdote  of  the  same 
kind.  — Sir  W.  D.  was  :i  great  famester.     Coming  io  one 
day  to   the   club  of  which  he  was  a  member,  he  was  ob- 
served   to    look    melancholy.     "What  is  the  matter.  Sir 
t  William  ?"  cried  Hare,  of  facetious    memory.     "Ah!" 
i  replied  SirW.,  "I  have  just  lot/  poor  I.idy  D."  —  "Lo$l! 
What  at  J    Quinss  or  Haxaril  "  was  the  consolatory  re- 
'    oioder  of  the  querist. 


Gave  her  a  right  to  have  maternal  fears 

For  a  young  gentleman's  fit  education. 
Though  she  was  far  from  that  leap  year,  whose  leap, 
In  female  dates,  strikes  'J  ime  all  of  a  heap. 

LIIL 

This  may  be  fix'd  at  somewhere  before  thirty  — 
Say  seven-and-twenty  ;  for  1  never  knew 

The  strictest  in  chronology  and  virtue 
Advance  beyond,  while  they  could  pass  for  new. 

0  1  ime  '.  why  dost  not  pause  ?  T  hy  scythe,  so  dirty 
With  rust,  should  sure  y  cease  to  hack  and  hew. 

Reset  it :  shave  more  smoothly,  also  slower, 
If  but  to  keep  thy  credit  as  a  niower. 

LIV. 
But  Adeline  was  far  from  that  ripe  age, 
I      Whose  ripeness  is  but  bitter  at  the  best : 
'T  was  rather  her  experience  made  her  sage. 

For  she  had  seen  the  world  and  stood  its  test, 
I  As  I  have  said  in  —  I  forgot  what  pa^e ; 
1     My  Muse  despises  reference,  as  you  have  guess'd 
By  this  lime ;— but  strike  six  from  seven-and-twenty, 
'  And  you  will  find  her  sum  of  years  in  plenty. 

I  LV. 

At  sixteen  she  came  out ;  presented,  vaunted, 

She  put  all  coronets  into  commotion : 
At  seventeen,  too,  the  world  was  still  enchanted 
With  the  new  Venus  of  their  brilliant  ocean : 
At  eizhteen,  though  below  her  feet  still  panted 
I     A  hecatomb  of  suitors  with  devotion. 
She  had  consented  to  create  again 
i  That  Adam,  called  "  '1  he  happiest  of  men." 

I  LVI. 

Since  then  she  had  sparkled  through  three  glowing 
winters. 

Admired,  adored  ;  but  also  so  correct, 
That  she  had  puzzled  all  the  acufest  hinters, 

Without  the  apparel  of  being  circumspect : 
Thev  could  not  even  glean  the  "slightest  splinters 

Ft^om  off  the  marble,  which  had  no  defect. 
She  had  also  snatch'd  a  moment  since  her  marriage 
To  bear  a  son  and  heir  —  and  one  miscarriage. 

LVII. 

Fondly  the  wheeling  fire-flies  flew  around  her. 
Those  little  glitterers  of  the  Ijjndon  night ; 

But  none  of  these  possess'd  a  sting  to  wound  her  — 
She  was  a  pitch  beyond  a  coxcomb's  flight. 

Perhaps  she  wish'd  an  aspirant  profounder ; 
But  whatsoe'er  she  wish'd,  she  acted  right ; 

And  whether  coldness,  pride,  or  virtue,  dignify 

A  woman,  so  she 's  good,  what  does  it  signify  ? 

LVIH, 

1  hate  a  motive,  like  a  lingering  bottle 

Which  with  the  landlord  makes  too  long  a  sf»nJ, 
Leaving  all-claretless  the  unmoislen'd  throttle, 

Especially  with  politics  on  hand  ; 
I  hate  it,  as'l  hate  a  drove  of  cattle, 

Who  whirl  the  dust  as  simooms  whirl  the  sand; 
I  hate  it,  as  1  hate  an  argument, 
A  laureate's  ode,  or  servile  peer's  "  content," 


Canto  XIV.] 


DON  JUAN. 


591 


LIX. 

'T  is  sid  to  hack  into  the  roots  of  thini^ 
They  are  so  much  intertwisted  with  the  earth  j 

So  that  the  branch  a  goodly  verdure  flings, 
I  recl£  not  if  an  acorn  ^ave  it  birth. 

To  trace  all  actions  to  their  secret  springs 
Would  make  indeed  some  melancholy  mirth ; 

But  this  is  not  at  present  my  concern, 

And  X  refer  you  to  wise  Oxenstiern.i 

LX. 

With  the  kind  view  of  saving  an  eclat, 

Both  to  the  duchess  and  diplomatist. 
The  I^dy  Adeline,  as  soon 's  she  saw 

Thit  Juan  was  unlikely  to  resist  — 
(For  foreigners  don't  know  that  3.  faux  pas 

In  England  ranks  quite  on  a  different  list 
From  those  of  other  lands  unblest  with  juries, 
Whose  verdict  for  such  sin  a  certain  cure  is  ;  — ) 

LXI. 
The  Lady  Adeline  resolved  to  take 

Such  measures  as  she  thought  might  best  impede 
The  farther  progress  of  this  sad  mistake. 

She  thought  with  some  simplicity  indeed  ; 
But  innocence  is  bold  even  at  the  stake, 

And  simple  in  the  world,  and  doth  not  need 
Nor  use  those  palisades  by  dames  erected, 
Whose  virtue  lies  in  never  being  detected, 

LXII. 

It  was  not  that  she  fear'd  the  very  worst : 
His  Grace  was  an  enduring,  married  man, 

And  was  not  likely  all  at  once  to  burst 
Into  a  scene,  and  swell  the  clients'  clan 

Of  Doctors'  Commons ;  but  she  dreaded  fii-st 
The  magic  of  her  Grace's  talisman, 

And  next  a  quarrel  (as  he  seem'd  to  fret) 

With  X»rd  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

LXIII. 
Her  Grace,  too,  pass'd  for  bein»  an  intrigante. 

And  somewhat  mechante  in  her  amorous  sphere; 
One  of  those  pretty,  precious  plagues,  which  haunt 

A  lover  with  caprices  soft  and  dear, 
That  like  to  make  a  quarrel,  when  they  cant 

Find  one,  each  day  of  the  delightful  year; 
Bewitching,  torturing,  as  they  freeze  or  glow, 
And  —  what  is  worst  of  all  —  won't  let  you  go; 

LXIV. 

The  sort  of  thing  to  turn  a  young  man's  head. 
Or  make  a  Werter  of  him  in  the  end. 

No  wonder  then  a  purer  soul  should  dread 
This  sort  of  chaste  liaison  for  a  friend  ; 

It  were  much  better  to  be  wed  or  dead, 
Than  wear  a  heart  a  woman  loves  to  rend. 

'T  is  best  to  pause,  and  think,  ere  you  rush  on, 

If  that  a  "  bonne  fortune  "  be  really  "  bonne." 

LXV. 
And  first.  In  the  o'erflowing  of  her  heart. 

Which  really  knew  or  thought  it  knew  no  guile, 
She  call'd  her  husband  now  and  then  apart, 

And  bade  him  counsel  Juan.     With  a  smile 
Lord  Henry  heard  her  plans  of  artless  art 

To  wean  Don  Juan  from  the  sirens  wile ; 
And  answer'J,  like  a  statesman  or  a  prophet. 
In  such  guise  that  she  could  make  nothing  of  it. 


LXVI. 

Firstly,  he  said,  "  he  never  interfered 
In  any  body's  business  but  the  king's  : 

Next,  that  "  he  never  judged  from  what  appear'd. 
Without  strong  reason,  "of  those  sort  of  things ; " 

Thirdly,  that  "  Juan  had  more  brain  than  beard, 
And  was  not  to  be  held  in  leading-strings;" 

And  fourthly,  what  need  hardly  be  said  twice, 

"  That  good  but  rarely  canie  from  good  advice." 

LXV  1 1. 

And,  therefore,  doubtless  to  approve  the  truth 
Of  the  last  axiom,  he  advised  his  spouse 

To  leave  the  parties  to  themselves,  forsooth  — 
At  least  as  far  as  bienseance  allows : 

Tliat  time  would  temper  Juan's  faults  of  youth; 
1  hat  young  men  rarely  made  monastic  vows; 

That  opposition  only  more  attaches 

But  here  a  messenger  brought  in  despatches : 

LXVIII. 

And  being  of  the  council  call'd  "  the  Privy," 

Lord  Henry  walk'd  into  his  cabinet, 
To  furnish  matter  for  some  future  Livy 

To  tell  how  he  reduced  the  nation's  debt; 
And  if  their  full  contents  I  do  not  give  ye, 
i      It  is  because  I  do  not  know  them  yet ; 
But  1  shall  add  them  in  a  brief  appendix. 
To  come  between  mine  epic  and  its  index. 

!  LXIX. 

But  ere  he  went,  he  added  a  slight  hint, 
!     Another  gentle  common-place  or  two, 

Such  as  are  coin'd  in  conversation's  mint, 
I     And  pass,  for  want  of  better,  though  not  new. 

Then  broke  his  packet,  to  see  what  was  in  't, 
And  having  casually  glanced  it  through. 

Retired  ;  anJ,  as  he  went  out,  calmly  kissd  her, 

Less  like  a  young  wife  than  an  aged  sister. 

LXX. 

i  He  was  a  cold,  good,  honourable  man. 

Proud  of  his  birth,  and  proud  of  every  thing; 
1 A  goodly  spirit  for  a  state  divan, 
I     A  figure  fit  to  walk  before  a  king; 
i  Tall,  stately,  form'd  to  lead  the  courtly  van 

On  birthdays,  glorious  with  a  star  and  string ; 
The  very  model  of  a  chamberlain  — 
And  such  1  mean  to  make  him  when  I  reign. 

LXXI. 

1  But  there  was  something  wanting  on  the  whole  — 
■  I  don't  know  what,  and  therefore  cannot  tell  — 
j  Which  pretty  women  —  the  sweet  souls !  —  call  toi 


Certes  it  was  not  body  ;  he  was  well 


3  The  famnus  Chancellor  Oxenstiern  said  to  h'-a  aon,  on 
the  latter  expressing  h  a  aurpriae  upon  the  great  effects 
uriaiog  from  petty  cauaea  in  the  preaumeil  myalery  of 
politica  "You  ^ee  by  thie.  my  aon,  with  how  little  wia- 
dom  the  kiLgdoma  of  the  world  are  govern>-d."  — [The 
true  atory  ia  ;  —  young  Oxensliern.  on  being  told  he  waa 
to  pnxeed  on  some  diplomatic  miRSion,  expreM.-d  hia 
duubta  of  hia  own  fitneaa  for  such  an  office.  The  old 
Cbaocellor.  laughing,  anawered,— "  Nescia,  mi  fill,  quan- 
tula  acientia  gubernatur  mundua."  —  E.] 


Proportion'd,  as  a  poplar  or  a  pole, 
j     A  handsome  man,  that  human  miracle ; 
'  And  in  each  circumstance  of  love  or  %var, 
j  Had  still  preserved  his  perpendicular. 

!  Lxxn. 

:  Still  there  was  something  wanting,  as  I've  said  — 
I     1  hat  undefinatle  "^e  ne  scais  quoi," 
Which,  for  what  I  know,  may  of  yore  have  led 

To  Homers  Iliad,  since  it  drew 'to  Troy 
The  Greek  Eve,  Helen,  from  the  Spartan's  bed; 

Though  on  the  w.hole,  no  doubt,  the  Uardan  boj 
Was  much  inferior  to  King  Menelaus:  — 
But  thus  it  is  some  women  will  betray  us. 

LXXIH. 

There  is  an  awkward  thing  which  much  perplexes 
Unless  like  wise  'I  iresias  we  had  proved 

By  turns  the  diflerence  of  the  several  sexes; 
Neither  can  show  quite  how  they  would  be  lovea. 

The  sensual  fr-r  a  short  time  but  co'nnects  us  — 
The  sentiniautal  boasls  to  be  unmoved  ; 

But  both  together  form  a  kind  of  centaur, 

I'pou  whose  back  t  ii  better  not  to  venture. 


592 


DON   JUAN, 


[Canto  XIV. 


LXXIV. 

A  something  al!-sufScient  for  the  heart 

Is  that  for  which  the  sex  are  always  seekiaj : 

But  how  to  fill  up  that  same  vacant  part  ? 

1  here  lies  the  rub  —  and  this  they  are  but  weak  in. 

Frail  mariners  afloat  without  a  chart, 

1  hey  run  before  the  wiad  through  high  seas  break- 
in?; 

And  when  they  have  made  the  shore  through  every 
shock 

T  is  odd,  or  odds,  it  may  turn  out  a  rock. 

LXXV. 

There  is  a  flower  calVd  "  Love  in  Idleness," 

For  which  see  Shakspeare's  ever  blooming  gardenj — 

I  will  not  make  his  great  description  less, 
And  beg  his  British  godship's  humble  pardon, 

If,  in  my  extremi'y  of  rhyme's  distress, 
I  touch  a  single  leaf  where  he  is  warden ;  — 

But  though  the  flower  is  different,  w  ilh  the  French 

Or  Swiss' Rousseau,  cry  "  f'Oila  la  Pcrucnche. ! "  » 

LXXVI. 

Eureka  !  1  have  found  it !  What  I  mean 

To  say  is,  not  that  love  is  idleness, 
But  that  in  love  such  idleness  has  been 

An  accessory,  as  1  have  cause  to  guess. 
Hard  labour  s  an  inditterent  go-between  ; 

Your  men  of  business  are  mt  apt  to  express 
Much  passion,  since  the  mercha  ;t-ship,  the  Argo, 
Convey'd  Medea  as  her  supercargo. 

LXXVII. 

"  Beatus  ille  procul ! "  from  "  negotiis.'^  ' 
Saith  Horace  :  the  great  little  poet  s  wrong; 

His  other  maxim,  "  Noscitur  a  sociis," 
Is  much  more  to  the  purpose  of  his  song  ; 

Though  even  that  »ere  sometimes  too  ferocious, 
Unless  good  company  be  kept  tio  long; 

But,  in  his  teeth,  whate'e  ■  their  state  or  station. 

Thrice  happy  they  who  have  an  occupation  ! 

LXXVIII. 
Adam  exchanged  his  Paradise  for  ploughing, 

Kve  n.ade  up  millinery  with  fig  leaves  — 
The  eirliest  knowledge  from  the  tree  so  knowing, 

As  far  as  I  know,  that  the  church  receives : 
And  since  that  time  it  need  not  cost  much  showing, 

That  many  of  the  ills  oer  which  man  grieves, 
And  still  more  women,  spring  from  not  employing 
Some  hours  to  make  the  remnant  worth  enjoying. 

LXXIX. 

And  hence  high  life  is  oft  a  dreary  void, 
A  rack  of  pleasures,  where  we  must  invent 

A  something  wherewithal  to  be  annoy 'd. 

Bards  n-ay  smg  what  they  please  about  Content  ; 

Contented,  «hen  translated,  means  butcloy'd; 
And  hence  arise  the  woes  of  sentiment, 

Blue-devils,  and  blue-stockings,  and  romances 

Reduced  to  practice,  and  performed  like  dances. 

LXXX. 
I  do  declare,  upon  an  affidavit, 

Romances  I  ne'er  read  like  those  I  have  seen ; 
Nor,  if  unto  the  world  I  ever  gave  it. 

Would  some  believe  that  such  a  tale  had  been : 
But  such  intent  1  never  had,  nor  have  it ; 

Some  truths  are  better  kept  behind  a  screen. 
Especially  when  they  would  look  like  lies  ; 
I  therefore  deal  in  generalities. 

LXXXI. 

••  An  oyster  may  be  cross'd  in  love,"  3  —  and  why  ? 

Because  he  m'opeth  idly  in  his  shell. 
And  heaves  a  lonely  subterraqueous  sigh. 

Much  as  a  monk  may  do  w  ithiu  his  cell : 

1  See  "  La  Nouvelle  Heloisi.  " 

2  Hor.  Epcxl.  Oil.  ii. 

3  See  Sheridan's  "Critic."—  E. 


I  And  a-profos  of  monks,  their  piety 

With  sloth  hath  found  it  difficult  to  dwell ; 
Those  vegetables  of  the  Catholic  creed 
Are  apt  exceedingly  to  run  to  seed. 

I  LXXXII. 

0  Wilberforce  !  thou  man  of  black  renown, 

Whoss  merit  none  enough  can  sing  or  say. 
Thou  hast  struck  one  immense  Colossus  dowi, 

Thou  moral  Washington  of  Africa! 

ut  there's  another  little  thing,  I  own, 

Which  yt 
And  set  the 

You  have  freed  the  blacks  — now  pray  shut  up  the 
hites. 

LXXXIII. 

Shut  up  the  bald  coot^  bully  Alexander! 

Ship  of!'  the  Holy  Three  to  Senegal ; 
Teach  them  that  "  sauce  for  goose  is  sauce  for  gander," 

And  ask  them  how  they  like  to  be  in  tJuall  ? 
Shut  up  each  high  heroic  salamander, 

Who  eats  fire  gratis  ,since  the  pay's  but  small); 
Shut  up  —  no,  nut  the  King,  but  the  Pavilion,* 
Or  else  't  will  cost  us  all  another  million. 

LXXX  IV. 

Shut  up  the  world  at  large,  let  Bedlam  out : 
And  you  will  be  perhaps  surprised  to  find 

All  things  pursue  exactly  the  same  route. 
As  now  with  those  of  soi-disant  sound  mind. 

This  I  could  prove  beyond  a  single  doubt, 
Were  ihere  a  jot  of  sense  among  mankind  ; 

But  till  that  foint  d'afpui  is  found,  alas  ! 

Like  Archimedes,  I  leave  earth  as  'twas. 

LXXXV. 

Our  gentle  Adeline  had  one  defect  — 

Her  heart  was  vacant,  though  a  splendid  n  Uisioa; 
Her  conduct  h.id  been  perfectly  correct. 

As  she  had  seen  nought  claiming  its  expansion. 
A  "  avering  spirit  may  be  easier  wreck  d, 

Because  't  is  frailer,'doubtless,  than  a  stanch  one ; 
But  when  the  latter  works  its  own  undoing. 
Its  inner  crash  is  like  an  earthquake's  ruin.' 

LXXXVT. 

She  loved  her  lord,  or  thought  so ;  but  that  love 

Cost  her  an  effort,  which  is  a  sad  toil. 
The  stone  of  Sysiphus,  if  once  we  move 

Our  feelings  gainst  the  nature  of  the  soil. 
She  had  nothing  to  complain  of,  or  reprove. 

No  bickerings,  no  connubial  turmoil : 
Their  union  was  a  model  to  behold. 
Serene  arid  noble,—  conjugal,  but  cold. 

LXXXVII. 

There  was  no  great  disparity  of  years, 
Though  much  in  temper;  but  they  never  clash'dj 

They  moved  like  stars  united  in  their  spheres. 
Or  like  the  Rhone  by  Leman's  \'iaters  wash'd, 

Where  mingled  and  yet  separate  appears 
The  river  from  the'  lake,  all  bluely  dashd 

Through  the  serene  and  placid  glassy  deep, 

Which  fain  would  lull  its  liver-cbild  to  sleep. 

LXXXVIIL 
Now  when  she  once  had  ta'en  an  interest 

In  any  thing,  however  slie  might  flatter 
Herself  that  her  intentions  we:  e  the  best. 

Intense  intenlions  are  a  dangerous  matter : 
Impressions  were  much  stronger  than  she  guess'd, 

And  gather'd  as  ihey  run  like  growing  water 
Upon  her  mind  ;  the  more  so,  as  her  bjeasl 
Was  not  at  first  too  readily  impressed. 

4  The  bald-coot  is  a  i-mall  bird  of  prey  in  rnarthec   Tha 
Emperor  Alexander  was  baldish.- E. 
&  The  Kiug'B  palace  at  Brighton.—  E. 


Canto  XIV.| 


DON  JUAN. 


593 


LXXXIX. 

But  when  it  was,  she  had  that  lurkin;  demon 
Of  double  nature,  and  thus  doubly  named  — 

Firmness  yclept  in  heroes,  kinrs,  and  seamen, 
That  is,  wlien  they  succeei]  tut  greatiy  blamed 

At  obstinacy,  both  in  men  and  women, 

Whene'er  their  triumph  [lales,  or  star  is  tamed  :  — 

And  t  will  perplex  the  casuist  in  morality 

To  fix  the  due  bounds  of  this  dangerous  quality. 

XC. 
Had  Buonaparte  won  at  Wa'erloo, 

It  had  been  firmness ;  now  't  is  pertinacity  : 
Must  the  event  decide  between  the  tv.o ? 

I  leave  it  to  your  people  of  s:Lsacity 
To  draw  the  line  between  the  false  and  true. 

If  such  can  e  er  be  drawn  by  man's  capacity : 
My  business  i?  w-fn  Lady  Adeline, 
VV'ho  in  her  way  too  was  a  heroine. 

XCI. 
Sbe  knew  not  her  own  heart ;  then  how  should  I? 

I  think  not  she  was  th£7i  in  love  with  Juan  : 
If  so,  she  would  have  had  the  strength  to  fly 

The  wild  sensation,  unto  her  a  new  one: 
She  merely  felt  a  common  sympathy 

(I  will  not  say  it  was  a  false  or  true  one) 
In  him,  because  she  thought  he  was  in  danger,— 
Her  huslxuid  s  friend,  her  own,  young,  and  a  stranger. 

XCII. 
She  was,  or  thought  she  was,  his  friend  —  and  this 

Without  the  farce  "f  fiiendship,  or  romance 
Of  Platoniim,  which  leads  sf>  off  amiss 

Indies  who  have  studied  friendship  but  in  France, 
Ct  Germany,  where  people  jnirely  kiss. 

To  thus  much  Adeline'  wou  d  not  advance ; 
But  of  such  friendship  as  man's  may  to  man  be 
She  was  as  capable  as  woman  can  be. 

XCIII. 
No  doubt  the  secret  influence  of  the  sex 

Will  there,  as  also  in  the  ties  of  blood, 
An  innocent  predominance  annex, 

And  tune  the  concord  to  a  finer  mood. 
If  free  from  passion,  which  all  friendship  checks, 

And  your  true  feeiings  fully  understood, 
No  friend  like  to  a  woman  earth  discover, 
So  that  you  have  not  been  noi'  will  be  lovers. 

XCIV. 
Love  bears  within  its  breast  the  very  eerm 

Of  change  ;  and  how  should  this  be  otherwise? 
That  violent  things  more  quickly  find  a  term 

Is  shown  through  nature's  whole  analogies  ; 
And  how  should  the  m'^st  fierce  of  all  be  firm  ? 

Would  you  have  endless  lightning  in  the  skies  ? 
Methinks  Love's  very  title  says  enoush  : 
How  should  "  the  tender  passion  "  e'er  be  tough  ? 

XCV. 
Alas !  by  all  experience,  seldom  yet 

(I  merely  quote  what  I  have  heard  from  many 
Had  lovt  rs  not  some  reason  to  regret 

The  pissian  which  made  Solomon  a  zany. 
I  've  also  seen  some  wives  (not  to  forget 

The  marriage  state,  the  best  or  worst  of  any) 
Who  were  thu  very  paragons  of  wives, 
f  et  made  the  mi:ery  of  at  least  two  lives. 

XCVI. 
I  've  also  seen  some  female  friends  ('t  is  odd. 

But  true  —  as,  if  expedient,  1  could  prove) 
That  faithful  were  through  thick  and  thin,  abroad. 

At  home,  far  more  than  ever  yet  was  Love  — 
Who  did  not  quit  me  when  Oppression  trod 

Upon  me  ;  whom  no  scandal  could  remove  ; 
Who  fought,  and  fisht,  in  absence,  too,  my  battles, 
Despite  the  snake  society's  loud  rattles. 


XCVH. 

Whether  Don  Juan  and  chaste  Adeline 
Grew  friends  in  this  or  any  other  sense, 

Will  be  discuss'i  hereafter,  1  opine  : 
At  present  1  am  glad  of  a  pretence 

To  leave  them  hovering,  as  tne  effect  is  fine 
And  keeps  the  atrocious  reader  in  nupense: 

The  surest  way  for  ladies  and  for  books 

To  bait  their  tender  or  their  tenter  hooks. 

xcvin. 

Whether  they  rode,  or  walk'd,  or  studied  Spanish 
To  read  Don  Quixote  in  the  original, 

A  pleasure  before  which  all  others  vanish; 

Whether  their  talk  was  of  the  kind  call'd  "small, 

Or  serious,  are  the  lopics  I  must  banish 
To  the  next  Canto ;  w  here  perhaps  1  shall 

Say  something  to  the  purpose,  and  display 

Considerable  talent  in  my  way. 

XCIX. 

Above  all,  I  beg  all  men  to  forbear 

Anticipating  aught  about  the  matter: 
They  '11  only  make  mistakes  about  the  fair, 

And  Juan  too,  especially  the  latter. 
And  1  shall  take  a  much  more  serious  air 

Than  1  have  yet  done,  in  this  epic  satire. 
It  is  not  clear  that  Adeline  and  Juan 
Will  fall;  but  if  they  do,  "t  will  be  their  ruin. 


But  great  things  spring  from  little :— Would  you  think. 

That  in  our  youth,  as  dangerous  a  passion 
As  e'er  brought  man  and  woman  to  the  brink 

(if  ruin,  rose  from  such  a  slight  occasion. 
As  few  would  ever  dream  could  form  the  hnk     ' 

Of  such  a  sentimental  situation  ? 
You  'II  never  guess,  1  '11  bet  you  millions,  milliards  — 
It  all  sprung  trom  a  harmless  game  at  billiards. 

CI. 
'Tis  strange,— but  true  ;  for  truth  is  always  strange; 

Stranger  than  fiction  :  if  it  could  be  told. 
How  much  would  novels  gain  by  the  exchange ! 

How  differently  the  world  would  men  behold ! 
How  oft  would  vice  and  virtue  places  change  ! 

The  new  woild  would  be  nothing  to  the  old, 
If  some  Columbus  of  the  moral  seas 
Would  show  mankind  their  souls'  antipodes. 

CIL 
What  "an'res  vast  and  deserts  idle"  then 

Would  be  discover'd  in  the  human  soul  ! 
What  icebergs  in  the  hearts  of  mighty  men. 

With  self-love  in  the  centre  as  their  pole  '. 
What  Anthropophagi  are  nine  in  ten 

Of  those  who  hold  the  kingdoms  in  control ! 
Were  things  but  only  call'd  by  their  right  name, 
Cassar  himself  would  be  ashamed  of  fame. 


CANTO  THE   FIFTEENTH* 
I. 

Ah  !  —What  should  follow  slips  from  ray 
Whatever  follows  ne'ertheless  may  be 
I  As  a-propos  of  hope  or  retrosjiection. 

As  though  the  lurking  thought  had  follow'd  free 
All  present  life  is  but  an  interjection. 

An  "  Oh ! "  or  "Ah  ! "  of  joy  or  miserj', 
j  Or  a  "  Ha !  ha ! "  or  "  Bah  '. " -  a  yawn,  or  « roch ! " 
I  Of  which  perhaps  the  latter  is  most  true. 


n. 

But,  more  or  less,  the  whole 's  a  syncope 
Ur  a  singultus  —  emblems  of  emotion, 

The  grand  antithesis  to  great  ennui. 

Wherewith  we  break'our  bubbles  on  the  ocean, 


50* 


38 


594 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  XV. 


That  watery  outline  of  eternity, 

Or  miniature  at  least,  as  is  my  notion, 
Which  ministers  unto  the  soul's  delight. 
In  seeing  matters  which  are  out  of  sight. 

III. 

But  all  are  better  than  the  si'h  supprest, 

Corroding  in  the  cavern  of  the  heart, 
Making  the  countenance  a  masque  of  rest, 

And  turning  human  nature  to  an  art. 
Few  men  dare  show  their  thoughts  of  worst  or  best; 

Dissimulation  always  sets  apart 
A  corner  for  herself;  and  therefore  fiction 
It  that  which  passes  with  least  contradiction. 

IV. 

Ah !  who  can  tell  ?    Or  ra'her,  who  can  not 
Remember,  without  telling,  passion's  errors? 

The  drainer  of  oblivion,  even  the  sot. 

Hath  got  blue  devils  fir  his  morning  mirrors  : 

What  though  on  Lethe's  stream  he  seem  to  float, 
He  cannot  sink  his  tremors  or  his  terrors  ; 

The  ruby  glass  that  shakes  within  his  hand 

Leaves  a  sad  sediment  of  Time's  worst  sand. 

V. 

And  as  for  love  —  O  love  ! We  will  proceed. 

1  he  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville, 
A  pretty  name  as  one  would  « ish  to  read. 

Must  perch  harmonious  on  my  tuneful  quill. 
There  "s  music  in  the  sighing  of  a  reed  ; 

There  's  music  in  the  gushing  of  a  rill ; 
There  "s  music  in  all  things,  if  men  had  ears: 
Their  earth  is  but  an  echo  of  the  spheres. 

VI. 

The  Lady  Adeline,  right  honourable, 
And  honour'd,  ran  a  risk  of  growing  less  so; 

For  few  of  the  soft  sex  are  very  stable 

In  their  resolves  —  alas !  that  I  should  say  so ! 

They  differ  as  wine  differs  from  its  label. 

When  once  decanted  ;  —  I  presume  to  guess  so. 

But  will  not  swear :  yet  both  upon  occasion, 

Till  old,  will  undergo  adulteration. 

VIF. 
But  Adeline  was  of  the  purest  vintage, 

The  unmingled  essence  of  the  grape ;  and  yet 
Bright  as  a  new  Napoleon  from  its  mintage, 

Or  glorious  as  a  diamond  richly  set ; 
A  page  where  Time  should  hesitate  to  print  age, 

And  for  which  iNature  might  forego  her  debt  — 
Sole  creditor  whose  process  doth  involve  in  t 
The  luck  of  finding  every  body  solvent. 

viir. 

O  Death  !  thou  dunnest  of  all  duns  I  thou  daily 
Knockest  at  doors,  at  first  with  modest  tap, 

Like  a  meek  tradesman  when,  approaching  palely, 
Some  splendid  debtor  he  would  take  by  sap: 

But  oft  denied,  as  patience  'gins  to  fail,  he 
Advances  uith  exasperated  rap. 

And  (if  let  inj  insists,  in  terms  unhandsome. 

On  ready  money,  or  "  a  draft  on  Ransom."  » 

IX. 

Whafe'er  thon  takest,  spare  a  while  poor  Beaut)- ! 

She  is  so  rare,  and  thou  hast  so  much  prey. 
What  though  she  now  and  then  may  slip  from  duty, 

The  more 's  the  reason  whv  you  ought  to  stay. 
Gaunt    gourmand!    with   whole    nations    for   you; 
booty. 

You  should  be  civil  in  a  modest  way  : 
Suppress,  then,  some  slight  feminine  diseases, 
And  take  as  many  heroes  as  Heaven  pleases. 


SaoDom,  KiDnaird,  and  Co.,  were  Lord  Byron'a  bank- 


Fair  Adeline,  the  more  insenuous 

Where  she  was  interested  (as  was  said), 
Because  she  was  not  apt,  like  some  of  us, 

To  like  too  readily,  or  too  high  bred 
To  show  it  —  (points  we  need  not  now  discuss)  — 

Would  give  up  artlessly  both  heart  and  head 
Unto  such  feelings  as  seem "d  innocent, 
For  objects  worthy  of  the  sentiment 

XI. 
Some  parts  of  Juan's  history,  which  Rumour, 

'1  hat  live  gazette,  had  scatter  d  to  disfigure. 
She  had   heard ;  but  women  bear  with  more  goiNl 
humour 

Such  aberrations  than  we  men  of  rigour : 
Besides,  his  conduct,  since  in  England,  grew  more 

Strict,  and  his  mind  assumed  a  manlier  vigour  ; 
Because  he  had,  like  Alcibiades, 
The  art  of  living  in  all  climes  with  ease. 

Xlf. 
His  manner  was  perhaps  the  more  seductive, 

Because  he  ne'er  seem'd  anxious  to  seduce; 
Nothing  affected,  studied,  or  constructive 

Of  coxcombry  or  conquest :  no  abuse 
Of  his  attractions  marr'd  the  fair  perspective, 

To  indicate  a  Cupidon  broke  loose. 
And  seem  to  say,  '*  Resist  us  if  you  can ''  — 
Which  makes  a  dandy  while  it  spoils  a  man. 

XIII. 
They  are  wrong—  that 's  not  the  way  to  set  itout  it, 

As,  if  they  told  the  truth,  could  well  be  shown. 
But,  right  of  wrong,  Don  Juan  was  without  it ; 

In  fact,  his  manner  was  his  own  alone : 
Sincere  he  was  —  at  least  you  could  not  doubt  it, 

In  listening  merely  to  his  voice's  tone. 
The  devil  hath  not  in  all  his  quivers  choice 
An  arrow  for  the  heart  like  a  sweet  voice. 

XIV. 
By  nature  soft,  his  whole  address  held  off 

Suspicion  ;  though  not  timid,  his  regard 
Was  such  as  rather  seem'd  tp  keep  aloof, 

To  shield  himself  than  put  you  on  your  guard: 
Perhaps  't  was  hardly  quite  assured  enough. 

But  modesty  "s  at  times  its  own  reward. 
Like  virtue  ;  and  the  absence  of  pretension 
Will  go  much  farther  than  there 's  need  to  mention. 

XV. 
Serene,  accomplish'd,  cheerful  but  not  loud; 

Insinuating  without  insinuation ; 
Observant  of  the  foibles  of  the  crowd. 

Vet  ne'er  betraying  this  in  conversation; 
Proud  with  the  proud,  yet  courteously  proud, 

So  as  to  make  them  feel  he  knew  his  station 
And  theirs  : —  without  a  strusgle  for  priority, 
He  neither  brook'd  nor  claim'd  superiority." 

XVL 
That  is,  with  men  :  with  women  he  was  what 

1  hey  pleased  to  make  or  lake  him  for;  and  their 
Imagination 's  quite  enough  for  that ; 

So  that  the  outline  s  tolerably  fair. 
They  fill  the  canvass  up  —  and  "  verbum  sat." 

If  once  their  phantasies  be  brought  to  bear 
Upon  an  object,  whether  sad  or  playful, 
'1  hey  can  transfigure  brighter  than  a  Raphael.  • 

XVII. 
Adeline,  no  deep  judge  of  character, 

Was  apt  to  add  a  colouring  from  her  own  : 
'T  is  thus  the  good  will  anii.\bly  err. 

And  eke  the  wise,  as  has  beeii  often  shown. 
Experience  is  the  chief  philosopher, 

But  saddest  when  his  science  is  well  known: 
And  persecuted  sages  teach  the  schools 
Their  fjlly  in  forgetting  there  are  fools. 


2  Raphael's    masterpiece    is    called    the 


Canto  XV.J 


DON  JUAN. 


595  I 


XVIII. 

Was  it  not  so,  p-eaX  I/icke  r  and  5reater  Bacon  ? 

Great  Socrates  ?     And  thou,  Diviner  still,» 
Whose  lot  it  is  by  man  to  he  misiaken. 

And  thy  pure  creed  ma  -e  sanction  of  all  ill  ? 
Redeeming  worlds  to  be  by  bigots  shaken, 

How  was  thy  toil  rewarded?     We  might  fill 
Volumes  with  similar  sad  illustrations, 
But  leave  them  to  the  conscience  of  the  nations. 

XIX. 

I  perch  npon  an  humbler  promontory, 

Anr.idst  life's  infinite  variety: 
With  no  great  care  for  «  hat  is  nicknamed  glory, 

But  speculating  as  1  cast  mine  eye 
On  what  may  suit  or  may  not  suit  my  story, 

And  never  straining  hard  to  versify, 
I  rattle  on  exactly  as  1  'd  talk 
With  any  body  in  a  ride  or  walk. 

XX. 

I  dont  know  that  there  may  be  much  ability 

Shown  in  this  sort  of  desultory  rhyme; 
But  there  's  a  conversational  facility, 

Which  may  round  oft'  an  hour  upon  a  time. 
Of  tills  1  'm  sure  at  least,  there 's  no  servility 

In  mine  irregularity  of  chime, 
Which  rings  what  "s  uppermost  of  new  or  hoary, 
Just  as  1  feel  the  "  Jmprovvisatore," 

XXI. 
"  Omnia  vult  belle  Matho  dicere  —  die  aliquando 

Et  bene,  die  neutrum,  die  aliquando  male." 
The  first  is  rather  more  than  mortal  can  do ; 

'I  he  second  may  be  sadly  done  or  gaily ; 
The  third  is  still  more  difficult  to  stand  to ; 

The  fourth  we  hear,  and  see,  and  say  too,  daily: 
The  whole  together  is  what  I  could  wish 
To  serve  in  this  conundrum  of  a  dish. 

XXII. 
A  modest  hope  —  but  modesty 's  my  forte. 
And  pride  my  foible :  —  let  us  ramble  on. 

I  meant  to  make  this  poem  very  short. 

But  now  I  can't  tell  w  here  it  may  not  run. 
No  douot,  if  I  had  wish'd  to  pay  my  court 

To  critics,  or  to  hail  the  setting  sun 
Of  tyranny  of  all  kinds,  my  concision 
Were  more ;  —  but  I  was  l)orn  for  opposition. 

XXIII. 
But  then  't  is  mostly  on  the  weaker  side; 

So  that  I  verily  believe  if  they 
Who  now  are  basking  in  their  full-blown  pride 

Were  shaken  down,  and  "  dogs  had  had  their  day," 
Though  at  the  first  I  might  perchance  deride 

1  heir  tumble,  I  should  turn  the  other  way, 
And  wax  an  ultra-royalist  in  I'lyalty, 
Because  I  hate  even  democratic  royalty. 

XXIV. 
think  I  should  have  made  a  decent  spouse, 
If  I  had  never  proved  the  soft  condition  ; 
.  think  I  should  have  made  monastic  vows, 

But  for  my  own  peculiar  superstition  : 
'Gainst  rhyme  1  never  should  have  knock"!  my  brows. 

Nor  broken  my  own  head,  nor  that  of  Priscian, 
Nor  worn  the  motley  mantle  of  a  pnet, 

II  some  one  had  not  told  me  to  forego  it. 

1  As  it  is  npceesary  in  Ihfse  linies  to  avoid  ambignity,  |  AAAll. 

I  say  tliat  I  niraii.  by  ••  Diviuer  kI  11."  Chrini.  If  rvcr  ^  But  never  yet  (except  of  course  a 
God  was  mau  — or  man  G.Kt  — he  was  bulk.  I  never  Vnwed.  or  mistiess  never  to  be 
•  rraisiied  his  cieed,  bul  Ihe  use  — or  abuee  •      - 


XXV. 
But  "  laissez  aller"  —  knights  and  dames  I  sinfr, 

Such  as  the  times  may  furnish.     '  T  is  a  flight 
Which  seems  at  first  to'need  no  Itfty  wing. 

Plumed  by  Longinus  or  the  Slagyrite  : 
The  difficulty  lies  in  colouring 

(Keeping  the  due  proportioiiS  still  in  sight. 
With  nature  manners  which  are  artificial. 
And  rend'ring  general  that  which  is  especial. 

XXVI. 

The  diflFerence  is,  that  in  the  days  of  old 
Men  made  the  manners ;  manners  now  makemes— 

Pinn'd  like  a  flock,  and  fleeced  too  in  their  fold, 
At  least  nine,  and  a  ninth  beside  of  ten. 

Now  this  at  all  events  must  render  cold 
Your  writers,  who  must  either  draw  again 

Days  better  drawn  before,  or  else  assume 

The  present,  « ith  their  common-place  costume. 

XXVII. 
We  'II  do  our  best  to  make  the  best  on  't :  —  March ! 

March,  my  Muse  !    If  you  cannot  fly,  yet  flutter; 
And  when  you  may  not  be  sublime,  be  arch. 

Or  starch,  as  are  the  edicts  statesmen  utter. 
We  surely  may  find  something  worth  research: 

Columbus  found  a  nev/  world  in  a  cutter, 
Or  brigantine,  or  pink,  of  no  great  tonnage, 
While  yet  America  was  in  her  non-age. 

XXVIII. 

When  Adeline,  in  all  her  growing  sense 

Of  Juans  merits  and  his  situation. 
Felt  on  the  whole  an  interest  intense,— 

Partly  perhaps  because  a  fresh  sensation. 
Or  that  he  had  an  air  of  innocence. 

Which  is  f  r  innocence  a  sai  temptation, — 
As  women  hate  half  measures,  on  the  whole, 
She  "gan  to  ponder  how  to  save  his  soul. 

XXIX. 

She  had  a  good  opir.icn  of  advice. 
Like  all  who  give  and  ike  receive  it  gratis. 

For  which  small  thanks  are  still  the  market  price, 
Even  where  the  article  at  highest  rate  is  : 

She  thought  upon  the  subject  twice  or  thrice, 
And  mor:illy  decided,  the  best  state  is 

For  morals,  marriage ;  and  this  question  carried, 

She  seriously  advised  him  to  get  married. 

XXX. 

Juan  replied,  with  all  becoming  deference. 

He  had  a  predilection  for  that  tie; 
But  that,  at  present,  with  immediate  reference 

To  his  own  circumstances,  there  might  lie 
Some  difficulties,  as  in  his  own  preference, 

Or  that  of  her  to  whom  he  might  apply  : 
That  still  he  'd  wed  with  such  or  such  a  lady. 
If  that  they  were  not  married  all  already. 

XXXI. 

Next  to  the  making  matches  for  herself, 
And  daughters,  brothers,  sisters,  kith  or  kin, 

Arranging'thein  like  books  on  the  same  shelf, 
'I  here 's  nothing  women  love  to  dabble  in 

More  (like  a  stock-holder  in  growing  pelf) 
Than  match-making  in  general :  't  is  no  sin 

Certes,  but  a  preventative,  and  therefore 

That  is,  no  doubt,  the  only  reason  wherefore. 


Mr.  Ca 


>f  "•  ,  Or  wed  already,  who  oliject  to  this) 
day    quoird   Chr..Iia.iily    lo  ►Li.cl.on  |      Was  the  e  chaste  dame  who  had  not  in  her  1 


be^iourged  ?     If -o,  he   had   bei.er  been  born  a  Mulatto.  I      Observed  as  stric  Iv  both  at  board  and  bed 
to  five   both  coloure  an  equal  chance  of   freedom,  or  at  '  As  those  o»  Aristotle,  though  sometimes 
cast  Mlvation  I  They  turn  out  melodiames  or  pantomimes. 


596 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  XV. 


XXXIII. 
They  eenerally  have  some  only  son, 

Some  heir  to  a  |ar;e  property,  sonic  friend 
Of  ail  old  family,  snnie  sp.y  Sir  John, 

Or  grave  l»rd  George,  with  whom  perhaps  might 
end 
A  line,  and  leave  posterity  undone, 

Unless  a  iiiarriaje  was  applied  to  mend 
The  prispecl  and  their  morals:  and  besides, 
They  liave  at  hand  a  blooming  glut  of  brides. 

XXXIV. 
From  these  they  will  be  careful  to  select. 

For  this  an  heiress,  and  (or  that  a  beauty; 
For  one  a  songstress  who  lialh  no  defect, 

Fo   t'other  une  who  promises  much  duty; 
For  this  a  lady  no  one  can  reject. 

Whose  sole  accomplislinients  were  quite  a  booty; 
A  second  for  her  excellent  connexions  ; 
A  tliird,  because  there  can  be  no  objeciions. 

XXXV. 

When  Rapp  the  Harmonist  embargo'd  marriage ' 

In  his  harmonious  settlement  —  (which  flourishes 
Strangely  enough  as  yet  without  miscarriage, 

Because  it  breeds  no  more  mouths  than  it  nourishes, 
Without  those  sad  expenses  which  disj)arage 

What  Nature  naiu  ally  most  eiicoui-agesj  — 
Why  ca  1  d  he  "  Harmony  '  a  state  sans  wedlock? 
Noxv  here  1  have  got  tne  ])reacher  at  a  dead  lock. 

XXXVI. 
Because  he  either  meant  to  sneer  at  harmony 

Or  marriage,  by  divorcing  them  thus  oddly. 
But  whether  reverend  Ka);p  learn  d  this  in  Germany 

Or  no,  't  is  said  his  sect  is  rich  and  gMdly, 
Pious  and  pure,  bey  nd  what  I  can  term  any 

Of  ours,  although  they  propagate  more  broadly. 
My  objection's  to  his  title,  not  his  ritual. 
Although  1  wonder  how  it  grew  habitual. 

XXXVll. 

But  Rapp  is  the  reverse  of  zealous  matrons, 
Who  favour,  malgre  Mallhus,  generation  — 

Professors  of  that  genial  art,  and" patrons 
Of  all  the  modest  part  of  propagation; 

Which  alter  all  at  such  a  desiierate  rate  runs, 
'I'hat  half  its  produce  tends  to  emigration, 

That  sad  result  of  p;issions  and  potatoes  — 

Two  weeds  wliich  pose  our  economic  Calos. 

XXXVlIf, 
Had  Adeline  read  MaKhus  ?    I  can't  tell ; 

X  wish  she  had :  his  book's  the  eleventh  command- 
ment, 
W'hich  says,  "  Thou  shalt  not  marry,"  unless  well: 

This  he'(as  far  as  I  can  unders'and)  meant. 
T  is  not  my  purpose  on  his  views  to  dwell, 

Nor  canvass  whit  ''so  eniinen'  a  hand"  meant ;% 
But  certes  it  conducts  to  lives  ascetic, 
Or  turning  ma;riage  into  arillmietic. 

XXXIX. 
But  Adeline,  who  prob.ibly  jiresumed 

That  Juan  had  enough  of  maintenance. 
Or  se}.arate  maintenance,  in  case  't  was  doom'd  — 

As  on  the  whole  it  is  an  even  chance 


1  Tills  extraordinary  and  flourishing  German  colony  in 
Amerira,  dneu  not  entirely  exclude  matrimony.  a»  the 
"Shakers  "  do;  but  l.iys  Ruch  resirirtiuns  upon  it  as  pre* 
Tent  more  than  a  cerlaiii  quantum  ot  births  wiihin  a  ler- 
tain  number  ot  years;  which  binhs  (as  Mr.  Hulme 
observes)  generally  arrive  "  in  a  lilile  dock  like  those  of  a 
'iiimer's  lambs,  all  wiihin  the  same  mouth  perhaps." 
These  HarmouiKls  (so  called  from  the  name  of  their  set- 
Mrmeut)  are  repre«enled  as  :i  remarknhly  flouri8h:ng, 
pious,  and  quiet  people.  See  the  various  recent  writers 
on  Amerii-a. 

2  Jacob  Tonsnn,  acconling  to  Mi  Pope,  was  accustomed 
to  call  his  writers  "able  pens,**  *•  persons  of  honour," 
■nd  especially  "eminent  hands."  Vide  Correspondence, 
iU.Ste. 


That  bridegrooms,  after  they  are  fairly  p-oom'd. 

May  retrogi-ade  a  little  in  the  d.ance 
(Jf  marriage  —  (which  might  form  a  jiainter's  fame. 
Like  Holbein's  "  Dance  of  Death  '  3  —  but  >t  is  the 
same) ;  — 

XL. 
But  Adeline  determined  Ju.an's  wedding 

In  her  own  mind,  and  that  "s  enough  for  wonr.an : 
But  then,  with  whom  ?     J  here  was  the  sage  Miss 
Re.ading, 
Miss  Raw,  Miss  Flaw,  Miss  Showman,  and  Miss 
Knowman, 
And  the  two  fair  co-heiresses  Giltbedding. 
She  deem'd  his  merits  something  more  than  com- 
mon : 
All  these  were  unobjectionable  matches, 
And  might  go  on,  if  well  wound  up,  liKe  watclies. 

XLL 
There  was  Miss  Mill  pond,  smooth  as  summer's  sea, 

That  usual  paragon,  an  only  daughter, 
Who  seem'd  the  cream  of  equaniiiiily, 

'1  ill  skinim'd  —  and  tlien  there  was  some  milk  and 
water. 
With  a  slight  shade  of  blue  too,  it  might  be. 

Beneath  the  surface;  but  «  hat  did  it  n.atter  ? 
Love's  riotous,  but  marriage  should  have  quiet, 
And  being  consumptive,  live  on  a  milk  diet. 

XL!  I. 
And  then  there  was  the  Miss  Audacia  Shoestring, 

A  d.ishing  demoiselle  of  g.ood  estate. 
Whose  heart  was  fix  d  upon  a  s'ar  or  blue  string; 

But  whether  English  dukes  grew  i-aie  of  late. 
Or  that  she  had  not  harp  d  \i\i"n  the  true  string. 

By  which  such  sirens  can  attract  our  great. 
She  took  up  with  some  foreign  younger  brotlier, 
A  Russ  or  Turk  —  the  one 's  as  good  as  t'other. 

XLIIL 

And  then  there  was  —  but  why  should  I  go  on. 
Unless  the  ladies  should  go  otl?  —  there  was 

Indeed  a  certain  fair  and  fairy  one. 
Of  the  best  class,  and  better  than  her  class,  — 

Aurora  Raby,  a  young  star  who  shone 
O'er  life,  too  sweet  an  image  for  such  glass, 

A  lovely  being,  scarcely  forui'dor  moulded, 

A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded ; 

XLIV. 
Rich,  noble,  but  an  orphan ;  left  an  only 

Child  to  the  care  of  guardians  good  and  kind; 
But  still  her  aspect  had  an  air  so  lonely  . 

Blood  is  not  water;  and  where  shall  we  find 
Feelings  of  youlh  like  tliose  which  overthrown  lie 

By  death,  when  we  are  left,  alas  !  behind, 
To  feel,  in  friendless  palaces,  a  home 
Is  wanting,  and  our  best  ties  in  the  tomb  ? 

XLV. 
Early  in  years,  and  yet  more  infantine 

In  figure,  she  had  something  of  sublime 
In  eyes  which  sadly  shone,  as  serajihs'  shine. 

All  youth  —  but  with  an  asjiect  beyond  time; 
Radiant  and  grave  —  as  pitying  man  s  decline; 

Mournfid  —  but  mournful  of  another's  crime. 
She  look'd  as  if  she  sat  by  Eden  s  door. 
And  grieved  for  those  \n1io  could  return  no  more. 

XLVL 
She  was  a  Catholic,  too,  sincere,  austere, 

A<  far  as  her  own  gentle  heart  allow'd. 
And  deem'd  that  fallen  worship  far  more  dear 

Perhaps  because 't  was  fallen :  her  sires  were  proct 
Of  deeds  and  days  when  they  had  fill  d  the  ear 

Of  nations,  and  had  never  bent  or  bow'd 
To  novel  power;  and  as  slie  w.as  the  las", 
bhe  held  iheir  old  faitU  and  old  feelings  fast. 


3  See  D'lsraeli's  Curi  Mities  of  Literature.  New 
ind   the    Dissertation   [.retixeU    to   Mr.  Douce 
^ition  of  Hollar's  Dance  of  Death.—  E. 


Canto  XV.J 


DON  JUAN 


597; 


XLVII. 
She  eazed  upon  a  world  she  scarcely  knew, 

As  seeking  not  to  know  it ;  silent,  lone, 
As  grows  a  flower,  thus  quietly  she  grew. 

And  kept  her  heart  serene  within  its  zone. 
There  was  awe  in  the  homage  which  she  drew  ; 

Her  spirit  seem'd  as  seated  on  a  throne 
Apart  from  the  surroundin?  world,  and  strong 
In  its  own  strength  —  most  strange  in  one  so  young  ! 

XLVllI. 

Now  it  so  happen'd,  in  the  catalojue 

Of  Adeline, "Aurora  was  omitted. 
Although  her  birth  and  wealth  had  given  her  vogue, 

Beyond  the  charmers  we  've  already  cited  ; 
Her  beauty  also  seemd  to  form  no  clog 

Against'her  being  mention'd  as  well  fitted. 
By  many  virtues,  to  be  worth  the  trouble 
Of  single  gentlemen  who  would  be  double. 

XLIX. 

And  this  omission,  like  that  of  the  bust 
Of  Brutus  at  the  pageant  of  T  iberius,! 

Made  Juan  wonder,  as  no  doubt  he  must. 
This  he  express'd  half  smiling  and  half  serious; 

When  Adeline  replied  with  some  disgust. 
And  with  an  air,  to  say  the  least,  imperious. 

She  marvell'd  "  what  he  saw  in  such  a  baby 

As  that  prim,  silent,  cold  Aurora  Raby  ?  " 


Juan  rejoin'd  —  "  She  was  a  Catholic, 

And  therefore  fittest,  as  of  his  persuasion; 

Since  he  was  sure  his  mother  would  fall  sick, 
And  the  I'ope  thunder  excommunication, 

If ''  But  here  Adeline,  who  seem'd  to  pique 

Herself  extremely  on  the  inoculation 

Of  others  with  her  own  oi)inions,  slated  — 

As  usual  —  the  same  reason  which  she  late  did. 

LI. 

And  wherefore  not  ?    A  reasonable  reason. 
If  good,  is  none  the  worst  for  repetition  ; 

If  bad,  the  best  way  "s  certainly  to  tease  on. 
And  amplify:  you  lose  much  by  concision, 

Whereas  insis'ting  in  or  out  of  season 
Convinces  all  men,  even  a  j)nlitician; 

Or— what  is  just  the  same— it  wearies  out. 

So  the  end 's  gain'd,  what  signifies  the  route  ? 

LII, 

Why  Adeline  had  this  s  ight  prejudice  — 
For  prejudice  it  was  —  against  a  creature 

As  pure  as  sanctity  itself  from  vice, 

With  all  the  added  charm  of  form  and  feature, 

For  me  ai)peai-s  a  question  far  too  nice. 
Since  Adeline  was  liberal  by  nature; 

But  nature  's  nature,  and  has  more  cajjrices 

Than  I  have  time,  or  will,  to  take  to  pieces. 

LIII. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  like  the  quiet  way 

With  which  Aurora  on  those  baubles  look'd. 
Which  charm  most  peo|)le  in  their  earlier  day: 

For  there  are  few  things  by  mankind  less  brook'c 
And  womankind  too,  if  we  so  may  say. 

Than  finding  thus  their  genius  stand  rebuked, 
Like  "  Antony's  by  C<esar,"  by  the  few 
Who  look  upon  them  as  they  ought  to  do. 

LIV. 
It  was  not  envy  —  Adeline  had  none ; 

Her  jilace  was  far  beyond  it,  and  her  mind. 
It  was  not  scorn  —  which  could  not  light  on  one 

Whose  greatest  fault  was  leaving  few  to  find. 
It  was  not'jealousy,  1  think  :  but  shun 

Following  the  '•  ignes  fatui  "  of  mankind. 

It  was  not bul't  is  easier  far,  alas  ! 

To  say  what  it  was  not  than  what  it  was. 


Ser  TacitUf..  t 


LV. 

Lit'le  Aurora  deem'd  she  was  the  theme 
Of  such  discussion.     She  was  there  n  guest ; 

A  beauteous  ripple  of  the  brilliant  stream 
Of  rank  and  youth,  though  purer  than  the  rest, 

Which  flow'd  on  for  a  moment  in  the  beam 
'lime  sheds  a  moment  o'er  each  sparkling  crest. 

Had  she  known  this,  she  would  have  calmly  smiled— 

She  had  so  much,  or  little,  of  the  child. 

LVI. 

The  dashing  and  proud  air  of  Adeline 
Imposed  not  upon  her  :  she  saw  her  blare 

Much  as  she  would  have  seen  a  glow-worm  shine, 
T  hen  turn'd  unto  the  stars  for  loftier  rays. 

Juan  was  something  she  could  not  divine, 
Keins  no  sibyl  in  the  new  world's  ways  ; 

Yet  she  was  nothing  dazzled  by  the  meteor, 

Because  she  did  not  pin  her  faith  on  feature. 


His  fame  too,—  for  he  had  that  kind  of  fame 

Which  sometimes  p  ays  the  deuce  with  womankind, 

A  heterogeneous  mass  of  glorious  blame, 

Half  virtues  and  whole  vices  being  combined  ; 

Faults  which  attract  because  they  are  not  tame  ; 
Follies  trick  d  out  so  brightly  that  they  blind  :  — 

These  seals  upon  her  wax  made  no  impression, 

Such  was  her  coldness  or  her  self-possession. 

LVIII. 
Juan  knew  nought  of  such  a  character  — 

High,  yet  resembling  not  his  lost  Haidee; 
Yet  each  svas  radiant  in  her  proper  sphere : 

'1  he  island  girl,  bred  uji  by  the  lone  sea, 
More  warm,  as  lovely,  and  not  less  sincere, 

Was  Nature's  all :  Aurora  could  not  be. 
Nor  would  be  thus :  —  the  dirt'erence  in  them 
VVas  such  ;is  lies  between  a  flower  and  gem. 

LIX. 

Having  wound  up  with  this  sublime  comparison, 
Mbthinks  we  may  (iroceed  upon  our  narrative. 

And,  as  my  frienil  Scott  says,  "  I  sound  my  warison  j " 
Scott,  the  superlative  of  my  conqiarative  — 

Scott,  "ho  can  paint  your  Christian  knight  or  Saracen, 
Serf,  lord,  man,  with  such  skill  as  none  would  share 
it,  if 

There  had  not  been  one  ShaKspeare  and  Voltaire, 

Of  one  or  both  of  whom  he  seems  the  heir. 

LX. 

I  say,  in  my  slight  way  I  may  proceed 
To  play  upon  the  surf  ce  of  humanity. 

I  write  the  world,  nor  care  if  the  world  read, 
At  least  for  this  I  canno*  spare  its  vanity. 

My  Muse  hath  bred,  and  still  perhajis  may  breed 
More  foes  by  this  same  scroll :  when  I  began  if,  I 

Thought  that  it  might  turn  out  s,o  —  now  1  know  it, 

But  still  I  am,  or  was,  a  pretty  poet. 

LXI. 

The  conference  or  congress  (for  it  ended 

As  congresses  of  late  do)  of  the  Lady 
Adeline  and  Don  Juan  rather  blended 

Some  acids  with  the  sweets  —  for  she  was  heaJj  • 
But,  ere  the  matter  could  be  niarr'd  or  mended. 

The  silvery  bell  rang,  not  for  "dinner  ready,' 
But  for  that  hour,  call'd  lialj-hmir,  given  to  dress, 
Though  ladies'  robes  seem  scant  enough  for  less. 

LX!L 
Great  things  were  now  to  be  achieved  at  table, 

With  massy  plate  for  armour,  knives  and  forks 
For  weapons  ;  but  what  Muse  since  Homer  's  able 

(His  feasts  are  not  the  worst  part  of  his  works) 
To  draw  up  in  array  a  single  day-t>.ll 

Of  modern  dinners?  where  more  ni;-~tery  lurks 
In  soups  or  sauces,  or  a  sole  ragout. 
1  I'han  witches,  b— dies,  or  pliysician^v,  'rew. 


598 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  XV. 


LXllI. 

There  was  a  goodly  "  soupe  a  la  bonne  femme,^' 
Though  God  kuows  whence  it  came  from;  there 

A  turbot  for  relief  of  tho3e  who  cram,         [was,  too, 
Relieved  with  "dindon  a  !a  Parigeux;" 

There  also  ivas the  sinner  that  I  am  ! 

How  shall  I  get  this  gou'niand  stanza  through  ?  — 

"Soupe  a  !a  Peauveau,"  whose  relief  was  dor)-, 

Relieved  itself  by  pork,  for  greater  glory. 

LXIV. 

But  I  must  crowd  all  into  one  grand  mess 

Or  mass ;  for  should  1  stretch  into  derail, 
My  Muse  would  run  much  more  in'o  excess. 

Tham  when  some  squeamish  people  deem  her  frail. 
But  though  a  "bonne  vivante,    I  ni'ist  confess 

Her  stomach  's  not  hei  peccant  part ;  this  tale 
However  doth  require  some  sight  refection, 
Just  to  relieve  her  spirits  from  dejection. 

LXV. 
Fowls  "a  la  Conde,"slices  eke  of  salnnn, 

With  "  sauces  Genevoises,'  and  haunch  of  venison  : 
Wines  too,  which  migbt  again  have  slain  young  Ara- 
mou  — 

A  man  like  whom  I  hope  we  shan't  see  many  soon; 
They  also  set  a  glazed  VVes'phalian  ham  on, 

Whereon  Apicius  wouli  bestow  his  bemson ; 
And  then  there  was  champagne  «  ith  foaming  whirls. 
As  white  as  Cleopatra  s  meilcd  pearls. 

LXVI. 

Then  there  was  God  knows  «  hat  "  a  I'AlIemande," 

"A  I'Espagnole,"  "tirnballe,"  and  "salpicon"  — 
With  things  1  can't  withstand  or  understand. 

Though  swaliow'd  with  much  zest  upon  the  whole; 
And  "entremets  "  to  piddle  with  at  hand, 

Gently  to  lull  down  the  subsiding  soul; 
While  great  Lucullus'  Robe  triumphal  muffles  — 
(TAere'*  fame)  —  young  partridge  fillets,  deck'd  with 
truffles.  1 

LXVM. 
What  are  the  fillets  on  the  victor's  brow 

To  these  ?    They  are  rags  or  dust.     Where  is  the 
Which  nodded  to  the  nation's  spoils  below  ?        [arch 

Where  the  triumphal  chariots'  haughty  march? 
Gone  to  where  victories  must  like  dinners  go. 

Farther  I  shall  not  follow  the  research  : 
But  oh  :  ye  modern  heroes  with  your  cartridges. 
When  will  your  names  lend  lustre  e'en  to  partridges? 

LXVIIf. 

Those  truffles  too  are  no  bad  accessar  ies, 

Follow'd  by  "  petits  puits  d'amour  "  —  a  dish 

Of  which  perhaps  the  cookery  rather  varies. 
So  every  one  may  dress  it  to  his  wish, 

According  to  the  best  of  dictionaries, 

Which  encyclopedize  both  flesh  and  fish  ; 

Btit  even  sans  "  confitures,"  it  no  less  true  is. 

There's  pretty  picking  in  those  "petits  puits."' 

LXIX. 

The  mind  is  lost  in  mighty  contemplation 
(Jf  intellect  expanded  on  two  courses; 

And  iadigestion's  grand  multiplication 
Requires  arithmetic  beyond  my  forces. 

Who  would  suppose,  from  Adani's  sim|)le  ration. 
That  cookery  could  have  call'd  forth  such  resources, 

As  form  a  science  and  a  nomenclature 

From  out  the  commonest  deinands  of  nature  ? 


1  A  dish  "a  la  Lucullus."  This  hero,  who  conquered 
the  East,  has  left  his  more  extended  celebrity  to  the 
Iransplantation  of  cherries  (which  he  first  brought  into 
Europe),  and  the  nomeiiilature  of  some  very  good  dishes; 
—  and  1  am  not  sure  that  (barring  indigestion)  he  has  not 
done  more  service  to  mankind  by  hie  cookery,  than  by  his 
conquests.  A  cherry-tree  may  weigh  against  a  bloody 
laurel:  besides,  he  has  coulrived  to  earn  celebrity  from 
both. 


LXX. 

The  glasses  jineled,  and  the  palates  tmgled 

I  he  diners  oT  celebrity  dined  well ; 
The  ladies  with  more  moderation  mingled 

In  the  feast,  pecking  less  than  I  can  fell ; 
Also  the  younger  men  too  :  lor  a  spi  ingald  . 

Can't,  like  ripe  age,  in  gormandize  excel,  ' 

But  thinks  less  of  good  eating  than  the  whisper 
(When  seated  next  him)  tf  some  pretty  lisper. 

LXXI. 

Alas  !  I  must  leave  undescribed  the  gibier, 

1  he  salmi,  the  consnmme,  the  puree. 
All  which  I  use  to  make  my  rhymes  run  glibber 

Than  could  roast  beef  in  our  rough  John  Bull  Vij; 
I  must  not  introduce  even  a  spare  rib  here, 

"Bubble  and  squeak"  would  spoil  my  liquid  lay, 
But  I  have  dined,  ai.d  must  f  jrego,  alas  ! 
The  chaste  description  even  of 


LXXIl. 

And  fruits,  and  ice,  and  all  that  art  refines 
From  nature  for  the  service  of  the  gout  — 

Taste  or  the  gout,—  pronounce  it  as  inclines 
Your  stomach  !    Ere  you  dine,  the  Krench  will  do; 

But  after,  there  are  sometimes  certain  signs 
Which  prove  plain  English  truer  of  the  two. 

Hast  ever  had  the  gout  ?'   1  have  not  had  it  — 

But  I  may  have,  and  you  too,  reader,  dread  it 

LXXIII. 

The  simple  olives,  best  allies  of  wine, 

.Must  I  pass  over  in  my  bill  of  fare? 
I  must,  although  a  favourite  "  plat "  of  mine 

In  Spain,  and  l.ucca,  Athens,  every  where: 
On  them  and  bread  't  was  oft  my  luck  to  dine, 

The  ei-ass  my  table-cloth,  in  open  air, 
On  Sunium  or  Hymettus.  like  Diogenes, 
Of  whom  half  my  philosophy  the  progeny  is. 

LXXIV. 
Amidst  this  tumult  of  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl, 

And  vegetables,  all  in  masquerade, 
The  guests  were  placed  accoiding  to  their  roll. 

But  various  as  the  various  meals  display  d  : 
Don  Juaii  sat  next  an  "  a  TEspagnole  "  — 

No  d.-imsel,  but  a  dish,  as  halh  been  said  ; 
But  so  far  like  a  lady,  that 't  was  drest 
Superbly,  and  contained  a  world  of  zest. 

LXXV. 

By  some  odd  chance  too,  he  was  placed  bet»>een 

'Aui"ora  and  the  Lady  Adeline  — 
A  situation  difficult,  1  v.een, 

For  man  therein,  with  eyes  and  heart,  to  dine. 
Also  the  conference  which  we  have  seen 

Was  not  such  as  to  encourage  him  to  shine. 
For  Adeline,  addressing  few  words  to  him,        [him. 
With  two  transcendent  eyes  seem'd  to  look  through 

LXXVI.  ; 

I  sometimes  almost  think  that  eyes  hare  ears :  i 

This  much  is  sure,  that,  out  of  earshot,  things  I 

Are  somehow  echoed  to  the  pretty  dears,        (springs.  . 

Of  which  1   can't  tell   whence  their  knowledge 
Like  that  same  mystic  music  of  the  spheres. 

Which  no  one  hears,  so  loudly  though  it  rings, 
'T  is  wonderful  how  oft  the  sex'have  heard 
Long  dialogues  —  which  pass'd  without  a  word  I 

LXXVU. 

Aurora  sat  with  that  indifference 

Which  piques  a  preux  chevnlier  — as  it  ought: 
Of  all  ofl'ences  that  "s  the  worst  offence. 

Which  seems  to  hint  you  are  not  worth  a  thought. 
Now  Juan,  though  no  coxcomb  in  pretence. 

Was  not  exactly  pleased  to  be  so  caught ; 
Like  a  good  ship  entangled  among  ice, 
And  after  so  much  excellent  advice. 


Canto  XV.] 


DON  JUAN. 


599 


jLxxvin. 

To  his  gay  nothings,  nothing  was  replied, 
Or  something  which  was  nothing,  as  urbanity 

Required.     Aurora  scarcely  lookd  aside, 
Nor  even  smiled  enough  for  any  vanity. 

The  devil  was  in  the  girl !     Could  it  be  pride  ? 
Or  modesty,  or  absence,  or  inanity  ? 

Heaven  knows !     But  Adeline's  niificious  eyes 

Sparkled  with  her  successful  prophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And  look"d  as  much  as  if  to  say,  "  I  said  it ; " 
A  kind  ol  triumph  1  '11  not  recommend, 

Because  it  sometimes,  as  I  have  seen  or  read  it, 
Both  in  the  case  of  lover  and  of  friend. 

Will  pique  a  gentleman,  for  his  own  credit, 
To  bring  »  hat  was  a  jest  to  a  serious  end  : 

Fcr  all  men  prophesy  what  t*  or  was, 

And  hate  those  who  won't  let  them  come  to  pass. 

LXXX. 

Juan  was  drawn  thus  into  some  attentions. 
Slight  but  select,  and  just  enough  to  express, 

To  females  of  perspicuous  comprehensions. 
That  he  would  rather  make  them  more  than  less. 

Aurora  at  the  last  (so  histor}'  mentions, 

Thouffh  probably  much  less  a  fact  than  guess) 

So  far  relax "d  her  thoughts  from  their  sweet  prison. 

As  once  or  twice  to  smiie,  if  not  to  listen. 

Lxxxr. 

From  answering  she  began  to  question :  this 
With  her  was  rare ;  and  Adeline,  who  as  yet 

Thought  her  predictions  went  not  much  amiss, 
Began  to  dread  she  'd  thaw  to  a  coquette  — 

So  very  diftcult,  they  say,  it  is 
To  keep  extremes  from  meeting,  when  once  set 

In  motion  ;  but  she  here  too  much  refined  — 

Aurora's  spirit  was  not  of  that  kind. 

Lxxxir. 

But  Joan  had  a  sort  of  .winning  way, 

A  proud  humility,  if  such  there  be. 
Which  show'd  such  deference  to  what  females  say. 

As  if  each  charming  word  were  a  decree. 
His  tact,  too,  teniper'd  him  from  grave  to  gay, 

And  taught  him  when  to  be  reserved  or  free: 
He  had  the  art  of  drawing  people  out, 
Without  their  seeing  what  he  was  about. 

Lxxxm. 

Aurora,  who  in  her  indifference 

Confounded  him  iu  common  with  the  crowd 
Of  flatterers,  though  she  deem'd  he  had  more  sense 

Than  whispering  foplings,  or  than  witlings  loud  — 
Commenced  (from  such  slight  things  will  great  com- 
mence) 

To  feel  that  flatterj^  which  attracts  the  proud 
Rather  by  deference  than  compliment, 
And  wins  even  by  a  delicate  dissent. 

LXXXIV. 

And  then  he  had  good  looks ;— that  point  was  carried 
Nem.  con.  amongst  the  women,  which  I  grieve 

To  say  leads  oft  to  crim.  con.  with  the  married  — 
A  case  which  to  the  juries  we  may  leave. 

Since  with  digressions  we  too  long  have  tarried. 
Now  though  we  know  of  old  that  looks  deceive, 

And  always  have  done,  somehow  these  good  looks 

Make  more  impression  than  the  best  of  books. 

LXXXV. 

Aurora,  who  look'd  more  on  books  than  faces, 
Was  very  young,  although  so  very  sage, 

Admiring  more  Minerva  than  the  Graces, 
Especially  upon  a  printed  p.age. 

But  Virtue's  self,  with  all  her  tightest  laces, 
Ha"!  not  the  natural  stays  of  strict  old  age; 

And  Socrates,  that  niodel  of  all  duty, 
^wn'd  to  a  penchant,  though  discre'et,  for  beauty. 


And  girls  of  sixteen  are  thus  far  Socratic, 

But  innocentlv  so,  as  Socrates; 
And  really,  if  the  sage  sublime  and  Attic 

At  seventy  years  had  ]>hantasies  like  these. 
Which  Mato  in  his  dialogues  dramatic 

Has  shown,  I  know  not  why  they  should  dispIeaM 
In  virgins  —  always  in  a  modest  way, 
Observe ;  for  that  with  me  s  a  >'  sine  qua."  » 

LXXX  VI  I. 
Also  observe,  that,  like  the  great  Lord  Coke 

(See  Littleton),  whene'er  i  have  express'd 
Opinions  two,  which  at  first  sight  may  look 

Twin  opposites,  the  second  is  the  best. 
Perhaps  I  have  a  third  too,  in  a  nook, 

Or  none  at  all  —  which  seems  a  sorry  jest : 
But  if  a  writer  should  be  quite  consistent. 
How  could  he  possibly  show  things  existent? 

LXXXVIil. 
If  people  contradict  themselves,  can  I 

Help  contradicting  them,  and  every  body, 
Even  my  veracious  self?  —  But  that 's  a  lie  : 

1  never  did  so,  never  will  —  how  should  I  ? 
He  who  doubts  all  things  nothing  can  deny  : 

'I'ruth  s  fountiins  may  be  clear  —  her  streams  are 
muddy. 
And  cut  through  such  canals  of  contradiction, 
1  hat  she  must  often  navigate  o'er  fiction. 

LXXXIX. 
Apologue,  fable,  poesy,  and  parable. 

Are  false,  but  may  be  renderd  also  true, 
By  those  who  sow  them  in  a  land  that 's  arable. 

'T  is  wonderful  what  f  ble  will  not  do  ! 
'T  is  said  it  makes  reaity  more  bearable  : 

But  what 's  reality  ?     Who  has  its  clue  ? 
Philosophy?    No:  she  too  much  rejects. 
Religion  ?    Fes  ;  but  which  of  all  her  sects  ? 

XC. 
Some  millions  must  be  wrong,  that 's  pretty  clear; 

i  erhaps  it  may  turn  cut  that  all  were  right. 
God  help  us  !    Since  we  have  need  on  our  career 

lo  keep  our  holy  beacons  always  bright, 
'T  is  time  that  some  new  prophet  should  appear 

Or  old  indulge  man  w  ilh  a  second  sight. 
Opinions  wear  out  in  some  housand  years, 
Without  a  small  refreshment  from  the  spheres. 

XCI. 
But  here  again,  why  will  I  thus  entangle 

Myself  w  ith  metaphysics  ?     >'"ne  can  hate 
So  much  as  I  do  auy  kind  of  wrangle  ; 

And  yet,  such  is  my  f'jHy,  or  my  fate, 
I  always  knock  my  head  against  some  angle 

About  the  present,  past,  or  future  state : 
Vet  I  wis!;  well  to  'I  rojan  and  to  'I  yrian. 
For  1  was  bred  a  moderate  Presbyterian. 

XCII. 
But  though  I  am  a  temperate  theologian, 

And  also  meek  as  a  nielaphysiciau, 
Impartial  between  I  yrian  and  '1  rojan 

As  Eldou  ^  on  a  lunatic  commission. 
In  politics  my  duly  is  to  show  John 

Bull  something  of  the  lower  world's  condition. 
It  makes  my  blood  boil  like  the  springs  of  Hecla.,' 
To  see  men  let  these  scoundrel  sovereigns  break  law. 

XCIII. 
But  politics,  and  policy,  and  piety, 

Are  topics  which  I  sometimes  introduce, 
Not  only  for  the  sake  of  their  va-iety, 

But  as  subservient  to  a  moral  use ; 
Because  my  business  is  to  dress  society. 

And  stuff  with  sagi  that  very  verdant  goose. 
And  now,  that  we  may  furnish  with  some  matter  ill 
Tastes,  we  are  going  to  try  the  supernatural. 

1  Snb«uditur  •'  Jion  ;  "  nmitled  for  the  sake  of  euplioof. 

2  John  Scolt,  Earl  of  Eldnii,  Chancellor  or  Enitlwid 
(wiih  Ihe  iaierruption  of  fuurtren  mouthaj  from  ISOl  to 
lh30.—  K. 

3  H«ci8  ia  a  famoua  hot-spnog  in  Irrland. 


600 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  XVL 


XCIV, 
And  now  I  will  give  up  all  arscument ; 

And  positively  henceforth  no  temptation 
Shall  "  fool  me  to  the  top  up  of  my 'bent :  "  —  » 

Ves,  1  '11  be,'in  a  thorough  reformation. 
IndeeJ,  I  never  knew  what  people  meant 

By  deeming  that  my  Muses  conversation 
Was  dangerous ;  —  I  think  she  is  as  harmless 
As  some  who  labour  more  and  yet  may  charm  less. 

XCV. 
Grim  reader  !  did  you  ever  see  a  ghost  ? 

No  ;  but  you  have  heard— I  undei  stand— be  dumb  ! 
And  don  t  regret  the  time  you  may  have  lost, 

For  you  have  got  tliat  pleasure  still  to  come: 
And  do  not  think  I  mean  to  sneer  at  most 

Of  these  things,  or  by  ridicule  benumb 
That  source  of  the  sublime  and  the  mysterious  :  — 
For  certain  reasons  my  belief  is  serious. 


XCVI. 

Serious?    You  laugh  ;  —you  may:  that  will  I  not; 

Aly  smiles  must  be  sincere  or  not  at  all. 
I  say  1  do  believe  a  haunted  spot 

Exists  —  and  where  ?    That  shall  I  not  recall, 
Because  I  'd  rather  it  should  be  forgnt, 

"Shadows  the  s„ul  of  Richard  '  may  appal. 
In  short,  upon  that  subject  I  've  some  qualms  very 
Like  those  of  the  philosopher  of  Malmsbury.* 

XCVII. 

The  night  —  (I  sing  by  night  —  sometimes  an  owl, 
And  now  and  then  a  nightingale)—  is  dim. 

And  the  loud  shriek  of  sage  Miner^as  fowl 
Rattles  around  me  her  discordant  hymn  : 

Old  portraits  from  old  walls  upon  me  scowl  — 
I  wish  to  heaven  they  v.ould  not  look  so  grim ; 

The  dyif.g  embers  dwindle  in  the  grate  — 

1  think  too  tliat  1  have  sate  up  too  late  : 

xcviir. 

And  therefore,  though  't  is  by  no  means  my  ivay 
To  rhyme  at  noon  —  when  I  have  other  things 

To  think  of,  if  I  ever  think—  1  say 

I  feel  some  chilly  midnight  shudderings. 

And  prudently  postpone,  until  mid-day, 
Treating  a  topic  which,  alas!  but  brings 

Shadows  ;  —  but  you  must  be  in  my  condition, 

Before  you  learn  to  call  this  superstition. 

XCIX. 

Between  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a  star, 

'Twixt  night  acd  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge. 

How  little  do  we  know  that  which  we  are  ! 
How  less  what  we  may  be  !    The  eternal  surge 

Of  time  and  tide  rolls  on  and  beats  afar 
Our  bubbles  ;  as  the  old  hi.ir?t,  new  c.iieree, 

Lash'd  from  the  foam  of  ages;  while  the  graves 

Of  empires  heave  but  like  some  passing  waves. 


CANTO  THE   SIXTEENTH. 

I. 

The  antique  Persians  taught  three  useful  things, 
To  draw  the  bow,  to  ride,  and  speak  the  truth.3 

This  was  the  mode  of  Cyrus,  best  of  kings  — 
A  mode  adopted  since  by  modern  youth, 
lows  have  they,  generally  with  two  strings; 
Horses  they  ride  without  remorse  or  ruth  ; 


1  Hamlet,  Act  III.  sc.  ii. 

9  Hotibes :  who,  dnubtiug  of  hia  own  soul,  paid  (hat 
complimeni  lothe  souls  of  other  people,  as  lod»;lioe  their 
*l»il»,  of  which  he  had  some  appreheuainn. 

3  Xenophon,  Cyrop. 


11. 

The  cause  of  this  effect,  or  this  defect,— 

"  For  this  effect  defective  comes  by  cause,"  —  4 

Is  what  I  have  not  leisure  to  inspect ; 
But  this  1  must  say  in  my  own  applause, 

Of  all  the  Muses  that  1  recollect, 
Whate'er  may  be  her  follies  or  her  flaws 

In  some  things,  mine's  beyond  all  contradiction 

The  most  sincere  that  ever  dealt  in  fiction. 

III. 

And  as  she  treats  all  things,  and  ne'er  retreats 
From  any  thing,  this  epic  will  contain 

A  wilderness  of  the  most  rare  conceits, 

Which  you  might  elsewhere  hope  to  find  in  vain. 

'T  is  true  there  be  some  bitters  with  the  sweets, 
Yet  mix'd  so  slightly,  that  you  can't  complain, 

But  wonder  they  so  few  are,  since  my  tale  is 

"  De  rebus  cunctis  et  quibusdam  aliis." 

IV. 
But  of  all  truths  which  she  has  told,  the  most 

True  is  that  which  she  is  about  to  tell. 
I  said  it  was  a  story  of  a  ghost  — 

What  then  ?     I  only  know  it  so  befell. 
Have  you  explored  the  limits  of  the  coast. 

Where  all  the  dwellers  of  the  eirth  must  dwell? 
'T  is  time  to  strike  such  puny  doubters  dumb  as 
The  sceptics  who  would  not  believe  Columbus- 


Some  people  would  impose  now  with  authority, 

Turpin's  or  Monmouth  Geoffry's  Chronicle ; 
Men  whose  historical  superiority 

Is  always  greatest  at  a  miracle. 
But  Saint  Augusiine  has  the  great  priority. 

Who  bids  all  men  believe  the  impossible. 
Because  t  is  so.     VVho  nibble,  scribble,  quibble,  he 
Quiets  at  once  with  "  quia  impossibilc." 

VI. 
And  therefore,  mortals,  cavil  not  at  all ; 

Believe  :  —  if  -t  is  improbable,  you  must, 
And  if  it  is  impossible,  you  shall : 

'T  is  always  best  to  take  things  upon  trust. 
I  do  not  speak  profanely,  to  recall 

T  hose  holier  mysteries  which  the  wise  and  just 
Receive  as  gospel,  and  which  grow  more  rooted, 
As  all  truths  must,  the  more  they  are  disputed  : 

VII. 
I  merely  mean  to  say  what  Johnson  said, 

'I  hat  in  the  course  of  some  six  thousand  years, 
All  nations  have  believed  that  from  the  dead 

A  visitant  at  intervals  appears; 
And  what  is  strangest  upon  this  strange  head. 

Is,  that  whatever  bar  the  reason  rears 
'Gainst  such  belief,  there  's  something  stronger  still 
In  its  behalf,  let  those  deny  who  will. 

VIII. 

The  dinner  and  the  soiree  too  were  done, 

I  he  supper  ton  discuss 'd,  the  dames  admired, 

The  banqueters  had  droppd  oti'  one  by  one  — 
The  song  was  silent,  and  the  dance  expired: 

The  last  thin  petticoats  were  vanished,  gone 
Like  fleecy  clouds  into  the  sky  retired, 

And  nothing  brighter  gleam'd  through  the  saloon 

Than  dying  tapers  —  and  the  peeping  moon. 

IX. 

The  evaporation  of  a  joyous  day 

Is  like  the  last  glass  of  champagne,  without 
The  foam  which  made  its  virgin  bumper  gay  j 

Or  like  a  system  coupled  with  a  doubt; 
Or  like  a  soda  bottle  when  its  spray 

Has  sparkled  and  let  half  its  spirit  out; 
Or  like  a  billow  left  by  storms  behind. 
Without  the  animation  of  the  wind ; 


4  Hamlet.  Act  II.  ae.  ii. 


Canto  XVI.J 


DON  JUAN. 


601 


X. 

Or  like  an  opiate,  which  brin^  troubled  rest, 

Or  none;  or  like—  like  nothing  that  I  know 
Except  itself;  —  such  is  the  human  breast ; 

A  thin^.  of  which  similitudes  can  show 
No  real  liKeness,—  like  the  old  I  yrian  vest 

Dyed  purple,  none  at  present  can  tell  how, 
If  from  a  shell-fish  or  from  cochineal.' 
So  perish  every  tyiinfs  robe  piece-meal  ! 

XI. 
Bu»  next  to  dressing  for  a  rout  or  bail, 

V-idressing  is  a  wi^e  ;  our  robe  de  chamlre 
Miv  sit  like  that  of  Is'essus,  and  recall 

'I'lioughts  quite  as  yellow,  but  less  clear  tlian  amber. 
Titus  exclaim  d,  "  I  ve  lost  a  day  ! "    (Jf  all 

The  nights  and  days  most  people  can  remember, 
(I  have  had  of  both,  same  not  to  be  disdain'd,) 
I  wish  they'd  state  how  many  they  have  gaiu'd. 

XII. 
And  Juan,  on  retiring  for  the  night,  • 

Fell  restless,  and  perplexd,  and  compromised  : 
He  thought  Aurora  Kaby's  eyes  more  bright 

1  hau  Adeline  (such  is  advice)  advised  ; 
If  he  had  known  exactly  his  o  >  n  plight, 

He  probably  would  have  philosophised : 
A  great  resource  to  all,  and  ne'er  denied 
Till  wanted  ;  therefore  Juan  only  sigh'd. 

XIII. 

He  sigird ;  —  the  next  resource  is  the  full  moon, 

Where  all  sighs  are  deposited;  and  now 
lthapp=n'd  luckily,  the  chaste  orb  shone 

As  clear  as  such  a  climate  will  allow ; 
And  Juan's  mind  was  in  the  proper  tone 

lo  hail  her  with  the  apostrophe —  "  O  thou  !  " 
Of  amatory  egotism  the  Tuism, 
Which  further  to  explain  would  be  a  truism. 

XIV. 
But  lover,  poet,  or  astronomer. 

Shepherd,  or  swain,  whoever  may  behold. 
Feel  some  abstraction  when  they  gaze  on  her : 

Great  thoughts  we  catch  froni'thence  (besides  a  cold 
Sometimes,  unless  my  feelings  rather  err) ; 

Deep  secrets  to  her  rolling  light  are  told  ; 
The  ocean  s  tides  and  morta  s'  brains  she  sways, 
And  also  hearts,  if  there  be  truth  in  lays. 

XV. 
Juan  felt  somewhat  pensive,  and  disposed 

For  contemplation  rather  than  his  pillow : 
The  Gothic  chamber,  where  he  was  enclosed. 

Let  iu  the  rippling  sound  of  the  lake's  billow, 
With  all  the  mystery  by  midnight  caused ; 

Below  his  window  waved  (of  course)  a  willow ; 
And  he  stood  gazing  out  on  the  cascade 
That  fiash'd  and  after  darken'd  in  the  shade. 

XVI, 
Upon  his  table  or  his  toiiet  —  lohich 

Of  these  is  not  exactly  ascertaind, — 
(I  state  this,  for  I  am  ca'u  ions  to  a  pitch 

Of  nicety,  where  a  fact  is  to  be  gain"d,) 
A  lamp  burn'd  high,  while  he  leant  from  a  niche, 

Where  many  a  Gothic  ornament  temaind, 
In  chisell'd  stone  and  painted  glass,  and  ail 
That  time  has  left  our  fathers  of  their  hall. 

XVII. 
Then,  as  the  night  was  clear  though  cold,  he  threw 

His  chamber  door  wide  open  — and  v\ent  forth 
I  Into  a  gallery,  of  a  sombre  hue, 

Long,  furnish'd  with  old  pictures  of  great  worth, 
Of  kniglits  and  dames  heroic  and  chaste  too, 

As  doubtless  should  be  people  of  high  birth. 
But  by  dim  lights  the  portraits  of  llie  de-ad 
Have  something  ghastly,  desolate,  and  dread. 

I  1  The  cortipn8ili<;n  of  Ihe  ol>l  Tyrian  purplf,  whetlier 
from  a  6hcll-lii.li.  nr  fr  .ai  cocliiiie'al,  or  from  kermes,  is 
still  an  article  of  cispute;  and  trveii  ita  colour  —  some  bay 
purplf,  olhfr»  sc.rlel:  i  say  uolhiiig. 


XVIU, 

The  forms  of  the  grim  knight  and  pictui  ed  saint 
Lodk  living  in  the  moon  :  and  as  you  turn 

Backward  and  forward  to  tne  echoes  faint 
Of  your  own  footsteps  —  voices  from  the  urn 

Appear  to  wake,  and  shadows  wild  and  quaint 
Start  fn^m   the  frames  which  fence  their  aspecti 
stern. 

As  if  to  ask  how  you  can  dare  to  keep 

A  vigil  there,  where  all  but  death  should  sleep. 

XIX. 

And  the  pale  smile  of  beau  ies  in  the  grave, 

'1  he  charms  of  other  days,  in  starlight  gleams, 
Glimmer  on  high;  their  buried  locks  still  wave 

Along  the  canvass ;  their  eyes  glance  like  dreamt 
On  ours,  or  spars  within  sfjme  dusky  cave. 

Rut  death  is  imaged  in  their  shadowy  beams. 
A  picture  is  the  past ;  even  ere  its  fiume 
Be  gilt,  who  sate  hath  ceased  lo  be  the  same. 

XX. 
As  Juan  mused  on  mutability, 

Or  on  his  mistress  —  terms  synonymous  — 
No  sound  except  the  echo  of  his  sigh 

Or  step  ran  sadly  through  that  antique  house; 
When  suddenly  he  heard,  or  thought  so,  nigh, 

A  supernatural  agenl  —  or  a  mouse, 
Whose  little  nibbling  rustle  will  embarrass 
Most  pe>iple  as  it  plays  along  the  arras. 

XXL 

It  was  no  mouse,  but  lo  I  a  monk,  array'd  • 

In  c  >wl  and  beads,  and  dusky  garb,  appear'd. 

Now  in  the  moonlight,  and  now'lapsed  in  shade, 
Wiih  steps  tLat  trod  as  heavy,  yet  unheard  ; 

His  garments  only  a  slight  murmur  made  ; 
He  moved  as  shadowy  as  the  sisters  weird, 

But  s!oH  ly  ;  and  as  he  jjassed  Juan  bv. 

Glanced,  without  pausing,  on  him  a  uright  eye. 

XX I L 

Juan  was  petrified  ;  be  had  heard  a  hint 

Of  such  a  spirit  in  these  halls  of  old, 
But  thought,  like  most  men.  there  was  nothing  in  t 

Beyond  the  rumour  which  such  spots  unfold, 
Coin'd  from  su  viving  superstition  s  mint. 

Which  passes  ghosts  in  cunency  like  gold. 
But  rarely  seeu,  like  gold  compared  with  paper. 
And  did  he  see  this  ?  or  was  it  a  vapour  i 

XX I  u. 

Once,  twice,  thrice  pass'd,  repass'd— the  thing  of  ail 
Or  earth  beneath,  or  heaven,  or  t'other  place; 

And  Juan  gazed  upon  it  with  a  slare, 
Yet  could  not  speak  or  move;  but,  on  its  base 

As  stands  a  statue,  stood  :  he  felt  his  hair 
'j  wine  like  a  knot  of  snakes  around  his  face; 

He  tax  d  his  tongue  for  woids,which  were  not  gianted, 

To  ask  the  reverend  person  what  he  w  anted. 

XXIV. 

The  third  t  me,  after  a  still  longer  pause, 
'1  he  shadow  pass  d  away  —  but  n  here  ?  the  hall 

Was  long,  and  thus  far  there  was  no  great  cause 
To  think  his  vanishing  unnatural : 

Doors  there  were  mai.y,  through  which,  by  Ihe  lavri 
Of  physics,  bodies  W'helher  shrrt  or  tail 

Might  come  or  go ;  but  Juan  cou'd  not  state 

Through  which  the  spectre  seem'd  to  evaporate. 

XXV. 

He  stood  —  how  long  he  knew  not,  but  it  seem'd 
An  a»e  —  expectant,  powerless,  with  his  eyes 

Strain'd  on  the  spot  where  first  the  figure  gleam'd; 
'1  hen  by  degrees  recall'd  his  energies. 

And  would  have  pass  d  the  whole  otf  as  a  dream. 
But  could  not  wake;  he  was,  he  did  surmise, 

Waking  already,  and  relurnd  at  leng'h 

Back  to  his  chamber,  shorn  of  half  his  strength. 


32 


602 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  XVI. 


XXVI. 

All  there  wis  as  he  left  it :  still  his  taper 
Burnt,  and  not  bliu,  as  modest  tapers  use, 

Receiving  sprites  with  sympathetic  vapour; 
He  rubl)  d  his  eyes,  and  they  did  not  refuse 

Their  office  ;  he  toolv  up  an  old  newspaper ; 
The  paper  was  right  easy  to  peruse  ; 

He  read  an  article  the  king  attackins. 

And  a  long  eulogy  of  "  pajtent  blacking." 

XXVII. 
This  savour'd  of  this  world  :  but  his  hand  shook : 

He  shut  his  door,  and  after  having  read 
A  piragraph,  I  think  about  Home  Tooke, 

Undrest,  and  rather  slowly  went  to  bed. 
There.  couch"d  all  snugly  oii  his  pillow's  nook. 

With  what  he  had  seen  his  phantasy  he  fed  ; 
And  though  it  was  no  opiate,  slumber  crept 
Upon  him  by  degrees,  and  so  he  slept. 

'  XXVIII. 

He  woke  betimes  ;  and,  as  may  be  supposed, 

Ponderd  upon  his  visitant  or  vision, 
And  whether  it  ought  not  to  be  disclosed, 

At  risk  of  being  quizz'd  for  supersiition. 
The  more  he  tlnught,  the  more  his  mind  was  posed  : 

In  the  mean  time,  his  valet,  whose  precision 
W.as  great,  because  his  master  brook'd  no  less, 
Knock"d  to  inform  him  ii  was  time  to  dress. 

XXIX. 

He  i;-ess'd  ;  and  like  young  people  he  vas  wont 
To  take  some  trouble  with  his  toilet,  but 

This  morning  ro.ther  spent  less  lime  upon  't ; 
Aside  his  very  mirror  soon  was  put ; 

His  curls  fell  negligently  o"er  his  front, 
His  clothes  were  not  curb'd  to  their  usual  cut. 

His  very  neckcloth's  Gordian  knot  was  tied 

Almost  an  hair's  breadth  too  much  on  one  side. 

XXX. 

And  when  he  walk'd  down  into  the  saloon, 
He  sate  him  pensive  o'er  a  dish  of  tea, 

Which  he  perhaps  had  not  discovered  soon. 
Had  it  not  happen'd  scalding  hot  to  be, 

Which  made  him  have  recourse  unto  his  spoon; 
So  much  distrait  he  was,  th.at  all  could  see 

That  something  «as  the  matter — Adeline 

The  first  —  but  what  she  could  not  well  divine. 

XXXI. 

She  look'J,  and  saw  him  pale,  and  turn'd  as  pale 
Herself;  then  hastily  look'd  down,  and  mutter'd 

Something,  but  what  s  not  stated  in  hiy  tale. 
Lord  Henrv  said,  his  muffin  was  ill  butter'd ; 

The  Duchess'of  Kitz-Fulke  play'd  with  her  veil, 
And  look'd  at  Juan  hard,  but  nothing  utter'd. 

Aurora  Raby  with  her  large  dark  eyes 

Survey'd  him  with  a  kind  "of  calm  surprise. 

XXXII. 

But  seeing  him  all  coU  and  silent  still. 
And  ever)-  body  woudering  more  or  less, 

Fair  Adeline  enquired,  "  If  he  were  ill  ?" 

He  started,  and  said.  '•  Yes  —  no  —  rather      ves." 

The  family  physician  had  great  skill. 
And  being  present,  now  began  to  expresi 

His  readiness  to  feel  his  pu'se  anl  tell 

The  cause,  but  Juan  said,  "  He  was  quite  well." 

XXXIH. 
"Quite   well;    yes, —  no."  — These   answers   were 
mysterious. 
And  yet  his  looks  appear'd  to  sanction  both. 
However  they  might  savour  of  delirious ; 

Something  like  illness  of  a  sudden  growth 
Weigh 'd  on  his  spirit,  though  by  no  means  serious: 

But  for  the  rest,  as  he  himself  seem  d  loih 
To  state  the  case,  it  might  be  taen  for  granted 
I  It  was  not  the  physician  that  he  wanted. 


XXXIV. 
Lord  Henry,  who  had  now  discuss'd  his  chocolate, 

Also  the'muffin  whereof  he  cnmplain'd, 
Said,  Juan  had  not  got  his  usual  look  elate. 

At  which  he  njarveU'd.  since  it  had  not  rain'd  ; 
Then  ask  d  her  Grace  what  news  were  of  the  duke 
of  lite? 

Her  Grace  replied,  his  Grace  was  rather  pain'd 
With  some  slight,  light,  hereditarjf  twinges 
Of  gout,  which  rusts  aristocratic  hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then  Henry  turn'd  to  Juan,  and  address'd 
A  few  words  of  condo'ence  on  his  state  : 

"  Vou  look,"  quoth  he,  "as  if  you  'd  had  your  reit 
Broke  in  upon  by;  the  Black  Friar  of  late." 

"  What  Friar? 'said  Juan;  acd  he  did  his  best 
To  put  the  question  with  an  air  sedate, 

Or  careless  ;  but  the  effort  was  not  valid 

To  hind-er  him  from  growing  still  mere  pallid. 

XXXVI. 

"  Oh  !  have  you  never  heard  of  the  Black  Friar  ?  » 

The  spirit  of  these  walls  ?"—  "  In  truth  not  I  "^ 

"Why  Fame  — but  Fame  you  know's  sometimes  x 

Tells  an  odd  s»ory,  of  which  by  and  hy  : 
Whether  with  time  the  spectre  has  arrowu  shyer, 

Or  that  our  sires  had  a  more  gifted  eye 
For  such  sights,  though  the  tale  is  half  believed, 
The  Friar  of  late  has" not  been  oft  perceived. 

XXXVII. 

"  The  last  time  "as "  _  "  I  pray," said  Adeline— 

(VVho  walch'd  the  changes  of  D  n  Juans  brow. 

And  from  its  context  thought  she  could  divine 
Connexions  stronger  than  he  chose  to  avow 

With  this  same  leeend)  —  "if  you  but  design 
To  jest,  you  'II  choose  some  other  theme  just  now, 

Because  the  present  tale  has  oft  been  toid, 

And  is  not  much  improved  by  growing  old." 

XXXVIIL 

"  Jest !  "  quoth  Milor;  "  whj",  Adeline,  you  know- 
That  we  ourseUes-  't  was  in  the  honey-moon^ 

I  Saw "  —  "  Well,  no  matter,  't  was  so  long  ago; 

I      But.  come,  I  'II  set  your  story-  to  a  tune." 
!  Graceful  as  Dian,  when  she  draws  her  bow, 

She  seiz'd  her  harp,  «  hose  strings  were  kindled  soon 
As  touch'd,  and  plaintively  began  to  play 
1  he  air  of  "  'T  was  a  Friar  of  Orders  Grey." 

XXXIX. 

"  But  add  the  words,"  cried  Henry,  "  which  you  made; 

For  Adeline  is  half  a  poetess,' 
Turning  round  to  the  rest,  he  smiling  said, 

Of  course  the  others  could  not  but  express 
In  courtesy  their  wish  tn  see  display'd 

By  one  thrte  talents,  for  there  were  no  less  — 
j  The  voice,  the  words,  the  harper's  skill,  at  once 
Could  hardly  be  united  by  a  dunce. 

XU 

After  some  fascinating  hesitation,— 

The  charming  of  these  charmers,  who  seem  bound, 
I  can't  tell  why,  to  this  dissimulation,— 

Fair  Adeline,  with  eyes  fix'd  on  the  ground 
At  first,  then  kindling  into  animation. 

Added  her  sweet  voice  to  the  lyric  sound, 
Anl  sane  with  n.uch  simplicity, —  a  merit 
Not  the  less  precious,  tliat  we  seldom  hear  it. 


1  Poring  B  visit  to  Newstead,  in  1814,  Lord  Byron 
actually  faiH-ieil  he  saw  the  ghnsi  of  llie  Black  Friar. 
which  was  sun-oseJ  tn  have  haunted  Ihc  Ahbi-y  from  the 
time  of  the  dii-solulion  of  the  monattcries.— MOOKE.— t 


Canto  XVI.J 


DON  JUAN. 


603 


Bevvare !  beware '.  of  the  Black  Friar, 

Who  sitteth  by  Norman  stone, 
For  he  mutters  his  prayer  in  the  midnight  air, 

And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 
When  the  Jxird  of  the  Hill,  Amundeville, 

Made  Norman  Church  his  prey, 
And  expeird  the  friais.  one  friar  still 

Would  not  be  driven  away. 


Though  he  came  in  his  might,  wilh  King  Henry's 
right, 

To  turn  church  lands  to  lay, 
With  sword  in  hand,  and  torch  to  light 

Their  walls,  if  (hey  said  uay  j 
A  monk  remain'd,  unchased,  unchain'd. 

And  he  did  not  seem  fonii'd  of  clay, 
For  he  s  seen  in  the  porch,  and  he 's  seen  m  the 
chuich. 

Though  he  is  not  seen  by  day. 

3. 

And  whether  for  gnod,  or  whether  for  ill, 

It  is  not  mine  to  say ; 
But  still  "ith  the  house  of  Amundeville 

He  abidcth  night  and  day. 
By  the  marriage-bed  of  their  lords,  't  is  said. 

He  flits  on  the  bridal  eve  ; 
And  't  is  held  as  faith,  to  their  bed  of  death 

He  comes  —  but  not  to  grieve. 

4. 

When  an  heir  is  born,  he 's  heard  to  mourn, 

And  when  au?ht  is  to  befail 
That  ancient  line,  in  the  pale  moonshine 

He  walks  from  hall  to  hall. 
His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  face, 

'T  is  shadow'd  by  his  cowl ; 
But  his  eyes  may  be  seen  from  the  folds  between, 

And  they  seem  of  a  parted  soul. 

5. 
But  beware !  beware  !  of  the  Black  Friar, 

He  still  retains  his  sway. 
For  he  is  yet  the  church's  heir. 

Whoever  may  be  the  lay. 
Amundeville  is  lord  by  day. 

But  the  monk  is  lord  by  night; 
Nor  wine  nor  wassail  could  raise  a  vassal 

To  question  that  friar's  right. 


Say  nought  to  him  as  he  walks  the  ball. 

And  he  'II  say  nought  to  you  ; 
He  sweeps  along  in  his  dusky  pall, 

As  o'er  the  grass  the  dew. 
Then  grammercy  1  for  the  Black  Friar; 

Heaven  sain  him  !  fair  or  foul. 
And  whatsoe'er  mav  be  his  prayer, 

Let  ours  be  for  his  soul. 

XLI. 

The  lady's  voice  ceased,  and  the  thrilling  vires 
Di-Jd  from  the  tfiuch  that  kindled  them  to  sound ; 

And  the  pause  follow'd,  which  when  song  expires 
Perv.-ides  a  moment  those  who  listen  round  ; 

And  then  of  course  the  circle  much  admires, 
Nor  less  ajjplauds,  as  in  politeness  bound. 

The  tones,  the  feeliu»,  and  the  execution. 

To  the  performer's  diffident  confusion. 

XLH. 
Fair  Adeline,  though  in  a  careless  way, 

As  if  she  ra'ed  such  accomplishment 
As  t'.ie  mere  pastime  of  an  idle  day. 

Pursued  an  inst:int  for  her  own  content. 
Would  now  and  then  as  't  were  loitliout  display. 

Yet  with  display  in  fact,  at  times  relent 
To  such  performances  with  haughty  smile. 
To  show  she  could,  if  it  were  worth  her  while. 


XLIII. 
Now  this  (but  we  will  whisper  it  aside) 

Was  —  pardon  the  pedantic  illustration  — 
Trampling  on  Hato  s  pride  wilh  greater  pride, 

As  did  the  Cynic  on  some  like  occasion ; 
Deeming  the  sage  would  be  much  morlified, 

Or  thrown  into  a  philosophic  passion, 
For  a  spoilt  carpet  —  but  the  "  Attic  Bee " 
Was  much  consoled  by  his  own  repariee.' 

XLIV, 

Thus  Adeline  would  throw  into  the  shade 

(By  doing  easily,  whene'er  she  chose, 
What  dilettanti  do  wilh  vast  parade) 

Their  sjrt  of  half  projcssion  ;  for  i'  grows 
To  something  like  ihis  when  too  oft  displayed; 

And  that  it  is  so,  every  body  knows. 
Who  have  heard  Miss  1  hat  or  1  his, or  Lady  T'otber, 
Show  oil' —  to  please  their  company  or  mother. 

XLV. 

Oh  '.  the  long  evenings  of  duets  and  trios  ! 

'1  he  admirations  and  the  speculations ; 
The  '•  Mamma  Mia  s ! "  and  the  "  jimor  Mio's ! " 

'J  he  "  I  ami  palpiti's  "  on  such  occasions: 
The  "  Lasciami's,"  and  quavering  "  Addio's !  "^ 

Amongst  our  own  most  musical  cf  nations  j 
Wilh  "  lu  mi  chamas's"  from  Porlinfraie, 
To  soothe  our  ears,  lest  Italy  should  lail.!> 

XLVL 

In  Babylon's  bravuras  —  as  the  home  « 

Heart-ljallads  of  Green  Erin  or  Grey  Highlands, 

That  bring  Lochaber  back  to  eyes  that  roam 
O'er  far  Atlantic  continenls  or  islands. 

The  calentures  of  music  which  o'erconie 
All  mountaineers  \vith  dreams  that  they  are  nigh 
lands. 

No  more  to  be  beheld  but  in  such  visions  — 

Was  Adeline  well  versed,  as  compositions. 

XLVII, 

She  also  had  a  twilight  tinge  of  "  B/tif," 
Could  write  rhymes,  and  compose  more  than  she 
wrote, 

Made  epigrams  occasionally  too 

Upon  her  friends,  as  every  body  ought. 

But  still  from  that  sublimer  azure  hue, 
tio  much  the  present  dye,  she  was  remote ; 

Was  weak  enough  to  deem  pope  a  great  poet, 

And  what  was  worse,  was  not  ashamed  to  show  it. 

XLVHL 

Aurora  —  since  we  are  touching  up'^n  taste, 
Which  now-a-d'vs  is  the  thermometer 

By  whose  degrees  a'll  characters  are  class'i  — 
Was  more  Shakspearian,  if  1  do  not  err. 


1  I  think  that  it  ujoj  a  carpet  on  which  Diogenes  trod 
wilh— 'Thus  I  trample- on  th- pnde  of  Plain '." —  "With 
greater  pride,"  as  Die  other  re|.lieil.  Bui  as  carpets  are 
meant  to  be  trixlilen  upon,  my  memory  probably  mifpivee 
me,  and  it  might  be  a  robe,  'or  tapestry,  or  a  table-  loth, 
r.r  some  other  expensive  and  uncyuiial  piece  of  rurnitnre. 

2  I  remember  that  the  mayoress  of  a  provincial  town, 
somewhat  surfeited  with  a  similar  display  from  foreign 
parts, did  rather  iiidicorously  break  through  the  applautea 
of  an  intelligent  audience  — intelligent,  I  mean,  as  to 
music—  for  the  wc:rds,  besides  being  in  recondite  langua- 
ges (it  was  some  years  before  the  peace,  ere  all  the  world 
had  travelled,  and  while  I  was  a  cojlegiaii).  were  sorely 
disguised  by  the  performers:  —  Ihis  mayoress,  I  say, 
broke  out  wilh,  "  Rot  your  Italianos!  for  my  pari,  I  lovej 
a  simple  ballat !  •'  Rossini  will  go  a  good  way  lo  bring 
most  people  to  the  same  opinion,  some  Uay.  Who  would 
imagine  that  he  was  to  be  the  scccessor  ofMozirl? 
However,  I  stale  this  wilh  diffid.'nce,  8«  a  liege  and  loyal 
admirer  of  Italian  music  in  gener.il,  and  of  much  of  Ros- 
sini's; bol  we  may  say,  as  the  connoisseur  did  of  paint- 
ing, in  "The  Vicar  of 'Wakefi.;ld."  "that  the  ;iictnre 
would   be   better    painted  if  the  painter  had  taken  - 


J 


604 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  XVI.  f, 


The  worlds  beyond  this  world's  perplexing  waste 

Had  more  of  her  ;xis;ence,  for  in  her 
There  was  a  depth  jf  feelin?  to  embrace 
Thoughts,  boundless,  deep,  but  silent  too  as  Space. 

XLIX. 

Not  so  her  gracious,  graceful,  graceless  Grace, 
The  full-grown  He'be  of  Fifz-Kuike,  whose  mmd. 

If  she  had  any,  was  upon  her  face, 
And  that  was  of  a  fascinating  kind. 

A  little  turn  for  n)ischief  you  might  trace 
Also  thereon,—  but  that 's  not  much ;  we  find 

Few  females  without  some  such  gentle  leaven. 

For  fear  we  should  suppose  us  quite  in  heaven. 


I  have  not  heard  she  was  at  all  poetic, 

Though  once   she  was  seen   readinr  the   "Bath 
Guide," 
And  "Hayley's  Triumphs,"  which  she  deem'd  pathetic, 

Because  she  said  her  temper  had  been  tried 
So  much,  the  bard  had  really  been  prophetic 

Of  what  she  had  gone  through  with— since  a  bride. 
But  of  all  verse,  what  most  ensured  her  praise 
Were  sonnets  to  herself,  or  "  bouts  rimes."  i 

LI. 

'T  were  difficult  to  say  what  w.as  the  object 
Of  Adeline,  in  bringing  this  same  lay 

To  bear  on  what  appear'd  to  her  the  subject 
Of  Jaan's  nervous  feelings  on  that  day. 

Perliaps  she  merely  had  the  simple  i)roject 
To  laugh  him  out  of  his  supposed  dismay  ; 

Perhaps  she  might  wish  to  confirm  him  in  it, 

Though  why  I  "cannot  say  —  at  least  this  minute. 

Lir. 

Bui  so  far  the  immediate  effect 

Was  to  restore  him  to  his  self-propriety, 

A  thing  quite  necessary  to  the  elect. 

Who  wish  to  lake  the  tone  of  their  society: 

In  which  ynu  cannot  be  too  circumspect. 
Whether  the  mode  be  persiflage  or  piety, 

But  wear  the  newest  mantle  of  hypocrisy. 

On  pain  of  much  displeasing  the  gynocra'cy. 

Llll. 

And  therefore  Juan  now  begnn  to  rally 
His  spirits,  and  without  more  explanation 

To  jest  upon  such  themes  in  many  a  sally. 
Her  Grace  too,  also  seized  the  same  occasion. 

With  various  similar  remarks  to  tally. 

But  wish'd  for  a  still  more  delail'd  narration 

Of  this  same  mystic  friar's  curious  doings. 

About  the  present  family's  deaths  and  wooings. 

LIV. 

Of  these  few  could  say  more  than  has  been  said ; 

They  pass'd  as  such  things  do,  for  superstition 
With  some,  while  others,  who  had  more  in  dread 

The  theme,  half  credited  the  stranse  tradition; 
And  much  was  talk'd  on  all  sides  on  that  head: 

Rut  Jnan,  when  cross-ques'ion'd  on  the  vision, 
I  Which  some  supposed  (though  he  had  not  avow'd  it) 
Had  stirr'd  him,  answer'd  in  a  way  to  cloud  it. 

LV. 

And  then,  the  mid-day  having  worn  to  one, 

The  company  prepared  to  separate  ; 
Some  to  their  several  pastimes,  or  to  none, 

Some  wondering  't  was  so  early,  some  so  late. 
There  was  a  goodly  match  too,  to  be  run 

Between  some  greyhounds  on  my  lord  s  estate. 
And  a  vouns  race-horse  of  old  pedigree, 
Match'd  for  the  spring,  whom  several  went  to  see. 


1  Thelant  wonts  or  rhymes  n!  a  numtwr  of  \ 
I    to  ■  poet  t..  be  filleri  up.—  TODD.—  E. 


LVI. 

There  was  a  picture-dealer  who  had  brought, 

A  special  1  ilian,  warranted  original. 
So  precious  that  it  was  not  to  be  bough;, 

'J  hough  princes  the  possessor  were  besieging  alL 
The  kius  himse.f  had  cheapened  it,  but  thought 

The  civil  list  he  deigns  to  accept,  (obliging  all 
His  subjects  by  his  gracious  acceptation)  — 
Too  scanty,  in  these  times  of  low  taxation. 

LVII. 
But  as  Lord  Henrv  was  a  connoisseur,— 

The  friend  of  ajtists,  if  not  arts,—  the  owner, 
With  motives  the  most  classical  and  pure, 

So  that  he  would  have  been  the  verj-  donor, 
Pvather  than  seller,  had  his  wants  been  fewer, 

So  much  he  deem'd  his  patronage  an  honour, 
Had  brought  the  capo  d  opera,^  not  for  sale. 
But  for  his  judgment  —  never  known  to  fail. 

LVi;i. 

There  was  a  modern  Goth,  I  mean  a  Gothic 
Bricklayer  of  Babel,  calld  an  architect. 

Brought  to  survey  these  grey  walls,  which  thougit  to 
thick, 
Might  have  from  time  aC'iuired  some  slight  defect; 

Who'after  rumjuaging  tlib  Abbey  through  thick 
And  thin,  produced  a  plan  whereby  to  erect 

New  bui'idi.igs  -jS  correctest  conformation. 

And  throw  down  old,  which  he  call'd  restoration. 

LIX. 

The  cost  would  be  a  trifle  —  an  "  old  song," 

Set  to  some  thousands  ('t  is  the  usual  burden 
Of  that  same  tune,  when  people  hupi  it  long)  — 

1  he  pi  ice  would  speedily  repay  its  worth  in 
Ad  edifice  no  less  sublime  than  strong. 

By  which  Lord  Henry's  good  taste  would  go  forth  in 
Its  glory,  through  all  ages  shining  sunny. 
For  Gothic  daring  shown  in  English  money.s 

LX. 

There  were  two  lawvers  busy  on  a  mortgage 
Lord  Henrj'  wish  d'  to  raise  for  a  new  purchase  j 

Also  a  lawsuit  upon  tenures  burgage. 

And  one  on  tithes,  which  sure  are  Discord's  torche*. 

Kindling  Religion  till  she  throws  down  her  gage, 
"  Untying"  squires  "to  fight  a^inst  the  churches;''* 

There  was  "a  prize  ox,  a  pilze  pig,  and  ploughman, 

For  Henry  «as  a  sort  of  Sabine  showman. 

LXI. 

There  were  two  poachers  caught  in  a  steel  trap. 
Ready  for  gaol,  their  jilace  of  convalescence; 

There  "as  a  country  girl  in  a  close  cap 

And  scarlet  cloak  (1  hate  the  sight  to  see,  since  — 

Since  —  since  —  in  youth,  1  had  the  sad  mishap  — 
But  luckily  I  have  paid  few  parish  fees  since): 

That  scarlet  "cloak,  alas  I  unclosed  with  rigour, 

Presents  the  problem  of  a  double  figure. 

2  Capo  d'opera  — chef-d'oeuvre.  —  master-piece.  —  K. 

3  "Ausu  Romano,  aere  Veiieto "  is  the  inscription 
(and  well  inscribed  in  this  instance)  on  the  sea  walls  be- 
tween the  Adriatic  and  Venice.  The  walls  were  a  repub- 
lican work  of  the  Venetians:  the  inscription.  I  believe, 
Imperial;  and  inscribed  by  Napolenn  the  First.  It  ii 
time  to  continue  to  him  that  title  — there  will  be  a 
second  bv  and  by.  •'  Spes  altera  mundi,'"  if  he  live  ;  let 
him  noi'deleat  it  like  his  father.'  But.  in  any  case,  he 
will  he  preferable  to  Imbeciles."  There  is  a  glorious  fleld 
for  him,  if  he  know  how  to  cultivate  it.  —  [Napoleon  — 
Francois  — Charles—  Joseph,  Duke  of  Beiihstj-Jt.  died  at 
the  pabce  Sch.iubrunn.  July  22,  Ifeas  — to  the  disappoiut- 
ment  of  many  prophets.  He  had  just  complettil  hi* 
twcnty-lirst  year.]  — E. 

4  "I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess, 

(Hnwe'er  you  come  to  know  it)  answer  me: 
Though  ye  untie  the  winds,  and  let  them  flfM 
Apainst  the  cAurcAej."  —  MaCBKTH. 


Canto  XVI.] 


DON  JUAN, 


605 


LXII. 

A  reel  within  a  bottle  is  a  mysterv, 
One  can"t  tell  how  it  e'er  got  in  or  out; 

Therefore  the  present  piece  of  natural  history 
i  leave  to  Ihuse  who  aie  fond  of  solvins  doubt; 

And  iierely  state,  though  not  tor  the  consistory, 
Lord  Henry  was  a  justice,  and  that  -cout 

The  constable,  benealh  a  warrant  s  banner. 

Had  bags  d  this  poacher  upon  Nature's  manor. 

LXIII. 

Now  justices  of  peace  must  judsre  all  pieces 

Of  mischief  of  all  kinds,  and  keep  the  game 
And  morals  of  the  country  frjm  caprices 

Of  those  who  've  not  a  license  for  the  same; 
And  of  ail  things,  exceplin^f  li:hesand  leases, 

Perhaps  the  e  are  m  st  difficult  to  tame : 
Prese  vin^  partridges  and  pretty  wenches 
Are  puzzles  to  the  most  precautious  benches. 

LXIV. 
The  present  culprit  was  extremely  pale, 

Pale  as  if  painted  so  ;  her  cheek  being  red 
By  nature,  as  in  higher  dames  less  hale 

'  I  is  white,  at  least  when  they  just  rise  from  bed. 
Perhaps  she  was  ashamed  of  seeming  frail, 

Poor  soul !  for  she  w  s  country  born  and  bred, 
And  knew  no  better  in  her  inmioralily 
Than  to  wax  white—  for  b  ushes  are  for  quality. 

LXV. 

Met  black,  bright,  downcast,  yet  espieg'e  eye, 
Had  gather  d  a  large  tear  into  its  corner, " 

Which  the  poor  thing  at  times  essay'd  to  dry, 
For  she  was  not  a  sentimental  mourner 

Parading  all  her  sens ibiity. 

Nor  insolent  enough  to  scorn  the  scorner, 

But  stood  in  trembling,  pa'ient  tribulation, 

To  be  call'd  up  for  her  examination. 

LXVF. 

Of  course  these  groups  were  scattered  here  and  there, 
Not  nigh  the  gay  saloon  of  ladies  gent. 

The  lawyers  in  the  study;  and  in  air 
The  prize  pig,  ploughman,  poachers;  the  men  sent 

From  town,  viz.  archiiect  and  dealer,  were 
Both  busy  (as  a  gene  at  in  his  tent 

Writing  despatches)  in  their  several  stations, 

Exulting  iu  their  brilliant  lucubrations. 

LXVH. 

But  this  poor  girl  was  left  in  the  great  hall, 
While  Scout,  the  parish  euardian  of  the  frail, 

Discussd  (he  hated  beer  yclept  the  "small  ") 
A  mighty  mug  of  moral  u'luble  a'e. 

She  waited  until  Justice  cnulJ  recall 
Its  kind  attentions  to  their  proper  pale. 

To  name  a  thing  in  romenc  alure  rather 

Perplexing  for  most  virgins  —  a  child's  father. 

LXVm. 

Toij  see  here  was  enough  of  occupation 
For  the  l^ord  Henry,  link'd  with  dogs  and  horses. 

There  was  much  bustle  too,  and  preparation 
Below  stairs  on  the  score  of  sec-nd  courses; 

Because,  a.  suits  their  rank  and  situation, 
Those  who  in  counties  have  great  land  resources 

Have  "  public  days,"  when  alTmen  may  carouse, 

Though  not  exactly  what 's  call'd  "  open  house." 

LXIX. 

But  once  a  week  or  fortnight,  uninvited 
(Thus  we  trans'ate  a  general  iiwitation) 

All  country  gentlemen,  esquired  or  knighted. 

May  drop  in  without  cards,  and  take  their  station 

At  the  full  hoard,  and  sit  alike  delighted 
With  fashionable  wines  and  conversation  ; 

And,  as  the  is'hmus  of  ttie  grand  connexion, 

Tmlk  o'er  themselves  the  past  and  next  election. 


LXX. 

Lcrd  Henrv  was  a  great  electioneerer. 

Burrowing  for  boroughs  like  a  rat  or  rabbit. 
But  county  contests  cosf  him  rather  dearer,       [gabbit 
Because   the   neighbouring    Scotch    Earl   of   Gift- 
Had  English  influence,  in  the  self-same  sphere  here; 

His  son,  the  Honourable  Dick  liictdrabbit, 
Was  member  for  the  "other  interest '-'  cnieaning 
The  same  self-interest,  with  a  diflerent  leaningj. 

Lxxr. 

Courteous  and  cautious  therefore  in  his  county, 
He  was  all  things  to  all  men,  and  dispensed 

lo  some  civility,  to  others  bounty. 
And  promises  to  all  —  which  last  commenced 

To  gather  to  a  somewhat  large  amount,  he 
Not  calculating  how  much  they  condensed  ; 

But  what  with  keeping  some,  and  breaking  others, 

His  word  had  the  same  value  as  another's. 

LXX  1 1. 

A  friend  to  freedom  and  freeholders  —  yet 
No  less  a  friend  to  government  —  he  held. 

That  he  exactly  the  just  medium  hit 

'1  wixt  place' and  patriotism  —  albeit  compell'd, 

Such  was  his  sovereign's  pleasure,  (through  unfit, 
He  added  modestly",  when  rel  els  rail'd,) 

To  hold  -cme  sinecures  he  w  ish  d  abulish'd. 

But  that  with  them  a.l  law  would  be  demolished. 

Lxxnt. 

He  was   "free    to    confess '  — (whence  comes  this 
phrase? 
Is  "t  fcnglish  ?  No  —  't  is  only  parliamentary) 
That  innovation's  spirit  now-a-davs 

Had  made  moie  progress  than  /or  the  last  century. 
1  He  would  not  tread  a  factious  path  to  praise, 
I     T  houjh  for  the  public  w  eal  disposed  to  venture  high. 
As  for  his  place,  he  cnuld  but  say  this  of  it, 
1  hat  the  fatigue  was  greater  than  the  profit. 

I  LXXIV. 

Heaven,  and  his  fiiends,  knew  that  a  private  life 

Had  ever  been  his  sole  and  whole  ambition  ; 
But  could  he  quit  his  kins  in  times  of  strife. 

Which  threaten'd  the  wholecountn,-  with  perdition? 
When  demagosues  wou'd  with  a  butcher  s  knife 

Cut  through 'and  through  (oh  I  damnable  incision!) 
The  Gordian  or  the  Geordi-au  knot,  whose  strings 
Have  tied  together  commons,  lords,  and  kings. 

LXXV. 

Sooner  "  come  p'ace  into  the  civil  list  [keep  it. 

And   champion  him  to  the  utmost  —  "i  he  woala 
Till  duly  disappointed  or  dismissed  : 

Profit  he  caied  not  for,  let  others  reap  it ; 
But  should  the  day  come  when  place  ceased  to  exist, 

The  country  would  have  far  more  cause  to  weep  it : 
For  how  could  it  go  on  ?     Explain  who  can  ! 
Be  gloried  in  the  name  of  Englishman. 

LXXVL 
He  was  as  independent  —  av,  much  more  — 

Than  those  who  were  not  paid  for  independence. 
As  common  soldiers,  or  a  conjmon shore. 

Have  in  their  several  arts  or  parts  ascendance 
O'er  the  irregulars  in  lust  or  gore. 

Who  do  not  give  professional  attendance. 
Thus  on  the  rabb  all  sLatesmen  are  as  eager 
To  prove  their  pride,  as  footmen  to  a  beggar. 

LXXVH. 

All  this  (save  the  last  stanza)  Henry  said. 

And  thought.     I  say  no  more— 1  've  said  toe  much  ; 

F(.r  all  of  us  have  eit'her  heard  or  read  — 
Off—  or  vpon  the  hustings  —  some  slight  such 

Hints  from  the  independent  heart  or  heaj 
Of  the  official  candidate.     1  '11  touch 

No  more  on  this  —  the  dinner-bell  halh  rung. 

And  grace  is  said  ;  the  giace  1  should  have  rung  — 


1606 


DON  JUAN 


[Canto  XVI. 


LXXVIII. 

But  I  "m  too  late,  and  therefore  must  make  play. 
T  was  a  great  banquet,  such  as  Albion  old 
j  Was  wont  to  boast  — as  if  a  2:lutton"s  tray 
I      Were  something  very  glorious  to  behoM. 
But 't  was  a  public  feast  and  public  day,— 

Quite  full,  right  dull,  guests  hot,  and  dishes  cold, 
Great  plenty,  much  formality,  small  cheer, 
And  every  body  out  of  their  own  sphere. 

LXXIX. 

Ihe  squires  familiarly  formal,  and 
My  lords  and  ladies  proudly  condescending, 

The  verj'  servants  puzzling  how  to  hand 
'I  heir  plates— without  it  might  be  too  much  bending 

From  their  high  places  by  the  sideboard's  stand  — 
Yet,  like  their  masters,  fearful  of  offending. 

For  any  deviation  from  the  graces 

Might  cost  both  man  and  master  too  —  their  places. 

LXXX. 

There  were  some  hunters  bold,  and  coursers  keen, 
Whose  hounds  ne'er  err'd,  nor  greyhounds  deign"d 
to  lurch ; 

Some  deadly  shots  too,  Septembrizers,  seen 
Earliest  to  rise,  and  last  to  quit  the  search 

Of  the  poor  partridge  through  his  stubble  screen. 
There  were  some  massy  members  of  the  church. 

Takers  of  tithes,  and  makers  of  good  matches. 

And  several  who  sung  fewer  psalms  than  catches. 

LXXX  I. 

There  were  some  country  wags  too  —  and,  alas  I 
Some  exiles  from  the  town,  who  had  been  driven 

To  gaze,  instead  of  pavement,  upon  grass, 
And  rise  at  nine  in  lieu  of  long  eleven. 

And  lo  !  upon  that  day  it  came  to  pass, 

I  sate  next  that  o'crwhelniing  son  of  heaven. 

The  very  powerful  parson,  Peter  Pith,' 

The  loudest  wit  1  e'er  was  deafen'd  with. 

LXXX  1 1. 

I  knew  him  in  his  livelier  London  days, 
A  brilliant  diner-out,  though  but  a  curate  j 

And  not  a  joke  he  cut  but  earn'd  its  praise, 
Until  preferment,  cfming  at  a  sure  rate, 

(O  Providence  !  how  wondrous  are  thy  ways! 

Who  would  suppose  thy  gifts  sometimes  obdurate  ?) 

Gave  him,  to  by  the  devil  who  looks  o'er  Lincoln, 

A  fat  fen  vicarage,  and  nought  to  think  on.    ■ 

LXXXIIL 

His  jokes  were  sermons,  and  his  sermons  jokes ; 

But  both  were  thrown  away  amongst  the  fens; 
For  wit  hath  no  great  friend  in  aguish  folks. 

No  longer  ready  ears  and  short-hand  pens 
Imbibed  the  gay  bon-mot,  or  happy  hoax  : 

1  he  poor  priest  was  reduced  to  c  )mmon  sense, 
Or  to  coarse  efforts  verj-  Inud  and  long, 
To  hammer  a  hoarse  laugh  from  the  thick  throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There  is  a  diff'erence,  says  Ihe  song,  "  between 

A  beggar  and  a  queen,"  or  was  (of  late 
1  he  latter  worse  used  of  Ihe  two  we  've  seen  — 

But  we'll  s'y  nothing  of  affairs  of  state) 
A  difference  "'twixt  a  bishop  and  a  dean," 

A  difference  between  crockery  w  are  and  plate. 
As  between  English  beef  and  Spartan  broth  — 
And  yet  great  heroes  have  been  bred  by  both. 

LXXXV. 
But  of  all  nature's  discrepancies,  none 

Upon  the  whole  is  greater  than  the  difference 
Seheld  between  the  country  and  ihe  town. 

Of  which  the  latter  meri'ls  every  preference 
From  those  who  've  few  res'iuices  of  their  own, 

And  only  think,  or  act,  or  feel,  with  reference 
To  some  small  plan  of  interest  or  ambi;ion  — 
Both  which  are  limited  to  no  condition. 


1  Qaery,  Sidnfv  Smith,  author  of  Peter  Flimley'a  Let- 
ters I  —  Printer'*  Devil.—  E. 


LXXXVI. 

But  "  en  avant !  "    The  light  loves  languish  o'er 
Long  banquets  and  too  many  guests,  although 

A  slight  repast  makes  people  love  much  more, 
Bacchus  and  Ceres  being,  as  we  know, 

Even  from  our  grammar  upwards,  friends  of  yore 
With  vivifying  Venus,  who  doth  one 

To  these  the  invention  of  champagne  and  truffles: 

Temperance  delights  her,  tut  long  fasting  ruffles. 

Lxxxvn. 

Dully  past  o'er  the  dinner  of  the  day  ; 

And  Juan  took  his  place,  he  knew  not  where, 
Confused,  in  the  confusion,  and  distrait. 

And  sitting  as  if  nail'd  upon  his  chair : 
Though  knives  and  forks  clang  d  round  as  in  a  tnfj 

He  seem  d  unconscious  of  all  passing  there, 
Till  some  one,  with  a  srcan.  exprest  a  wish 
(Unheeded  twice)  to  have  a  fin  of  fish. 

LXXXVIIL 

On  which,  at  the  third  asking  of  the  bans. 
He  started  ;  and  perceiving  smiles  around 

Broadening  to  grins,  he  colour'd  more  than  once, 
And  hastily  —  as  nothing  can  confound 

A  wise  man  more  than  laughter  from  a  dunce  — 
Inflicted  on  the  dish  a  deadly  wound. 

And  with  such  hurrv',  that  ere  he  could  curb  it. 

He  had  paid  his  neighbour's  prayer  with  half  a  tarbott 

LXXXIX. 

This  was  no  bad  mistake,  as  it  occurr'd, 

1  he  supplicator  being  an  amateur; 
But  others,  w  ho  were  left  with  scarce  a  third. 

Were  angry  —  as  they  well  might,  to  be  sure. 
They  wonder'd  how  a  young  man  so  absurd 

Lord  Henry  at  his  table  shou'd  endure  ; 
And  this,  and  his  not  knowing  how  much  oafs 
Had  fall'n  last  market,  cost  his  host  three  votei, 

XC. 

They  little  knew,  or  might  have  sympathised, 
1  hat  he  the  night  before  had  seen  a  ghost, 

A  prologue  which  but  siightly  harmonised 
With  the  substantial  company  engross'd 

By  matter,  and  so  much  materialised, 

That  one  scarce  knew  at  what  to  marvel  most 

Of  two  things  —  how  (the  question  rather  odd  is) 

Such  bodies  could  have  souls,  or  souls  such  bodies. 

XCL 

But  what  confused  him  more  than  smile  or  stare, 
From  all  the  squires  and  squiresses  around. 

Who  wonder'd  at'tbe  abstraction  of  his  air. 
Especially  as  he  had  been  renown'd 

For  some  vivacity  among  the  fair, 
Even  in  the  country  circle's  narrow  bound  — 

(For  little  things  upon  my  lords  estate 

Were  good  small  talk  for  others  still  less  great)  — 

XCH. 

Was,  that  he  caught  Aurora's  eye  on  his. 
And  something  like  a  smile  upon  her  cheek. 

Now  this  he  really  rather  took  amiss  : 
In  those  who  rarely  smile,  their  smile  bespeakj 

A  strong  external  motive ;  and  in  this 
Smile  of  Auroras  there  was  nought  to  pique 

Or  hope,  or  love,  with  any  of  the  wiles 

Which  some  pretend  to  trace  in  ladies'  smiles. 

xcin. 

'T  was  a  mere  quiet  smile  of  contemplation, 

Indicative  of  some  surprise  and  pity  ; 
And  Juan  grew  carnation  w  i'h  vexation, 

VVhich  was  not  very  wise,  and  still  less  witty, 
Since  he  had  gain  d  at  least  her  observation, 

A  most  important  outwork  of  the  city — 
As  Juan  should  have  known,  had  not  his  senses 
By  last  night's  ghost  been  driven  from  their  debr<N. 


Canto  XVI.] 


DON  JUAN. 


6071 


XL  IV, 

But  what  was  bad,  she  did  not  blush  in  turn, 
Nor  seem  embar.'ass'd  —  quite  the  coiii.-ary  ; 

Her  aspect  was  as  usual,  still  —  not  stern  — 
And  slie  withdrew,  but  cast  not  down,  her  eye, 

Yet  ?rew  a  little  pale  —  with  what  ?  concern  ? 
1  know  not ;  but  her  colour  ne'er  was  high  — 

Thoush  sometimes  faintly  flush'd  — and  always  clear, 

Ai  deep  seas  in  a  sunny  atmosphere. 

xcv. 

But  Ade'ine  was  occupied  by  fame 

This  day ;  and  watchinsr,  witching,  condescending 
To  the  consumers  of  fish,  foul,  and  game, 

And  dignity  with  courtesy  so  blending. 
As  all  must  blend  whose  part  it  is  to  aim 

(Especially  as  the  sixth  year  is  ending) 
At  their  lord's,  son's,  or  similar  connexion's 
Safe  conduct  through  the  rocks  of  re-elections. 

XCVI. 
Though  this  was  most  expedient  on  the  whole. 

And  usual  —  Juan,  when  be  cast  a  glance 
On  Adeline  while  playing  her  grand  role. 

Which  she  went  through  as  though  it  were  a  dance, 
Betraying  only  now  and  then  her  soul 

By  a  look  scarce  perceptibly  askance 
(Of  weariness  or  scorni,  began  to  feel 
Soaie  doubt  how  much  of  Adeline  was  real 

XCVM. 
So  well  she  acted  all  and  every  part 

By  turns  —  with  that  vivacious  versatility, 
Which  mamy  people  take  for  want  of  heart. 

They  err  —  'tis  merely  what  is  call'd  mobility,* 
A  thing  of  temperament  and  not  of  art, 

Though  seeming  so,  from  its  supposed  facility  ; 
And  false  —  though  true ;  for  surely  they  're  sincerest, 
Who  are  strongy  acted  on  by  what  is  nearest. 

XCVIII. 
This  makes  your  actors,  artists,  and  romancers, 

Heroes  sometimes,  though  seldom  —  sages  never: 
But  speakers,  bards,  diplomatists,  and  dancers, 

Little  that 's  great,  but  much  of  what  is  clever; 
Most  orators,  but  very  few  financiers. 

Though  all  Exchequer  chancellors  endeavour, 
Of  late  years,  to  dispense  with  Cockers  rigours. 
And  grow  quite  figurative  « ith  their  figures. 

XCIX. 
The  poets  of  arithmetic  are  they 

Who,  though  they  prove  not  two  and  two  to  be 
Five,  as  they  might  do  in  a  modest  way, 

Have  plamly  made  it  out  that  four  are  three, 
Judging  by  «hat  they  take,  and  what  they  pay. 

The  Smking  Fund's  unfathomable  sea,' 
That  most  unliquidaling  liquid,  leaves 
The  debt  unsunk,  yet  sinks  all  it  receives. 

C. 
While  Adeline  dispensed  her  airs  and  graces, 

The  fair  Fitz-Fuike  seem'd  very  much  at  ease; 
Though  too  well-bred  to  quiz  men  to  their  faces, 

Her  laughing  blue  eyes  with  a  glance  could  seize 
The  ridicules  of  people  in  all  places  — 

'I  hat  honey  of  your  fashionable  lines  — 
And  store  it  up  for  mischievous  enjoyment; 
And  this  at  present  was  her  kind  employment. 

CI. 
However,  the  day  closed,  as  days  must  close ; 

The  evening  also  waned  —  and  cotfee  came. 
Each  carriage  was  announced,  and  ladies  rose. 

And  curtsying  off,  as  curtsies  country  dame, 


1  In  French  "moti/Ue."  I  aca  nnt  Biire  thai  mobility 
is  ELgliiih  ;  but  it  la  expressive  o(  a  quality  which  rather 
iM-longii  to  olbrr  cliaiatrs.  though  it  ia  s'>melimeii  Keen  to 
■  great  extent  in  our  own.  It  may  be  dt-flord  a8  an  ex- 
ceaaiTe  •iiaceptibilily  of  immed'ate  impre>Bion»  —  at  the 
aame  time  without  loring  the  pant;  and  in,  though  aume- 
reaily  useful   to  the   po&seasor,  a  moat  painful 


I  Retired  :  with  most  unfashionable  bowt 
I     Their  docile  esquires  also  did  the  same, 
I  Delighted  with  their  dinner  and  their  host, 
But  with  the  Lady  Adeline  the  most. 

CII. 
Some  praised  her  beauty  :  others  her  great  grace; 
'1  he  warmth  of  her  politeness,  whose  sincerity 
Was  obvious  in  each  feature  of  her  face, 

Whose  traits  were  radiant  with  the  rays  of  verit^« 
Yes;  she  was  truly  worthy  her  high  place! 

No  one  could  envy  her  deserved  prosperity. 
And  then  her  dress  —  what  beautiful  simplicity 
Draperied  her  form  with  curious  felicity  ! » 

CHI. 
Meanwhile  sweet  Adeline  deserved  the  r  praises. 

By  an  impartial  indemnification 
For  ail  her  past  exertion  and  soft  phras«  i, 
I      In  a  most  edifying  conversation,  i 

Which  turn'd  upon  their  late  guests'  miens  and  &CH 

And  families  even  to  the  last  relation  ; 
Their  hideous  wives,  their  horrid  selves  and  dressei 
And  truculent  distortion  of  their  tresses. 

CIV. 
True,  she  said  little  —  t  was  the  rest  that  broke 

Forth  into  universal  epigram  ; 
But  then  't  was  to  the  purpose  what  she  spoke  ; 

Like  Addison's  "faint  praise,"  so  wont  to  danrn, 
Her  own  but  served  to  set  ofl'  every  joke, 
As  music  chimes  in  with  a  melodrame. 
How  sweet  the  task  to  shield  an  absent  friend  ! 

1  ask  but  this  of  mine,  to not  defend. 

CV. 
There  were  but  two  exceptions  to  this  keen 
Skirmish  of  wits  o'er  the  departed  ;  one 
Aurota,  with  her  pure  and  placid  mien; 
!     And  Juan,  too,  in  general  behind  none 
In  gay  remark  on  what  he  had  heard  or  seen. 

Sale  silent  now,  his  usual  spirits  gone: 
In  vain  he  heard  the  others  rail  or  rally. 
He  would  not  join  them  iu  a  single  sally. 

CVI. 
'T  is  true  he  saw  Aurora  look  as  though 

She  approved  his  silence;  she  perhaps Xubtook 
Its  motive  for  that  charity  we  owe 

But  seldom  pay  the  absent,  nor  would  look 
Farther  j  it  might  (  r  it  might  not  be  so. 

But  Juan,  sitting  silent  in  his  nook. 
Observing  little  iu  bis  reverie. 
Yet  saw  this  much,  which  he  was  glad  to  see. 

CVII. 
The  ghost  at  least  had  done  him  (his  much  good, 
I      In  making  him  as  silent  as  a  ghost, 
If  in  the  circumstances  which  ensued 
I     He  gain  d  esteem  where  it  was  «orth  the  most, 
And  ceilainly  Aurora  had  renew'd 

In  him  some  feelings  he  had  lately  lost, 
Or  harden'd  ;  feelings  which,  perhaps  ideal, 
■  Are  so  divine,  that  1  must  deem  them  real :  — 
i  CVIII. 

I  The  love  of  higher  things  auJ  better  days; 
I     The  unbound'ed  hope,  and  heavenly  ignorance 
Of  what  is  call'd  the  world,  and  the  world's  wayi; 
I     The  moments  when  we  gather  from  a  glance 
More  joy  than  from  all  future  pride  or  praise. 

Which  kindle  manhood,  but  can  ne'er  entranM 
The  heart  in  an  exis'ence  of  i's  own, 
Of  which  another's  bosom  is  the  zone. 

CIX. 
Who  wouM  not  sigh  Ai  ct  rav  KvScoiiav 

1  hat  hath  a  memory,  or  that  had  a  heart  ? 
Alas !  her  star  must  fade  like  that  of  Dian  : 

Ray  fades  on  ray,  as  years  on  years  depart. 
Anacreon  only  had  the  soul  to  tie  an 

Unwithering  mvrde  round  the  unblunted  dart 
Of  Eros :  but  though  thou  hast  play'd  us  many  trickt, 
Still  we  respect  thee,  "  Alma  Venus  GenetrLx  ! " 


2  "Curic«a  felici 


PETRONIUS  ARBITKR. 


608 


DON  JUAN. 


[Canto  XVI. 


ex. 

And  full  of  iPDtimetits,  sublime  as  billowrs 

Heaving  i^e'w.en  this  world  and  worlds  beyond, 

Don  Jiiau.  wUpn  the  midiutcht  hour  of  pillows 
Arrived,  retired  to  his;  but  to  despond 

Rather  th:\n  rest.     Instead  of  poppies,  willows 
W.ived  o'er  his  couch  ;  he  meditated,  fond 

Of  those  si\eet  bitter  thoughts  which  banish  sleep, 

And  make  'he  worldling  sneer,  tlie  youngling  weep. 

CXI. 

The  i»!;ht  was  as  before  :  he  was  undrest, 
S*v.ng  his  night-gown,  which  is  an  undress  ; 

CoDjjiletely  '■  sans  culotte,"  and  without  vest ; 
In  short,  he  hardly  cou  d  be  clothed  with  less: 

But  ipprehensive  of  his  spectral  guest, 
He  sate  with  feelings  awkward  to  express 

(By  those  who  have  not  had  such  visitations), 

Expectant  of  the  ghost  s  fresh  operations. 

CXII. 

And  not  in  vain  he  listen'd  ;  —  Hush !  what 's  that? 

I  see  —  I  see  —  Ah,  m  1  —  't  is  not  —  yet 't  is  — 
Ye  poweis  !  it  is  the  —  the  —  the  —  Pooh  !  the  cat ! 

The  devil  may  take  that  stealthy  pace  of  his  i 
So  like  a  spiritual  pit-.-i-pat, 

Or  tiptoe  of  an  amatory  Miss, 
G  iding  the  first  time  to  a  rendezvous, 
And  dreading  the  chaste  echoes  of  her  shoe. 

CXIII. 

Again  — what  is't?  The  wind?  No,  no,— this  time 

It  is  the  sable  Friar  as  before. 
With  awful  footsteps  regular  as  rhyme. 

Or  (as  rhymes  may  be  in  these  days)  much  more. 
Again  through  shadTWs  of  the  night  sublime, 

When  deep  sleep  fe  1  on  men.  and  the  world  wore 
The  starry  darkness  round  her  like  a  girdle 
Spangled   with  gems— the  monk  made  his   blood 
curdle. 

CXIV. 
A  noise  like  to  wet  fingers  drawn  on  glass, '- 

Which  sets  the  teeth  on  edge  ;  and  a  slight  clatter 
Like  showers  which  on  the  midnight  gusts  will  pass. 

Sounding  like  ver>-  supernatural  water. 
Came  over  Juan's  ear,  which  throbb'd,  aJas  ! 

For  immaterialism's  a  serious  matter ; 
•So  that  even  those  whose  faith  is  the  most  gieat 
In  souls  immortal,  shun  them  tete-a-tete. 

cxv. 

Were  his  eyes  open  ?  —Yes !  an  J  his  mouth  too. 

Surprise  has  this  effect  —  to  make  cue  dumb, 
Yet  leave  the  gate  which  eloquence  slips  through 

As  wide  as  if  a  long  speech  were  to  come. 
Nigh  and  more  nigh  the  awful  echoes  drew, 

I  remeudous  to  a  mortal  tympanum  : 
His  eyes  were  open,  and  (as  was  before 
Stated;  his  mouth.     What  open"d  next  ?  —  the  door. 

CXVI. 

It  openM  with  a  most  infernal  creak, 

Like  that  of  hell.     '•  Lasciate  ogni  speranza 

Voi  che  entrate !  "    The  hinge  seemd  to  speak. 
Dreadful  as  Dante's  rhima,  or  this  stanza  ; 

Or  —  but  all  words  upnn  such  themes  are  weak : 
A  single  shade  's  siifficient  to  entrance  a 

Hero  —  for  w  hat  is  substance  to  a  spirit  ? 

Or  how  is 't  matter  trembles  to  come  near  it  ? 


1  See  the  accnuDt  of  the  ghost  of  the  uncle  of  Prince 
Charlca  of  Saxony,  raised  by  Scbrncpfer  —  '•  Karl  —  Karl 
—  wad  wolUt  du  mil  mich?" 


CXVIL 
The  door  flew  wide,  not  swiftly,—  but,  as  fly 

The  sea-gul  s,  with  a  steady,  sober  flisht  — 
And  then  s">i  ung  back  ;  nor  close  —  but  stood  awry, 

Half  letting  in  long  shadows  on  the  light. 
Which  still  in  Juan's  candlesticks  burnd  hi?h. 


For  he  haJ  two,  both  tolerably  bright, 
way,  darkening  darku 
The  sable  Friar  in  his  solemn  hoed. 


And  in  the  door-way,  darkening  darkness,  stood 


CXVIIL 
Don  Juan  shook,  as  erst  he  had  been  shaken 

The  night  before ;  but  being  sick  of  shaking. 
He  first  inclined  to  think  he  had  been  mistaken; 

And  then  to  be  ashamed  of  such  mistaking; 
His  own  internal  ghost  began  to  awaken 

Within  him,  and  to  quell  his  corporal  quaking  — 
Hinting  that  soul  and  body  on  the  whole 
Were  odds  against  a  disembodied  soul. 

CXIX. 

And  then  his  dread  grew  wrath,  and  his  wrath  fierce, 
And  be  arose,  advanced  —  the  shade  retreated; 

But  Juan,  eager  now  the  truth  to  pierce, 

Follow'd,  his  veins  no  longer  cold,  Lur  hea*ed. 

Resolved  to  thrust  the  mystery  carte  and  tierce, 
At  whatsoever  risk  of  being  defeated  : 

1  he  ghost  stopp'd,  menaced,  then  retired,  until 

He  reach'd  the  ancient  wall,  then  stood  stone  still. 

CXX. 

Juan  put  forth  one  arm  —  Eternal  powers  ! 

It  touch'd  no  soul,  nor  body,  but  the  wall. 
On  which  the  moonbeams  fell  in  silvery  showers, 

C  hequer'd  with  all  the  tracery  of  the  hall ; 
He  shudder'd,  as  no  d>ubt  the  bravest  cowers 

When  he  can't  fell  what't  is  that  doth  appah 
How  odd,  a  single  hnbg  blirj's  nonentity 
Should  cause  more  fear  than  a  whole  host's  identity. 

CXXI. 

But  still  fhe  shade  remain'd  :  the  blue  eyes  glared, 

And  rather  variably  for  stony  death  : 
Yet  one  thing  rather  good  the  grave  had  spared, 

The  ghost  had  a  remarkably  sweet  breath  : 
A  straggling  cu'I  show'd  he  had  been  fair-hairM; 

A  red  lip",  with  two  rows  of  pearls  beneath. 
Gleam 'd  forth,  as  through  the  casement's  ivy  shroud 
The  moon  peep'd,  just  escaped  from  a  grey  cloud. 

CXXIL 

And  Juan,  puzzled,  but  still  curious,  thrust 
His  other  arm  forth  — Wonder  upon  wonder  I 

It  pressd  upon  a  hard  but  glowing  bust, 
Which  beat  as  if  there  was  a  warm  heart  under. 

He  found,  as  people  on  most  trials  must, 
That  he  had  made  at  first  a  silly  blunder, 

And  that  in  his  confusion  he  had  caught 

Only  the  w  all,  instead  of  what  he  sought. 

CXXIIL 
The  ghost,  if  ghost  it  were,  seem'd  a  sweet  soul 

As  ever  lurk'd  beneath  a  holy  hood  : 
A  dimpled  chin,  a  neck  of  ivory,  stole 

Forth  into  something  much  like  flesh  and  blocJ; 
Back  fell  the  sable  frock  and  dreary  cowl. 

And  they  reveald  —  alas!  that  e'er  they  should  ! 
In  full,  voluptuous,  but  not  o'crgrown  bulk. 
The  phantom  of  her  frolic  Grace  —  Fitz-Fulke ! 


2  " .Storfoir J  to-night 

Have  Btrnck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard, 
Than  could  the  tubttance  of  ten  tboasand  EoldierK,"  &c. 
Richard  III. 


THE    END. 


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