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KCniTR. 


THE    WORKS 


r 

LORD  BYRON, 

(COMPLETE.) 
A    WBTT    BDITIOIT. 

EDITED  By 
THOMAS    MOORE,   ESQ. 

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CRITICAL  AND  lOSCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS 

or 
JAMES   8TEPHEISF. 

In  One  Yolumo  ISma,  uniform  with  <«Mac«iU7't  MifodlMiiM.'' 

CONTAINING 

TlM  Pen  Bonlliu,  rcBitiui  LogroUiEdwf n  the  Fair,  D*Anbigne'0  History  of  Ui« RdbmailttD, 

Life  <7  WillMribrceTwiilUlald,  Butsr*ii  Lift  •ad  Writlagt,  Ac 


THE 


WORKS 


09 

4   ) 


LORD. BYRON. 

U)1TU>  BT 

THOMAS  MOORE,  ESCU 

COMPLETE  IN   FOUR   VOLUMES. 
WXXB  BWO-BAVmOti 

VOL.  m. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CABEY   AND   HART. 

1848. 


A 


s 


./  - 


•V  ^  ♦  / 


^i  '.■■   y    -. 


CONTENTS. 


VOL.  in. 

Pagb 

WKKNER ;  or,  Tlie  Inheiitance, 1 

THE  BEFORMED  TRilNSFORBIED 105 

HEAVEN  AND  EARTH, .153 

THE  I8LANB;  or^ChnrtianaiidhaCoiiindM,      ....       187 

Appeodii  to  the  Uaiid, 2S7 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS:  A  SeriM of  Fdemi,        ....       933 

Od  leaving  Newitead  Abbey, M5 

OnmdittemTiewoftbeTiIbgeaxidSchoolofHtnowoiktheHiD,  S46 

ToD. .       .       .    W7 

£iuta|)h  oo  m  F^nd, 848 

AFngment, 849 

Reply  to  aome  Yenei  of  J.  M.  B.  Figoc,  Em|.,  on  the  enielty  of  bit 

MiitraM,  .  849 

To  the  Sighing  StrephoQ, 851 

TheTeer, .858 

ToMiMFSgot, 854 

Lines  written  in  **  Leiten  of  an  Italian  Nnnaiid  an  Ei^itteh  Gentle- 

man.'*    By  J.  J.  Roiueeaa, 855 

Anewer  to  the  Foiegoing, 855 

The  Cornelian, 856 

On  the  Death  of  a  Yoimg  Lady,  Cowin  to  the  Author,  and  very 

dear  to  him,  •       ,    ^ 857 

To  Emma, 858 

An  Occanonal  Fkologue, 859 

Onihe  Death  of  Mr.  Fox, 960 

TOM.S.G., 881 

To  Caroline, 888 

Totfaenme, 863 

Totbeaame, 854 

Stanzas  to  a  Lady, .  .    885 

The  Firfft  Kiss  of  Love, "...       865 

ToBlary, 866 

To  Woman, 887 

ToM.S.G. 268 


Yl  C01fTSIfT6. 

Paqc 

To  a  beautiful  Quaker, :       ...  969 

Song, ...  870 

To » 2T8 

To  Mary,  on  receiving  her  Picture, .  273 

ToLesbia, * 274 

lines  addressed  to  a  Young  Lady, 275 

Love's  Last  Adieu, 276 

Damntas 278 

To  Marion, 278 

Oscar  of  Alva, 280 

To  the  Duke  of  Dorset, 289 

TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS, 293 

Adrian's  Address  to  his  Soul  when  dying, 295 

Translation  from  Catullus, 295 

Translation  of  the  Epitaph  on  Virgil  and  Tibullus,       ...  296 

Imitation  of  TibuHus — "  Sulpicia  ad  Cerinthum,"  .  .  296 

Translation  from  CatuDos —  ^  Luctus  de  moite  passeris,"   .       .  296 

Imitated  from  Catulliis— To  Ellen, 297 

Translation  from  Horace,  Ode  3,  lib.  3, 297 

Translation  from  Anacreon — To  his  Lyre, 298  . 

Ode  III., 299 

Fragment  of  School  Exercises  —  From  the  Prometheus  Yinctus  of 

iEschylus,  300 

The  Episode  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus  — A  Paraphrase  fxtfrn  the 

iEneid,  tib.  IX .301 

Translation  from  the  Medea  of  Euripides, 310 

FUGITIVE  PIECES, 313 

Thoughts  suggested  by  a  College  Examination,    ....  315 

To  the  Earl  of , 317 

Answer  to  some  elegant  Verses  sent  by  a  Friend  to  the  Anthor, 

complaining  that  one  of  his  descriptions  was  rather  too  warmly 

drawn, 320 

Granta —  A  medley 331 

Lachin  y  Goir, 324 

To  Romance, 326 

Elegy  on  Newstead  Abbey, 328 

On  a  Change  of  Masters  at  a  great  PubUc  School,  ....  333 

Childish  Recollections,   § 333 

Answer  to  a  beautiful  Poem,  written  by  Montgomery,  Author  of 

"  The  Wanderer  in  Switzeriand,"  &c.  &c.,  entitled  "  The 

Common  Lot," 316 

The  Death  of  Calmar  and  Orla, 348 

To  E.  N.  L.,  Esq. •        .  351 

To  a  Lady, 354 

Stanzas, 355 

lines  written  beneath  an  Elm  in  the  Churchyard  of  Harrow  on 

thellUl, 357 

Critique.     Extracted  from  the  Edinburgh    Review,  No.   S2,  for 

Jan.,  1808 359 


CONTBlfTf.  ▼ 

Paob 
EN^JSH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS,        ;       .      -    363 

HII«T8  FROM  HORACE. 407 

FEE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA 443 

THE  WALTZ ;  an  Apostraphic  Hymn, 455 

THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE, 467 

THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT, 489 

THE  MORGANTE  MAGGIORE  OF  PULCI, 519 

THE  BLUES;  a  literary  Eclogue, 543 

THE  THIRD  ACT  OF  MANFRED,  in  iu  original  shape  ct  finrf  tent 

to  the  Pobhaher,  •       .       •    556 

OCCASIONAL  PIECES 565 

To  my  dear  Mary  Anne, 567 

A  Love  Song.    To  •••*•'•, 568 

Stanzaa  to  •♦*«*•, ».       ...        569 

To  the  lame, 569 

Song— **  Fin  the  Goblet  again,"  Ac, 570 

To  Lady  Caroline  Lamb, 571 

On  the  Prince  Regent'i  returning  the  Picture  of  Sarah  Ctemtaai  of 

Jersey,  to  Mrs.  Mee, 573 

To  Bekhazxar, 574 

Hebrew  Melodies, 575 

The  Irish  Avatar, 575 

Stanzas  to  her  who  best  can  understand  them,    ....       58U 
To  a  Lady  who  presented  the  Author  with  the  V«lv«l  Band  which 

bound  her  Tresses, 582 

Remembrance, 583 

The  Adieu;  written  under  the  impression  that  the  Author  would 

soon  die, 583 

To  a  vain  Lady, 586 

To  Anne, 587 

To  the  same, 588 

To  the  Author  of  a  Sonnet  —  "•  Sad  is  my  verse, '  yw  aay,  •  and  yet 

no  tear,'" 588 

On  finding  a  Fan, 589 

FareweD  to  the  Muse, 500 

To  an  Oak  at  Newstead,  591 

lines,  on  hearing  that  Lady  Byron  was  ill, 592 

Stanzas,  "  Could  Love  for  ever,'* •.      f4M 

I  to  a  Hindoo  Air,  .        ........    596 


^]Wr:^^ 


UK.  rnr.L  CHT  AntM  t  ii'V^t.i  F.ASn  rur.  nnor.K  KAnni. 

Ol-     \(A\      IJII      Vt  Ci\-.KIIH  I..  AM)     OF     VHK    .^l-Mi..-?. 
AVU    MOV*      IMIK    111  1  CT,     CMI-'V     K\H1     '.-Ol   I  :>     H  V.f     MIRrjl; 

^Mi   :!'r  \    iiv,    I'Moi  f'liT   o:-    K  \ri  nil,' :  ■  \riK;'.  \M>  ot  u"\M;J, 
now  Xi\S\    MM  t-.o  Tti»    ^roo.v   viriff    n  w  .•■■  ;%    f.iuiu. 
OF'    AIM    H\I  I  0;)\;-.  A'.l)    UK     in;      \'\-.  ■i     ;i\U3 


TO   1 


THIN   HK    ri(OLin<r  aa    itoirsx  , 


KVK.'.  , 


WERNER; 
THE  INHERITANCE. 


A  TRAGEDT. 


vol-  ▼. — » 


PREFACE. 


The  following  drama  is  taken  entirely  from  the  **  German^a 
TaUt  Kruitiner^^^  published  many  years  ago  in  Lee^s  Canterbury 
Tales ;  written  (I  believe)  by  two  sisters,  of  whom  one  furnished 
only  this  story  and  another,  both  of  which  are  considered  superior 
to  the  remainder  of  the  collection.  I  have  adopted  the  characters, 
plan,  and  even  the  language,  of  many  parts  of  this  story.  Some 
of  the  characters  are  modified  or  altered,  a  few  of  the  names 
changed,  and  one  character  (Ida  of  Stralenheim)  added  by  my 
self:  bat  m  the  rest  the  original  is  chiefly  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  to  contain 
the  germ  of  much  that  I  have  since  written.  I  am  not  sure  that 
h  ever  was  very  popular ;  or,  at  any  rate,  its  popularity  has  since 
been  eclipsed  by  that  of  other  great  writers  in  the  same  depart- 
ment.  But  I  have  generally  found  that  those  who  had  read  it, 
agreed  with  me  in  their  estimate  of  file  singular  power  of  mind 
and  conception  which  it  developes.  I  should  also  add  conception, 
rather  than  execution  ;  for  the  story  might,  perhaps,  have  been 
developed  with  greater  advantage.  Among  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  the  original  story,  that  he  may  see  to  what  extent  I 
have  borrowed  from  it ;  and  am  not  unwilling  that  he  should  find 
much  greater  pleasure  in  perusing  it  than  the  drama  which  is 
founded  upon  its  contents. 

I  had  begun  a  drama  upon  this  tale  so  far  back  as  1815,  (the  first 
1  ever  attempted,  except  one  at  thirteen  years  old,  called  "  Ulric 
and  Ihnnoy^  which  I  had  sense  enough  to  bum,)  and  had  nearly 
completed  an  act,  when  I  was  interrupted  by  cnrcumstances. 


4  FREFACE. 

This  18  somewhere  amongst  my  papers  in  England ;  but  as  it  has 
not  been  found,  I  have  rewritten  the  first,  and  added  the  subse- 
quent acts. 

The  whole  is  neither  intended,  nor  in  any  shape  adapted,  for 
the  stage. 

Piaa,  Febniaiy,  18S8. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONiS. 


MEN. 

Werner.  Henrick. 

Ulric.  Eric. 

Stralenheim.  Arnheim. 

Idenstein.  Meister. 

Gabor.  Rodolph. 

Fritz.  Ludwig. 

WOMEN. 

Josephine. 

Iad  Stralenheim. 


Scene  —  Partly  on  the  Frontier  of  Silesia,  and  partly  in 
Siegendorf  Castle,  near  Prague. 

Time  —  the  Close  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War 


WERNER. 


ACT  I. 


S  G  E  N  £  I. 

The  HaU  of  a  decaiifed  Palace  near  a  amaU  Taim  on  the 
Jforih  Frontier  of  SUesia  —  the  J>ngJU  iempeatuoua. 

Werner  and  Josephine  Hm  wife, 

Jos.  My  love,  be  calmer ! 

Wer.  I  am  calm. 

Jos.  To  me  — 

Yes,  but  not  to  thjrself :  thy  pace  is  hurried, 
And  no  one  walks  a  chamber  like  to  ours 
With  steps  like  thine  when  his  heart  is  at  rest 
Were  it  a  garden,  I  should  deem  thee  happy. 
And  stepping  with  the  bee  from  flower  to  flower ; 
But  here  ! 

Wer.     'T  is  chill ;  the  tapestry  lets  through 
The  wind  to  which  it  waves :  my  blood  is  frozen. 

Jos.  Ah,  no ! 

Wer.  {smiUng).  Why !  wouldst  thou  have  it  so? 

Jos.  I  would 

Have  it  a  healthful  current 

Wer.  Let  it  flow 

Until 't  is  spilt  or  check'd — how  soon,  I  care  not. 

Jos.  And  am  I  nothing  in  thy  heart  ? 

Wer.  AU  — all. 

Jos.  Then  canst  thou  wish  for  that  which  must  break 
mine? 

Wer.  {approaching  her  slowly).  But  for  thee  I  had  been 
—  no  matter  what. 
But  much  of  good  and  evil ;  what  I  am, 
Thou  knowesf ;  what  I  might  or  should  have  been. 
Thou  knowest  not :  but  still  I  love  thee,  nor 
Shall  aught  divide  us. 

[Werner  walks  on  abruptly^  and  then  approaches 
Josefhine. 


WKRNEBf  ACT  I. 

The  Btoim  of  the  night, 
Perhaps,  affects  me ;  I'm  a  thing  of  feelings, 
And  luiTe  of  late  been  sickly,  as,  alas ! 
Thou  know'st  by  sufferings  more  than  mine,  my  love ! 
In  watching  me. 

Jos.                    To  see  thee  well  is  much  — 
To  see  thee  happy 

Wer.  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  bows  them  down  nearer  earth, 
Which  hath  no  chamber  for  them  save  beneath 
Her  surface. 

Wer.  And  that 's  not  the  worst :  who  cares 

For  chambers  ?  rest  is  all.     The  wretches  whom 
Thou  namest  —  ay,  the  wind  howls  round  them,  and 
The  dull  and  dropping  rain  saps  in  their  bones 
The  creeping  marrow.     I  have  been  a  soldier, 
A  hunter,  and  a  traveller,  and  am 
A  beggar,  and  should  know  the  thing  thou  talk'st  of. 

Jos.  And  art  thou  not  now  shelter'd  from  them  all  ? 

Wer.  Yes.     And  from  these  alone. 

Jos.  And  that  is  something. 

Wer.  True  —  to  a  peasant. 

Jos.  Should  the  nobly  bom 

Be  thankless  for  that  refuge  which  their  habits 
Of  early  delicacy  render  more 
Needful  than  to  the  peasant,  when  the  ebb 
Of  fortune  leaves  them  on  the  shoals  of  life  ? 

Wer.  It  is  not  that,  thou  know'st  it  is  not ;  we 
Have  borne  all  this,  I  '11  not  say  patiently. 
Except  in  thee  —  but  we  have  borne  it 

Jos.  Well? 

Wer.  Something  beyond  our  outward  sufferings  (though 
These  were  enough  to  gnaw  into  our  souls) 
Hath  stung  me  oft,  and,  more  than  ever,  nmc. 
When,  but  for  this  untoward  sickness,  which 
Seized  me  upon  this  desolate  frontier,  and 
Hath  wasted,  not  alone  my  strength,  but  means. 
And  leaves  us  —  no !  this  is  beyond  me  !  —  but 
For  this  I  had  been  happy  —  thou  been  happy  — 
The  splendour  of  my  rank  sustain'd  —  my  name  — 
My  fisither's  name  —  been  still  upheld  ;  and,  more 
Than  those  — 


setnu  A   TIUOBDT. 

Jo9.  {abrtm^).    Mj  son^our  son^our  Ulric, 
Been  clasp'd  again  in  these  long-empty  anna. 
And  all  a  mother'a  hunger  satisfied* 
Twelre  jears !  he  was  but  eight  then :  —  beautiful 
He  was,  and  beautiful  he  must  be  now, 
M J  Uhic !  mj  adored ! 

Wer.  I  have  been  full  oft 

The  chase  of  Fortune ;  now  she  hath  overtaken 
M J  spirit  where  it  cannot  turn  at  baj,  — 
Sick,  poor,  and  lonelj. 

Jos.  Lonelj!  my  dear  husband ? 

Wer*  Or  worse  — involving  all  1  love,  in  this 
Far  worse  than  solitude.     dSione,  I  had  died. 
And  all  been  over  in  a  nameless  grave. 

Jos.  And  I  had  not  outlived  thee  ;  but  pray  take 
Comfort !  We  have  struggled  long ;  and  tiiey  who  strive 
With  Fortune  win  or  weary  her  at  last, 
So  that  they  find  the  goal  or  cease  to  feel 
Further.     Take  comfort,  —  we  shall  find  our  boy. 

fVer.  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. 

Wer.  Are  we  not  pennyless  ? 

Jo9.  We  ne'er  were  wealthy. 

Wer.  But  I  was  bom  to  wealth,  and  rank,  and  power ; 
Enjoy'd  them,  loved  them,  and,  alas  !  abused  them, 
And  forfeited  them  by  my  fiither's  wrath. 
In  my  o'er-fervent  youth ;  but  for  the  abuse 
Long  sufferings  have  atoned.     My  father's  death 
Left  the  path  open,  yet  not  without  snares. 
This  cold  and  creeping  kinsman,  who  so  long 
Kept  his  eye  on  roe,  as  the  snake  upon 
The  fluttering  bird,  hath  ere  this  time  outstept  me. 
Become  the  master  of  my  rights,  and  lord 
Of  that  which  lifls  him  up  to  princes  in 
Dominion  and  domain. 

Jos.  Who  knows  ?  our  son 

May  have  retum'd  back  to  his  grandsire,  and 
Even  now  uphold  thy  rights  for  thee  f 

Wer.  'T  is  hopeless. 

Since  his  strange  disappearance  fi-om  my  father's. 
Entailing,  as  it  were,  my  sins  upon 
Himself,  no  tidings  have  reveal'd  his  course. 
I  parted  with  him  to  his  grandsire,  on 
The  promise  that  his  anger  would  stop  short 


10  WERNER, 


AOTL 


Of  the  third  generation ;  but  Heaven  seems 
To  claim  her  stem  prerogative,  and  visit 
Upon  my  boy  his  father's  faults  and  ibilies. 

Jos.  I  must  hope  better  still,  —  at  least  we  have  yet'  • 
Baffled  the  long  pursuit  of  Stralenheim. 

Wtr,  We  should  have  done,  but  for  this  fatal  sickness ; 
More  fatal  than  a  mortal  malady. 
Because  it  takes  not  life,  but  life's  sole  solace : 
Even  now  I  feel  my  spirit  girt  about 
By  &e  snares  of  this  avaricious  fiend  ;  — *- 
How  do  I  know  he  hath  not  track'd  us  here  ? 

Jo9,  He  does  not  know  thy  person ;  and  his  spies, 
Who  so  long  watch'd  thee,  have  been  left  at  Hamburgh. 
Our  unexpected  journey,  and  this  change 
Of  name,  leaves  all  discovery  far  behind  : 
None  hold  us  here  for  aught  save  what  we  seem. 

Wer,  Save  what  we  seem !  save  what  we  art  —  sick  beg 
gars. 
Even  to  our  very  hopes.  -^ Ha!  ha! 

Jos.  Alas ! 

That  bitter  laugh ! 

Wer.  Who  would  read  in  this  form 

The  high  soul  of  the  son  of  a  long  line  ? 
Who^  in  this  garb,  the  heir  of  princely  lands  ? 
Wko^  in  this  sunken,  sickly  eye,  the  pride 
Of  rank  and  ancestry?  In  this  worn  cheek 
And  fiunine-hoUow'd  brow,  the  lord  of  halls 
Which  daily  feast  a  thousand  vassals  ? 

Jos.  You 

Pondered  not  thus  upon  these  worldly  things. 
My  Werner !  when  you  deign'd  to  choose  for  bride 
The  foreign  daughter  of  a  wandering  exile. 

Wer.  An  exile's  daughter  with  an  outcast  son 
Were  a  fit  marriage ;  but  I  still  had  hopes 
To  lift  thee  to  the  state  we  both  were  bom  for. 
Your  father's  house  was  noble,  though  decay'd ; 
And  wor&y  by  its  birth  to  match  with  ours. 

Jos.  Your  &ther  did  not  think  so,  though  't  was  noble ; 
But  had  my  birth  been  all  my  claim  to  match 
With  thee,  I  should  have  deem'd  it  what  it  is. 

Wtr.  And  what  is  that  in  thine  eyes  ? 

Jos.  All  which  it 

Has  done  in  our  behalf,  —  nothing. 

Wtr.  How,  —  nothing  ? 

Jos.  Or  worse  ;  for  it  has  been  a  canker  in 
Thy  heart  from  the  beginning :  but  for  this, 


A   TRAGEPt.  11 

We  had  not  felt  our  poverty  but  as 

Millions  of  myriads  feel  it,  cheerfully ; 

But  for  these  phantoms  of  ihj  feudal  fathers, 

Thou  mightst  have  eara'd  thy  bread,  as  thousands  earn  it ; 

Or,  if  that  seem  too  humble,  tried  by  commerce. 

Or  o&er  civic  means,  to  amend  thy  fortunes. 

Wer.  {ironically).  And  been  an  Hanseatic  burgher?  Ex- 
cellent ! 

Jos.  Whatever  thou  mightst  have  been,  to  me  thou  art 
What  no  state  high  or  low  can  ever  change,  [ther 

My  heart's  first  choice ;  —  which  chose  thee,  knowing  nei- 
Thy  birth,  thy  hopes,  thy  pride  ;  nought,  save  thy  sorrows  : 
Wlule  they  last,  let  me  comfort  or  divide  them ; 
When  they  end,  let  mine  end  with  them,  or  thee ! 

fFer.  My  better  angel !  such  I  have  ever  found  Aee ; 
TUs  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, 
Chasten'd,  subdu^,  out-worn,  and  taught  to  know 
Myself,  —  to  lose  this  for  our  son  and  thee ! 
Trust  me,  when,  in  my  two-cmd-twentieth  spring 
My  father  barr'd  me  from  my  father's  house. 
The  last  sole  scion  of  a  thousand  sires, 
(For  I  was  then  the  last,)  it  hurt  me  less 
Than  to  behold  my  boy  and  my  boy's  mother 
Excluded  in  their  innocence  from  what 
My  fiiuhs  deserved  —  exclusion ;  although  then 
My  passions  were  all  living  serpents,  and 
Twined  like  the  gorgon's  round  me. 

[^  loud  knocking  is  heard. 

J0s.  Hark! 

Wer.  A  knocking  I 

Jos.  Who  can  it  be  at  this  lone  hour  1  We  have 
Few  visiters. 

fVer.  And  poverty  hath  none, 

Save  those  who  come  to  make  it  poorer  still. 
Well,  I  am  prepared. 

[Werner  mf(9  his  hand  into  his  bosons  as  if  to 
search  for  some  weapon. 

Jos.  Oh!  do  not  look  so.    I 

Will  to  the  door.  It  cannot  be  of  import 
In  this  lone  spot  oi  wintry  desolation :  — 
The  very  desert  saves  man  from  mankind. 

[She  goes  to  the  door. 


12  WIRIIER,  ACT  I. 

Enter  Idenstein. 

Iden,  A  fair  good  evening  to  my  &irer  hostess 
And  worthy What 's  your  name,  my  friend  ? 

Wer.  Are  you 

Not  afraid  to  demand  it  ? 

Iden.  Not  afraid  ? 

Egad  !  I  am  afraid.     You  look  as  if 
1  ask'd  for  something  better  than  your  name. 
By  the  face  you  put  on  it 

Wer.  Better,  sir ! 

Iden.  Better  or  worse,  like  matrimony :  what 
Shall  I  say  more  ?  You  have  been  a  guest  this  month 
Here  in  the  prince's  palace  —  (to  be  sure. 
His  highness  had  resigned  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. 

fVer.  My  name  is  Werner. 

Iden.  A  goodly  name,  a  very  worthy  name 
As  e'er  was  gUt  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  1 

Wer.  To  yours? 

Jos.  Oh,  yes ;  we  are,  but  distantly. 

Cannot  you  humour  the  dull  gossip  till  \^Aside  to  Wer. 

We  learn  his  purpose  1 

Iden.  Well,  I  'm  glad  of  that ; 

1  thought  so  all  along,  such  natural  yearnings 
Play'd  round  my  heart :  —  blood  b  not  water,  cousin  ; 
And  so  let 's  have  some  wine,  and  drink  unto 
Our  better  acquaintance :  relatives  should  be 
Friends. 

Wer.  You  appear  to  have  drank  enough  already  ; 
And  if  you  had  not,  I  've  no  wine  to  offer. 
Else  it  were  yours :  but  this  you  know,  or  should  know : 
You  see  I  am  poor,  and  sick,  and  will  not  see 
That  I  would  be  alone ;  but  to  your  business  ! 
What  brings  you  here  t 

Iden.  Why,  what  should  bring  me  here  ! 

Wer.  I  know  not,  though  I  think  that  I  could  guess 
That  which  will  send  you  hence. 


FBI.  ▲    TRAGXDV.  13 

Jos.  {aside).  Patience,  dear  Werner ! 

Iden,  Tou  do  n't  know  what  has  happen'd,  then  ? 

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. 

Iden.  But  what  you  do  n't  know  is, 

Tliat  a  great  personage,  who  ^n  would  cross 
Against  the  stream  and  three  postillions'  wishes, 
Is  drown'd  below  the  ford,  with  five  post-horses, 
A  monkey,  and  a  mastifi*,  and  a  valet. 

Jos.  Poor  creatures  !  are  you  sure  t 

Iden.  Tes,  of  the  monkey, 

And  the  valet,  and  the  cattle ;  but  as  yet 
We  know  not  if  his  excellency  's  dead 
Or  no  ;  your  noblemen  are  hard  to  drown. 
As  it  is  fit  that  men  in  office  should  be  ; 
But  what  is  certain  is,  that  he  has  swallow'd 
Enough  of  the  Oder  to  have  burst  two  peasants  ; 
And  now  a  Saxon  and  Hungarian  traveller. 
Who,  at  their  proper  peril,  snatch'd  him  from 
The  whirling  river,  have  sent  on  to  crave 
A  lodging,  or  a  grave,  according  as 
It  may  turn  out  with  the  tive  or  dead  body. 

Jos.  And  where  will  you  receive  him  ]  here,  I  hope. 
If  we  can  be  oi  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 
StiU  liable  to  cold — and  if  not,  why 
H#  *11  be  worse  lodged  to-morrow  :  ne'ertheless, 
I  have  ordePd  fire  and  all  appliances 
To  be  got  ready  for  the  worst — that  is, 
In  case  he  should  survive. 

Jos.  Poor  gentleman ! 

I  hope  he  will,  with  all  my  heart. 

Wer.  Intendant, 

Have  you  not  leam'd  his  name  ?     My  Josephine, 

[Aside  to  his  wife. 
Retire :  I  '11  sifl  this  fool.  [Exil  Jo8ephjn£. 

Iden.  His  name  ?  oh  Lord ! 

Who  knows  if  he  hath  now  a  name  or  no? 
'T  is  time  enough  to  ask  it  when  he  's  able 


14  WERNERt  i 

To  give  an  answer ;  or  if  not,  to  put 
His  heir's  upon  his  epitaph.     Methought 
Just  now  you  chid  me  for  demanding  names  ? 

fVer.  True,  true,  I  did  so  ;  you  say  well  and  wisely. 

Enier  Gabor. 


Gab.  If  I  intrude,  I  crave  • 


Iden.  Oh,  no  intrusion ! 

This  is  the  palace  ;  this  a  stranger  like 
Yourself;  I  pray  you  make  yourself  at  home  : 
But  where  's  his  excellency  ?  and  how  fares  he  ? 

Ga6«  Wetly  and  wearily,  but  out  of  peril : 
He  paused  to  change  his  garments  in  a  cottage, 
(Where  I  dofT'd  mine  for  these,  and  came  on  hither) 
And  has  almost  recover'd  from  his  drenching* 
He  will  be  here  anon. 

Iden.  What  ho,  there  !  bustle  ! 

Without  there,  Herman,  Weilburg,  Peter,  Conrad ! 

[Gives  directions  to  different  servants  who  enter 
A  nobleman  sleeps  here  to-night  —  see  that 
All  is  in  order  in  the  damask  chambers- 
Keep  up  the  stove  —  I  will  myself  to  the  cellar — 
And  Madame  Idenstein  (my  consort,  stranger) 
Shall  furnish  forth  the  bed-apparel ;  for, 
To  say  the  truth,  they  are  marvellous  scant  of  this 
Within  the  palace  precincts,  since  his  highness 
Left  it  some  dozen  years  ago.     And  then 
His  excellency  will  sup,  doubtless  1 

Gab.  Faith  I 

I  cannot  tell :  but  I  should  think. the  pillow 
Would  please  him  better  than  the  table  after 
His  soaking  in  your  river :  but  for  fear 
Your  viands  should  be  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.  I  do  not  know. 

Iden.  And  yet  you  saved  his  life. 

Gab.  I  help'd  my  friend  to  do  so. 

Idm.  WeU,  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. 


ISL  A   T&AOBDT.  d 

Idm,  Pray, 

Good  fiiend,  and  who  may  you  be  ? 

Crab.  By  my  family, 

Himgaiian. 

Iden.        I'VhichiscaUMt 

Gab.  It  matters  little. 

/den*  (oatcb).  I  think  that  all  &e  world  are  grown  anony- 
mous. 
Since  no  one  cares  to  teO  me  what  he  's  call'd ! 
Pray,  has  his  exceUency  a  large  suite  ? 

Gab.  Sufficient 

Iden.  How  many? 

Cktb.  I  did  not  count  them. 

We  came  up  by  mere  accident,  and  just 
Tn  time  to  drag  him  through  his  carriage  window. 

Men.  Well,  what  would  I  give  to  save  a  great  man ! 
No  doubt  you  'U  have  a  swinging  sum  as  recompense. 

Gab.  Perhaps. 

/den.  Now,  how  much  do  you  reckon  on  ? 

Gab.  I  have  not  yet  put  up  myself  to  sale : 
In  the  mean  time,  my  best  reward  would  be 
A  ^ass  of  your  Hockcheimer  —  a  green  glass, 
Wreath'd  with  rich  grapes  and  Bacchanal  devices, 
O'erflowing  with  the  oldest  of  your  vintage ; 
For  which  I  promise  you,  in  case  you  e'er 
Run  hazard  of  being  drown'd,  (although  I  own 
It  seems,  of  all  deaSis,  the  least  likely  for  you,) 
I  'U  pull  you  out  for  uothiug.     Quick,  toy  friend. 
And  think,  for  every  bumper  I  shall  quaff, 
A  wave  the  less  may  roll  above  your  head. 

Iden.  {aside).  I  do  nH  much  like  tins  fellow — close  an^ 
diy 
He  seems,  two  things  which  suit  me  not ;  however. 
Wine  he  shall  have  ;  if  ^t  unlocks  him  not, 
I  shall  not  sleep  to-night  for  curiosity.        lExii  Idenstein 

Crab,  (to  Werner).  This  master  of  the  ceremonies  is 
The  intendant  of  the  palace,  I  presume : 
'T  is  a  fine  building,  but  decay'd. 

Wer.  The  apartment 

Designed  for  him  you  rescued  will  be  fouxid 
In  fitter  order  for  a  sickly  guest 

Gab.  I  wonder  then  you  occupied  it  not, 
Foryou  seem  delicate  in  health. 

Wer.  (qvickly).  Sir ! 

Gab.  Pray 

Excuse  me :  have  I  said  aught  to  offend  you? 


16  WERNER,  ACT  k 

Wer.  Nothing :  but  we  are  strangers  to  each  other. 

Gab,  And  tiiat  's  the  reason  I  would  have  us  less  so : 
I  thought  our  bustling  guest  without  had  said 
You  were  a  chance  and  passing  guest,  the  counterpart 
Of  me  and  my  companions. 

fVer.  Veiy  true. 

Gab,  Then,  as  we  never  met  before,  and  never, 
It  may  be,  may  again  encounter,  why, 
I  thought  to  cheer  up  this  old  dungeon  here 
(At  least  to  me)  by  asking  you  to  share 
The  fare  of  my  companions  and  myself. 

Wer,  Pray,  pardon  me ;  my  health  — 

GtA,  £ven  as  you  pie&se. 

I  have  been  a  soldier,  and  perhaps  am  blunt 
In  bearing. 

Wer,  I  have  also  served,  and  can 

Requite  a  soldier's  greeting. 

Gab.  In  what  service  ? 

The  Imperial  ? 

Wer,  {quickly^  and  then  interrupting  hinudf),     I  com- 
manded —  no  —  I  mean 
I  served ;  but  it  is  many  years  ago. 
When  first  Bohemia  raised  her  banner  'gainst 
The  Austrian. 

Gab,  WeU,  that 's  over  now,  and  peace 

Has  tum'd  some  thousand  gallant  hearts  adrift 
To  live  as  they  best  may ;  and,  to  say  truth, 
Some  take  the  shortest. 

Wer,  What  is  that? 

Gab,  Whate'er 

They  lay  their  hands  on.     All  Silesia  and 
Lusatia's  woods  are  tenanted  by  bands 
Of  the  late  troops,  who  levy  on  the  country 
Their  maintenance  ;  the  Chatelains  must  keep 
Their  castle  walls  —  beyond  them  't  is  but  doubtful 
Travel  for  your  rich  count  or  full-blown  baron. 
My  comfort  is  that,  wander  where  I  may, 
I  've  little  left  to  lose  now. 

Wer,  And  I  —  nothing. 

Gab,  That 's  harder  still.    You  say  you  were  a  soldier. 

Wer,  I  was. 

Gub,  You  look  one  stilL      All  soldiers  are 

Or  should  be  comrades,  even  though  enemies. 
Our  swords  when  drawn  must  cross,  our  engines  aim 
(While  levelled)  at  each  other's  hearts ;  but  when 
A  truce,  a  peace,  or  what  you  will,  remits 


▲  nu0u>T.  17 

The  fltoel  into  its  Mabbwd,  and  leif  sleep 

Hie  tperk  which  li^to  the  matchlock,  we  are  brethren* 

Toa  are  poor  and  eickly  —  I  am  not  rich  hut  healthy  ; 

I  want  for  nothing  which  I  cannot  want ; 

Yon  aeem  devoid  of  thif — wilt  share  it  ? 

[Gabob  jNiQf  out  Atf  jNirfe. 

Wer.  Who 

Told  you  I  was  a  beggar  T 

Gab.  Ton  yourself 

In  sa3ring  you  were  a  soldier  during-peace-time* 

War.  {lookmg  at  Mm  wUh  iutpkian.)    You  know  me 
not? 

Gab.  I  know  no  maUi  not  OTon 

Myself:  how  should  I  then  know  one  I  ne'er 
Bdield  till  half  an  hour  since  7 

War.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Your  offer  's  noble  were  it  to  a  friend, 
Aad  not  unkind  as  to  an  unknown  stranger, 
Tliough  scarcely  prudent ;  but  no  less  I  thank  you* 
I  am  a  begear  in  all  save  his  trade ; 
And  when  I  beg  of  any  one  it  shall  be 
Of  him  who  was  the  first  to  ofier  what 
Few  can  obtain  by  asking.    Pardon  me.         [ExU  Wn. 

Gab.  (solui.)    A  goodly  fellow  by  his  lodLs,  though 
worn. 
As  most  good  fellows  are,  by  pain  or  pleasure, 
Which  tear  life  out  of  us  before  our  time ; 
I  scarce  know  which  most  quickly :  but  he  seems 
To  have  seen  better  days,  as  who  has  not 
Who  has  seen  yesterday  ? — But  here  approaches 
Our  sage  intendant,  with  the  wine :  however, 
For  the  cup's  sake  1 11  bear  the  cupbearer. 

Enier  InnNSTKCf  • 

Idm.  T  is  here !  the  supernaculum!  twenty  years 
Of  age,  if 't  is  a  day. 

Gab.  Which  epoch  makes 

Young  women  and  old  wine !  and  't  is  great  pity. 
Of  two  such  excellent  things,  increase  of  years, 
Which  still  improves  the  one,  should  spoil  the  other. 
Fill  full  —  Here  's  to  our  hostess !  — your  fair  wife ! 

[Takes  the  glass. 

Iden.  Fair !  —  WeD,  I  trust  your  taste  in  wine  is  equal 
To  that  you  show  for  beauty ;  but  I  pledge  you 
Nevertheless, 
vou  v.— 0 


18  WBRMBE, 


ACVk 


Crab.  Is  not  llie  level j  womn 

I  met  in  die  adjacent  hall,  who,  with 
An  air,  and  port,  and  eje,  which  would  have  better 
Beseem'd  this  palace  in  its  brightest  days 
(Though  in  a  gaib  adapted  to  its  present 
Abandonment),  returned  my  salutation  — 
Is  not  the  same  your  spouse  ? 

Iden.  I  would  cte  weie ! 

But  you  're  mistaken :  —  that 's  the  stranger's  wife» 

Gab,  And  by  her  aspect  she  might  be  a  prince's : 
Though  time  hath  toucb'd  her  too^  she  sdli  retains 
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 ! 

Gab.  I  do  n't     But  who 

May  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 
Who  he  may  be,  or  what,  or  aught  of  him. 
Except  his  name,  (and  that  I  only  leam'd 
To-niffht),  I  know  not 

CM.  But  how  came  he  here  ! 

Iden.  In  a  most  miserable  old  caleche. 
About  a  month  since,  and  immediately 
Fell  sickt  almost  to  death.     He  should  have  died. 

Gab.  Tender  and  true !  —  but  why? 

Iden.  Why,  what  is  lifo 

Without  a  living  ?     He  hath  not  a  stiver. 

Gab.  In  that  case,  I  much  wonder  that  a  person 
Of  your  apparent  pnklence  should  admit 
Guests  so  forlorn  into  this  noble  mansion. 

Iden.  Hiat  's  true ;  but  pi^,  as  you  know,  does  make 
One's  heart  commit  these  folUes  ;  and  besides, 
They  had  some  valuables  left  at  that  time, 
Which  paid  their  way  up  to  the  present  hour ; 
And  so  I  thought  they  might  as  well  be  lodged 
Here  as  at  the  small  tavern,  and  I  gave  them 
The  run  of  some  of  the  oldest  palace  rooms. 
They  served  to  air  them,  at  the  least  as  long 
As  they  could  pay  for  fiie-wood. 

Gab.  Poorsoubl 

Iden.  Ay, 


1^ 

If  I  misteke  not    Whither  were  tlief  going  t 

Idem.  Oh !   Hesfvo  knows  where,  waXdm  ta  heairen  it- 
self. 
Some  days  ago  ihak  locked  the  likeliest  journey 
Wof  Wfliuor* 

QaL  Wener!  I  have  head  the  name: 

But  it  may  be  a  feign'd  one. 

tdm.  Like  enough ! 

Buthaik!  a  noise  of  wheels  and  Toioes,  and 
A  bkie  of  toffches  from  without    As  sure 
As  destiny,  his  eaoeUency  's  come. 
I  must  be  at  my  post :  will  you  not  join  me, 
To  help  him  fimn  his  caniage,  and  present 
Your  humble  duty  at  the  door? 

CM.  I  dragg'd  him 

From  out  that  carnage  when  he  wouhi  have  given 
His  barony  or  county  to  repel 
The  nuhing  river  from  his  gurgling  throat 
He  has  valets  now  enoii|^ :  Aiey  stood  aloof  then, 
Shaldng  their  drippng  ears  upon  the  shore, 
AH  roariqg,  ^  Help ! ''  but  offering  none  ;  and  an 
FcM*  duty  (as  you  call  it)  —  I  did  mine  ikm^ 
Now  do  yenrt.    Hencct  and  bow  and  cringe  him  here ! 

Idm.  I  cringe !  — but  I  shall  lose  the  opportunity  — 
Phgue  take  it!  he  11  be  Asre,  and  I  aol  tlurel 

ExU  InnirsTBiK  hatiily. 

E^^mtkr  Yfuaanwu 

Wf.  (Is  hmmif).  I  heard  a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices. 
How 
All  sounds  now  jar  me  f 

Stfll  here!  Is  he  not  [Psresteta^  Gabor. 

A  spy  of  my  pursuer's?  His  firank  offer 
80  suddenly^  and  to  a  stnmger,  wore 
The  aspect  of  a  secret  enemy ; 
For  friends  am  alow  at  such. 

Qah.  Sir,  yea  seem  rspl ; 

And  yet  the  time  is  not  akin  to  thought 
These  old  walls  will  be  noisy  soon.    The  baron, 
Or  count,  (or  whatsoe'er  ttus  half-drown'd  noUe 
May  be,)  for  whcxn  ttus  desolate  viibge  and 
Its  kme  inhabitants  show  more  respect 
Than  did  the  elements,  is  come. 


to  WSBiriR*  ACT  I. 

/den.  (witnatd).  Thiaway  — 

This  way,  your  ezceOency :  ^  haTe  a  care. 
The  staircase  is  a  little  gloomy  and 
Somewhat  decay'd ;  but  if  we  had  expected 
So  high  a  guest — Pray  take  my  ann,  my  lord ! 

Enter  Stralenhsim,  Tdknstkin,  and  AtiendantB^^  partly 
hit  own^  and  partly  Retamers  of  the  Domain  of  whdeh 
Ibenstein  ie  Tntendant. 

Stral.  I  '11  rest  me  here  a  moment 

Iden.  {to  the  eorvante).  Ho !  a  chair ! 

Instantly,  knaves  I  [Stralknheim  eiU  down. 

Wer.  (aeide).        'Tishel 

Stral,  I  'm  better  now. 

Who  are  these  strangers  ? 

Iden.  Please  you,  my  good  lord. 

One  says  he  is  no  stranger 

fVer.  {aloud  and  hastily).  IF%o  says  that? 

[7^  look  at  him  with  surprise. 

Iden.  Why,  no  one  spoke  ofyou^  or  to  you  !  —  but 
Here 's  one  his  exceOency  may  be  pleased 
To  recognise.  \Pointing  to  Gabor. 

Gab.  I  seek  not  to  distuib 

His  noble  memory. 

Stral.  I  i^rehend 

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  succouHd  must  excuse 
My  uncertainty  to  whom  I  owe  so  much. 

Iden.  He  I  *-  no,  my  lord !  he  rather  wants  for  rescue 
Than  can  afford  it     'T  is  a  poor  sick  man, 
Travel  tired,  and  lately  risen  from  a  bed 
From  whence  he  never  dream'd  to  rise. 

StraL  Me&ought 

That  there  were  two. 

Gab.  There  were,  in  company ; 

But,  in  the  service  rendered  to  your  lordship, 
I  needs  must  say  but  one^  and  he  is  absent 
The  chief  part  of  whatever  aid  was  render'd 
Was  his  :  it  was  his  fortune  to  be  first 
My  will  was  not  infericnr,  but  his  strength 
And  youth  outstripped  me;  therefore  do  not  waste 
Your  thanks  on  me.     I  was  but  a  glad  second 
Unto  a  nobler  principal. 


▲  TRAOBDT.  91 

'     StNtL  IVhefeuhe? 

AnJiUen.  My  lord,  he  tanried  in  the  cottage  where 
Tour  ezcelieiicy  rested  for  an  hour, 
And  said  he  would  be  here  to-morrow. 

SiroL  TiU 

That  hour  aniveB,  I  can  but  offer  thanks, 

And  then 

Odf.  I  aeek  no  more,  and  scarce  deserve 

So  much.     My  comnuie  may  speak  for  himself. 

8traL  {fixing  h%8  eye$  upon  YfEKmR :  ihmatidt). 
It  cannot  be !  and  yet  he  must  be  look'd  to. 
T  is  twenty  years  since  I  beheld  him  with 
These  eyes ;  and,  though  my  agents  still  have  kept 
Thiirt  on  him,  policy  has  held  doof 
My  own  from  his,  not  to  alann  him  into 
Suspicion  of  my  plan.    Why  did  I  leave 
At  Hamburgh  those  who  would  have  made  assurance 
If  this  be  he  orno?  I  thought,  ere  now. 
To  have  been  lord  of  Siegendorf,  and  parted 
In  haste,  though  even  the  elements  appear 
To  fi^t  against  me,  and  this  sudden  flood 
May  keep  me  prisoner  here  till  — ~ 

[He  jMHWM,  and  looks  at  Wkrnu  ;  then  reeumee. 

This  man  must 
Be  watch'd.    If  it  is  he,  he  is  so  changed, 
His  &ther,  rising  from  his  grave  again, 
Would  pass  him  by  unknown.    Imustbewaiy: 
An  error  would  spoil  alL 

Men,  Tour  lorddiip  seems 

Pensive.    Will  it  not  please  you  to  pass  on  ? 

StraL  'T  is  past  fatigue  which  gives  my  weighM-down 
spirit 
An  outward  show  of  thought    I  will  to  rest 

Idm.  The  prince's  chunber  is  prepared,  with  all 
The  very  funuture  the  jmnce  used  when 
Last  here,  in  its  full  splendour. 

{Mde).  Somewhat  tatter'd. 
And  devilish  dan^  but  fine  enough  by  torchlight ; 
And  titat  's  enough  for  your  right  noble  blood 
Of  twenty  quarterings  upon  a  hatchment ; 
So  let  their  bearer  eieep  'neath  somediing  like  one 
Jl'ow,  as  he  one  day  will  for  ever  lie. 
StraL  {ridng  and  turning  to  Gabor).  Good  night,  good 
people !  Sir,  I  trust  to-morrow 
Will  find  me  q>ter  to  requite  your  service. 
In  the  meantime  I  crave  your  company 


32  WUUlUt,  ACT  I> 

A  moment  in  mj  chamber. 

Gab,  I  attend  joiu 

iS/ro/.  (q/2er  a  few  sUp$^  paifM#«  and  c«2<«  Wsricer). 
Fnend! 

Wer.  Sir! 

/(len.  Sir!  Ixwd  —  oh  Lord!  Why  do  n't  yon  m^ 
His  lordship,  or  his  excellency  1     Pray, 
My  lord,  excuse  this  poor  man's  want  of  breeding: 
He  hath  not  been  accustom'd  to  admission 
To  such  a  presence. 

Strid.  {to  Idensteik).  Peace,  inteodant 

Idm.  Oh! 

I  amdiQi^. 

Stral.  {ioWEKSMR).  Have  you  been  long  here  ? 

Wer.  Long? 

StraL  I  soi^t 

An  answer,  not  an  echo. 

Wer.  You  may  seek  \ 

Both  irom  the  walls.     I  am  not  used  to  answer 
Those  whom  I  know  not. 

Stral.  Indeed !  Ne'er  tiie  less. 

You  might  reply  with  courtesy  to  what 
Is  aak'd  in  kindness. 

Wer.  When  I  know  it  such, 

I  will  requite  —  that  is,  reply  —  in  unison. 

StraL  The  intendant  said,  you  had  been  detained  by  sick- 


ICI  could  aid  you  — journeying  the  same  way? 

Wer.  (^^dcMy).  I  am  not  journeying  the  same  way  ! 

SiraL  How  know  ve 

Tliat,  ere  you  know  my  route? 

Wer.  Because  there  is 

But  one  way  that  the  rich  and  poor  must  tread 
Together.     You  diverged  from  that  dread  path 
Some  hours  ago,  and  1  some  days :  henceforth 
Our  roads  must  lie  asund^,  diou^  they  tend 
All  to  one  home. 

Stral.  Your  language  is  above 

Your  station. 

Wer.  {bitUrly).  Is  it? 

StraL  Or,  at  least,  beyond 

Your  garb. 

Wer.         'T  is  well  that  it  is  not  beneath  it, 
As  sometimes  hi4)pens  to  the  better  ckd. 
But,  in  a  word,  what  would  you  wkh  me  ? 

StraL  {starUed).  I? 


ML  ▲    TRAOCDY.  18 

Wer.  Yes  —  you !  You  know  me  not,  and  questkni  me, 
And  wonder  that  I  answer  not  —  not  knowing 
My  inquisitor.     £xplain  what  you  would  have, 
And  dien  I  '11  satisfy  yourself  or  me. 

Stt'oL  I  knew  not  that  you  had  reasons  for  reserve. 

Wer.  Many  have  such :  —  Have  you  none  1 

SiraL  None  which  can 

Interest  a  mere  stranger. 

Wer,  Then  forgive 

The  same  unknown  and  humble  stranger,  if 
He  wishes  to  remain  so  to  the  man 
Who  can  have  nought  in  common  with  him. 

Sir€d.  Sir, 

I  will  not  balk  your  humour,  though  untoward : 
I  only  meant  you  service  —  but  good  ni^t ! 
InteiKlant,  show  the  way  I  {to  Gabor).    Sir,  you  will  with 
me? 

[Exeunt  Stralenheim  and  AUmdatUs ;  Idenstein  and 
Gabor. 

fVer.  {$olu$),  'Tishe!  I  am  taken  in  the  toils.     Before 
1  quitted  Hamburgh,  Giulio,  his  late  steward, 
Inform'd  me  that  he  had  obtain'd  an  order 
From  Brandenburg^s  elector,  for  the  arrest 
Of  KnBt2ner  (such  the  name  I  then  bore)  when 
I  came  upon  the  frontier ;  the  friee  city 
Alone  preserved  my  freedom  -^  till  I  left 
Its  walls  —  fool  that  I  was  to  quit  them !  But 
I  deem'd  this  humble  garb,  and  route  obscure. 
Had  baffled  the  slow  hoimds  in  their  pursuit 
What's  to  be  done  1  He  knows  me  not  by  person ; 
Nor  could  aught,  save  the  eye  of  apprehension, 
Have  recognised  ^tm,  after  twenty  years. 
We  met  so  rarely  and  so  coldly  in 
Our  youth.     But  those  about  him !  Now  I  can 
Divine  the  frankness  of  the  Hungarian,  who 
No  doubt  is  a  mere  tool  and  spy  of  Stralenheim's, 
To  sound  and  to  secure  me.     Without  means ! 
Sick,  poor  —  begirt  too  with  the  flooding  rivers. 
Impassable  even  to  the  wealthy,  with 
AH  the  appliances  which  purchase  modes 
Of  overpowering  peril  with  men's  Uves,  — 
How  can  I  hope !  An  hour  ago  methought 
My  state  beyond  despair ;  and  now,  't  is  such, 
The  past  seems  para^se.     Another  day. 
And  I  'm  detected,  —  on  the  very  eve 
Of  honours,  ri^its,  and  my  inheritance. 


24  WERNER,  ACT  I» 

When  a  few  drops  of  gold  might  save  me  still 
In  favouring  an  escape. 

Enter  Idenstein  and  Fritz,  tn  corwer9ation* 

Fritz,  Inmiediately. 

Iden.  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.  1  will  do  what  I  can. 

Fritz.  And  recollect 

To  spare  no  trouble  ;  you  will  be  repaid 
Tenfold. 

Iden.    The  baron  is  retired  to  rest  ? 

Fritz.  He  hath  thrown  himself  into  an  easy  chair 
Beside  the  fire,  and  slumbers ;  and  has  orde^d 
He  may  not  be  disturbed  until  eleven. 
When  he  will  take  himself  to  bed. 

Iden.  Before 

An  hour  is  past  I  'U  do  my  best  to  serve  him. 

Fritz.  Remember!  [Exit  Fritz. 

Iden.  The  devil  take  these  great  men !  they 

Think  all  things  made  for  them.     Now  here  must  I 
Rouse  up  some  half  a  dozen  shivering  vassals 
From  their  scant  pallets,  and,  at  peril  of 
Their  Uves,  despatch  them  o'er  the  river  towards 
Frankfort.     Methinks  the  baron's  own  experience 
Some  hours  ago  might  teach  him  fellow-feeling : 
But  no,  **  it  mtMf,"  and  there  's  an  end.     How  now? 
Are  you  there.  Mynheer  Werner  ? 

Wer.  You  have  left 

Tour  noble  guest  right  quickly. 

Iden.  Yes  —  he  's  < 

And  seems  to  like  that  none  should  sleep  beddes. 
Here  is  a  packet  for  the  commandant 
Of  Frankfort,  at  all  risks  and  all  expenses ; 
But  I  must  not  lose  time  :  Good  night !  [Exit  Iden  . 

Wer.  "To  Frankfort!" 

So,  so,  it  thickens !  Ay,  "  the  commandant" 
Tbds  tallies  well  with  all  the  prior  steps 
Of  this  cool,  calculating  fiend,  who  walks 
Between  me  and  my  father's  house.     No  doubt 
He  writes  for  a  detachment  to  convey  me 


▲  TftAOBDT.  S5 

Into  some  aecret  foftiefs.—  Sooner  than 
Thia 

[Wbrnbr  looks  annmdf  and  nuUehei  vp  a  knife 
kfing  on  a  iabU  m  a  reessi* 

Now  I  am  maator  ofinjaelf  at  leaat. 
Haiky — footatepa  I  How  do  I  know  that  StFalenheim 
Will  wait  for  even  tbe  ahow  of  that  i^uthoiity 
Which  ia  to  overahadow  unnpfttion  ? 
That  he  auapecta  me  'a  certain.     I  'm  alone ; 
He  with  a  numeroua  train.    I  weak ;  he  atroog 
In  gold,  in  numbers,  rank,  audioritjr. 
I  nameleaa,  or  involving  in  my  name 
Deatnictioo,  till  I  reach  my  own  domain ; 
He  full-blown  with  hia  tidea,  which  impoae 
Still  furdier  on  theae  obacure  pet^  buif^ra 
Than  tfiey  could  do  elaewhere.     Hark!  nearer  atill! 
I  '11  to  the  aecret  paaaage,  which  communicatea 

Widi  the No !  all  is  ailent  —  t  waa  my  fancy !  — 

Still  aa  the  breathleaa  interval  between 

The  flaah  and  thunder :  -—  I  must  huah  my  aoul 

Amidat  ita  perOa.     Tet  I  will  retire, 

To  aee  if  still  be  unexplored  the  paaaage 

I  wot  of:  it  will  aerve  me  aa  a  den 

Of  aecrecy  for  aome  houra,  at  the  woraL 

[Wbbnkr  draws  a  panels  and  exii^  ehtmg  ti  after 

AtflN* 

EnUr  Gabor  and  Josbpbijib. 

Oab.  Where  ia  your  huaband  ? 

Jos.  Here^  I  thought :  I  left  him 

Not  long  aince  in  hia  chamber.    But  dieae  rooma 
Have  many  outleta,  and  he  may  be  gone 
To  accompany  the  intendant 

Gab.  Baron  Stralenheim 

Put  many  queationa  to  the  intendant  on 
The  aubject  of  your  lord,  and,  to  be  plain, 
I  have  my  doufaia  if  he  means  well. 

Jos.  Alaa ! 

What  can  there  be  in  common  widi  thejproud 
And  wealthy  baron,  and  the  unknown  Werner? 

Oab.  That  you  know  best 

Jos.  Or,  if  it  were  80,  how 

Come  you  to  atir  youraelf  in  hia  belud^ 
Ba^r  than  Aat  of  him  whose  life  you  aaved  ? 

6ah.  I  he^^  to  aave  him,  aa  in  peril ;  but 


SB  wntNBSy  4CT  b 

I  did  not  pledflB  mysdf  to  serve  him  in 
Oppression.    I  know  well  these  nobles^  and 
Their  thoasaod  modes  of  tramphng  on  the  poor. 
I  have  proved  them ;  and  my  spirit  boils  up  when 
I  &id  them  practiBinff  against  the  weak :  — 
This  is  my  only  motive. 

Job*  It  would  be 

Not  easy  to  persuade  my  consort  of 
Tour  ffood  mtentions. 

Goo.  Is  he  so  suspicious  I 

Jo8,  He  was  not  once ;  but  time  and  troubles  have 
Made  him  what  you  beheld* 

G<»b.  I  'm  sorry  for  it. 

Suspicion  is  a  heavy  armour,  and 
With  its  own  weight  impedes  more  than  protects. 
Grood  night  I  I  trust  to  meet  with  him  at  daybreak. 

[^Esii  Gabor. 

JRe-enter  Idbnstbin  and  9ome  PeoMOtUt.    Josbphinb  reiirea  tuf 
theHaU. 

Fint  Peasant.  But  if  I 'm  drown'd  ? 

Iden.  Why,  you  will  be  well  paid  for  \ 
And  have  riskM  more  than  drowning  for  as  rouch« 
I  doiibtnot 

Second  Peasant  But  our  wives  and  fiunilies  ? 

Iden.  Cannot  be  worse  off  than  they  are,  and  may 
Be  better. 

Third  Peasant.  I  have  neither,  and  will  venture. 

Iden.  That's  right     A  gallant  carle,  and  fit  to  be 
A  sddier.     I  'U  promote  you  to  the  ranks 
In  the  prince's  body-guard  —  if  you  succeed ; 
And  you  shall  have  besides,  in  sparkling  coin 
Two  dialers. 

Third  Peasant.  No  more! 

Iden.  Out  upon  your  avance ! 

Can  that  low  vice  alloy  so  much  ambition  ? 
I  toll  thee,  feUow,  that  two  thalers  in 
Small  change  will  subdivide  into  a  treasure. 
Do  not  five  hundred  thousand  heroes  daily 
Risk  Uves  and  souls  for  the  tidie  o£  one  thaler  T 
When  had  you  half  the  sum  1 

I%ird  Peasant.  Never  —  but  ne'er 

The  less  I  must  have  three. 

Idsn.  Have  you  forgot 

Whose  vassal  you  were  bom,  knave  ? 


TWd  PuuamU.  No  —  the  prince's, 

And  not  the  staDger's. 

Iden.  Simht  in  the  prince  V 

Absenoet  I  'm  sovereign ;  and  the  baron  is 
My  intimate  connection :  —  ^  Cousin  Idenstein ! 
(Quoth  he)  you  '11  order  oat  a  dozen  yillains.'* 
And  so,  you  yiUains  I  troop — march — march,  I  say; 
And  if  a  single  dog's-ear  of  diis  packet 
Be  sprinkled  by  the  Oder  —  look  to  it ! 
For  eveiy  page  of  paper,  shall  a  hide 
Of  yours  be  stretch'd  as  parchment  on  a  dram. 
Like  Ziflka's  skin,  to  b^t  alarm  to  all 
Refractoiy  vassals,  who  can  not  effect 
Impossibilities  —  Away,  ye  earth-worms  1 

[ExiU  driving  thtm  out, 

Ja$.  {coming  forward).   I  fiun  would  shun  these  scenes, 
too  oft  repeated. 
Of  feudal  tyranny  o*er  pet^  victims ; 
I  cannot  aid,  and  will  not  witness  such. 
£ven  here,  in  this  remote,  unnamed,  dull  spot. 
The  dinmiest  in  the  district's  map,  exist 
The  insolence  of  wealth  in  poverty 
O'er  something  poorer  still  —  the  pride  (^rank 
In  servitude,  o'er  something  still  more  servile  ^ 
And  vice  in  misery  affecting  still 
A  tattered  splendour.     What  a  state  of  being ! 
In  Tuscany,  my  own  dear  sunny  land, 
Our  nobles  were  but  citizens  and  merchants, 
Like  Cosmo.     We  had  evils,  but  not  such 
As  these  ;  and  our  all-ripe  and  gushing  va]le3r8 
Made  poverty  more  cheerful,  where  each  heib 
Was  in  itself  a  meal,  and  every  vine 
Rain'd,  as  it  were,  the  beverage  wluch  makes  glad 
The  heart  of  man;  and  the  ne'er  unfelt  son 
(Bat  rarely  clouded,  and  when  clouded,  leaving 
His  warmth  behind  in  memoiy  of  his  beams) 
Makes  the  worn  mantle,  and  die  thin  robe,  less 
Oppressive  than  an  emperor's  jewell'd  purple. 
But,  here !  the  despots  of  the  north  appear 
To  imitate  the  ice-wind  of  thw  cHme, 
Searching  the  shivering  vassal  through  his  rags, 
To  wring  his  soul — as  the  bleak  el^oents 
His  form.    And  't  is  to  be  amongst  these  sovereigns 
My  husband  pants !  and  such  his  pride  of  birth  — 
That  twenty  years  of  usage,  such  as  no 
Fadier  bom  in  a  humble  state  could  nerve 


t8  WBRITBR,  ACT  I. 

HiB  soul  to  persecute  a  son  withal. 

Hath  changed  no  atom  of  his  oariy  nature ; 

But  I,  bom  noblj  also,  from  my  mther's 

Kindness  was  tauf^^t  a  different  lesson.     Father ! 

Maj  thj  long-tried  and  now  rewarded  spirit 

Look  down  on  us  and  our  so  long  desired 

Ulric !  I  love  my  son,  as  thou  diSat  me ! 

What's  that?  Thou,  Werner!  canitbe?  and  thus? 

Enter  Werner  Aa#<t/y,  with  tfu  krUfe  in  his  hand^  by  the  secret 
panels  which  he  closes  hurriedly  after  him. 

FFer.    (not  at  first  recognising  her).   Discovered!  then 
I  'il  stab  -^—  {recognising  her.) 

Ah!  Josephine, 
Why  art  thou  not  at  rest? 

Jos.  What  rest?  My  God! 

What  doth  this  mean  ? 

fVer.  {showing  a  rouleau).     Here  's  gold  —  gdd^  Jose- 
phine, 
Will  rescue  us  from  this  detested  dungeon. 

Jos.  And  how  obtain'd  ?  -*  that  kzufe  ! 

Wer.  'T  is  bloodless  —  yet. 

Away  —  we  must  to  our  chamber. 

Jos.  But  whence  comest  thou  ? 

fVer.  Ask  not !  but  let  us  think  where  we  shall  go  — 
This — this  will  make  us  way —  {shovnng  the  gold)  — I  '11  fit 
them  now. 

Jos.  I  dare  not  dunk  thee  guilty  of  dishonour. 

fVer.  Dishonour! 

Jos.  I  have  said  it 

fVer.  Let  us  hence : 

'T  is  (he  last  night,  I  trust,  that  we  need  pass  here. 

Jos.  And  not  the  worst,  I  hope. 

fVer.  Hope !  I  make  sure. 

But  let  us  to  our  chamber. 

Jos.  Tet  one  question  — 

What  hast  diou  done  ? 

Wer.  {fiercely).         Left  one  thing  undone^  which 
Had  made  all  well :  let  me  not  thkJc  of  it ! 
Away! 

Jos.  Alas,  that  I  should  doubt  of  thee !  [£Lretmt 


ACTikicnBli  k  TBAOBOT.  29 


ACT  11. 

SCENE  I. 

A  HaU  in  l&«  mum  Palace. 

Eater  Idbhstbin  and  Oihert. 

Iden,  Fine  doings !  goodlj  doings !  honest  doings ! 
A  baron  pillaged  in  a  prince's  palace  I 
Where,  till  this  hour,  such  a  sin  ne'er  was  heard  of. 

Fritz.  It  hardly  could,  unless  the  rats  despoil'd 
The  mice  of  a  few  shreds  of  tapestry. 

Iden.  Oh !  that  I  e'er  should  live  to  see  dus  day  I 
Tbe  honour  of  our  city  's  gone  for  ever. 

Fritz.  Well,  but  now  to  discover  the  delinquent : 
The  baron  is  determined  not  to  lose 
This  sum  without  a  search. 

Iden.  And  so  am  I. 

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  t 

Iden.  Certain.    I  have  lived  and  served  here  since  my 
birth, 
And  if  there  were  such,  must  have  heard  of  such, 
Or  seen  it 

Fritz.        Then  it  must  be  some  one  who 
Had  access  to  the  antechamber. 

Iden.  Doubtless. 

Fritz.  The  man  call'd  Werner  's  poor ! 

Iden.  Poor  as  a  miser. 

But  lodged  so  far  off,  in  the  other  wing, 
By  which  there  's  no  commimication  with 
The  baron's  chamber,  that  it  can't  be  he. 
Besides,  I  bade  him  ^  good  nig^t "  in  the  haO, 
Almost  a  mile  off,  and  which  only  leads 
To  his  own  apartment,  about  the  same  time 
When  this  butglarious,  larcenous  felony 
Appears  to  have  been  committed. 


80  WSRlfBR^ 


ACT  If. 


Fritz,  There  's  another, 

The  stranger— 
Iden.  The  Hungarian  ? 

Fritz.  He  who  heip'd 

To  fish  the  baron  from  the  Oder. 

Iden.  Not 

Unlikely.     But,  hold  —  might  it  not  have  been 
One  of  the  suite? 
Fritz.  How?  Fre,8ir! 

Iden.  No  —  not  youj 

But  some  of  the  inferior  knaves.     You  say 
The  baron  was  asleep  in  the  great  chair  — 
The  velvet  chair  —  in  his  embroider'd  night-gown  ; 
His  toilet  spread  before  him,  and  upon  it 
A  cabinet  with  letters,  papers,  and 
Several  rouleaux  of  gold :  of  which  one  only 
Has  disappeared :  —  the  door  unbolted,  with 
No  difficult  access  to  any. 

Fritz.  Good  sir. 

Be  not  so  quick ;  the  honour  of  tbe  corps 
Which  forms  the  baron's  household  's  unimpeach'd 
From  steward  to  scullion,  save  in  the  fair  way 
Of  peculation  ;  such  as  in  accompts. 
Weights,  measures,  larder,  cellar,  buttery,  . 

Where  all  men  take  their  prey  ;  as  also  in 
Postage*  of  letters,  gathering  of  rents, 
Purveying  feasts,  and  understanding  with 
The  honest  trades  who  furnish  noble  masters  : 
But  for  your  petty,  picking,  downright  thieveiy, 
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  swooped  all ; 
Also  the  cabinet,  if  portable. 

Iden.  There  is  some  sense  in  that 

Fritz.  No,  sir,  i>e  sure 

'T  was  none  of  our  corps ;  but  some  petty,  trivial 
Picker  and  stealer,  without  art  or  genius. 
Tbe  only  question  is  —  Who  else  could  have 
Access,  save  the  Hungarian  and  yourself? 
Iden.  You  don't  mean  me  ? 
Fritz.  No,  sir ;  I  honour  more 

Your  talents 

Iden.  And  my  principles,  I  hope. 

Fritz.   Of  course.     But  to  tbe  point :    Yd&at  's  to  be 
done  ? 


Iden.  Nodui^-^batdMrn^gaii^deBltobettiiL 
We  'II  ofibr  a  reward  ;  move  heaven  and  earth. 
And  the  police,  (though  there  's  none  nearer  than 
Frankfort) ;  poet  nolkea  in  manuscript, 
(For  we  've  no  printer) ;  and  aet  by  my  clerk 
To  read  them,  (for  few  can,  save  he  and  I). 
We  11  send  out  viUaina  to  strip  beggacB,  and 
Search  empty  pockets ;  also,  to  arrest 
All  gipsies,  and  ill-clothed  and  sallow  pe<^le. 
Prisoners  we  '11  have  at  least,  if  not  the  culprit ; 
And  ftr  dbe  baron's  gold — if 'tis  not  found!. 
At  least  he  shall  have  the  full  satisfaction 
Of  melting  twice  its  substance  in  the  raising 
The  ghost  <^  this  rouleau.     Here 's  aichymy 
For  your  Iwd's  losses ! 

Ffiix.  He  hath  found  a  better. 

Idm.  Wherot 

Fritz.  In  a  most  immense  inheritance. 

The  late  Count  Sie^ndorC  his  distant  Itimmrm^^ 
Is  dead  near  Prague,  in  his  castle,  and  my  lord 
Is  on  his  way  to  take  possession. 

Iden.  Was  there 

No  heir? 

Fritz*  Oh,  yes ;  but  he  has  disappear'd 
Long  from  the  world's  eye,  and  perlwps  the  world. 
A  prodigal  son,  beneath  his  father's  ban 
For  the  last  twenty  years ;  for  whom  his  sire 
Refused  to  kill  the  fatted  calf;  and,  therefore. 
If  living,  he  must  chew  the  husks  still.    But 
The  baion  would  find  means  to  silence  him. 
Were  he  to  re^iqipear :  he  's  politic. 
And  has  much  influence  with  a  certain  court. 

iden.  He  's  fortunale. 

Fritz.  'T  ifl  true,  there  is  a  grandson. 

Whom  the  kite  count  reclaim'd  from  bis  son's  bsuods. 
And  educated  as  his  heir ;  but  then 
His  birth  »  doubtfiil. 

Iden.  How  so  1 

Friizm  His  sire  made 

A  left-hand,  love,  imprudent  sort  of  marriage, 
With  an  ItaJian  exile's  dark-^yed  daughter : 
N<4>le,  they  say,  too ;  but  no  match  for  such 
A  house  as  SiegendorTs.     The  grandsire  ill 
Gould  brook  tiM alliance.;  and  could  ne'er  be  brought 
To  see  the  pannls,  though  he  took  the  son. 

Iden.  If  he 's  a  lad  of  mettle,  he  may  yet 


82  WBENBRy  ACTU. 

Dispute  your  clainiy  and  weave  a  web  that  inaj 
Puzzle  your  baron  to  unravel. 

Fritz.  Why, 

For  mettle,  he  has  quite  enough :  they  say, 
He  forms  a  happy  mixture  of  his  sire 
And  grandsire's  qualities,  —  impetuous  as 
The  former,  and  deep  as  the  latter ;  but 
The  strangest  is,  that  he  too  disappear'd 
Some  months  ago. 

Idm.  The  devil  he  did  I    * 

Fritz.  Why,  yes : 

It  must  have  been  at  his  suggestion,  at 
An  hour  so  critical  as  was  the  eve 
Of  the  old  man's  death,  whose  heart  was  broken  by  k. 

liUn.  Was  there  no  cause  assign'd  t 

Fritz.  Plenty,  no  doubt, 

And  none  perhaps  the  true  one.     Some  averr'd 
It  was  to  seek  his  parents ;  some  because 
The  old  man  held  his  spirit  in  so  strictly, 
(But  that  could  scarce  be,  for  he  doted  on  him) ; 
A  third  believed  he  wish'd  to  serve  in  war. 
But  peace  being  made  soon  after  his  departure. 
He  might  have  since  return'd,  were  that  the  motive  ; 
A  fourth  set  charitably  have. surmised, 
As  there  was  something  strange  and  mystic  in  him. 
That  in  the  wild  exuberance  of  his  nature 
He  had  join'd  the  black  bands,  who  lay  waste  Lusatia, 
The  mountains  of  Bohemia  and  Silesia,  ^' 

Since  the  last  years  of  war  had  dwindled  into 
A  kind  of  general  condottiero  system 
Of  bandit  warfare  ;  each  troop  with  its  chief. 
And  all  against  mankind. 

Iden.  That  cannot  be. 

A  young  heir,  bred  to  wealth  and  luxury, 
To  risk  his  life  and  honours  with  disbanded 
Soldiers  and  desperadoes ! 

Fritz.  Heaven  best  knows  I 

But  there  are  human  natures  so  allied 
Unto  the  savage  love  of  enterprise. 
That  they  will  seek  for  peril  as  a  pleasure. 
I  've  heard  that  nothing  can  reclaim  your  Indian, 
Or  tame  the  tiger,  though  their  infancy 
Were  fed  on  milk  and  honey.    After  all. 
Your  Wallenstein,  your  Tilly  and  Gustavus, 
Tour  Bannier,  and  your  Torstenson  and  Weimar, 
Were  but  the  same  thing  upon  a  grand  scale ; 


And  now  that  they  are  gone,  and  pe^ce  prodaim'd, 
Thej  who  would  follow  the  same  paatime  must 
Punue  it  on  their  own  account.     Here  comes 
The  baron,  and  the  Saioti  stranger,  who 
Was  his  chief  aid  in  yesterday's  escape. 
But  did  not  leave  the  cottage  by  the  Oder 
Until  this  mornings 

Enier  Stralenheim  and  Ulric. 

ShaL                   Since  you  have  refused 
All  compensation,  gentle  stranger,  save 
Inadequate  thadks,  you  almost  check  even  them, 
Making  me  feel  the  woithlessness  of  words. 
And  blush  at  my  own  barren  gratitude. 
They  seem  so  niggardly,  compared  with  what 
Tour  courteous  courage  did  in  my  behalf 

Ulr.  I  pray  you  press  the  theme  no  further. 

SiraL  But 

Can  I  not  serve  you  t  Tou  are  young,  and  of 
That  mould  which  throws  out  heroes ;  fiur  in  favour ; 
Brave,  I  know,  by  my  living  now  to  say  so ; 
And  doubtlessly,  with  such  a  form  and  heart. 
Would  look  into  the  fiery  eyes  of  war, 
As  ardently  for  glory  as  you  dared 
An  obscure  deaSi  to  save  an  unknown  stranger 
In  an  as  perilous,  but  opposite,  element 
Tou  are  made  for  the  service  :  I  have  served  ^ 
Have  rank  by  birth  and  soldiership,  and  friends. 
Who  shall' be  yours.     'T  is  true  this  pause  of  peace 
Favours  such  views  at  present  scantily ; 
But  H  will  not  last,  men's  spirits  are  too  stirring ; 
And,  after  thirty  years  of  conflict,  peace 
Is  but  a  petty  war,  as  the  times  show  us 
In  every  forest,  or  a  mere  arro'd  truce. 
War  will  reclaim  his  own ;  and,  in  the  meantimet 
Tou  mi^t  obtain  a  post,  which  would  ensure 
A  higher  soon,  and,  by  my  influence^  &il  not 
To  rise.    I  speak  of  Brandenburg,  wh^ein 
I  stand  well  with  the  elector ;  in  Bohemia, 
Like  you,  I  am  a  stranger,  and  we  are  now 
Upon  its  frontier. 

Ulr.  Tou  perceive  my  garb 

Is  Saxon,  and  of  course  my  service  due 
To  my  own  sovereign.    If  I  must  decline 
VOL.  v.— D 


34  WSBIfEBf  ACTA. 

Your  offer,  't  is  with  the  same  feeling  which 
Induced  it 

StraL  Why,  this  is  mere  usuiy ! 

I  owe  my  Ufe  to  you,  and  you  reibse 
•    The  acquittance  of  the  interest  of  the  debt. 
To  heap  more  obhgations  on  me,  tiU 
I  bow  beneath  them. 

Ulr,  You  shall  say  so  when 

I  claim  the  payment 

Stral.  Well,  sir,  since  you  will  not — 

You  are  nobly  bom  1 

Ulr.  I  have  heard  my  kinsmen  say  so^ 

Stral,  Your  actions  show  it     Might  I  ask  your  mime  1 

Ulr.  Ulric- 

Sjiral.  Your  house's  1 

Ulr.  When  I  'm  worthy  of  it, 

I  'U  answer  you.  ^ 

Stral.  {aside).  Most  probably  an  Austrian, 
Whom  these  unsettled  times  forbid  to  boast 
His  lineage  on  these  wild  and  dangerous  frontiers. 
Where  the  name  of  his  country  is  abhorr'd. 

[.^/oud/o  Fritz  and  Idenstein. 
So,  sirs  !  how  have  ye  sped  in  your  researches  ? 

Iden.  Indifferent  well,  your  excellency. 

Stral.  Then 

I  am  to  deem  the  plunderer  is  caught  t 

Iden.  Humph !  —  not  exactly. 

Stral.  Or  at  least  suspected  1 

Ideru  Oh !  for  that  matter,  very  much  suspected. 

Stral.  Who  may  he  be  ? 

Iden.  Why,  do  n't  you  know,  my  lord  ? 

StraL  How  should  HI  was  fast  asleep. 

Iden.  And  sc 

Was  I,  and  that 's  the  cause  I  know  no  more 
Than  does  your  excellency. 

Stral.  Dolt! 

Iden.  Why,  if 

Your  lordship,  being  robb'd,  do  n'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 
£xactly  like  the  rest,  or  rather  better : 
'T  is  only  at  the  bar  and  in  the  dungeon 
That  wise  men  know  your  felon  by  his  features ; 
But  I  'II  engage,  that  if  seen  there  but  once. 
Whether  he  be  found  criminal  or  no, 


tsi.  ▲  TRAOEDT.  86 

His  face  shall  be  so. 

Slral.  {to  Fritz).  Prithee,  Fritz,  inform  me 
What  hath  been  done  to  trace  the  fellow  ? 

FrUz.  Faith ! 

My  lord,  not  much  as  yet,  except  conjecture. 

StraL  Besides  the  loss  (which.  1  must  own^aiTects  nie 
Just  now  materially),  I  needs  would  find 
The  villain  out  of  public  motives  ;  for 
So  dexterous  a  spoiler,  who  could  creep 
Through  my  attendants,  and  so  many  peopled 
And  lifted  chambers,  on  my  rest,  and  snatch 
The  gold  before  my  scarce-closed  eyes,  would  soon 
Leave  bare  your  borough.  Sir  Intendant ! 

Iden.  True ; 

If  there  were  aught  to  carry  off,  my  lord. 

Ulr.  What  is  aU  this? 

StraL  You  join'd  us  but  this  morning. 

And  have  not  heard  that  I  wan  robb'd  last  night. 

Ulr,  Some  rumour  of*  it  reach'd  me  as  1  ptiss'd 
The  outer  chambers  of  the  palace,  but 
1  know  no  further. 

Siral,  It  is  a  strange  business ; 

The  intendant  can  inform  you  of  the  facts. 

/den.  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  ^tm,  and  addre$$ing  Ulric). 
In  short,  I  was  asleep  upon  a  chair, 
My  cabinet  before  me,  with  some  gold 
Upon  it,  (more  than  I  much  like  to  lose, 
Inough  in  part  only) :  some  ingenious  person 
Contrived  to  glide  through  all  my  own  attendantif 
Besides  those  of  the  plaoe,  and  bore  away 
A  hundred  golden  ducaia,  which  to  find 
I  would  be  fain,  and  thei«  's  an  end.     Peihapa 
Tou  (as  I  still  am  lather  faint)  would  add 
To  yesterday's  great  obligation,  thia, 
Though  slighter,  not  yet  slight,  to  aid  these  men 
(Who  seem  but  lukewarm)  in  recovering  it  ? 

Ulr.  Most  willingly,  and  without  loss  of  time  *- 
{To  InEKBTEiN).  Come  hither,  mynheer ! 

Iden.  But  so  much  haste  bodes 

Right  little  speed,  and  -*-^ 

Uh.  Standing  motionless 


36  WERK BR,  ACT  IL 

None ;  so  let  ^s  march :  we  'II  talk  as  we  go  oil 

fden.  But 

I  Ulr.  Show  the  spot,  and  dien  I  '11  answer  you. 

,  Friiz.  I  will,  sir,  with  his  excellency's  leave. 

StraL  Do  so,  and  take  yoD  old  ass  with  you. 

Fritz.  Hence! 

Ulr.  Come  on,  okl  oracle^  expound  thy  riddle ! 

lExit  ioith  Idenstein  and  Fritz. 

Siral.  {aolu8).    A  stalwart,  active,  soldier-looking  strip- 
ling, 
Handsome  as  Hercules  ere  his  first  labour. 
And  with  a  brow  of  thought  beyond  his  years 
When  in  repose,  till  his  eye  kindles  up 
In  answering  yours.  '  I  wish  I  could  engage  him  : 
I  have  need  of  some  such  spirits  near  me  now. 
For  this  inheritance  is  worth  a  struggle. 
And  though  I  am  not  the  man  to  3deld  without  one, 
Neither  are  they  who  now  rise  up  between  me 
And  my  desire.     The  boy,  &ey  say,  's  a  bold  ona; 
But  he  hath  play'd  the  truant  in  some  hour 
Of  freakish  folly,  leaving  fortune  to 
Champion  his  claims.  •  That 's  well.     The  father,  whom 
For  years  I  've  track'd,  as  does  the  blood-hound,  never 
In  sight,  but  constantly  in  scent,  had  put  me 
To  &ult ;  but  here  I  hme  him,  and  that 's  better. 
It  must  be  he  !  All  circumstance  proclaims  it ; 
And  careless  voices,  knowing  not  the  cause 
Of  my  inquiries,  still  confirm  it.  —  Yes ! 
The  man,  his  bearing,  and  the  mystery 
Of  his  arrival,  and  the  time ;  the  account,  too-. 
The  intendant  gave  (for  I  have  not  beheld  her) 
Of  his  wife's,  dignified  but  foreign  aspect ; 
Besides  the  antipathy  with  which  we  met, 
As  snakes  and  Uons  shrink  back  from  each  other 
By  secret  instinct  that  both  must  be  foes 
Deadly,  without  being  natural  prey  to  either ; 
All  —  all  —  confirm  it  to  my  mind.     However, 
We  'U  grapple,  ne'ertheless.     In  a  few  hours 
The  order  comes  from  Frankfort,  if  these  waters 
Rise  not  the  higher,  (and  the  weather  favours 
Their  quick  abatement),  and  I  '11  have  him  safe 
Widiin  a  dungeon,  where  he  may  avouch 
His  real  estate  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, 


▲    TRAGEOT.  87 

And  that 's  defenceless.*-  True,  we  have  no  proofs 

Of  guilt,  —  but  what  hath  he  of  innocence  ? 

Were  he  a  man  indifferent  to  my  prospects, 

In  other  bearings,  I  should  rather  lay 

The  inculpation  on  the  Hungarian,  who 

Hath  something  which  I  like  not ;  land  alone 

Of  all  around,  except  the  intendant,  and 

The  prince's  household  and  my  own,  had  ingress 

Familiar  to  the  chamber. 

Enter  Gabor. 

Friend,  how  fare  you? 

Crab.  As  those  who  fare  well  every  where,  when  they 

Have  supp'd  and  slumber'd,  no  great  matter  how 

And  you,  my  lord  7 

StraL  Better  in  rest  than  purse : 

Mine  inn  is  like  to  cost  me  dear. 

Gab,  I  heard 

Of  your  late  loss  ;  but  k  is  a  trifle  to 
One  of  your  order. 

Stral.  You  would  hardly  think  so, 

Were  the  loss  yours. 

Gab.  I  never  had  so  much 

(At  once)  in  my  whole  life,  and  therefore  am  not 
Fit  to  decide.     But  I  came  here  to  seek  you. 
Your  couners  are  lum'd  back  —  I  have  outstripp'd  them. 
In  my  return. 

Siral.  You!  — YKhy? 

Gab.  I  went  at  daybreak 

To  watch  for  the  abatement  of  the  river, 
As  being  anxious  to  resume  my  journey. 
Your  messengers  were  all  chedk'd  like  myself; 
And,  seeing  the  case  hopeless,  I  await 
The  current's  pleasure. 

Siral.  Would  the  dogs  were  in  it ! 

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  swoln  stream),  and  be  obey'd,  perhaps 
They  might  have  ventured. 

Stral.  I  must  see  to  it : 

The  knaves !  the  slaves !  —but  they  shall  smart  for  this. 

lExit  Stbalenheim. 


WURKBy  ACrn. 

Gab.  (solus).  There  goes  my  noble,  feudal,  self-will'd 
baron ) 
£pitom^  of  what  brave  chivalry 
The  preux  chevaliers  of  the  good  old  times 
Have  left  us.     Yesterday  he  would  have  given 
His  lands  (if  he  hath  any),  and,  still  dearer. 
His  sixteen  quarterings,  for  as  much  fresh  air 
As  would  have  fillM  a  bladder,  while  he  lay 
Gurgh'n^  and  foaming  half  way  through  the  window 
Of  his  o  erset  and  water-logg'd  conveyance ; 
And  now  he  storms  at  half  a  dozen  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  Gabor. 


SCENE  n. 

The  Apartment  of  Werner,  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  JosnpiiixE  and  Ulric. 

Jos.  Stand  back,  and  let  me  look  on  thee  again ' 
My  Ulric !  —  my  beloved !  —  can  it  be  — 
After  twelve  years  ? 

Ulr.  My  dearest  mother ! 

Jos.  Yes ! 

My  dream  is  realised  —  how  beautiful !  — 
How  more  than  all  I  sigh'd  for !  Heaven  receive 
A  mother's  thanks !  —  a  mother's  tears  of  joy ! 
This  is  indeed  thy  work !  —  At  such  an  hour,  too, 
He  comes  not  only  as  a  son,  but  saviour 

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  ne'er  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,  't  is  so  dazzled  from 
My  memory,  by  this  oblivious  transport !  — 
Mv  son ! 


an.  ▲  TRAGBDT.  80 

Enter  W^nyvn. 

Wer.  What  have  we  here,  more  strangers? 

Jo9.  No! 

Look  upon  him !  What  do  you  see  ? 

Wep.  A  stripling, 

For  the  first  time  — 

Vlr.  {kneding).  For  twelve  long  years,  my  father ! 

TFer..Oh,  God! 

Jos,  He  faints ! 

Wer,  No — I  am  better  now— 

Ulric  !  {Embraces  him). 

Ulr.  My  father,  Siegendorf ! 

Wer,  (starting).  Hush!  boy  — 

The  walls  may  hear  that  name  I 

Ulr.  What  tnen  ? 

Wer.  Why,  then  — 

But  we  will  talk  of  that  anon.     Remember, 
I  must  be  known  here  but  as  Werner.     Come ! 
Come  to  my  arms  again !  Why,  thou  look'st  all 
I  should  have  been,  and  was  not.     Josephine !  ' 
Sure  't  is  no  father's  fondness  dazzles  me ; 
But,  had  I  seen  that  form  amid  ten  thousand 
Youth  of  the  choicest,  my  heart  would  have  chosen 
This  for  my  son ! 

Vlr.  And  yet  you  knew  me  not ! 

Wer.  Alas  I  I  have  had  that  upon  my  soul 
Which  makes  me  look  on  all  men  with  an  eye 
That  only  knows  the  evil  at  first  glance. 

Ulr.  My  memory  served  me  far  more  fondly :  I 
Have  not  forgotten  aught ;  and  oft-times  in 
The  proud  and  princely  halls  of —  (I  '11  not  name  them, 
As  you  say  that '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,  with  those  huge  hills  between  us. 
They  shall  not  part  us  more. 

Wer.  I  know  not  that.  . 

Are  you  aware  my  father  is  no  more  ? 

Vlr.  Oh,  heavens !  I  left  him  in  a  green  old  age, 
And  looking  like  the  oak,  worn,  but  still  steady 
Amidst  the  elements,  whilst  younger  trees 
Fell  fast  around  him.     'T  was  scarce  three  months  since. 

Wer.  Why  did  you  leave  him  ? 


40  WBBNSB, 


ACT  a. 


Jos,  {embracing  Ulric).  Can  you  ask  that  question  ? 
Is  he  not  here  7 

Wer,  True ;  he  hath  sought  his  parents. 

And  found  them ;  but,  oh !  Aoto,  and  in  what  state ! 

Ulr.  All  shall  be  better'd.     What  we  have  to  do 
Is  to  proceed,  and  to  assert  our  rights, 
Or  rather  yours ;  for  I  wave  all,  unless 
Your  father  has  disposed  in  such  a  sort 
Of  his  broad  lands  as  to  make  mine  the  foremost, 
So  that  t  must  prefer  my  claim  for  form : 
But  I  tru^  better,  and  that  all  is  yours. 

Wer.  Have  you  not  heard  of  Stralenheim  ? 

Ulr.  I  saved 

His  life  but  yesterday :  he  's  here. 

Wer.  You  saved 

The  serpent  who  will  sting  us  all ! 

Ulr»  You  speak 

Riddles :  what  is  this  Stralenheim  to  us  ? 

Wer,   Every   thing.      One   who  claims  our   father's 
lands: 
Our  distant  kinsman,  and  our  nearest  foe. 

Ulr.  I  never  heard  his  name  till  now.     The  count, 
Indeed,  spoke  sometimes  of  a  kinsman,  who. 
If  his  own  line  shotild  fail,  might  be  remotely 
Involved  in  the  succession ;  but  his  titles 
Were  never  named  before  me  —  and  what  then  ? 
His  right  must  yield  to  ours. 

Wer.  Ay,  if  at  Prague : 

But  here  he  is  all-powerful^  and  has  spread 
Snares  for  thy  father,  which,  if  hitherto 
He  hath  escaped  them,  is  by  fortune,  not 
By  favour. 

Ulr.  Doth  he  personally  know  you  1 

Wer.  No ;  but  he  guesses  shrewdly  at  my  person, 
As  he  betray'd  last  night ;  and  I,  perhaps, 
But  owe  my  temporary  liberty 
To  his  uncertainty. 

XJlr.  I  think  you  wrong  him, 

(Excuse  me  for  the  phrase) ;  but  Stralenheim 
s  not  what  you  prejudge  him,  or,  if  so. 
He  owes  me  something  both  for  past  and  present. 
I  saved  his  life,  he  therefore  trusts  in  me. 
He  hath  been  plunder'd  too,  since  he  came  hither :    * 
Is  sick ;  a  stranger ;  and  as  such  not  now 
Able  to  trace  the  villain  who  hath  robb'd  him : 
I  have  pledged  myself  to  do  so ;  and  the  business 


A   nAOBDT.  41 

Which  brought  me  here  was  chiefly  that :  but  I 
Have  found,  in  searching  for  another's  dross, 
My  own  whole  treasure — you,  my  parents! 

Wer.  {agitatedly).  Who 

Taught  you  to  mouth  that  name  of  ^  villain  7 " 

m.  What 

More  noble  name  belongs  to  comi|y>n  thieves  ? 

Wtr.  Who  taught  you  thus  to  brand  an  unknown  be* 
ing 
With  an  infernal  stigma  7 

TJlr.  My  own  fedings 

Taught  me  to  name  a  ruffian  from  his  dee& 

Wer.  Who  taught  you,  long-sought  and  ill«found  boy  * 
that 
It  would  be  safe  for  my  own  son  to  insult  me  7 

Ulr.  I  named  a  villain.     What  is  there  in  common 
With  such  «  being  and  my  father:? 

Wer.  •  Every  thing ! 

That  rufiian  is  thy  father ! 

Jos.  Oh,  my  son ! 

Believe  him  not  —  and  yet !  ■       {her  voice  falters.) 

Ulr.  (startSf  looks  eamesdy  at  Wbbnek,  and  then  says 
slowly^)  And  you  avow  it  f 

Wer.  Ulric,  before  you  dare  despise  your  fath^. 
Learn  to  divine  and  judge  his  actions.     Youngs 
Rash,  new  to  life,  and  rear'd  in  luxury's  lap, 
Is  it  for  you  to  measure  passion's  force. 
Or  misery's  temptation?  Wait — (not  long, 
It  cometh  like  the  night,  and  quicM^)  —  W  ait !  — 
Wait  till,  like  me,  your  hopes  are  blighted  —  till 
Sorrow  and  shame  are  handmaids  of  your  cabin ; 
Famine  and  poverty  your  guests  at  table ; 
Despair  your  bed*fellow  —  then  rise,  but  not 
From  sleep,  and  judge !  Should  that  day  e'er  arrive  — ^ 
Should  you  see  then  the  serpeqt,  who  hath  coil'd 
Himself  around  all  that  is  dear  and  noble 
Of  you  and  yours,  lie  slumbering  in  your  path, 
With  but  his  folds  between  your  steps  and  happiness, 
When  Ae,  who  lives  but  to  tear  from  you  name. 
Lands,  life  itself,  lies  at  your  mercy,  with 
Chance  your  conductor ;  midnight  for  your  mantle ; 
The  bare  knife  in  your  hand,  and  earth  asleep, 
Even  to  your  deadliest  foe ;  and  he  as  't  were 
Inviting  death,  by  looking  like  it,  while 
His  death  at<me  can  save  you : — Thank  your  God ' 
If  then,  like  me,  content  with  petty  plunder, 


42  WBBIOBS, 


ACTII. 


You  turn  aside 1  did  so. 

Ulr.  But 

Wer.  (abrupUy).  Hear  me! 

I  will  not  brook  a  human  voice -^scarce  dare 
Listen  to  my  own  (if  that  be  human  still)  — 
Hear  me !  you  do  not  know  this  man— I  do. 
He  's  mean,  deceit]^,  avaricious.  .  You 
Deem  yourself  safe,  as  young  and  brave ;  but  learn 
None  are  secure  from  desperation,  few 
From  subtilty.     My  worst  foe,  Stralenheim, 
Housed  in  a  prince's  palace,  couch'd  within 
A  prince's  chamber,  lay  below  my  knife ! 
An  instant — a  mere  motion — the  least  impulse-** 
Had  swept  him  and  all  fears  of  mine  from  earth. 
He  was  within  my  power— r 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  ?  of 
To  plunge  you,  with  your  parents,  in  a  dungeon  ? 

[He  pauses 
Ulr.  Proceed  —  proceed! 

Wer,  Me  he  hath  ever  known. 

And  hunted  through  each  change  of  time — name  —  for 

•    tune  — 
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  spum'd 
Even  from  my  presence ;  but,  in  spuming  now. 
Fill  only  with  fresif  venom.     Will  you  be 
More  patient  T  —  Ulric !  —  Ulric !  there  are  crimes 
Made  venial  by  the  occasion,  and  temptations 
Which  nature  cannot  master  or  forbear. 

Ulr,  (Jooks first  at  him,  and  then  at  Josephine).     Mv 

mother ! 
Wer.  Ay !  I  thought  so :  you  have  now 

Only  one  parent.     I  have  lost  alike 
Father  and  son,  and  stand  alone. 

Ulr.  But  stay: 

[Wekner  rushes  out  of  the  chamher. 
Jos.  {to  Ulric).  Follow  him  not,  until  this  storm  of  pas- 
sion 
Abates.     Tbink'st  thou,  that  were  it  well  for  him, 
I  hadnot  foUow'd? 

Ulr.  I  obey  you,  mother,    . . 

Although  rehictantly.     My  first  act  shall  not 
Be  one  of  disobedience. 


IcaiBll*  A  TRAOBOT.  48 

Jo$.  Oh  !  he  is  good ! 

Condemn  him  not  from  his  own  mouth,  bat  trust 
To  me,  who  have  borne  so  much  with  him,  and  for  him. 
That  this  is  but  the  surface  of  his  soul. 
And  that  the  depth  is  rich  in  better  things. 

Uhr.  These  then  are  but  my  father's  principles  ? 
My  mother  thinks  not  with  him  7 

Joi.  Nor  doth  he 

Think  as  he  speaks.    Alas !  long  years  of  grief 
Have  made  hun  sometimes  thus. 

l7/r.  Explain  to  me 

More  clearly,  then,  these  claims  of  Stralenheim, 
That,  when  I  see  the  subject  in  its  bearings, 
I  may  prepare  to  face  him,  or  at  least 
To  extricate  you  from  your  present  perils. 
I  pledge  myself  to  accomplish  this  —  but  would 
I  had  arrived  a  few  hours  sooner ! 

Joi.  Ay! 

Hadst  thou  but  done  so ! 

Enter  Gabor  0ni  Idkivstbin,  vMh  AUendanU. 

Crab,  {to  Uluc).  I  have  sought  you,  comrade. 

So  this  is  my  reward ! 

Vlr,  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gab,  'Sdeath!  have  I   lived  to  these  years,  and  for 
this! 
( 7b  Idknstein).  Bnt  for  your  age  and  folly,  I  would 

Iden.  Help « 

Hands  off!  Touch  an  intendant ! 

Crab,  Do  not  think 

I  '11  honour  you  so  much  as  save  your  throat 
From  the  Ravenstone*  by  choking  you  myself. 

Iden,  I  thank  you  for  the  respite :  but  there  are 
Those  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  worthy  personage  has  deignM  to  fix 
His  kind  suspicions^ me !  whom  he  ne'er  saw 
Till  yester'  evening. 

Iden,  Wouldst  have  me  suspect 

My  own  acquaintances  ?    You  have  to  learn 
That  I  keep  better  company. 

Gab.  You  shall 

*  The  Rarenstone,  "  Rabenstein,"  is  the  sUmegitbet  of  Gennmny,  and  ■ocall* 
ed  fiom  the  ravem  perching;  on  it. 


44  WKKNEB,  AOPIL 

Keep  the  best  shortly,  and  the  last  for  all  men, 
The  worms !  you  hound  of  malice ! 

[Gabor  geixes  on  him 

Ulr,  (ifUetfering),  Nay,  no  violence : 

He  's  old,  unarm'd  —  be  temperate,  Gabor  J 

Gab,  (letting  go  Idenstbin)«  True : 

I  am  a  fool  to  lose  myself  because 
Fools  deem  me  knave :  it  is  their  homage. 

Ulr.  (to  Idexstein).  How 

Fare  you? 

Iden.        Help! 

Ulr,  I  haoe  help'd  you. 

Iden,  Kill  him !  then 

I  '11  say  so. 

Gab,  I  am  calm  —  live  on ! 

Iden,  That 's  more 

Than  you  shall  do,  if  there  be  judge  or  judgment 
In  Germany.     The  baron  shall  decide ! 

Gab,  Does  he  abet  you  in  your  accusation  ? 

Iden,  Does  he  not  ? 

Crab,  Then  n    t  time  let  him  go  sink 

Ere  I  go  hang  for  snatching  him  from  drowning. 
But  here  he  comes ! 

Enlter  Stralenreim. 

Gab,  (goes  up  to  him).  My  noble  lord,  I  'm  here  ! 

Strd,  Well,  sir ! 

Gab.  Have  you  aught  with  me  1 

Stral.  What  should  I 

Have  with  you  ? 

Gab,  Tou  know  best,  if  yesterday's 

Flood  has  not  wash'd  away  your  memory ; 
But  that's  a  trifle.     I  stand  here  accused. 
In  phrases  not  equivocal,  by  yon 
Intendant,  of  the  pillage  of  your  person 
Or  chamber  :  —  is  the  charge  your  own  or  his  ? 

Stral,  I  accuse  no  man. 
Gab,  Then  you  acquit  me,  baron  ? 

Stral,  I  know  not  whom  to  accuse,  or  to  acquit. 
Or  scarcely  to  suspect. 

Gab,  But  you  at  least 

Should  know  whom  not  to  suspect.     I  am  insulted  — 
Oppress'd  here  by  these  menials,  and  I  look 
To  you  for  remedy  —  teach  them  their  duty ! 
To  look  for  thieves  at  home  were  part  of  it, 


BO.  A  TKAOSDT.  46 

If  duly  taught ;  but,  in  one  word,  if  I 
Have  an  accuser,  let  it  be  a  man 
Worthy  to  be  w>  of  a  roan  like  me* 
I  am  your  equal. 

Strd.  Toul 

Gofr.  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  dene  for  you,  and  what  you  owe  me, 
To  have  at  least  waited  your  payment  rather 
Than  paid  myself,  had  I  been  eager  of 
Your  ^old.    I  aliBO  know,  that  were  I  even 
The  villain  I  am  deem*d,  the  service  render'd 
So  recently  vrould  not  permit  you  to 
Pursue  me  to  the  death,  except  through  shame. 
Such  as  would  leave  your  scutcheon  but  a  blank. 
But  this  is  nothing :  I  demand  of  you 
Justice  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. 

Stnd.  This  tone 

May  be  of  innocence. 

Gab.  'Sdeath !  who  dare  doubt  it. 

Except  such  villains  as  ne'er  had  it  7 

Stral.  You 

Are  hot,  sir. 

€M.  Most  I  turn  an  icicle 

Before  the  breath  of  meniais,  and  their  master  ? 

Strtd.  Ulric  f  you  know  this  man ;  I  found  him  in 
Your  company. 

Crab.  We  found  you  in  the  Oder, 

Would  we  had  left  you  there ! 

Stred.  I  give  you  thanks,  sir. 

Crab.  I  Ve  eam'd  them ;  but  might  have  earn'd  more 
from  others. 
Perchance,  if  I  had  lefl  you  to  your  fate. 

Stral.  Ulric !  you  know  this  man  t 

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.  i 

Stral.  Then 


46  WBBIOBK,  AOr  IL 

I  'm  satisfied. 

Gab,  {ironically).  Right  easily,  methinks* 
What  is  the  spell  in  his  asseveration 
More  than  in  mine  ? 

Siral.  I  merely  said  that  / 

Was  satisfied  —  not  that  you  are  absolved.    ' 

Gab.  Again !     Am  I  accused  or  no  ? 

Stral.  Goto! 

You  wax  too  insolent.     If  circumstance 
And  general  suspicion  he  against  you, 
Is  the  fault  mine  2     Is  't  not  enough  that  I 
Decline  all  question  of  your  guilt  or  innocenoe  ? 

Gab.  My  lord,  my  lord,  thiis  is  mere  cozenage, 
A  vile  equivocation ;  you  well  know    . 
Your  doubts  are  certainties  to  all  around  you  — 
Your  looks  a  voice  —  your  frowns  a  sentence ;  you 
Are  practising  your  power  on  me — because  . 
You  have  it ;  but  beware !  you  know  not  whom 
You  strive  to  tread  on* 

Stral.  Threat'st  thou  ? 

Gab.  Not  so  much 

As  you  accuse.     You  hint  the  basest  injury, 
And  I  retort  it  with  an  open  warning. 

Stral.  As  you  have  said,  't  is  true  I  owe  you  some- 
thing. 
For  which  you  seem  disposed  to  pay  yourself. 

Gab.  Not  with  your  gold. 

Stral.  With  bootless  insolence. 

[To  Jus  Attendants  and  Idexsteix 
You  need  not  further  to  molest  this  man, 
But  let  him  go  his  way.     Ulric,  good  morrow ! 

[ExU  Stralettheih,  Idenstein,  and  Attendants. 

Gab.  (foUoiting).  I  *11  after  him  and 

Ulr.  {stopping  him).  Not  a  step. 

Gab.  Who  shall 

Oppose  me  ? 

Ulr.  Your  own  reason,  with  a  moment's 

Thought. 

6raS.       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  earth. 
I  've  seen  you  brave  the  elements,  and  bear . 
Things  which  had  made  the  silkworm  cast  his  skin  — 
And  shrink  you  from  a  few  sharp  sneers  and  words  t 


n. 


▲  TB1.6SDT.  47 


G^b.  Must  I  bear  to  be  deem'd  a  thief?    If 't  were 
A  bandit  of  the  woods^  I  could  have  bqjrne  it  — 
There's  something  daring  in  it ;  —  bat  to  steal 
The  moneys  of  a  slumbering  man !  — 

Ulr.  It  seems,  then 

You  are  not  guilty  ? 

Gab.  Do  I  hear  aright  ? 

.   You  too! 

Vlr.        I  merely  ask*d  a  simple  question* 

Gab.  If  the  judge  ask'd  me,  I  would  answer  "No'- 
To  you  I  answer  ikut.  (He  draw$.) 

Ulr.  (drawing).  With  all  my  heart ! 

Jo8.  Without  tiiere !     Ho ! .  help !    help !  —  Oh,  God ! 
.  here's  murder !  [ExU  Josephine,  shrieking. 

Gabor  and  Vluic fgJU.     Gabor  ig  dUarmedjwt  as  Stralen- 
HBix,  Josephine,  Idenstein,  4*^.  re-enter. 

Jos.  Oh  !  glorious  heaven !     He  's  safe  ! 

SlraL.  (to  Josephine).  Who  's  safe  ? 

Jos.  My 

IJlr.  (interrupting  her  teith  a  stem  looky  and  turning  af- 
terwards to  Stralenueix).  Both ! 
Here's  no  great  harm  done. 

Strd.  What  hath  caused  all  this  1 

Vlr.  YoUf  baron,  I  believe ;  but  as  the  effect 
Is  harmless,  let  it  not  disturb  you.  •«-  Gabor ! 
There  is  your  sword ;  and  when  you  bare  it  next, 
Let  it  not  be  against  your  friends. 

[Ulric  pronounces  the  last  words  slowly  and  emphatically 
in  a  low  voice  to  Gabor. 

Gab.  I  thank  you 

Less  for  my  life,  than  for  your  counsel. 

Siral.  These 

Brawls  must  end  here. 

Gab.  (taking  his  sword).  They  shall.    You  have  wrong'd 
me,  Ulric, 
More  with  your  Unkind  thoughts  than  sword :  I  would 
The  last  were  in  my  bosom  rather  than 
The  first  in  yours.     I  could  have  borne  yon  noble's 
Absurd  insinuations  —  ignorance 
And  dull  suspicion  are  a  part  of  his 
Entail  will  last  him  longer  than  his  lands.  — 
But  I  may  fit  him  yet :  — you  have  vanquish'd  me. 
I  was  the  fool  'of  passion  to  conceive 
That  I  could  cope  with  you,  whom  I  had  seen 


48  wasHBBy  Aorn. 

Alfeady  proved  by  greater  perils  than 

Rest  in  tiiis  arm.     We  may  meet  by  and  by. 

However  —  but  in  friendship.  [ExU  Gabob. 

Sind.  I  will  brook 

No  more  !     This  outrage  following  up  his  insults, 
Perhaps  his  guilt,  has  cancelled  all  the  littb 
[  owed  him  heretolbve  for  the  so-vaunted 
Aid  which  he  added  to  your  abler  succour.. 
Ulric,  you  are  not  hurt  ?  — ; 

Vlr.  Not  even  by  a  seratch. 

Stral.  (to  Idenstbin).  Intendant!  take  your  measures 
to  secure 
Yon  fellow :  I  revoke  my  former  lenity. 
He  shall  be  srat  to  FraoJdfort  with  an  escort 
The  instant  that  the  waters  have  abated. 

Iden.  Secure  him !     He  hath  got  his  sword  again  — 
And  seems  to  know  the  use  on  't ;  't  is  his  trade, 
Belike ;  —  I  'm  a  civilian. 

Stral.  Fool }  are  not 

Yon  score  of  vassals  dogging  at  your  heels 
Enough  to  seize  a  dozen  such  7    Hence !  after  him ! 

Vlr.  Baron,  I  do  beseech  you  1 

8U^  I  must  be 

Obey'd.     No  words ! 

Iden,  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  AttendanU. 

Stral.  Come  hither, 

Ulric  :  what  does  that  woman  here  ?     Oh !  now 
I  recognise  her,  't  is  the  stranger's  wife 
Whom  they  name  "  Werner." 

Ulr,  'T  is  his  name. 

S(ral.  Indeed ! 

Is  not  your  husband  visible,  fair  dame  ?  — 

Jo8.  Who  seeks  him  7 

Stral.  No  one  — *  for  the  p^resent :  but 

I  fain  would  parley,  Ulric,  with  yourseM* 
Alone. 

Ulr.  I  will  retire  with  you. 

Jos.  Not  so : 

You  are  the  latest  stranger,  and  command 
All  places  here. 
{AndetoVLBic^asshe  goesmtt.)  O Ulric !  have  a  care —» 


4t 

Remeniber  what  depends  on  a  raah  word ! 

Vir*  (te  JoeBPHniB.)  Fear  not !  ««- 

£nf  JotBi!piifs« 

8lrml.  Ubric,  I  think  tfiat  I  may  trust  yoa  : 
Too  saved  my  life  —and  acts  like  these  heget 
Unbounded  confidence. 

Ulr,  Say  on. 

Sind.  Mystorions 

And  long-engender'd  circomstances  (not 
To  be  now  raHy  enterM  on^  have  made 
This  man  obnoxious  -*  pernaps  fiital  to  me. 

C72r.  Who  t  Gabor,  the  Hungarian  ? 

Strd.  No  — this  <« Werner"  — 

With  the  false  name  and  habit. 

Uhr.  How  can  this  be  f 

He  is  the  poorest  of  the  poor -i- and  yellow 
Sickness  sits  cavemM  in  his  hollow  eye  : 
T1:ie  man  is  helpless. 

StraL  Heis—'t  is  no  matter  t-— 

But  if  he  be  the  man  I  deem  (and  that 
He  is  so,  all  around  us  here  •—  and  much 
That  is  not  here — confirm  my  apprehension  ) 
He  must  be  made  secure  ere  twelve  hours  further. 

Ulr.  And  what  have  I  to  do  with  this? 

Stred.  I  have  sent 

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  this  cursed  flo<^ 
Bars  all  access,  and  may  do  for  some  hours. 

Vlr,  It  is  abating. 

Stral.  That  is  well. 

Ulr.  But  how 

Am  I  concerned  t 

Strain  As  one  who  did  so  much 

For  me,  you  cannot  be  indifTeitent  to 
That  which  is  of  more  import  to  me  than 
The  life  you  rescued.  — « Keep  your  eye  on  km  ! 
Hie  man  avoids  me,  knows  that  I  now  know  him.— 
Watch  him! — as  you  would  watch  the  wild  boar  when 
He  makes  against  you  in  the  hunter's  gap  — « 
Like  him  he  must  be  spear'd. 

Ulr.  WhysoT 

Stral.  He  stands 

Between  me  and  a  brave  inheritance ! 
Oh !  could  you  see  it !  But  you  shall. 

VOL.  V.  —  ■ 


60  WBSKBBf 


Acrn. 


Vh.  I  hope  80.  . 

Siral,  It  is  the  richest  of  the  rich  Bohemia* 
Unscathed  by  scorching  war.     It  lies  so  near 
The  strongest  city;  Prague,  that  fire  and  sword 
Have  skimm'd  it  lightly :  so  that  now,  besides 
Its  own  exuberance,  it  bears  double  value 
Confronted  with  whole  realms  far  and  near 
Made  deserts. 

Ulr.  You  describe  it  faithfully. 

Stral,   Ay  —  could  you  see  it,  you  would  say  so— - 
but. 
As  I  have  said,  you  shall. 

Vhr,  I  accept  the  omen. 

Strai.  Then  claim  a  recompense  from  it  and  me, 
Such  as  hoik  may  make  worthy  your  acceptance 
And  services  to  me  and  mine  for  ever. 

Ulr*  And  this  sole,  sick,  and  miserable  wretch  — 
This  way-worn  stranger — stands  between  you  and 
This  Paradise  ? —  (As  Adam  did  between 
The  devil  and  his  )  —  [Ande\» 

Stroll.  He  doth. 

Ulr,  Hafh  he  no  right  ? 

Strai.  Right !  none.    A  disinherited  prodigal, 
Who  for  these  twenty  years  disgraced  his  lineage 
In  all  his  acts  —  but  chiefly  by  his  marriage, 
And  living  amidst  commerce-fetching  burghers, 
And  dabbling  merchants*  in  a  mart  of  Jews. 

Uhr.  He  has  a  wife,  then  ? 

Slrai.  You  'd  be  sorry  to 

Call  such  your  mother.    You  have  seen  tl^e  woman 
He  caUs  his  wife. 

Ulr*  Is  she  not>so7 

Strdl,  No  more 

Than  he  's  your  father : — an  Italian  ^rl, 
The  daughter  of  a  bamish'd  man,  who  lives 
On  love  and  poverty  with  this  same  Werner. 

Ulr,  They  are  childless,  then  ? 

Strai,  There  is  or  was  a  bastard. 

Whom  the  old  man — the  j;randsire'(as  old  age 
Is  ever  doting^  took  to  warm  his  bosom, 
As  it  went  chilly  downward  to  the  grave : 
But  the  imp  stands  not  in  my  path — he  has  fled, 
No  one  knows  whither ;  and  if  he  had  not, 
His  claims  alone  were  too  contemptible 
To  stand. ^Why  do  you  smile  7 

Ulr,  At  your  vain  fears  : 


51 

A  poor  man  almost  in  his  grasp — a  child 
Of  doubtless  birth  —  can  startle  a  grandee ! 

Sind.  All 's  to  be  fear'd,  where  all  is  to  be  gain'd. 

Vhr.  True ;  and  aught  done  to  save  or  to  obtain  it. 

Stnd.  Tou  have  harp'd  the  very  string  next  to  my 
heart. 
I  may  depend  upon  you  ? 

Ufr.  T  were  too  late 

To  doubt  it.  ; 

Siral,  Let  no  foolish  pity  shake 

Your  bosom  (for  the  appearance  of  the  man 
Is  pitiful)  —  he  is  a  wretch,  as  likely 
To  have  robb'd  roe  as  the  fellow  more  suspected. 
Except  that  circumstance  is  less  against  him ; 
He  being  lodged  far  off,  and  in  a  jchamber 
Without  approach  to  mine :  and,  to  say  truth* 
I  think  too  well  of  blood  allied  to  jnine, 
To  deem  he  would  descend  to  such  an  act : 
Besides,  he  was  a  soldier,  and;a  brave  one 
Once  —  though  too  rash. 

Uhr.  And  they,  my  lord,  we  know 

By  our  experience,  never  plunder  tUl 
They  knock  the  brains  out  Avt*-*- which   makes  them 

heirs. 
Not  thieves.     The  dead,  who  feel  nought,  can  kwe  no- 
thing. 
Nor  e'er  be  robb*d«  their  spoils 'fure  a  bequest  — 
No  more* 

Stral.        Go  to !  you  are  a  wag.    But  say 
I  may  be  sure  you  11  keep  an  eye  on  this  man. 
And  let  me  know  his  slightest  movement  towards 
Concealment  or  escape? 

Vlr.  You  may  be  sure 

Y'ou  yourself  could  not  watch  him  more  thaji  I 
Will  be  his  sentinel. 

Sind.  By  this  you  make  me 

Yours,  and  for  ever. 

Vlr,  Such  is  my  intention*        [Eteuni. 


62 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

AHaU  in  the  same  Patace^fram  uhenee  the  secret  Passage  leads. 

Enter  Wbbivbb  and  Gabos. 

Gab*  Sir,  I  have  told  my  tale :  if  it  so  please  you 
To  give  me  refuge  for  a  few  hours,  well-— 
If  not,  1 11  try  my  fortune  dsewhore. 

Wer.  How 

Can  I,  80  wretched,  give  to  Misery 
A  shelter  J  -—  wanting  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  the  hunter's  entrails. 

Wer.  Ah ! 

Gab.  I  care  not 

If  it  be  so,  being  much  disposed  to  do 
The  same  myself.     But  will  you  shelter  me  ? 
I  am  oppressed  like  you  —  and  poor  like  you  — *• 
Disffraced 

m?r.  (abrupUp).  Who  told  you  that  I  was  dimraced  t 

Gab.  No  one ;  nor  did  I  say  ffou  were  so :  with 
Your  poverty  my  likeness  ended ;  but 
I  said  /  was  so-— and  would  add,  with  truth. 
As  undeservedly  as  you. 

Wer.  Again ! 

As/7 

Gab.  Or  any  other  honest  man. 
What  the  devil  would  you  have  ?  You  do  n't  believe  me 
Guilty  of  this  base  theft  7 

Wer.  No,  no  —  I  cannot. 

«  Gab.   Why  that 's  my  heart  of  honour !  yon  young 

gallant  — 
Your  miserly  intendant  and  dense  noble  — 
JDI— all  su^cted  me;  and  why?  because 
I  am  the  worst-clothed,  and  least  named  amongst  them-; 
Although,  were  Momus'  lattice  in  your  breasts, 


My  soul  might  brook  to  open  it  more  widely 

Than  theirs  :  but  thus  it  ia  —  you  poor  and  helpless -* 

Both  still  more  than  myself. 

War.  How  know  yon  that  ? 

CM.  You  're  right :  I  ask  for  shelter  at  the  hand 
Which  I  call  hripless ;  if  you  now  deny  it, 
I  were  well  paid.     But  you,  who  seem  to  have  proved 
Hie  wholesome  bitterness  of  life,  know  well. 
By  sympathy,  that  all  the  outspread  gold 
Of  the  New  World  the  Spaniard  boasts  about 
Could  ne*.  yr  tempt  the  man  who  knows  its  worth, 
Weigh'd  at  its  proper  value  in  the  balance, 
Save  in  such  guise  (and  there  I  grant  its  power. 
Because  I  feel  it),  as  may  leave  no  nightmare 
Upon  his  heart  o'  nights. 
•  Wer.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gab.   Just  what  I  say;   I  thought  my  speech  was 
plain: 
Tou  are  no  thief — nor  I  —  and,  as  true  men, 
Should  aid  each  other. 

War.  It  is  a  damn'd  world,  sir. 

Chtb.  So  is  the  nearest  of  the  two  next,  as 
The  priests  say,  (and  no  doubt  they  should  know  best), 
TlieTefore  1 11  stick  by  this— »aa  being  loth 
To  sufier  martyrdom,  at  Feast  with  such 
An  epitaph  as  larceny  upon  my  tomb. 
It  is  but  a  night's  lodging  which  I  crave ; 
To*morrow  I  will  try  the  waters,  as 
The  dove  did,  trusting  that  they  have  abated. 

Wer.  Abated  ?  Is  there  hope  of  that  ? 

Cfob.  There  was 

At  noontide. 

Wer.  Then  we  may  be  safe. 

dhb.  Are  yoti 

In  peril? 

Wer.        Poverty  is  ever  so 

Gab.  That  \  know  by  long  practice.     Will  you  not 
Promise  to  make  mine  less  ? 

Wer.  Your  poverty  ? 

Gab.  No  —  you  do  n't  look  a  leech  for  that  disorder ; 
I  meant  my  peril  only :  you  Ve  a  roof,  • 

And  I  have  none ;  I  merely  seek  a  covert. 

Wer.  Rightly ;  for  how  should  such  a  wretch  as  I 
Have  gold? 

Gab.  Scarce  honestly,  to  say  the  truth  on  't 

Although  I  almost  wish  you  had  the  baron's. 


54  WBRifxB,  Aorm. 

Wer,  Dare  you  insinuate  ? 

Gab.  Wliat? 

Wer.  You  are  aware 

To  whom  you  speak  ? 

Gab.  No ;  and  I  am  not  used 

Greatly  to  care.  {A  wnse  heard  wUhouL)  But  hark !  they 
cornel 

Wer.  Who  come? 

Gab.  The  intendant  and  his  man-hounds  afler  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  guiltless  : 
Think  if  it  were  your  own  case ! 

Wer.  (Aside).  Oh,  just  God! 

Thy  hell  is  not  hereafter !  Am  I  dust  still  t  • 

Gab.  I  see  you  're  moved ;   and  it  shows  well  in  you : 
I  may  live  to  requite  it. 

Wer.  Are  you  not 

A  spy  of  Stralenheim's  ? 

Gab.  Not  I !  and  if 

I  were,  what  is  there  to  espy  in  you? 
Although  I  recollect  his  frequent  question 
About  you  and  your  sppuse  might  lead  to  some 
Suspicion ;  but  you  best  know  —  what — and  why 
I  am  his  deadliest  foe. 

Wer.  You? 

Gab.  After  such 

A  treatment  for  the  service  which  in  part 
I  render'd  him,  I  am  his  enemy : 
If  you  are  not  his  friend,  you  will  assist  me. 

Wer.  I  will 

Gab.  But  how  ? 

Wer.  (shounng  the  paneh.  There  is  a  secret  spring : 
Remember,  I  discover'd  it  by  chance. 
And  used  it  but  for  safety. 

Gab.  Open  it. 

And  I  will  use  it  for  the  same. 

Wer.  I  found  it. 

As  I  have  said :  it  leads  through  winding  walls, 
(So  thick  as  to  bear  paths  within  their  ribs, 
*    Yet  lose  no  jot  of  strength  or  stateliness,) 
And  hollow  cells,  and  obscure  niches,  to 
I  hiK>w  hot  whither ;  you  must  not  advance : 
Give  me  your  word. 

Gab.  I^  ^3  unnecessary : 


A  ISAOaBT*  55 

How  should  I  make  my  way  in  darkneas  through 
A  Gothic  ktbyrinth  of  unknown  windings  ? 

Wer,  Yesy  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  foe  ? 
So  strangely  were  contrived  these  galleries 
By  our  Teutonic  fathers  in  old  days, 
When  man  built  less  against  the  elements 
Than  his  next  neighbour.    You  must  not  advance 
Beyond  the  two  first  windings ;  if  you  do, 
(Albeit  I  never  pass'd  them),  I  11  not  answer 
For  whilt  you  may  be  led  to*. 

Gab.  But  I  will. 

A  thousand  thanks ! 

Wer.  You  11  find  the  spring  more  obvious 

On  the  other  side ;  and,  when,  you  would  return. 
It  yields  to  the  least  touch. 

Gab.  I 'U  in— farewell! 

[Gabob  goes  in  by  the  secret  pond. 

Wer.   (sobu).  What  hwe  I  done  ?  Alas !  what  had  I 
done 
Before  to  make  this  fearful }  Let  it  be 
Still  some  atonement  that  I  save  the  man. 
Whose  sacrifice  had  saved  perhaps  my  own. — 
They'  come !  to  seek  elsewhere  what  is  before  them ! 

Enter  iDBNSTBm  and  Others^ 

Iden.  Is  he  not  here  7  He  must  have  vanish'd  then 
Through  the  dim  Gothic  glass  by  pious  aid 
Of  pictured  saints  upon  the  red  and  yellow 
Casements,  through  which,  the  sunset  streams  like  sunrise 
On  long  pearl-colour'd  beards  and  crimson  crosses, 
And  gikled  crosiers,  and-  cross'd  arms^  and  cowls, 
And  helms,  and  twisted  armour,  and  long  swords. 
All  the  fantastic  furniture  of  windows 
Dim  with  brave  knights  and  holy  hernuts,  whose 
Likeness  and  fame  uike  rest  in  some  panes 
Of  crystal,  which  each  rattling  wind  proclaims 
As  frail  as  any  other  life  or  glory. 
He  's  gone,  however. 

Wer.  Whom  do  you  seek  ? 

Iden.  A  villain. 

Wer.  Why  need  you  come  so  fari  then  ? 

Iden.  In  the  search 

Of  him  who  robb'd  the  baron. 


56 


Wet.  Are  you  sure 

You  have  divined  the  man  } 

Id/en.  Am  sure  as  you 

Stand  there :  but  where  's  he  eone  7 

Wer.  Who? 

Iden*  He  we  sought. 

Wer*  Tou  see  he  is  not  here* 

Iden.  And  yet  we  traced  him 

Up  to  this  hall.    Are  you  acccMnplices  ? 
Or  deal  you  in  the  black  art  7 

Wer.  I  deal  plainly^ 

To  many  men  the  blackest. 

Iden.  It  may  be 

I  have  a  question  or  two  for  yourself 
Hereafter';  but  we  must  continue  now 
Our  search  for  t'  other. 

Wer.  Tou  had  best  begin 

Tour  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  Stralenheim  's  in  quest  of. 

Wer.  Insolent ! 

Said  you  not  that  he  was  not  here  t 

Iden.  Tes,  one  ; 

But  there  's  another  whom  he  tracks  more  keenly, 
And  soon,  it  may  be,  with  authority 
Both  paramount  to  his  and  mine.     But,  come ! 
Bustle,  my  boys !  we  are  all  at  fault. 

[tlxk  iDKarsTKiN  and  AUendanU. 

Wer.  In  what 

A  maze  hath  my  dim  destiny  involved  me ! 
And  one  base  sin  hath  done  me  less  ill  than 
The  leaving  undone  one  far  greater.     Down, 
Thou  busy  devil,  rising  in  my  heart ! 
Thou  art  too  late !     I  ^  nought  to  do  with  blood. 

Enter  Ulbic. 

Ulr.  I  sought  you,  father. 

Wer.  Is  't  not  dangerous  T 

Ulr.  No ;  Stralenheim  is  ignorant  of  all 
Or  any  of  the  ties  between  us :  more  -* 
He  sends  me  here  a  spy  upon  your  actions, 
Peeming  me  wholly  his. 

Wer.  I  cannot  think  il^: 


Bi.  ▲  naosBT.  67 

T  is  bat  a  waMxe  he  winds  about  in  both, 
To  swoop  the  aire  and  son  at  once* 

ITIr.  I  cannot 

PAose  in  each  petty  fear,  and  stumble  at 
The  doubts  that  rise  like  briers  in  our  path, 
But  must  break  through  them,  as  an  unarm'd  carle 
WouU,  though  with  Miked  limbs,  were  the  wolf  ntstling 
In  the  same  thicket  where  he  hew'd  for  bread. 
Nets  are  for  thrushes,  eagles  are  not  caught  so : 
We  11  overfly  or  rend  them. 

Wer.  Show  me  Am? 

Ulr.  Can  you  not  guess? 

Wet.  I  cannot. 

Vlr.  That  is  strange. 

Came  the  thought  ne'er  into  your  mind  last  nighi? 

Wer.  I  understand  you  not. 

Ulr.  Then  we  shall  never 

More  understand  each  other.    But  to  change 
The  topic 

Wer.  Tou  mean  to  pinife  it,  as 

T  is  of  our  safety. 

Vlr.  Rig^t ;  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  summoird  myrmidons  from  Frankfort, 
Wlien  you  will  be  a  prisoner,*  perhaps  worse. 
And  I  an  outcast,  bastardised  by  practice 
Of  this  same  baron  to  make  way  for  him. 

Wer.  And  now  your  remedy !    I  thought  to  escape 
By  means  of  this  accursed  gold ;  but  now 
I  dare  not  use  it,  show  it,  scarce  lo<A  on  it. 
Methinks  it  wears  upon  its  face  my  guilt 
For  motto,  not  the  mintage  of  the  state ; 
And,  for  the  sovereign's  head,  my  own  begirt 
With  hissing  snakes,  which  curl  around  my  temples, 
And  cry  to  all  beholders,  Lo !  a  villain ! 

Ulr*  Tou  must  not  use  it,  at  least  now ;  but  take 
This  ring.  [He  gnet  Wanim  ajewd. 

Wer.        A  gem!    It  was  my  father's! 

Ub-.  And 

As  such  is  now  your  own.    With  this  you  must 
Bribe  the  intendant  for  his  old  caleche 
And  horses  to  pursue  your  route  at  sunrise, 
T<^ther  with  my  mother. 

Wer.  And  leave  you. 


56  .    wssmnty  actbl 


So  lately  found,  in  p^il  too  ? 

Ulr.  Fear  nothing ! 

The  only  fear  were  if  we  fled  together, 
For  that  would  make  our  ties  beyond  all  doubt. 
The  waters  only  lie  in  flood  between 
This  burgh  and  Frankfort ;  so  far  's  in  our  favour. 
The  route  on  to  Bohemia,  though  encumber'd, 
[a  not  impassable ;  and  when  you  gain 
A  few  hours'  start,  the  difficulties  will  be 
The  same  to  your  pursuers.     Once  beyond 
The  frontier,  and  you  're  safe. 

Wer.  MynoUeboy! 

Vir.   Hush !   hush !    no  transports :   we  11  indulge  in 
them 
In  Castle  Siegendorf!  Display  no  gold: 
Show  Idenstein  the  gem  (I  know  the  man. 
And  have  look'd  through  him)  :  it  will  answer  thus 
A  double  purpose.     Stralenheim  lost  geld — 
No  jewel :  therefore  it  could  not  he  his; 
\xkd  then  the  man  who  was  possest  of  this 
Can  hardly  be.  suspected  of  abstracting 
The  banm'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. 

Wer.  I  will  follow 

In  all  things  yiwa  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. 

Wer,  My  guardian  angel ! 

This  overpays  the  past..    But  how  wilt  thou 
Fare  in  our  absence  T 

Vlr,  Stralenheim  knows  nothing 

Of  me  as  aught  of  kindred  with  yourself. 
I  will  but  wait  a  day  or  two  with  him 
To  lull  all  doubts,  and  then  rejoin  my  father. 

Wer,  To  part  no  more ! 

Ulr,  I  know  not  that ;  but  at 

The  least  we  '11  meet  again  once  more. 

Wer.  My  boy' 

My  friend !  my  only  child,  and  sole  preserver ! 
Oh,  do  not  hate  me ! 


A   ntAOBDY.  #9 

Ulr*  Hate  my  father ! 

Wer.  Ay, 

My  father  hated  me.     Why  not  my  son  ? 

Ulr.  Your  father  knew  you  not  as  I  do. 

Wer,  Scorpions 

Are  in  thy  words !  Thou  know  me  ?  in  this  guise 
Thou  canst  not  know  me,  I  am  not  myself; 
Yet  (hate  me  not)  I  will  be  soon. 

Ulr..  ITltoott/ 

In  the  mean  time  be  sure  that  afl  a  son 
Can  do  for  parents  shall  be  done  for  mine. 

Wer.  I  see  it,  and  I  feel  it ;  yet  I  feel 
Further — that  you  despise  me. 

Ulr.  Wherefore  should  I  ? 

Wer.  Must  I  repeat  my  humiliation  ? 

Ulr.  No! 

I  have  fathom'd  it  and  you.  But  let  us  talk 
Of  this  no  more.  Or  if  it  must  be  ever. 
Not  now.  Your  error  has  redoubled  aU 
The  present  difficulties  of  our  house, 
At  secret  war  with  that  of  Stralenheim : 
All  we  have  now  to  think  of  is  to  baffle 
Him.     I  have  shown  one  way. 

Wer.  The  only  one, 

And  I  embrace  it,  as  I  did  my  son, 
Who  show'd  himself  and  father's  safety  in 
One  day. 

Ulr.  You  shaU  be  safe ;  let  that  suffice. 
Would  Stralenheim's  appearance  in  Bohemia 
Disturb  your  right,  or  mine,  if  once  we  were 
Admitted  to  our  lands  ? 

Wer.  Assuredly, 

Situate  as  we  are  now,  although  the  first 
Possessor  might,  as  usual,  prove  the  strongest, 
£q>ecia]]y  the  next  in  blood. 

Utr.  Blood!  h'la 

A  word  of  many  meanings ;  in  the  veins, 
And  out  of  them,  it  is  a  dififerent  thing — 
And  so  it  should  be,  when  the  same  in  blood 
(As  it  is  call'd)  are  aliens  to  each  other. 
Like  Theban  brethren :  when  a  part  is  bad, 
A  few  spilt  ounces  purify  the  rest. 

Wer.  I  do  not  apprehend  you. 

Uhr.  That  may  be—  • 

And  should,  perhaps  —  and  yet but  get  ye  ready ; 

You  and  my  mother  must  away  to-night. 


60  wnmst  icris. 

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  bottom,  as  the  lead  doth 
With  its  greased  understratum ;  but  no  less 
Will  serve  to  warn  our  vessels  through  these  shoals. 
The  freight  is  rich,  so  heave  the  line  in  time ! 
Farewell !  I  scarce  have  time,  but  yet  your  handf 
My  father!^ 

Wer,  Let  me  embrace  thee ! 

Ulr.  We  may  be 

Observed  :  subdue  your  nature  to  the  hour ! 
Keep  off  from  me  as  from  your  foe ! 

Wer.  Accursed 

Be  he  who  is  the  stifling  cause  which  ennothers 
The  best  and  sweetest  feeling  of  our  hearts ; 
At  such  an  hoar  too ! 

Ulr.  Yes,  curse— it  will  ease  you ! 

Here  is  the  intendant. 

Enter  Idensteix.' 

Master  Idenstein, 
How  fare  you  in  your  purpose?  Have  you  caught 
The  rogue  ? 

Iden.  No,. faith! 

Ulr*  Well,  there  are  plenty  more : 

You  may  have  better  luck  another  chase. 
Where  is  the  baron  ! 

Iden,  Gone  back  to  his  chamber : 

And  now  I  think  on  't,  asking  after  you 
With  nobly-bom  impatience. 
'         Ulr,  Your  great  men 

Must  be  answer'd  on  the  instant,  as  the  bound 
Of  the  stung  steed  replies  unto  the  spur : 
T  is  well  they  have  horses,  too ;  for  if  they  had  not, 
I  fear  that  men  must  draw  their  chariots,  as 
They  say  kings  did  Sesostris. 

Iden.  Who  was  he? 

Ulr.  An  old  Bohemian  —  an  imperial  gipsy. 

Iden.  A  gipsy  or  Bohemian,  't  is  Uie  same. 
For  they  pass  by  both  names.     And  was  he  one  1 

Ulr.   I  Ve  heard  so ;  but  I  must  take  leave.     Inten. 
dant. 
Your  servant ! —Werner  (to  Webneb  dighdy)^  if  that  be 

your  name. 
Yours,  [Exit  Ulric. 


Men.  A  well««poken,  pretty.f«oed  young  mn  f 
And  piettUy  behaved !  He  knows  hie  station, 
You  tee,  mr :  how  he  gave  to  each  his  due 
Precedence! 

Wer.  I  perceived  it^  and  applaud 

His  just  discernment  and  your  own. 

Ideiu  That'swell*- 

That  's  very  well.     You  also  know  your  place,  too ; 
And  yet  I  do  n't  know  that  I  know  your  place. 

Wer.  {ghewmg  the  ring)*  WoukI  this  assist  your  know- 
ledge? 

Iden^  How!— What!  — Eh! 

A  jewel! 

Wer.  T  is  your  own  on  one  condition. 

Iden.  Mine! — Name  it! 

Wer.  That  hereafter  you  permit  me 

At  thrice  its  value  to  redeem  it :  't  is 
A  family  ring. 

Iden.  A  family! — «iMr#/— agem! 

I'm  breathless! 

Wer.  You  must  also  furnish  me 

An  hour  ere  daybreak  with  all  means  to  quit 
Tliis  place. 

Iden.        But  is  it  real  ?  Let  me  look  on  it : 
Diamondf  by  all  that 's  glorious ! 

Wer.  Come,  I  '11  trust  you  : 

You  have  guess'd,  no  doubt,  that  I  was  born  above 
My  prcuent  seeming. 

Iden.  I  can't  say  I  did. 

Though  this  looks  like  it :  this  is  the  true  breeding 
Of  gentle  blood! 

War.  I  have  important  reasons 

For  wishing  to  continue  privily 
My  journey  hence. 

Iden.  So  then  you  are  the  man 

Whom  Stralenheim  's  in  quest  oft 

Wer.  I  am  not ; 

But  being  taken  for  him  might  conduct 
To  much  embarrassment  to  me  just  now, 
And  to  the  banni's  self  hereafter — 't  is 
To  spare  both  that  I  would  avoid  all  bustle. 

Iden.  Be  you  the  man  or  no,  't  is  not  my  business; 
Besides,  I  never  should  obtain  the  half 
From  this  proud,  niggardly  noble,  who  would  raise 
The  country  for  some  missing  bits  of  coin. 
And  never  offer  a  precise  reward— 


But  <ibtf /— uother  look ! 

Wer.  Gaxe  on  it  fire^ ; 

At  day^wA  it  is  yours. 

Ideiu  Oh,  tbou  sweet  sparkler! 

Thou  more  than  stone  of  the  philosopher ! 
Thoa  toachstose  of  PhikMophy  herself! 
Thoa  bright  eye  of  the  Mine !  thou  loadstar  of 
The  soul !  the  true' magnetic  Pole  to  which 
All  hearts  point  didy  north,  like  trembling  needles  i 
Thou  flamuig  Spirit  of  the  Earth4  whichi,  sitting 
High  on  the  monarch's  diadem,  attracteet 
More  worship  than  tttt  majesty  who  sweats   • 
Beneath  the  crown  which  makes  his  head  ache,  like 
Millions  of  hearts  which  bleed  to  lend  it  lustre! 
Shalt  thou  be  mine  ?  I  am,  methinks,  already 
A  little  king,  a  lucky  alchynust !  — 
A  wise  magician,  who  has  bound  4he  devi 
Without  the  forfeit  of  his  souL     But  come, 
Werner,  or  what  cIk^ 

Wer.  CaU  me  Werner  still; 

You  may  yet  know  me  by  a  loftior  title. 

Iden.  I  do  believe  in  -thee !  thou  art  the  spirit 
Of  whom  I  long  have  dream'd  in  a  low  garb. — 
But  come,  I  'Userve  thee ;  thou  shalt  be  as  free 
As  air,  despite  the  waters ;  let  us  hence  : 
*  I  11  show  thee  I  am  honest  —  (oh,  thou  jewel !) 
Thou  shalt  be  4iimieh'd,  Werner,  with  such  means   • 
Of  flight,  that  if  thou  wert  a  snail,  not  birds  * 

Shoukl  overtake  thee.-^Let  me  gaze  again! 
I  h&ve  a  foster*brother  in  the  mart 
Of  Hamburgh  skill'd  in  precious  stones*     How  many 
Carats  may  it  weigh  ^  — <-  Come,  Werner,  I  will  wing  thee. 


6CEKE  H. 

Stkalknhbim's  Chamher 

Stsalkkhbdc  and  Fritz. 

Fritx.  All 's  ready,  my  good  lord ! 
Siral.  I  am  not  sleepy, 

And  yet  I  must  to  bed  ;  I  fain  would  say 


To  rest,  bot  something  heavy  on  my  spirit. 
Too  duU  for  wakefuhioBs,  too  qnick  for  slumber. 
Sits  on  me  as  a  cloud  idong  the  sky, 
Which  will  not  let  the  sunbeams  through,  nor  yet 
Descend  in  rain  and  end,  but  spreads  itself 
Twist  earth  and  heaven,  like  envy  between  man 
And  man,  an  everlasting  mist ;  —  I  will 
Unto  my  pillow. 

Drkz.  May  yon  rest  there  weU ! 

Sirai.  I  feel,  and  fear,  I  shaU. 

FrUz.  And  wherefore  f^r  ? 

SiraL  I  know  jiot  why,  and  therefore  ^o  fear  more. 
Because  an  undescribaUe*— —  buf't  is 
All  folly.     Were  the  locks  (as  I  desired) 
Changed,  to-day,  of  this  chamber?  for  last  night's 
Adventure  makes  it  needful. 

Fritz.  <jlertaiiily. 

According  to  your  order,  and  beneath 
The  inspection  of  mys^f  and  the  young  'Saxon 
Who  saved  your  life.     I  think  they  cafi  him  •«  Ulric." 

Stral.  You  ikuik  !  you  si;q>ercilious  slave  !  what  right 
Have  you  to  tax  your  memory,  which  should  be 
Quick,  proud,  and  happy  to  retain  the  name 
Of  him  who  saved  your  master,  asm  litany 
Whose  daily  repetition  marks  your  duty^ — 
Get  hence !  ^  Ycu  tkkikf**  indeed'!  you  who  stood  still 
Howling  and  drippling  on  the  bank,  whilst  I 
Lay  dying,  and  the  stranger  dash'd  aside 
The  roaring  torrent,  and  restored  4ne  to 
Thank  him  —  and  ^despise  you.      ^  You  think  !  "    and 

scaroe 
Can  recollect  his  namei  I  will  not  waste 
More  words  on  ^lou.    Cdl  me  betimes. 

FrUz.  Goodnij^t! 

I  trust  to-monow  will  restore  your  lordship 
To  renovated  strength  and  temper. 

[The  icene  dotet. 


SCENE  m. 
The  secret  Pasmge* 

GiA.  {toUui).  Four- 

Five — SIX  hours  have  I  countedt  lilKO  the  goard 
Of  outposts  on  the  iiever*merry  clock :    . 
That  hollow  tongue  of  time,  which,  even  when 
It  sounds  for  joy,  takes  something  firem  enjoymeirt 
With  every  daag.     T  is  a  perp^ual  knell, 
llKMigh  for  a  marriaj^feast  it  ringa :  each  strdGd 
Peals  for  a  hope  the^ss  \  the  funml  note 
Of  Love  deep-huried  without  resurrection 
In  the  grave />f  possession ;  while  the  knoU 
Of  long-lived  parents  finds  a  jovial  echo 
To  triple  Time  in  the  son's  ear. 

I  'm  cold— 
I  *m  dark ;  —  I  've  blown  my  fingers  —  nundiier'd  o*er 
And  o'er  my  steps  —  and  knock'd  my  head  against 
Some  fifty  buttresses  —  and  roused  the  rats 
And  bats  in  general  insurrection,  till 
Their  cursed  pattering  feet  and  whirling  wings 
Leave  me  scarce  hearing  for  another  sound. 
A  light !  It  is  at  distance  (if  I  can 
Measure  in  darkness  distance)  :  but  it  blinks 
As  through  a  crevice  or  a  key-hole,  in 
The  inhibited  direction :  I  must  on, 
Nevertheless,  from  curiosity. 
A  distant  lamp-light  is  an  incident 
In  such  a  den  as  this.     Pray  Heaven  it  lead  me 
To  nothing  that  may  tempt  me !  Else  —  Heaven  aid  me 
To  obtain  or  to  escape  it !  Shining  still  I 
Were  it  the  star  of  Lucifer  himself, 
Or  he  himsdif  girt  with  its  beams,  i  oould 
Contain  no  longer.     Softly !  mighty  well ! 
That  comer  's  tum'd  — so  — ah !  no  ;  —  right !  it  draws 
Nearer.     Here  is  a  darksome  angle — so. 
That 's  weather'd. —  Let  me  pause. —  Suppose  it  leads 
Into  some  greater  danger  than  that  which 
I  have  escaped  —  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  dagger, 
Which  may  protect  me  at  a  pinch.  —  Bum  stilli 
Thou  little  light !  Thou  art  my  ignis  fatiau  / 


A  TSAOBBT.  96 

My  8taik>iiary  Will.o^the-wisp !  —  So !  so  ! 
He  bears  my  invocation,  and  fails  not. 

[7^  scene  doses. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  Garden. 

Enter  Wbbnes. 


I  could  not  sleep  —  and  now  the  hour  's  at  hand ; 

All  *B  ready.     Idenstein  has  kept  his  word ; 

And  station'd  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town^ 

Upon  the  loresfs  edge,'  the  v^cle    . 

Awaits  us.     Now  the  dwindling  stars  begin 

To  pale  in  heaven  ;  and  for  the  l^t  time  I 

Look  on  these  horrible  walls.    Oh !  never,  nerer 

ShaU  I  forget  them.     Here  I  come  most  poor, 

But  not-  dishonoar'd  :  And  I  leave  them  vKth 

A  stain, — if  net  upon  my  name,  yet  in 

My  heart  I-^-a  never-dying  canker-wormt 

Which  all  the  coming  splendour  of  the  lands, 

And  rights,  and  sovereignty  of  Siegendorf 

Can  scarcely  lull  a  moment.     I  must  find 

Some  means  of  restitution,  which  would  ease 

My  soul  in.  part ;  but  how  without  discovery  ?  — 

It  must  be  done,  however ;  and  I  11  pause 

Upon  the  method  the  first  hour  of  safety. 

The  madne^  of  my  misery  led  to  this 

Base  infamy ;  repentance  must  retrieve  it : 

I  will  have  nought  of  Stralcnheim^s  upon 

My  spirit,  though  he  would  grasp  all  of  mine  ; 

Lands,  freedom,  life, —  and  yet  he  sleeps  !  as  soundly, 
*   Perhaps,  as  infancy,  with  gorgeous  curtains 

Spread  for  his  canopy,  o  V  sScen  pillows, 

Such  as  when  -^—  Hark  !  what  noise  is  that  ?  Again  ! 

The  branches  shake ;  and  some  loose  stones  have  fidlen 

From  yonder  terrace. 

[Ulrig  leaps  down  from  the  terrace. 
Ulric !  ever  welcome ! 

Thrice  welcome  now !  this  filial  — -<- 

Vhr.  Stop!  Before 

We  approach,  tell  me-»— 
vol.  V. — ^p 


66  WlENBCf 

Wer.  Why  look  you  so  f 

Ulr.  Do  I 

Behold  my  ftther,  or  — — 

Wer.  What? 

Ulr,  An  assassin  ? 

Wer,  Insane  or  insolent ! 

Vlr.  Reply,  sir,  as 

Yotiprize  your  life,  or  mine! 

Wer,  To  what  must  I 

Answer  ? 

Ulr,        Are  you  or  are  you  not  the  assassin 
OfStralenheimI 

Wer,  I  never  was  as  yet 

The  murderer  of  any  man.     What  mean  you? 

Ulr,  Did  not  you  thu  night  (as  the  night  befi>re) 
Retrace  the  secret  passage!  Did  ytra  not 
Again  revisit  Stralenheim's  chamber^'?  and  '    ■  " 

[Vhaic  pauses, 

Wer,  Proceed, 

Ulr.  Bied  he  nut  hy  your  hand  ? 

Wer.  Great  God ! 

Ulr,  You  are  innocent,  then !  ny  father  's  innocent! 
Embrace    me  !     Yes>  — ^  your  ttone — your   look  —  yes, 

yes, — 
Yet  say  so. 

Wer,         Jf  I  e'er,  in  heart  or  mind, 
Conceived  delihsrately  svpch  a  thought, 
But  rather  strove  to  trample  back  to  bell 
Such  thoughts  -^  if  e'er  they  glared  a  moment  through 
The  irritation  of  my  oppressed  spirit  *-« 
May  heaven  be  shut. for  ever  from  my  hopes 
As  from  mine  eyes ! 

Ulr,  But  Stralenheim*  is  dead. 

Wer,  T  is  horrible !  't  is  hideous,  as  't^is  hateful !  — 
But  what  have  I  to  do  with  this? 

Ulr,  No  bolt 

Is  forced  ;  no  violence  can  be  detected, 
Save  on  his  body.     Part  of  his  own  faouseheld 
Have  been  alarm'd ;  but  as  the  int^idant  is 
Absent,  I  took  upon  myself  the  care 
Of  mustering  the  police.     His  chamber  has. 
Past  doubt,  been  enter'd  secretly.     Excuse  me, 
If  nature 

Wer,  Oh,  my  boy !  what  unknown  woes 

Of  dark  fatality,  like  clouds,  are  gathering 
Above  our  house ! 


▲  TRAGBDT.  67 

Ulr,  '  My  father !  I  acquit  you ! 

But  will  the  world  do  so  ?  will  even  the  judge, 

If But  you  must  away  this  instant. 

Wer.  No! 

1 11  face  it.    Who  shall  dare  suspect  me  ? 

Ulr.  Yet 

You  had  no  guests  —  no  visiters  —  no  life 
Breathing  around  you,  save  my  mother's  ? 

Wer.  Ah ! 

Tlie  Hungarian ! 

Vhr.  He  is  gone  !  he  disappear'd 

Ere  dunset. 

Wer,  No ;  I  hid  him  in  that  very 
Conceal'd  and  fatal  gallery. 

Ulr.  There  1 11  find  him. 

[Ulbic  is  gomg* 
Wer.  It  is  too  late  :  he  had  left  the  palace  ere 
I  quitted  it.     I  found  the  secret  panel 
Open,  and  the  doors  which  lead  4om  that  hall 
Which  masks  it :  I  hut  thought  he  had  snatch'd  the  silent 
And  favourable  moment  to  escape 
The  m3nrmidons  of  Idenstein,  who  were 
Dogging  him  yester-even. 

&/r.  Tou.re^osed 

TTie  panel  ? 

Wer.  Yes ;  and  not  without  reproach 

(And  inner  tremUing  for  the  avoided  peril) 
At  his  dull  heedlessness,  in  leaving,  thas 
His  shelterer's  asylum  to  the  risk 
Of  a  discovery. 

Ulr.  You  are-sure  *you' closed  it? 

Wer.  Certain. 

Ulr.  That's  well ;  but  had  been  better,  if 

You  ne'er  had  tum'd  it  to  a  den  for [He  pauses. 

Wer.  Thieves ! 

Thou  wooldst  say :  *I  must  bear  it  and  deserve  it ; 

But  not 

Ulr.  No,  father  ;  do  not  speak  of  this : 

This  is  no  hour  to  think  of  petty  crimes. 
But  to  prevent  the  consequence  of  great  ones. 
Why  would  you  shelter  this  man  ?  . 

Wer.  Could  I  shun  it? 

A  man  pursued  by  my  chief  foe ;  disgraced 
For  my  own  crime  ;  a  victim  to  my  safety, 
Imploring  a  few  hours'  concealment  from 
The  very  wretch  who  was  the  cause  he  needed 


68  wxKStaif  actbl 

Such  refuge.     Had  he  been  a  wolf,  I  could  not 
Have  in  such  cironmstances  thrust  him  forth. 

Vlr.  And  like  the  wolf  he  Imth  repaid  yoo*    But 
It  is  too  late  to  ponder  thus  :  —  you  must 
Set  out  ere  dawn-    I  will  remain  here  to 
Trace  the  murderer,  if 't  is  possible. 

Wer,  But  this  my  sudden  flight  will  give  the  Moloch 
Suspicion :  two  new  yictims  in  the  lieu 
Of  one,  if  I  remain.     The  fled  Hungarian, 
Who  seems  the  culprit,  and 

Ulr.  Who^eem;  Whoehe 

Can  be  so  ? 

Wer.  Not  J,  though  just  now  you  doubted— 

You,  my  son  !  —  doubted  —— 

Ulr,  And  do  you  doubt  of  him 

The  fugitive  7 

Wer.  Boy !  since  I  fell  into 

The  abyss  of  crime,  (though  not  of  «ueA  crime,)  I, 
Having  seen  the  inpocent  oppress'd  for  me. 
May  doubt  even  of  the  guilty's  guUt.     Your  heart 
Is  free,  and  quick  with  virtuous  wrath  to  accuse 
Appearances  ;  and  views  a  criminal 
In  Innocence's  shadow,  it  may  be, 
Because  't  is  dusky. 

Vlr..  Andifldoso, 

What  will  mankind,  who  know  you  not,  or  knew 
But  to  oppress  ?  You  must  not  stand  the  hazard. 
Away !  —  I  '11  make  all  easy.     Idenstein 
Will  for  his  own  sake  and  his  jewel's  hold 
His  peace  —  he  also  is  a  partner  in 
Your  flight — moreover  — • 

Wer.  Fly !  and  leave  my  name 

Link'd  with  the  Hungarian's,  or  preferr'd  as  poorest, 
To  bear  the  brand  of  bloodshed  1 

Vlr.  Pshaw !  leave  any  thing 

Except  our  father's  sovereignty  and  castles, 
For  which  you  have  so  long  panted  and  in  vain  ! 
What  name  ?    You  have  no  namCf  since  that  you  bear 
Is  feign'd. 

Wer.        Most  true ;  but  still  I  would  not  have  it 
Engraved  in  crimson  in  men's  memories, 
Though  in  this  most  obscure  abode  of  men  -^— 
Besides,  the  search  — - 

Ulr.  I  will  provide  against 

Aught  that  can  touch  you.    No  one  knows  you  here 
As  heir  of  Siegendorf :  if  Idenstein 


BIT.  ▲  nUOXBT.  n 

Suspects,  't  is  ftnC  suipictofi,  and  he  is 
A  fool :  his  folly  shall  have  such  employment, 
Too,  that  the  unknown  Werner  shall  give  way 
To  nearer  thoughts  of  sdC    The  laws  (if  e'er 
Laws  reach'd  thb  village)  are  all  in  abeyance 
With  the  late  general  war  of  thirty  years. 
Or  crush'd,  or  rising  slowly  from  tiie  dust. 
To  which  the  march  of  armies  trampled  them. 
Stralenheim,  although  noble,  is  unheeded 
Henj  save  as  stidk^- without  lands,  influence. 
Save  what  hath  perish'd  with  him.     Few  prolong 
A  week  beyond  their  funeral  rites  their  sway 
O'er  men,  unless  by  relatives,  whose  interest 
Is  roused :  such  is  not  here  the  case;  he  died 
Alone,  unknown,  — •  a  solitary  grave. 
Obscure  as  his  deserts,  without  a  scutcheon, 
Is  aU  he  11  have,  or  wants.     If  #  discover 
The  assassin,  't  will  be  well —  if  not,  believe  me 
None  else  ;  though  aU  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  «im0  than  then. 
Hence !  hence !  I  must  not  hear  your  answer. —  Look  ? 
The  stars  are  almost  faded,  and  the  gray 
Begins  to  grizzle  the  black  hair  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  ! 
Softly  and  swiftly  step,  and  leave  the  rest 
To  me :  I  '11  answer  for  the  erent  as  far 
As  regards  you,  and  that  is  the  chief  point, 
As  my  first  duty,  which  shall  be  observed. 
We  '11  meet  in  Castle  Sieeendorf — once  more 
Our  banners  shall  be  glorious !  Think  of  that 
Alone,  and  leave  all  other  thoughts  to  me. 
Whose  youth  may  better  battle  with  them. —  Hence  ! 
And  may  your  age  be  happy  !  —  I  will  kiss 
My  mother  once  more,  then  Heaven's  speed  be  with  you  ! 
Wer.  This  coimsel  's  safe  —  but  is  it  honourable  f 
JJIr.  To  save  a  father  is  a  child's  chief  honour. 

[Exeunt. 


n  VUUCBt  ACriT. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  L 

A  Gothic  HaU  m  tke  CoiUe  of  Siegetubrf^  mear  Pragm. 

EnierEMwaMdUKsaacKfniamerfofike  ComfL 

Eric.  So  better  times  are  oome  at  last ;  to  tfaeee 
Old  walk  new  masters  and  high  wassail  —  both 
A  long  desideratum. 

Hen.  Tesy  for  masters^ 

ft  might  be  onto  those  who  long  for  novelty. 
Though  made  by  a  new  grave :  but  as  for  wassailf 
Methinks  the  old  Count  Siegendorf  maintain'd 
His  feudal  hospitality  as  high 
As  e'er  another  prince  of  the  empire. 

Eric.  Why, 

For  the  mere  cup  and  trencher,  we  no  doubt 
Fared  passing  well ;  but  as  for  merriment 
And  sport,  without  wjiich  salt  and  sauces  season 
The  cheer  but  scantily,  our  sLzings  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  boun- 
teous, 
And  we  all  love  him. 

Hen.  His  reign  is  as  yet 

Hardly  a  year  o'erpost  its  honey-moon, 
And  the  first  year  of  sovereigns  is  bridal : 
Anon,  wc  shall  perceive  his  real  sway 
And  moods  of  mind. 

Eric.  Pray  Heaven  he  keep  the  present ! 

Then  his  brave  son.  Count  Ulric  —  there  's  a' knight! 
Pity  the  wars  are  o'er ! 

Hen.  Why  so? 

Eric.  Look  on  him ! 

And  answer  that  yourself. 

Hen.  He  's  very  youthful. 

And  stronff  and  beautiful  as  a  young  tiger. 

Eric.  That 's  not  a  faithful  vassal's  likeness. 


IB  I.  ▲  nUOB^T.  71 

Hen.  But 

Feriiapa  a  true  one. 

Eric*  Pitjy  as  I  said. 

The  wan  aie  over :  in  the  hall,  who  like 
Count  Ulric  for  a  wett-supported  pride. 
Which  awes,  but  yetoflfends  not  ?  in  the  field, 
Who  like  him.  withhis  spear  in  hand,  when,  gnashing 
His  tosks,  and  ripping  up  from  right  to«left 
The  howling  hounds,  the  boarmakes  for  the  thicket  t 
Who  backs  a.  horse,  or  bears  a-  hawk,. or  wears 
A  sword  like  him?  Whose  plume  nods  knightlier  7 

Hen.  No  one's,  I  grant  you.     Do  not  fear,. if  war 
Be  long  in  coming,. he  is  of  that  kind 
Will  nwke  it  for  himself,. if  he  hath  not 
Already  done  as  .much*. 

Erie.  What  do  you  mean^?* 

Hen.  You  can't  deny  his  train  of  followers^ 
(But  few  our  native  feUow  vassals  born 
On  the  domain),  are  such  a  sort,  of  knaves 
As         (Pomes)*. 

Eric..  What? 

Hen.  The  war  (you  love  so  much)<  leaves  living.. 
Like  other  parents,. she  spoils  her  worst  children.. 

Eric.    Nonsense !  they  are  all  brave  iron^visaged  fel- 
lows,. 
Such  as  old  Tilly  loved. 

Hen.  And  who  loved  TUly  ? 

Ask  that  at  Magdebourg  — or  for  that  matter 
Wallenstein  eitlvsr ;  — they  are  gone  to  — ^ 

Eric.  Rest ; 

But  what  beyond  't  is  not  ours  toprmiounoe. 

Hen.  I  wish  they  had  lefius  something,  of  their  rest : 
Tlie  country  (nominally  now  at  peace), 
Is  over-run  with — God  knows  who :  they  fl|K 
By  night,  and  disappear  with  sunrise ;  but 
Leave  us  no  less  desolation,  nay,  even  more^ . 
Than  the  most  open*  warfare. 

Eric.  But  Count  Ulric—- 

What  has  all  this  to  do.  with  him  ? 

Hen.  With  him  ! 

He might  prevent,  it..    As  you  say  he  's  fond 

Of  war,  why  makes  he- it  not  on  those  marauders  t 

Eric.  You  'd  better  ask  himself. 

Hen.  I  would  as  soon 

Ask  the  lion  why  he  laps  not  milk. 

Erie.  And  here  he  comes ! 


72  wnimt. 


AcriT. 


Hen>  The  devil !  you  11  hold  your  tongue! 

Eric,  Why  do  you  turn  so  pale? 

Hen,  T  is  nothing— but 

Be  silent. 

Eric,        I  will,  upon  what  you  have  said. 

Hen.  I  assure  you  I  meant  nothtngy*-a  mere  sport 
Of  words,  no  more ;  besides,  had  it  been  otherwise, 
He  is  to  espouse  the  gentle  Baroness 
Ida  of  Stralenheim,  the  late  baron's  heiress  ; 
And  she,  no  doubt,  will  soften  whatsoever 
Of  fierceness  the  late  long  intestine  wars 
Have  given  all  natures,  and  most  unto  those 
Who  were  bom  in  them,  and  bred  up  upon 
The  knees  of  Homicide ;  sprinkled,  as  it  were. 
With  blood  even  at  their  baptism.     Prithee,  peace 
On  all  that  I  have  said ! 

Enter  Ulbic  emd  Rosolph. 

Good  morrow,  count. 

Dlr.  Good  morrow,  worthy  Henrick.     Eric,  is 
All  ready  for  the  chase  ? 

Eric.  The  dogs  are  ordet'd 

Pown  to  the  forest,  and  the  vassals  out 
To  beat  the  bushes,  and  the  day  looks  promising. 
Shall  I  call  forth  your  excellency's  suite  ? 
What  courser  will  you  please  to  mount  ? 

Ulr.  The  dun« 

Walstein. 

Eric.  I  fear  he  scarcely  has  recovered 
The  toils  of  Monday :  't  was  a  noble  chase : 
You  spear'd/owr  with  your  own  hand. 

Ulr.  Tme,  good  Eric ; 

I  had  forgotten  —  let  it  be  the  gray,  theil, 
Old  Ziska :  he  has  not  been  out  this  fortnight. 

Eric,  He  shall  be  straight  caparison'd.     How  many 
Of  your  immediate  retainers  shall 
Escort  you  1 

Ulr.  I  leave  that  to  Weilborgh,  our 

Master  of  the  horse.  [Exit  Eric. 

Rodolph ! 

Rod,  My  lord ! 

Ulr,  The  news 

Is  awkward  from  the  —  (Rodolph  points  to  Henrick.) 

How  now,  Henrick?  why 
Loiter  you  here  ? 


IB  I.  A  VBA«S»r.  IV 

Hem.  For  your  commaiida,  my  lord. 

Vlr.  Go  to  my  father,  aad  present  my  duty, 
And  learn  if  be  would  aught  with  me  before 
I  mount.  [£ctt  HximiCK. 

Rodolph,  our  friends  have  had  a  check 
Upon  the  frontiers  of  Franconia,  and 
T  is  rumour'd  that  the  column  sent  against  them 
Is  to  be  strengthen'd.     I  roust  join  th«n  soon. 

Rod,  Best  wait  for  further  and  more  sure  advices* 

Vlr.  I  mean  it— and  indeed  it  could  not  weli 
Have  faUen  out  at  a  tame  mora  q>posite 
To  all  my  plans. 

Bod.  It  wiU  be  difficult 

To  excuse  your  absence  to  the  count  your  father. 

Ulr.  Yes,  but  the  unsettled  state  of  our  domain 
In  hi^  Silesia  will  permit  and  cover 
My  journey.    In  the  mean  time,  when  we  are 
Engaged  in  the  chase,  draw  off  the  eighty  men 
Wlx>m  WolfTe  leads  —  keep  the  forests  on  your  route : 
You  know  it  well  ? 

Rod.  As  well  as  on  that  night 

When  we  — — 

Vlr.  We  will  not  speak  of  that  untU 

We  can  repeat  the  same  with  like  success  : 
And  when  you  have  join'd,  give  Rosenberg  this  letter. 

[Gives  a  Mm. 
Add  further,  that  I  have  sent  this  slight  addition 
To  our  force  with  you  and  Wolffe,  as  herald  of 
My  coming,  though  I  could  not  spare  them  ill 
At  this  time,  as  my  father  loves  to  keep 
Full  numbers  of  retainers  round  the  castle. 
Until  this  marriage,  and  its  feasts  and  fooleries. 
Are  rung  out  with  its  peal  of  nuptial  nonsense. 

Rod.  I  thought  you  loved  the  kdy  Ida? 

Ulr.  Why, 

I  do  so  ^-  but  it  follows  not  from  that 
I  would  bind  in  my  youth  and  glorious  years, 
So  brief  and  burning,  with  a  liuiy's  zone, 
Although  't  were  that  of  Venus ;  — but  I  love  bery 
As  woman  should  be  loved,  fairly  and  solely. 

Bod.  And  constantly  t 

Ulr.  I  think  so ;  for  I  lovo 

Nought  else«—  But  I  have  not  the  time  to  pause 
Upon  these  gewgaws  of  the  heart.     Great  things 
We  have  to  do  ere  long.     Speed !  speed  !  good  Rodolph  ! 

Rod.  On  my  return,  however,  I  ^all  find 


74  WBWfWt,  ACTIT. 

The  Baroness  Ida  lost  hi  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. 

Ubr^  Yet  hold — we  had  better  keep  together 

Until  the  chase  begins;  then  draw  thou  off, 
And  do  as  I  have^said.. 

Rod.  I  will.     But  to 

Return — ^'t  was  a  most  kind  act  in  the  count 
Your  father  to  send  up  to  Konigsberg 
For  this  fair  orphan  of  the  baron,  and 
To  hail  her  as  his  daughter. 

Uln  Wbndrous  kind ! 

Especially  as  little  kiddnes»  till 
Then  grew  between  then>. 

Rod:  The^lftte  baron*  died 

Of  a  fever^did  he  not?" 

Vlr.  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?' 

l7/r.  I  am  neither  confessor  nor  *notary,. 
So  cannot  say. 

Rod.  Ah\  here's  the  lady  Ida» 

Enter.  Ida.  SiatALsimBUE. 

Ulr.  You  are  early,  my  sweet  cousin  !- 

Ida.  Not  100  early. 

Dear  Ulric,  if  I  do  not  interrupt  you. 
Why  do  you  call  me  ^  cousin  ?" 

Ulr.  (smiling).  Are  we  not  so  t 

Ida.  Yes,  but  I  do  not  like  the  name ;  raethinks 
It  sounds  80  cold,  as  if  you  thought  upon 
Our  pedigree,  and  only  weigh'd  our  blood. 

Ulr.  (siarUng.)  Blood! 

Ida.  Why  does  yours  start  from  your  che^s  ? 

Ulr.  Ay!  doth  it! 


7a 

Ida.  It  doth— bat  so!  it  ruBhes  Uke  a  tomnt 
Bren  to  your  brow  again. 

UZr.  (reoootfrtn^  ^Mije//'.)  And  if  it  fledy 
It  only  was  because  your  presence  sent  it 
Back  to  my  heartriviiich  beats.foryou,  sweet  cousin ! 

Ida*  **  Coiblb'*  again. 

Ulr.  Nay,  then  I.  H  eaU  you  sister. 

Ida.  Lfike  that  name  still  worse. — Would  we  had  ne'er 
Been  aught  of  kindred ! 

Ulr.  ^homAfy.  Wodd  we  never  had ! 

Ida.  Oh  heavens !  and  can  yom  wuh  thai  f 

Ulr.  Dearest  Ida  • 

Did  I  not  edio  your  own  wish  ? 

Ida.  Yes^^VlriCt 

But  then  I  wish'd  it  not  with  such  a  glance, 
And  scarce  knew  what  I  said ;;  but  let  me  be 
Sister,  or  cousin,  what  you  will,  so  that 
I  still  to  you  am  something; 

£72r.  You.^all  be 

All— all 

Ida.  And  you  to  meraie  so  already ; 

But  I  can  wait. 

XUr.  Dear- Ida!' 

Ida.  Cidl  me  Ida, 

Yinir  Ida,  for  I  would  be  yours,  none  else's  — 
Indeed  I  have  none  else  left,  since  my  poor  father  — 

[She  pauses. 

Ulr.  You  have  mine  — -  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  brave  ever  love  each  other : 
His  manner  was  a  little  cold,  his  spirit 
Proud  (as  is  birth's  prerogative)  ;  but  under 
This  grave  exterior -^— Would  you  had  known  each 

other ! 
Had  such  as  you  been  near  him  on  his  journey, 
He  had  not  died  without  a  friend  to  soothe 
His  last  and  lonely  moments. 

Ulr.  Who  says  that  ? 

Ida.  What? 

Ulr.  That  he  died  ahne. 

Ida.  The  general  rumour, 

And  disappearance  of  his  servants,  who 


W  wBissB,  icrif. 

Haye  ne'er  vetun'd :  that  fever  vas  moat  deadljr 
Which  swept  them  all  away. 

Vlr.  If  th^  were  near  him, 

He  could  not  die  neglected  or  alone. 

Ida.  Alas !  what  is  a  menial  to  a  deathbed. 
When  the  dim'  eye  rolls  vainly  round  for  what 
It  loves  ?  —  They  say  he  died  of  a  fever. 

Ulr.  Sayt 

It  was  so. 

Ida*         1  sometimes  dream  otherwise. 

Ulr.  All  dreams  are  false. 

Ida.  And  yet  I  see  him  as 

I  see  you. 

Ulr.    .     Where  T 

Ida.  In  sleep  —  I  see  him  lie 

Pale,  bleeding,  and  a  man  with  a  raised  knife 
Beside  him. 

Ulr.  But  you  do  not  see  \nafaee  ? 

Ida  {loMng  at  hm).  No  !  Oh,  my  God  !  do  yw  ? 

Ulr.  Why  do  you  ask  T 

Ida.  Because  yoa  look  as  if  you  saw  a  murderer ! 

Ulr.  (agitatedly.)   Ida,  this  is  mere  childishness  ;  your 
weeikness 
Infects  me,  to  my  shame  ;  but  as  all  feelings 
Of  yours  are  common  to  me,  it  affects  me. 
Prithee,  sweet  child,  change 

Ida.  Child,  indeed !  I  have 

Full  fifteen  summers !  [A  bugle  sounds. 

Bod.  Hark,  my  lord,  the  bugle ! 

Ida  ( peemsMy  to  Rodolph).    Why  need  you  tell  him 
that?  Can  he  not  hear  it 
Without  your  echo  ? 

Rod.  Pardon  me,  fair  baroness ! 

Ida.  1  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  noty 

Lady,  need  aid  of  mine. 

iflr.  I  must  not  now 

Forego  it. 

l£u      But  you  shall ! 

Ulr.  SluOl! 

Ida.  Yes,  or  be 

No  true  knight.  — -  Come,  dear  Ulric !  yield  to  me 
In  this,  for  this  one  day :  the  day  looks  heavy, 
And  you  are  turn'd  so  |Nile  and  ill. 


Vir.  You  jert. 

Ida.  Indeed  I  do  not  i—ntk  of  Rodolph. 

Rod.  ,  Truly, 

My  lord,  within  this  quarter  of  an  lioor 
You  have  changed  more  than  e'er  I  taw  yon  change 
In  years. 

Ubr.  T  is  no^ng ;  but  if 't  were,  the  air 
Would  eoon  restore  me.    Vm  the  tnie  chameleon, 
And  live  but  on  the  atmosphere ;  your  feasts 
In  castle  haBs,  and  social  banquets,  nurse  not 
My  spirit-* I'm  a  forester  and  breather 
Of  the  steep  mountain^tops,  where  I  love  all 
TTie  eagle  iOTes. 

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  yon  not  stay,  then  T  You  shall  not  go ! 
Come !  I  wiU  sing  to  you. 

Vir.  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  wiU  live  in  peace  on  your  domains. 

Enler  Wnnm  at  Cotmr  8ibo»idov. 

t/Zr.  My  &ther,  I  salute  you,  and  it  grieves  me 
With  such  brief  greeting. — You  have  heard  our  bugle ; 
Tlie  vassals  wait 

Sieg.  So  let  them. — You  forget 

Tomorrow  is  the  appointed  festival 
In  Prague  for  peace  restored.    You  are  apt  to  Mow 
The  chase  with  such  an  ardour  as  will  scarce 
Permit  you  to  return  to-day,  or  if 
Retum'd,  too  much  fatigued  to  join  to-morrow 
The  nobles  in  our  marshall'd  ranks. 

Vlr.  *  You,  count, 

Will  well  supply  the  place  of  both  -—  I  am  not 
A  lover  ofthem  pageantries. 

Sieg.  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,  . 

Thou^  somewhat  frankly  said  for  a  fair  damsel.  «^ 


'78  wHUfntf  i0riT. 

But,  Ulricy  recdlect  too  our  position, 
So  lately  reinstated  in  our  honours. 
Believe  me,  't  woidd  be  mark'd  in  any  house, 
But  most  in  curtf  that  onb  should  be  fond  wanting 
At  such  a  time  and  place.     Besides,  the  Heaven 
Which  gave  us  back  our  own,  in  the  same  moment 
It  spread  its  peace  o'er  all,  hath  double  claims 
On  us  for  thanksgiving :  first,  for  our  country ; 
And  next,  that  we  ace  here  to  share  its  blessings. 

Wr.  {aside*)  Devout,  too !  WeU,  sir,  I  obey  at  once. 

(Then  aloud  to  a  Senant.) 
Ludwig,  dismiss  the  train  without !  [ExU  Litdwig. 

Ida.  And  so 

You  yield  at  pnce  to  him  what  I  for  hours 
Might  supplicate  in  vain. 

Sieg,  (emiling.)  You  are  not  jealous 

Of  me,  I  trust,  my  pretty  rebel !  who 
Would  sanction  disobedience  against  all 
•       Except  thyself?    But  fear  not ;  thou  shalt  rule  him 
Hereafter  with  a  fonder  sway  and  firmer. 

Ida*  But  I  should  like  to  govern  now* 

Sieg*  You  shallf 

Your  Aarp,  which  by  the  way  awaits  you  with 
The  countess  in  her  chamber.     She  complains 
That  you  are  a  sad  truant  to  your  music : 
She  attends  you. 

Ida*  Then  good  morrow,  my  kind  kinsmen  * 

Ulric,  you  11  come  and  hear  me  ? 

Vlr.  By  and  by. 

Ida*  Be  sure  I  '11  sound  it  better  than  your  bugles ; 
Then  pray  you  be  as  punctual  to  its  notes : 
I  '11  play  you  King  Gustavus'  march. 

Vlr*  And  why  not 

OldTiUy's? 

Ida*  Not  that  monster's!  I  should  thbk 

My  harp-strings  rang  with  groans,  and  not  with  music, 
Could  auffht  of  his  sound  on  it :  —  but  come  quickly ; 
Your  mother  will  be  eager  to  receive  you.  [Exit  Ida. 

Sieg*  Ulric,  I  wish  to  speak  with  you  alone. 

Vlr*  My  time  's  your  vassal. 
(Aside  to  Rodolph.)    Roddph,  hence !  and  do 
As  I  directed :  and  by  his  best  speed 
And  readiest  means  let  Rosenberg  reply. 

Rod.  Count  Siegendorf,  command  you  aught  I  I  am 
bound 
Upon  a  journey  past  the  frontier. 


sccrai.  A  ntAttsoT.  TV 

Su^.  (siofU.)  Ah!  — 

Where?  on  what  frontier? 

Rod,  The  Silesian,  on 

My  way  —  (Ande  to  Uuac.) —  Where  shall  I  say  ? 

Ufr.  {atide  to  R0D01.FH.)    To  Hamburg^. 

(Ande  to  hinuelf.)    That 
Word  will,  I  thifakj  put  a  firm  padlock  on 
His  further  inqidntion. 

Rod.  Covrtit,  to  Hamburgh. 

Si^.  {agtUOed.)  Hamburgh !  No,  I  have  nought  to  do 
there,  nor 
Am  aught  connected  with  that  city.    Then 
God  speed  you ! 

Rod.  Fare  ye  well,  Count  Siecendorf  1 

\Exit  RODOLPH. 

iS^.  Ulrie,  this  man,  who  has  just  departed,  is 
One  of  those  strange  companions  whom  I  fain 
Would  reason  with  you  on. 

Vlr.  My  lord,  he  is 

Noble  by  birth,  of  one  of  the  first  houses 
In  Saxony. 

Sieg.  I  talk  not  of  his  birth. 

But  of  his  bearing.     Men  ^peak  lightly  of  him. 

Uh.  So  they  will  do  of  most  men.    Even  the  monarch 
Is  not  fenced  from  his  chamberlain's  slander,  or 
The  sneer  of  the  last  courtier  whom  he  has  made 
Great  and  ungrateful. 

9ieg.  If  I  must  be  plain, 

Tlie  world  speaks  more  than  Ughtly  of  this  Rodolph : 
They  say  he  is  leagued  with  the  "^  bhick  bands  "  who  still 
Ravage  the  frontier. 

Ubr.    '  And  will  you  believe 

The  world? 

Sieg.  In  this  case— yes. 

Vlr.  In  any  case* 

I  thought  you  knew  it  better  than  to  take 
An  accusation  for  a  sentence. 

iS^.  Son! 

I  understand  you :  you  refer  to--^-bnt 
My  Destiny  has  so  involved  about  me 
Her  spider  web,  that  I  can  only  flatter 
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  ramine 
Quench'd  tlMm  not— twenty  thousand  more,  perchance, 
Hereafter  (or  even  here  in  moments  which 


Might  date  for  years,  did  Angoiah  make  the  dial 
May  not  oUiterate  or  expiate 
The  madneai  and  dishonour  of  an  instant* 
Ulricy  be  wam'd  by  a  father!— I  war  not 
By  mine»  and  you  behold  me ! 

Vlr.  I  behold 

The  prosperous  and  bdoved  Siegendorf, 
Lord  of  a  prince's  appanage,  and  honour'd 
By  those  he  niles  and  tboM  he  ranks  with* 

Sieg.  Ah! 

Why  wilt  thou  call  me  prosperous,  while  I  fear 
For  thee  ?  BeloTed,  when  thou  lowest  me  not ! 
AU  hearts  but  one  may  beat  in  kindwsss  for  me— 
But  if  my  son's  is  cold !  ^— 

Vbr.  Who  dare  say  that  T 

Skeg.  None  dse  but  I,  who  see  it— /eel  it— keener 
Than  would  your  adversaryy  who  dared  say  so, 
Your  sabre  in  his  heart !    But  mine  survives 
The  wound. 

Ulr*  You  err.    My  nature  is  not  given 

To  outward  fondling :  how  should  it  be  so, 
After  twelve  years^  divorcement  from  my  parents  ! 

Sieg*  And  did  not  I  top  pass  those  twelve  torn  years 
In  a  UJce  absence  ?    But 't  is  vain  to  urge  you  — 
Nature  was  never  call'd  back  by  remonstrance.    - 
Let 's  change  the  theme.     I  wish  you  to  consider 
That  these  young  violent  nobles  of  high  name. 
But  dark  deeds  (ay,  the  darkest,  if  all  Rumour 
Reports  be  true),  with  whom  thou  consortest,    . 
WiU  lead  thee 

Ulr.  (mpaiiently.)  1 11  be  2e(2  by  no  man. 

Sieg.  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  dbouldst  wed  the  lady  Ida-* more 
As  thou  appear'st  to  love  her. 

Ulr*  I  have  said 

I  will  obey  your  orders,  were  they  to 
Unite  with  Hecate  —can  a  son  say  more? 

Sieg*  He  says  too  much  in  saying  this.     It  is  not 
The  nature  of  thine  age,  nor  of  thy  blood, 
Nor  of  thy  temperament,  to  talk  so  coolly, 
Or  act  so  carelessly,  in  that  which  is 
The  bloom  or  blight  of  all  nien's  happineas, 
(For  Glory's  pillow  is  but  restless  if 


A  TBAOSDT.  81 

Love  lay  not  down  his  cheek  there) :  some  strong  bias. 
Some  master  fiend  is  in  thy  service  to 
Misrule  the  mortal  who  believes  him  slave, 
And  make  his  every  thought  subservient ;  else 
Thou  'dst  say  at  once  —  ''I  love  young  Ida,  and 
Will  wed  her ; "  or,  ^'I  k>ve  her  not,  and  all 
The  powers  of  earth  shall  never  make  me."  —  So 
Would  I  have  answerM, 

Vlr.  Sir,  you  wed  for  love* 

Sieg*  I  did,  and  it  has  been  my  only  refuge 
In  many  miseries* 

Vlr*  Which  miseries 

Had  never  been  but  for  this  love-match. 

Sieg.  Still 

Against  your  age  and  nature !  Who  at  twenty 
E^r  answerM  thus  till  now  1 

Ulr, '  Did  you  not  warn  me 

Against  your  own  example  ? 

Sieg.  Boyish  sophist ! 

In  a  word,  do  you  love,  or  love  not,  Ida  ? 

Uhr.  What  matters  it,  if  I  am  ready  to 
Obey  yoB  in  espousing  her  ? 

Sieg*                                    As  far 
As  you  feel,  nothing,  but  all  life  for  her. 
She  's  young-— an  beautiful— adores  you— is 
Endow'd  with  quaKties  to  ffive  happiness, 
Such  as  rounds  common  lite  into  a  dream 
Of  something  which  your  poets  cannot  paint. 
And  (if  it  were  not  wisdom  to  love  virtue) 
For  which  Philosophy  mi^t  barter  Wisdom ; 
And  giving  so  much  happiness*  deserves 
A  litUe  in  return.     I  wmild  not  have  her 
Break  her  heart  for  a  man  who  has  none  to  break; 
Or  wither  on  her  staSk  like  some  pale  rose 
Deserted  by  the  bird  she  thought  a  nightingale, 
According  to  the  Orient  tale.    She  is 

Ulr.  The  daughter  of  dead  Stralenheim,  your  foe ; 
1 11  wed  her,  ne'ertheless ;  though,  to  say  truth, 
Just  now  I  am  not  violently  traniqK>rted 
In  favour  of  such  unions. 

Sieg.  But  she  loves  you. 

Uir.  And  I  love  her,  and  therefore  would  think  hoice. 

Sieg.  AJas !  Love  never  did  so. 

Vlr.  Then  't  is  time 

He  should  begin,  and  take  the  bandage  from 
His  eyes^  and  look  before  he  leaps :  till  now 
▼OL.  v.— G 


82  WBHNKB,  ACT  IT. 

He  hath  ta'en  a  jump  i'  the  dark. 

Sieg,  But  you  consent? 

Z7Zr.  I  did,  and  do. 

Sieg.  Then  fix  the  day. 

Ulr.  T  is  usual, 

And  certes  courteous,  to  leave  that  to  the  lady. 

Sieg.  I  wiU  engage  for  her, 

Ulr.  So  will  not  1 

For  any  woman  ;  and  as  what  I  fix, 
I  fain  would  see  unshaken,  when  she  gives 
Her  answer,  I  '11  give  mine.  . 

Sieg,  But 't  is  your  office 

To  woo. 

Vlr.  Count,  't  is  a  marriage  of  your  making. 
So  be  it  of  your  wooing  ;  but  to  please  you 
I  will  now  pay  my  duty  to  my  mother, 
With  whom,  you  know,  the  lady  Ida  is.  — 
What  would  you  have  ?    You  have  forbid  my  stirring 
For  manly  sports  beyond  the  castle  walls. 
And  I  obey  ;  you  bid  me  titrn  «l  chamberer, 
To  pick  up  gloves,  and  fans,  and  knittinff-needles. 
And  list  to  songs  and  tunes,  and  watch  U>t  smiles. 
And  smile  at  pretty  prattle,  and  look  into 
The  eyes  of  feminine,- as  though  they  were 
The  stars  receding  early  to  our  wish 
Upon  the  dawn  of  a  world- winning  battle  <— 
What  can  a  son  or  man  do  more  ?  [Exit  Ulsic. 

Sieg.  (sdUis^)  3V)o  much !  <-— 

Too  much  of  duty  and  too  little* lover! 
He  pays  me  in  the  coin  he  owes  me  not : 
For  such  hath  been  my  way  ward  fate,  I  could  not 
Fulfil  a  parent's  duties  by  hie  side 
Till  now ;  hut  love  he  owes  me,  for  my  thoughts 
Ne'er  left  him,  nor  my  eyes  long'd  without  tears 
To  see  my  child  again,  and  now  I  have  found  him  ! 
But  how !  —  obedient,  but  with  coldness.;  duteous 
In  my  sight,  but  with  carelessness ;  mysterious  — 
Abstracted  —  distant  —  much  given  to  long  absence, 
And  where  —  none  know  -~  in  league  with  the  most  riotous 
Of  our  young  nobles  ;  though,  to  do  him  justice, 
He  never  stoops  down  to  their  vulgar  pleasures ; 
Tet  there  's  some  tie  between  them  which  I  cannot 
Unravel.     They  look  up  to  him  —  consult  him-«- 
Throng  round  him  as  a  leader :  but  with  me 
He  hath  no  confidence  !     Ah !  can  I  hope  it 
j-Jter  —  what !  doth  my  father's  curse  descend 


A  TBAGEDT.  83 

Even  to  my  child  ?    Or  is  the  Hungarian  neat 
To  shed  more  blood  ?  or— Oh !  if  it  should  be  ! 
Spirit  of  Stralenheim,  dost  thou  walk  these  walla 
To  wither  him  and  his  —  who,  though  they  slew  not» 
Unlatch'd  the  door  of  death  for  thee  ?  T  was  not 
Our  fault,  nor  is  our  sin  :  thou  wert  our  foe, 
And  yet  I  spared  thee  when  my  own  destruction 
Slept  with  thee,  to  awake  with  thine  awakening  ! 
And  only  took  —  Accursed  gold  !  thou  liest 
Like  poison  in  my  hands ;  I  dare  not  use  thee, 
Nor  part  from  thee ;  thou  earnest  in  such  a  guise, 
Methinks  thou  wouldst  contaminate  all  hands 
Like  mine.     Yet  I  have  done,  to  atone  for  thee, 
Thou  villanous  gold  !  and  thy  dead  master's  doom, 
Though  he  died  not  by  me  or  mine,  as  much 
As  if  he  were  my  brother  !  I  have  ta'en 
His  orphan  Ida  —  cherish'd  her  as  one 
"Who  will  be  mine.  ' 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

AU.  The  abbot,  if  it  please 

Your  excellency,  whom  you  sent  for,  waits 
Upon  you,  [Exit  Attendant. 

EfOer  the  PmoB  Albert. 

Prior,        Peace  be  with  these  walls,  and  all 
Within  them. 

Sieg.              Welcome,  welcome,  holy  father ! 
And  may  thy  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. 
Erected  by  your  ancestors,  is  still 
Protected  by  their  children. 

Sieg,  Yes,  good  father ; 

Continue  daily  orisons  for  us 
In  these  dim  days  of  heresies  and  blood. 
Though  the  schismatic  Swede,  Gustavus,  Is 
Gone  home. 

Prior.     To  the  endless  home  of  unbelievers, 
Where  there  is  everlasting  wail  and  woe. 
Gnashing  of  teeth,  and  tears  of  blood,  and  fire 
Eternal,  and  the  worm  which  dieth  not ! 

Sieg*  True,  father :  and  to  avert  those  pangs  from  one. 


84  WERNER,  ACT  IT. 

Who,  though  of  our  most  faultless  holy  church, 
Yet  died  without  its  last  and  dearest  offices, 
Which  smooth  the  soul  through  purgatorial  pains, 
I  have  to  offbr  humbly  this  donation 
In  masses  for  his  spirit. 

[SisoENDORF  offern  ihR  gM  toMch  he  had  taken 
/nmt  STRALENUsni. 

Prior,  Count,  if  I 

Receive  it,  't  is  because  I  know  too  well 
Refusal  would  offend  you.     Be  assured 
The  largess  shall  be  only  dealt  in  alms* 
And  every  mass  no  less  sung  for  the  dead 
Our  house  needs  no  donations,  thanks  to  yours, 
Which  has  of  old  endow'd  it ;  but  from  you 
And  yours  in  all  meet  things  't  is  fit  we  obey* 
For  whom  shall  mass  be  said  ? 

Sieg.  (faltering,)  For  —  for  —  the  dead. 

Prior,  His  name? 

Sieg,  T  is  from  aisoul,  and  not  a  name, 

[  would  avert  perditipn. 

Prior,  I  meant  not  •• 

To  pry  into  your  secret.     We  will  oray 
For  one  unknown^  thie  same  as  for  tne  proudest. 

Sieg,  Secret !  I  hajire  none  ;  but,  father,  he  who's  gone 
Might  have  one ;  or,  in  short,  he  did  bequeath  — 
No,  not  bequeath  —  but  I  bestow  this  sum 
For  pious  purposes.  ' 

Prior,  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  souls- 
Of  our  dead  enemies  is  worthy  those 
Who  can  forgive  them  living. 

Sieg.  But  I  did  not 

Forgive  this  man.     I  loathed  him  to  the  last. 
As  he  did  me.     I  do  not- love  him  now. 
But 

Prior.  Best  of  all !  for  this  is  pure  religion ! 
You  fain  would  rescue  him  you  hate  from  hell  — 
An  evangelical  compassion  —  with 
Your  own  gold  too ! 

Sieg,  Father,  't  is  not  my  gold. 

Prior,  Whose  then  ?    You  sa.id  it  was  no  legacy, 

Sieg,  No  matter  whose  —  of  this  be  suie,  that  he 


A  TSA6XDV.  85 

Who  ownM  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  ownM  it  die  in  his  bed  ? 

Sieg.  Alas ! 

fie  did. 

Prior,  Son !  you  relapse  into  revenge, 
If  you  reffrct  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 — hQ  was  stabb'd  i'  the  dark,. 
And  now  you  have  it  —  perish'd  on  his  piUow 
By  a  cut-throat !  —  Ay !  —  you  may  look  upon  me  ! 
/  am  Ttot  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  7 

Sieg.  No !  by  the  God  who  sees  and  strikes  ! 

Prior.  Nor  know  you 

Who  slew  him  ? 

Sieg.  I  could  only  guess  tit  onfy 

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 !  am  11  — say ! 

Prior.  You  have  said  so,  and  know  be^t. 

Sieg.  Father !  I  have  spoken 

The  truth,  and  nought  but  truth,  if  not  the  whde  ; 
Yet  say  I  am  not  guilty  !  for  the  blood 
Of  this  man  weighs  on  roe,  as  if  I  shed  it, 
Though,  by  the  Power  who  abborreth  human  blood, 
I  did  not !  —  nay,  once  spared  it,  when  I  might 
And  could  —  ay,  perhaps,  -Should  (if  our  nclf-safety 
Be  e'er  excusable  in  such  defences 
Against  the  attacks  of  over-potent  foes)  : 
But  pray  for  him,  for  me,  and  all  my  house ; 
For,  as  I  said,  though  I  be  innocent, 
I  know  not  why,  a  like  remorse  is  on  mo, 
As  if  he  had  fallen  by  me  or  mine.     Pray  for  me, 
Father !  I  have  pray'd  myself  in  vain. 

Prior.  I  will 


66  WBRXBBy  ACT  t. 

Be  comforted !  You  are  innocent,  and  should 
Be  calm  as  innocence. 

Sieg.  But  calmness  is  not 

Always  the  attribute  of  innocence. 
I  feel  it  is  not. 

Prior.  But  it  will  be  so, 

When  the  mind  gathers  up  its  truth  within  it^ 
Remember  the  great  festival  to-morrow, 
In  which  you  rank  amidst  our  chiefest  nobles, 
As  well  as  your  brave  son ;  and  smooth  your  aspect ; 
Nor  in  the  general  orison  of  thanks 
For  bloodshed  stopt,  let  blood  you  shed  not  rise 
A  cloud  upon  your  thoughts.     This  were  to  be 
Too  sensitive.     Take  comfort,  and  forget 
Such  things,  and  leave  remorse  unto  the  guilty. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 
S  C  E  N  E  I. 


A  large  and  magnificent  Gothic  HdU  in  Ihe  CasUe  of  Siegendorf, 
decorated  with  Trophies,  Banners,  and  Arms  of  that  FamUy. 

Enter  Arnheih  and  Meister,  attendants  of  Count 

SlE6Ein>OBF. 

Am,  Be  quick !  the  count  will  soon  return  :  the  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 !  All  the  pleasure 
(If  such  there  be)  must  fall  to  the  spectators. 
I  'm  sure  none  doth  to  us  who  make  the  show. 

Am,  Go  to !  my  lady  countess  comes. 

Meis.  I  M  rather 

Ride  a  day's  hunting  on  an  outworn  jade. 
Than  follow  in  the  train  of  a  great  man 
In  these  dull  pageantries. 


A   TXAGSDT.  f  ^ 

Am.  Begone  !  and  rail 

Within.  [Exeunt. 

EfUer  the  Couiitkss  Josbphixe  Si£gbni>obf  aind  Ida 
SrsALEirHsix* 

Joi.  Well,  Heaven  be  praised,  the  show  is  over ! 

Ida.  How  can  you  say  so  !  never  have  I  dreamt 
Of  aught  so  beautiful.     The  flowers,  the  boughs, 
The  banners,  and  the  nobles,  and  the  knights, 
The  gems,  the  robes,  the  plumes,  the  happy  faces, 
The  coursers,  and  the  incense,  and  the  sun 
Streaming  through  tho  stain'd  windows,  even  the  tombs^ 
Which  look'd  so  calm,  and  the  celestial  hymns. 
Which  seem'd  as  if  they  rather  came  from  heaven 
Than  mounted  there.     The  bursting  organ's  peal 
Rolling  on  high  like  an  harmonious  thunder  ; 
The  white  robes  and  the  lifted  eyes  ;  the  world 
At  peace  !  and  all  at  peace  with  one  another ! 
Oh«  my  sweet  mother !  lEmbracing  Josxphinb. 

Jos.  My  beloved  child ! 

For  such,  I  trust,  thou  shalt  be  shortly.. 

Ida.  Oh! 

I  am  80  already.     Feel  how  my  heart  beats  ! 

Jos.  It  does,  my  love  ;  and  never  may  it  throb 
With  aught  more  bitter. 

Ida.  Never  shall  it  do  so  ! 

How  should  it  ?    What  should  make  us  grieve  7-    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. 

Jos.  Poor  child ! 

Ida.  Do  you  pity  me  ? 

Jos.  No  ;  I  but  envy. 

And  that  in  sorrow,  not  in  the  world's  sense 
Of  the  universal  vice,  if  one  vice  be 
More  general  than  another.. 

Ida.  I  II  not  hear 

A  word  against  a  world  which  still  contains 
You  and  my  Ulric.     Did  you  ever  see 
Aught  like  him  7     How  he  tow^r'd  among  them  all ! 
And  all  eyes  foUow'd  him !   The  flowers  fell  faster  — 
RainM  from  each  lattice  at  his  feet,  methought^. 
Than  before  all  the  rest ;   and  where  he  trod 
I  dare  be  sworn  that  they  grow  still,  nor  e'er 
Will  wither. 


88 

Jo9.  Tou  will  spoil  liiiD»  little  flatterer, 

If  he  should  hear  you. 

Ideu  But  he  never  wilL 

I  dare  not  say  so  much  to  him — I  fear  him. 

Jos.   Why  so  ?  he  loves  you  well. 

Ida.  But  I  can  never 

'  Shape  my  thoughts  of  him  into  words  fo  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.  Yet  there  are  other  men. 

In  the  world's  eye,  as  goodly.  There  's,  for  instance. 
The  young  Count  Waldorfi  who  scarce  once  withdrew 
His  eyes  from  yours  to-day. 

Ida.  I  did  not  see  him. 

But  Ulric.     Did  yeu  not  see  at  the  moment 
When  all  knelt,  and  I  wept !  and  yet  methought, 
Through  my  fast  tears,  though  they  were  thick  and  warm, 
I  saw  him  smiling  on  me. 

Jos.  I  could  not 

See  aught  save  heaven,  to  which  my  eyes  were  raised 
Together  with  the  people's. 

Ida.  I  thought  too 

Of  heaven,  although  I  lookM  on  Ulric. 

Jos.  Come, 

Let  us  retire ;  they  will  be  here  anon 
Expectant  of  the  banquet.     We  will  lay 
Aside  these  nodding  plumes  and  dragging  trains. 

Ida.  And,  above  all,  these  stiff  and  heavy  jewels, 
Which  make  my  head  and  heart  ache,  as  both  throb 
Beneath  their  glitter  o'er  my  brow  and  zone. 
Dear  mother,  I  am  with  you. 

Enter  Count  Sieghwdorf,  infuU  dress,  from  the  sdemnity^  and 

LUDWIO. 

Sieg.  Is  he  not  found  ? 

Lud.  Strict  search  is  making  every  where ;  and  in 
The  man  be  in  Prague,  be  sure  he  will  be  found. 
Sieg.  Where  'a  Ulric  ? 


A  TSAOSDT.  89 

iMd.  He  rode  round  the  other  way 

With  some  Jroimg  nobles ;  but  he  left  them  soon; 
And,  if  I  err  not,  not  a  minute  since 
I  heard  his  excellency,  with  his  train. 
Galloping  o'er  the  west  drawbridge. 

'Enter  UiJuc»  splendidly  dressed. 

Sieg.  {to  LvDwiG.)  See  they  cease  not 

Their  quest  of  him  I  have  described.     (Exit  Ludwio.) 

Oh,  Ulric! 
How  have  I  long'd  for  thee ! 

Ulr.  Your  wish  is  granted  — 

Behold  me ! 

Sieg.  I  have  seen  the  murderer. 

Ulr.  Whom?  Where? 

Sieg.  The  Hungarian,  who  slew  Stralenheim 

Ulr,  You  dream. 

Sieg,  I  live !  and  as  I  live,  I  saw  him  — 

Heard  him !  he  dared  to  utter  even  my  name.  * 

Ulr,  What  name  7 

Sieg,  Werner !  f  was  mine. 

Ulr,  It  must  be  so 

No  more  :  forget  it. 

Sieg,  Never!  never!  all 

My  d«itinies  were  woven  in  that  name : 
It  will  not  be  engraved  upon  my  tomb. 
But  it  may  lead  me  there. 

Ulr,  To  the  point  •—  the  Hungarian  ? 

Sieg.  Listen  —  The  church  was  throng'd ;   the  hymn 
was  raised; 
''  Te  Deum  "  pealM  from  nations,  rather  than 
From  choirs,  in  one  great  cry  of  "  God  be  praised  " 
For  one  day's  peace,  after  thrice  ten  dread  years, 
Each  bloodier  than  the  former :  I  arose, 
With  all  the  nobles,  and  as  I  look'd  down 
Along  the  lines  of  lifted  faces,  —  from 
Our  banner'd  and  escutcheon'd  gaUery,  I 
Saw,  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  (for  I  saw 
A  moment  and  no  more,)  what  struck  mc  sightless 
To  all  else — the  Hungarian's  &ce  I  I  grew 
Sick ;  and  when  I  recover'd  from  the  mist 
Which  curl'd  about  my  senses,  and  again 
Look'd  down,  I  saw  him  not.     The  thanksgiving 
Was  over,  and  we  march'd  back  in  procession. 

UJr,  Continue. 


90  WBBNBB,  ACTT. 

Sieg.  When  we  reached  the  Muldsu's  bridge, 

The  joyous  crowd  above,  the  numberless 
Barks  mann'd  with  revellers  in  their  best  garbs, 
Which  shot  along  the  glancing  tide  below, 
The  decorated  street,  the  long  array. 
The  clashing  music,  and  the  thundering 
Of  far  artillery,  which  seem'd  to  bid 
A  long  and  loud  farewell  to  its  great  doings. 
The  standards  o'er  me,  and  the  tramplings  round. 
The  roar  of  rushing  thousands,  —  all  —  all  could  not 
Chase  this  man  from  my  mind,  although  my  senses 
No  longer  held  him  palpable. 

Uhr.  You  saw  him 

No  more,  then  7 

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  liis  stead  — — 

Ulr.  What  in  his  stead  ? 

Sieg.  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  overflowed  the  glittering  streets  of  Prague* 

Vlr.  What 's  this  to  the  Hungarian  ? 

Sieg,  Much ;  for  I 

Had  almost  then  fbrgot  him  in  my  son  ; 
When  just  as  the  artillery  ceased,  and  paused 
The  music,  and  the  crowd  embraced  in  lieu 
Of  shouting,  I  heard  in  a  deep,  low  voice. 
Distinct  and  keener  far  upon  my  ear 
Than  the  late  cannon's  volume,  this  word  —  **  Werner!  " 

r/Zr.  Uttered  by 

Sieg*  Him  !  I  tum'd  —  and  saw  —  and  fell. 

TJlr.  And  wherefore  ?  Were  you  seen  ? 

Sieg.  The  officious  care 

Of  those  around  me  draggM  me  from  the  spot, 
Seeing  my  faintness,  ignorant  of  the  cause  ; 
You,  too,  were  too  remote  in  the  procession 

?rhe  old  nobles  being  divided  from  their  children) 
0  aid  me. 

Ulr.  But  1 11  aid  you  now. 

Sieg.  In  what? 

XJhr.  In  searching  for  this  man,  or When  he's 

found. 
What  shall  we  do  with  him  ? 

Sieg.  I  know  not  that. 


ICIXSl.  1.   TRAGEDY.  •  91 

Ulr,  Then  wherefore  seek  ? 

Sieg.  Because  I  cannot  rest 

Tin  he  is  found.     His  fate,  and  Stralenheim's, 
And  oursy  seem  intertwisted  !  nor  can  be 
UnraveU'd,  tin 

Enter  an  Attsndant. 

AUen.  A  stranger  to  wait  on 

Four  excellency. 

Sieg.  Who  ? 

Atteru  He  gave  no  name. 

Sieg.  Amit  him,  ne'ertheless. 

[The  Attendaitt  uOrcdueea  Gabob,  and  txfieruKtrds 
exit. 

Ah! 

Gab.  T  is,  then,  Werner  ! 

Sieg.   (JumghtUy.)    Tlie  same  you  knew,  sir,  by  that 
name  ;  and  you  ! 

Gab.  (looking  (around.)  I  recogniae  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. 

Sieg.  I  have  sought  you>  aoid  have  found  you :  you  are 
charged 
(Your  own  heart  may  inform  you  why)  with  such 
A  crime  as [He  pauses. 

Crab.  Give  it  utterance^  and  then 

1 11  meet  the  consequences. 

Sieg.  You  shall  do  so  — 

Unless  — 

Gab.  First,  who  accuses  me  ? 

Sieg.  All  things, 

If  not  all  men :  the  universal  rumour  — 
My  own  presence  on  the  spot  —  the  place—  the  time— 
And  every  speck  of  circumstance  unite 
To  fix  the  blot  on  you. 

Gab.  And  c^n  me  only  ? 

Pause  ere  you  answer :  is  no  other  name, 
Save  mine,  stain'd  in  this  business  ? 

Sieg.  Trifling  villain ! 

Who  play'st  with  thine  own  guUt !  Of  all  that  breathe 
Thou  best  dost  know  the  innocence  of  him 
'Gainst  whom  thy  breath  would  blow  thy  bloody  slander. 
But  I  will  talk  no  further  with  a  wretch. 


92  WERNER,  ACT  T. 

Further  than  justice  aaks.     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  the  mnrderer. 

Sieg.  Name  him ! 

Gab.  He 

May  have  more  names  than  one.    Your  lordship  had  so 
Once  on  a  time. 

•   Sieg.  If  you  mean  me,  I  dare 

Your  utmost. 

Gab.  You  may  do  so,  and  in  safety ; 

I  know  the  assassin. 
Sieg.  Where  is  he? 

Gab.  (pointing  to  Ulric.)  Beside  you  1 

[Ulric  rushes  forward  to  attack  Gabor  ;  Sisoendorp 
interposes. 
Sieg.  Liar  and  fiend !  but  you  shall  not  be  slain  ; 
These  walls  are  mine,  and  you  are  safe  within  them. 

[He  turns  to  Ulsic. 
Ulric,  repel  this  calumny,  as  I 
Will  do.     I  avow  it  is  a  growth  so  monstrous, 
I  could  not  deem  it  earth-bom :  but  be  calm ; 
It  will  refute  itself.     But  touch  him  not^ 

[Ulric  endeavours  to  compose  himself. 
Gab.  Look  at  Aim,  count,  and  then  hear  me. 
Sieg.  (first  to  Gabor,  and  then  looking  at  Ulric.) 

I  hear  thee. 
My  God !  you  look  — 

Vlr.  How? 

Sieg.  As  on  that  dread  night 

When  we  met  in  the  garden. 

iJlr.  (composes  himself).        It  is  nothing. 
Gab.  Count,  you  are  bound  to  hear  me.     I  came  hither 
Not  seeking  you,  but  sought.     When  I  knelt  down 
Amidst  the  people  in  the  church,  I  dream'd  not 
To  find  the  beggar'd  Werner  in  the  seat 
Of  senators  and  princes  ;  but  you  have  call'd  me, 
And  we  have  met. 
Sieg.  Gro  on,  sir. 

Gab.  Ere  I  do  so. 

Allow  me  to  inquire  who  profited 
By  Stralenheim's  death  ?    Was  't  I — as  poor  as  ever  ; 


OBI.  A   TSAOBDT.  98 

And  poorer  by  suspicion  on  my  nftoie ! 
The  baron  lost  in  that  last  outrage  neitber 
Jewels  nor  gM  ;  his  life  alone  was  sought,  — 
A  life  which  stood  between  the  claims  of  others 
To  honours  and  estates  scarce  less  than  princely. 

Sieg,  These  hints,  as  vague  as  yain,  attach  no  less 
To  me  than  to  my  son. 

Gab.  I  can't  help  that 

But  let  the  consequence  alight  on  him 
Who  feels  himself  the  guilty  one  amongst  us. 
I  speak  to  you.  Count  Siegendorf,  because 
I  know  you  innocent,  and  deem  you  just. 
But  ere  I  can  proceed— dors  you  protect  me  ? 
Dare  you  command  me  7 

[SuoENDOBF  first  looJcs  ot  the  Hungarian^  and  iken  at 
Ulxic,  wJio  has  unbuckled  his  sabre,  and  is  drawing 
Unes  with  it  on  the  floor -^sHU  in  its  sheathe 

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. 

lUr.  {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  stain'd  with  more 
Bk>od  than  came  there  in  battle. 

Ubr.    {casts  the  sabre  from  him  in  contempt.)    It  —  or 
some 
Such  other  weapon,  in  my  hands  — <•  spared  yours 
Once  when  disarmed  and  at  my  mercy. 

Gab.  True  — 

I  have  not  forgotten  it:  you  spared  me  for 
Your  own  especial  purpose —  to  sustain 
An  ignominy  not  my  own. 

Vur.  Proceed. 

The  tale  is  doubtless  worthy  the  relator. 
But  is  it  of  my  iather  to  hekt  further  ? 

[To  SlEOIlTDOSr. 

Sieg.  {takes  his  son  by  the  hand.)  My  son !  I  know  my 
own  innocence,  and  doubt  not 
Of  yours  '-but  I  have  promised  this  man  patience ; 
Ijet  him  oontinne* 

Crab.  I  will  not  detain  you 

By  speaking  of  myself  much ;  I  besan 
Life  early  ^- and  am  what  the  world  has  made  me. 
At  Franldbrt  on  the  Oder,  where  I  pass'd 


94  wxssuK,  Acrf. 

A  winter  in  obscurity,  it  was 

My  chance  at  several  places  of  resort 

(Which  I  frequented  sometimes  but  not  ofien) 

To  hear  related  a  strange  circumstance 

In  February  last.     A  martial  force. 

Sent  by  the  state,  had,  after  strong  resistance, 

Secured  a  band  of  desperate  men,  supposed 

Marauders  from  the  hostile  camp. —  They  prore^ 

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  the  civil  jurisdiction 

Of  the  free  town  of  Frankfort.     Of  their  fate, 

I  know  no  more. 

Sieg,  And  what  is  this  to  Ulric 

(rab.  Amongst  them  there  was  said  to  be  one  man 
Of  wonderful  endowments :  — birth  and  fortune, 
Youth,  strength,  and  beauty,  almost  superhuman, 
And  courage  as  unrivall'd,  were  proclaim'd 
His  by  the  public  rumour ;  and  his  sway. 
Not  only  over  his  associates,  but 
His  judges,  was  attributed  to  witchcraft* 
Such  was  his  influence :  —  I  have  no  great  faith 
In  any  magic  save  that  of  the  mine  — 
I  therefore  deem'd  him  wealthy. —  But  my  soul 
Was  roused  with  various  feelings  to  seek  out 
This  prodigy,  if  only  to  behold  him. 

Sieg,  And  did  you  so  ? 

Gab.  You  11  hear.     Chance  favour'd  me : 

A  popular  affray  in  the  public  square 
Drew  crowds  together  —  it  was  one  of  those 
Occasions  where  men's  souls  look  out  of  them, 
And  show  them  as  they  -are  —  ei^en  in  their  faced : 
The  moment  my  eye  met  his,  I  exclaim'd, 
**  This  is  the  man  ! "  though  he  was  then,  as  since^ 
With  the  nobles  of  the  city.     I  felt  sure 
I  had  not  err'd,  and  watched  him  long  and  nearly : 
I  noted  down  his  form  —  his  gesture  —  features, 
Stature,  and  bearing  —  and  amidst  them  all,. 
Midst  every  natural  and  acquired  distinction, 
1  could  discern,  methought,  the  assassin's  eye 
And  gladiator's  heart. 


A  TSAOIDY.  95 

VIr.  (nmimg,)  The  tale  sounds  well. 

Crab.  And  may  sound  better. —  He  appeared  to  ma 
One  of  those  beings  to  whom  Fortune  bends 
As  she  doth  to  the  daring  —  and  on  whom 
The  fates  of  others  oft  depend  ;    besides, 
An  indescribable  sensation  drew  me 
Near  to  this  man,  as  if  my  point  of  fortune 
Was  to  be  fix'd  by  him. —  There  1  was  wrong. 

Sieg.  And  may  not  be  right  now. 

Gab.  I  followed  him. 

Solicited  his  notice  —  and  obtained  it  — 
Though  not  his  friendship  :  *-it  was  his  intention 
To  leave  the  city  privately  — we  left  it 
Together  —  and  together  we  arrived 
In  the  poor  town  where  Werner  was  eonceal'd, 
And  Stralenheim  was  succour'd— ^Now  we  are  on 
The  rerge^-dare  you  hear  further? 

Sieg*  I  must  do  so  *- 

Or  I  have  heard  too  much. 

Crdb,  I  saw  in  you 

A  man  above  his  station  —  and  if  not 
So  high,  as  now  I  find  you,  in  my  then 
Ck>nceptions,  't  was  that  I  had  rarely  seen 
Men  such  as  you  appenr'd  in  height  of  mind 
In  the  most  high  of  worldly  rank  ;  you  were 
Poor,  even  to  all  save  rags :  I  would  have  shared 
My  purse,  though  slenden  with  you*- you  refused  it. 

sieg.  Doth  my  refusal  make  a  debt  to  you. 
That  thus  you  urge  it  ? 

Gab.  Still  you  owe  me  something, 

Though  not  for  that ;  and  I  owed  you  my  safety, 
At  least  my  seeming  safety,  when  the  slaves 
Of  Stralenheim  pursued  me  on  the  grounds 
That  /  had  robb'd  him. 

Sieg.  I  conceal'4  you  —  I, 

Whom  and  whose  house  you  arraign,  reviving  viper  ! 

Gab.  I  accuse  no  man  —  save  in  my  defence. 
You,  count,  have  made  yourself  accuser — judge: 
Your  hall 's  my  court,  your  heart  is  my  tribuimL 
Be  just,  and  J  'U  be  merciful ! 

Sieg.  You  merciful ! 

You !  Base  calumniator ! 

Gab.  I.     T  will  rest 

With  me  at  last  to  be  so.     You  conceal'd  me— 
In  secret  passages  known  to  yourself, 
You  said,  and  to  none  else.     At  dead  of  night, 


06  WSKNBBy  ACT  T. 

Weary  with  watching  in  the  dark,  and  dubious 
Of  tracing  back  my  way,  I  saw  a  glimmer. 
Through  distant  crannies,  of  a  twinkling  light : 
I  foUow'd  it,  and  reach'd  a  door  —  a  secret 
Portal  —  which  open'd  to  the  chamber,  where, 
With  cautious  hand  and  alow,  having  first  undone 
As  much  as  made  a  crevice  of  the  fastening, 
I  look'd  through  and  beheld  a  purple  bed. 
And  on  it  Stralenheim !  *- 

Sieg.  Asleep !  And  yet 

You  slew  him ! — Wretch ! 

Crab.  He  was  already  slain, 

And  bleeding  like  a  sacrifice.     My  own 
Blood  became  ice. 

Sieg.  But  he  was  all  alone ! 

You  saw  none  else  ?    You  did  not  see  the  — -— 

[He  pauses  firm  agUatimi 

CM.  No, 

JBTe,  whom  you  dare  not  name,  nor  even  I 
Scarce  dare  to  recollect,  was  not  then  in 
The  chamber. 

Sieg.    {to  Ulbic.)  Then,  my  boy !   thou  art  guiltless 
still  — 
Thou  bad'st  me  say  I  was  so  once-— Oh !  how 
Do  thou  as  much ! 

Gab.  Be  patient !  I  can  not 

Recede  now,  though  it  shake  the  very  walls 
Which  frown  above  us.     You  remember,  — or 
If  not,  your  son  does, — that  the  locks  were  changed 
Beneath  his  chief  inspection  on  the  mom 
Which  led  to  this  same  night :  how  he  had  enter'd 
He  best  knows  —  but  within  an  antechamber, 
The  door  of  which  was  half  ajar,  I  saw 
A  man  who  wash'd  his  bloody  hands,  and  oft 
With  stem  and  finxious  glance  gazed  back  upon 
The  bleeding  body —  but  it  moved  no  more. 

Sieg.  Oh !  God  of  fathers ! 

Gab.  I  beheld  his  features 

As  I  see  yours—  but  yours  they  were  not,  though 
Resembling  them  —  behold  them  in  Count  Ulricas ! 
Distinct  as  I  beheld  them,  though  the  expression 
Is  not  now  what  it  then  was ;  -~  but  it  was  so 
When  I  first  charged  him  with  the  crime  —  so  lately. 

Sieg.  This  is  so  — 

Gab.   {interruptiiug  Jdm.)   Nay— but  hear  me  to  the 
end! 


A  ISAeSDT*  97 

Nam  ywk  iniist  do  so.-»I  conceived  myielf 

BetrayM  by  you  and  Mm  (for  now  I  saw 

Hiere  was  some  tie  between  ypu)  into  this 

Pretended  den  of  refiiget  to  become 

The  victim  of  your  gmlt ;  and  my  first  thoo^t 

Was  vengeance :  but  though  arm'd  with  a  short  poniard 

(Having left  my  sword  without)  I  was  no  match 

For  him  at  any  time,  as  bad  been  proved 

That  morning  —  either  in  address  or  force. 

I  tum'dy  and  fled—- i'  the  dark :  chance  rather  than 

Skill  made  me  gain  the  secret  door  of  the  hall. 

And  thence  the  chamber  where  you  slept :  if  I 

Had  found  you  wdhing^  Heaven  alone  can  tell 

What  vengeance  and  sumicion  might  have  prompted ; 

But  ne'er  slept  guilt  as  Werner  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 ! 

CMb,  'T  is  not  my  fault. 

If  I  have  read  it.— Well !  I  fled  and  hid  me  — 
Chance  led  roe  here  after  so  many  moons  -~ 
And  show'd  me  Werner  in  Count  Siegendorf ! 
Werner,  whom  I  had  sought  4n  huts  in  vain, 
Inhabited  the  palace  of  a  sovereign ! 
You  sought  me  and  have  found  me— now  you  know 
My  secret,  and  may  weigh  its  worth. 

Sieg.  {after  a  pause.)  Indeed  ! 

Oafr*  Is  it  revenge  or  justice  which  inspires 
Your  meditation  ? 

Sieg,  Neither —  I  was  weighing 

The  vahie  of  your  secret. 

Crab.  You  shall  know  it 

At  once :  —  When  you  were  poor,  and  I,  though  poor. 
Rich  enough  to  relieve  such  poverty 
As  might  have  envied  mine,  I  ofler'd  you 
My  purse  —  you  would  not  share  it:  *-I  11  be  franker 
With  you :  you  are  wealthy,  noble,  trusted  by 
The  imperial  powers^- you  understand  me  ? 

Sieg.  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  danittged  in  my  name  to  save 

TOL.   v.— B 


98  wsBifss, 


ACTT. 


Yours  and  your  son's.     Weigh,  well  what  I  have  said. 

Sieg,  Dare  you  await  the  event  of  a  few  minutes' 
Deliberation  ? 

(rab.  (casts  Ms  eyes  an  Ulsic,  wko  is  leamng  agmnst  a 
pOar.)  If  I  should  do  so  ? 

Sieg,  I  pledge  my  life  for  yours.    Withdraw  into 
This  tower.  [Opens  a  tmrrei  door. 

Gab.  (hesitaUngly,)  This  is  the  second  safe  asjdum 
You  have  ofler'd  me. 

Sieg,  And  was  not  the  first  so  ? 

Crab,  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  dectsien ! 

Sieg.  I  will  be  «o.— 

My  word  is  sacred  and  irrevocaUe 
Within  iltese  walls,  but  it  exteads  no  Airther. 

Gab.  111  take  it  for  so  much. 

Sieg.  (points  ft>  Uutic's  sabre  stSl  t^ien  the  grosmd.) 

Take  also  tAoe— 
I  saw  you  eye  it  eagerly,  and  him 
Distrustfully. 

Gab.  (takes  t^ihe  sabre.)  I  will ;  and^  provide 
To  sell  my  life  —  not  cheaply. 

[Gabob  goes  into  Ae  turret  tohickj  SnomnoRr 
doses, 

Sieg,  (adoances  to  Uutic.)  Now,  Count  Ulric  ! 
For  son  I  dare  not  call  thee  — What  say'st  thou  ? 

Vlr,  His  tale  is  true. 

Sieg,  True,  monster ! 

Uhr.  Most  true,  father  * 

And  you  did  well  to  listen  to  it :  what 
We  know,  we  can  provide  against.     He  must 
Be  silenced. 

Sieg,  Ay,  with  half  of  my  domains ; 

And  with  the  other  half,  could  he  and  thou 
Unsay  this  villany. 

Ulr.  It  is  no  time 

For  triflinff  or  dissembling.     I  have  said 
His  story  °8  true  ;  and  he  too  must  be  silenced. 

Sieg,  How  so  ? 

Ulr  As  Stralenheim  is.     Are  you  so  dull 

As  never  to  have  hit  on  this  before  ? 
When  we  met  in  the  garden,  what  except 


SCSNKi;  A   TSAGSDT.  99 

Discovery  in  the  act  could  make  me  know 
His  death  ?    Or  had  the  prince's  household  been 
Then  summon'd,  would  the  cry  for  the  police 
Been  left  to  such  a  stranger  ?    Or  should  I 
Have  loiter'd  on  the  way  ?    Or  could  path  Werner^ 
The  object  of  the  baron's  hate  and  fears, 
Have  fled,  unless  by  many  an  hour  before 
Suspicion  woke  ?    I  sought  and  fathom'd  you, 
Doubting  if  you  were  fatee  or  feeble  :  I 
Perceived  you  were  the  latter ;  and  yet  so 
Confiding  have  I  found  you,  that  I  doubted 
At  times  your  weakness. 

Sieg.  Parricide  !  no  less 

Than  common  stabber !  What  deed  of  my  life. 
Or  thought  of  mine,  could  make  you  deem  me  fit 
For  your  accomplice  ? 

VIr.  Father,  do  not  raise 

The  devil  you  cannot  lay  between  us.     This 
Is  time  for  union  and  for  action,  not 
For  famUy  disputes.     While  you  were  tortured, 
Could  /  be  calm  ?    Think  you  that  I  have  heard 
This  fellow's  tale  without  some  feeling  7  -^  You 
Have  taught  me  feeling  for  ycu  and  myself; 
For  whom  or  what  ebe  did  you  ever  teach  it  ? 

Sieg,  Oh !  my  dead  father's  curse !  't  is  working  now. 

TJlr.  Let  it  work  on !  the  grave  will  keep  it  down  I 
Ashes  are  feeble  foes :  it  is  more  easy 
To  baffle  such,  than  countermine  a  mole, 
Which  winds  its  blind  but  living  path  beneath  you. 
Yet  hear  me  still !  —  If  you  condemn  me,  yet 
Remember  who  hath  taught  me  once  too  often 
To  listen  to  him !  Who  proclaim'd  to  me 
That  there  were  crimes  made  venial  by  the  occasion  t 
That  passion  was  our  nature  ?  that  the  goods 
Of  Heaven  waited  on  the  goods  of  fortune  ? 
Who  show'd  me  his  humanity  secured 
By  his  nerves  only  ?     Who  deprived  me  of 
All  power  to  vindicate  myself  and  race 
In  open  day  t     By  his  disgrace  which  stamp'd 
(It  might  be)  bastardy  on  me,  and  on 
Himself — VLfelon^s  brand !     The  man  who  is 
At  once  both  warm  and  weak  invites  to  deeds 
He  longs  to  do,  but  dare  not.     Is  it  strange 
That  I  should  act  what  you  could  think  ?  We  have  done 
With  right  and  wrong  ;  and  now  must  only  ponder 
Upon  effects,  not  causes.     Stralenheim, 


100  WSKNEXt  ACTT. 

WhoM  life  I  saved  from  impulse,  as,  unhuntrtf 

I  would  have  saved  a  peasant's  or  a  dog's,  I  dew 

Knoum  as  our  foe — but  not  from  vengeance.     He 

Was  a  rock  in  our  way  which  [  cut  through. 

As  doth  the  bolt,  because  it  stood  between  us  - 

And  our  true  destination —  but  not  idly. 

As  stranger  I  preserved  him,  and  he  owed  me 

His  life :  when  due,  I  but  resumed  the  debt. 

He,  you,  and  I,  stood  o'er  a  gulf  wherein 

I  have  plunged  our  enemy.     You  kindled  first 

The  torch — you  show'd  the  path ;  now  trace  me  that 

Of  safety  —  or  let  me ! 

Sieg.  .  I  have  done  with  life ! 

Vlr.  Let  us  have  done  with  that  which  cankers  life — 
Familiar  feuds  and  vain  recriminations 
Of  things  which  cannot  be  undone.     We  have 
No  more  to  learn  or  hide :  I  know  no  fear, 
And  have  within  these  very  walls  men  who 
(Although  you  know  them  not)  dare  venture  all  things. 
You  stand  high  with  the  state  ;  what  passes  here 
Will  not  excite  her  too  great  curiosity : 
Keep  your  own  secret,  keep  a  steady  eye. 
Stir  not,  and  speak  not ;  *-  leave  the  rest  to  me  : 
We  must  have  no  third  babblers  thrust  between  us^ 

{ExiJt  Ulbic. 

Sieg*    {schts.)  km  I  awake?   are  these  my  father's 
halls? 
And  yon  —  my  son  ?    My  son !  mine  !  who  have  ever 
Abhorr'd  both  mystery  and  blood,  and  yet 
Am  plunged  into  the  deepest  hell  of  both  ! 
I  must  be  speedy,  or  more  will  be  shed  -^ 
The  Hungarian's !  —  Ulric  —  he  hath  partisans, 
It  seems :  I  might  have  guess'd  as  much.     Oh  fool ! 
Wolves  prowl  in  company.     He  hath  the  key 

iAs  I  too)  of  the  opposite  door  which  leads 
nto  the  turret.     Now  then !  or  once  more 
To  be  the  father  of  fresh  crimes,  no  less 
Than  of  the  criminal !     Ho !  Gabor  !  Gabor ! 

[Exit  into  the  turreU  dosing  the  door  after  hm* 


MS  II.  A  TSAOBDT.  lOl 

8  C  E  N  E  1  L 

The  Interior  of  the  Turret. 

Gabor  and  Sis6Xxn>0BF. 

Cab.  Who  calls? 

Sieg»  I  —  Siegendorf !  Take  theae,  and  fly  i 

X^oae  not  a  moment? 

[Teareef  a  diamond  tiar  and  other  jetoels^  and  tkrude 
them  itUo  Gabob*8  hand* 

Gab.  What  am  I  to  do 

With  these? 

Sieg.  Whatever  you  will :  sell  them,  or  hoard. 

And  prosper ;  but  delay  not,  or  you  are  lost ! 

Gab.  X  ou  pledged  your  honour  for  my  safety ! 

Sieg.  And 

Must  thus  redeem  it.    Fly !  I  am  not  master, 
It  seemsy  of  my  own  castle  —  of  my  own 
Retainers  — nay,  even  of  these  very  walls. 
Or  I  would  bid  them  fall  and  crush  me !  Fly ! 
Or  you  will  be  slain  by— 

Gab.  Is  it  even  so? 

.    Farewell,  then !    Recollect,  however,  Count, 
Tou  sought  this  fata]  interview ! 

Sieg.  I  did: 

Let  it  not  be*niore  fatal  still !  —  Beffone ! 

Gab.  By  the  same  path  I  enterM? 

Sieg.  Yes  ;  that 's  safe  still ; 

But  loiter  not  in  Prague ;  —  you  do  not  know 
With  whom  you  have  to  deal* 

Gab.  I  know  too  well  -* 

And  knew  it  ere  yourself,  unhappy  sire ! 
Farewell !  [Exit  Gabob. 

Sieg.  {edhu  and  Jistemng.)    He  hath  clear'd  the  stair- 
case.     Ah  1  I  hear 
Tlie  door  sound  loud  behind  him !  He  is  safe ! 
Safe !  —  Oh,  my  father's  spirit  1  —  I  am  faint  ■■    ' 

[He  leans  down  vpon  a  done  eiep,  near  the  taatt  of 
ihe  tower f  in  a  drooping  posture. 

Enter  Uutio,  wkh/Aers  armed^  and  wUh  weapons  drawn. 
Vlr'.  Despatch ! — he  's  there !    ■ 


102  WERNKRt  j^ffTW 

Lad.  The  count,  my  lord ! 

TJlr.  {ruogninng  Siegendorf.)     You  here,  sir ! 

8tg,  Yes :  if  you  want  another  victim,  strike ! 

JJhr.  (seeing  him  9trwt  of  his  jewels,)  Where  is  the  nif* 
fian  who  hath  pfunder'd  you  ? 
Yassals,  despatch  in  search  of  him !  Tou  see 
'T  was  iBLS  I  said  —  the  wretch  hath  stript  my  father 
Of  jewels  which  might  form  a  prince's  heir-loom ! 
Away !  I  '11  follow  you  forthwith. 

[Exeunt  a//6fi<SiEGENDORF  oii<2Ulric. 
What's  this? 
Where  is  the  villain  T 

Sieg,  There  are  ttco^  sir  :  which 

Are  you  in  quest  of! 

Ulr,  Let  us  hear  no  more 

Of  this :  he  must  be  found.     Tou  have  not  let  him 
Escape? 

Sieg.      He  's  gone. 

Ulr.  With  your  connivance  ? 

Sieg.  With 

My  fullest,  freest  aid. 

Ulr.  Then  fare  you  well ! 

[Ulric  is  going, 

Sieg,  Stop !  I  command  —  entreat  —  implore !  Oh»  t  Iric ! 
Will  you  then  leave  me  ? 

Ulr,  What!  remain  lo» be 

Denounced  —  dragg'd,  it  may  be,  in  chains  ;  and  all 
By  your  inherent  weakness,  half- humanity,. 
Selfish  remorse,  and  temporising  pity. 
That  sacrifices  your  whole  race  to  save 
A  wretch  to  profit  by  our  ruin !     No,  countt. 
Henceforth  you  have  no  son ! 

Sieg,  I  never  had  one  f 

And  would  you  ne'er  had  borne  the  useless  name ! 
Where  will  you  go  ?  I  would  not  send  you  fiurth 
Without  protection. 

Ulr,  Leave  that'unto  me. 

I  am  not  alone  ;  nor  merely  the  vain  heir 
Of  your  domains ;  a  thousand,  ay,  ten  thousand 
Swords,  hearts,  and  hands^  are  mine. 

Sieg.  The  foresters ! 

With  whom  the  Hungarian  found  you  first  at  Frankfort ! 

Ulr,  Yes*- men  —  who  are  worthy  of  the  sane  I  6a 
tell 
Your  senators  that  they  look  well  lo  Prague ; 


A   TKAOEDT.  108 

Their  feast  of  peace  was  early  for  the  times ; 
There  are  more  spirits  abroad  than  have  been  laid 
With  Wallenstein ! 

Enter  Josephine  and  Ida. 

Joi,  What  is  't  we  hear  ?  My  Siegendorf ! 

Thank  Heav'ny  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. 

JcMU  What 

Means  my  good  lord  ? 

Sieg.  That  you  have  given  birtii 

To  a  demon ! 

Ida.  (taking  Ulric's  Jiand.)  Who  shall  dare  say  this  of 
Ulric? 

Sieg.  Ida,  beware !  there  's  blood  upon  that  hand. 

Ida.  (stooping  to  kisa^it.)  I  'd  kiss  it  off,  though  it  were 
mine ! 

Sieg.  It  is  so ! 

Ulr.  Away  !  it  is  your  father'b !  [Exit  Uuuc. 

Ida.  Oh,  great  God  ! 

And  I  have  loved  this  man  t 

[Ida  falls  senseless -^JosEmutM  stands  speechless 
with  horror. 

Sieg.  The  wretch  hath  slain 

Them  both  !  — *  My  Josephine !  we  are  now  alone ! 
Would  we  had  ever  been  so !  — All  is  over 
For  me  !  —  Now  open  wide,  my  sire,  thy  grave ; 
Thy  curse  hath  dug  it. deeper  for  thy  son 
In  mine !  —  The  race  of  Siegendorf  is  past ! 


DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED; 

A  DRAMA. 


^ 


This  production  is  founded  partly  on  the  story  of  a  nOTel 
called  The  Three  Brothera^  publiihed  many  years  ago,  from 
wbicti  M-  G-  Lewis's  ^Vood  Demon  was  also  taken — and  partly 
on  the  "  Faust"  of  the  greot  Goethe.  The  present  publication 
contains  the  two  first  Parts  only,  and  the  opening  chorus  of 
the  third.     The  rest  may  perhaps  appear  hereafter* 


DRAMATIS    PERSONJE. 


STRAN0SB9  afterwards  Cjbsab. 
Abnold. 

BOUBBON. 

Bhiubbrt. 
Cbluki. 

Pbbtha. 
Oloipia. 

Spirittf  Soldiers^  CiHzens  of  Rome^  PriesU^  Peasants,  4^. 


DEFORMED   TRANSFORMED. 


PART  I. 

SCENE  1. 

A  Forest. 

Enter  Abnold  and  Mb  mother  Bbbtha. 

Bert.  Out,  hunchback ! 

Am.  I  was  born  so,  mother ! 

Bert.  Out, 

Thou  incubus !  Thou  nightmare!  Of  seven  son8» 
The  sole  abortion ! 

Am.  Would  that  I  had  been  so, 

And  never  seen  the  light ! 

Bert.  I  would  so  too ! 

But  as  thou  hast — hence,  hence  —  and  do  thy  best ! 
That  back  of  thine  may  bear  its  burden ;  't  is 
More  hiffh,  if  not  so  broad  as  that  of  others. 

Am.  It  bears  its  burthen ;  —  but,  my  heart !  Will  it 
Sustain  that  which  you  lay  upon  it,  mother  ? 
I  love,  or,  at  the  least,  I  loved  you :  nothing 
Save  you,  in  nature,  can  love  aught  like  me. 
You  nursed  me— do  not  kill  me  ! 

Bert.  Yes  — - 1  nursed  thee, 

Because  thou  wert  my  first-born,  and  I  knew  not 
If  there  would  be  another  unlike  thee, 
That  monstrous  sport  of  nature.     But  get  hence. 
And  gather  wood ! 

Am.  I  will :  but  when  I  bring  it. 

Speak  to  me  kindly.     Though  my  brothers  are 
So  beautiful  and  lusty,  and  as  free 
As  the  free  chase  they  follow,  do  not  spurn  me  : 
Our  milk  has  been  the  same. 

Bmi.  As  in  the  hedgehog's, 


110  THB   DBFORKED  TSANSFORXED,  PiftT  I. 

Which  sucks  at  midnight  from  the  wholesome  dam 
Of  the  young  hull,  until  the  milkmaid  finds 
The  nipple  next  day  sore  and  udder  dry. 
Call  not  thy  brothers  brethren  !  Call  me  not 
Mother  ;  for  if  I  brought  thee  forth,  it  was 
As  foolish  hens  at  times  hatch  vipers,  by 
Sitting  upon  strange  eggs.     Out,  urchin,  out ! 

[Exit  Bertha. 
Am.  {solus.)  Oh  mother  !  ——She  is  gone,  and  I  must 
do 
Her  bidding  ;  —  wearily  but  willingly 
I  would  fulfil  it,  could  I  only  hope 
A.  kind  word  in  return.     What  shall  I  do  ? 

[Arnold  begins  to  cut  wood :  in  doing  this  he  wounds 
one  of  his  hands. 
My  labour  for  the  day  is  over  now. 
Accursed  be  this  blood  that  flows  so  fast ; 
For  double  curses  will  be  my  meed  now 
At  home. —  What  home  ?  I  have  no  home,  no  kin, 
No  kind  —  not  made  like  other  creatures,  or 
To  share  their  sports  or  pleasures.     Must  I  bleed^too 
^  Like  them  ?  Oh  that  each  drop  which  falls  to  earth 
Would  rise  a  snake  to  sting  them,  as  they  have  stung  me ! 
Or  that  the  devil,  to  whom  they  liken  me. 
Would  aid  his  likeness !  If  I  must  partake 
His  form,  why  not  his  power  ?  Is  it  because 
I.  have  not  his  will  too  ?  For  one  kind  word 
From  her  who  bore  me  would  still  reconcile  rac 
Even  to  this  hateful  aspect.     Let  me  wash 
The  wound. 

[Arnold  goes  to  a  spring,  and  stoops  to  wash  his 
hand :  he  starts  back. 
They  are  right ;  and  Nature's  mirror  shows  me 
What  she  hath  made  me.     I  will  not  look  on  it 
Again,  and  scarce  dare  think  on  't.     Hideous  wretch 
That  I  am  !  The  very  waters  mock  me  with 
My  horrid  shadow  —  like  a  demon  placed 
Deep  in  the  fountain  to  scare  back  the  cattle 
From  drinking  therein.  [He  pauses. 

And  shall  I  live  on, 
A  burden  to  ihe  earth,  myself,  and  shame 
Unto  what  brought  me  into  li^e !  Thou  blood, 
Which  flowest  so  freely  from  a  scratch,  let  me 
Try  if  thou  wilt  not  in  a  fuller  stream 
Pour  forth  my  woes  for  ever  with  thyself 
On  earth,  to  which  I  will  restore  at  once 


icnrsi.  ▲  DlAXA.  Ill 

This  hateful  compound  of  her  atoms,  and 
Resolve  back  to  her  dements,  and  take 
The  riiape  of  any  reptile  save  myself, 
And  make  a  world  for  myriads  of  new  worms ! 
This  knife !  now  let  me  prove  if  it  will  sever 
This  withered  slip  of  nature's  nightshade  —  my 
Vile  form  — from  the  creation,  as  it  hath 
The  green  bough  from  the  forest. 

[Amkold  plaeet  the  knife  in  the  ground^  teith  the 
fondupwarde. 

Now  't  is  set, 
And  I  can  fall  upon  it*     Yet  one  glance 
On  the  fair  day,  which  sees  no  foul  thing  like 
Myself^  and  the  sweet  sun  which  warm'd  me,  but 
In  vain«     The  birds— how  joyously  they  sing ! 
So  let  them,  for  I  would  not  be  lamented : 
But  let  their  merriest  notes  be  Arnold's  knell ; 
The  fallen  leaves  my  monument ;  the  murmur 
Of  the  near  fountain  my  sole  elegy. 
Now,  knife,  stand  firmly,  as  I  fain  would  fall ! 

[Am  he  ruehet  to  throw  himself  upon  the  knife^  his  eye 
is  suddenly  caught  hy  the  fountain^  which  seems 
in  notion* 
The  fountain  moves  without  a  wind :  but  shall 
The  ripple  of  a  spring  change  my  resolve  ? 
No.     Yet  it  moves  again !  The  waters  stir. 
Not  as  with  air,  but  by  some  subterrane  - 
And  rocking  power  of  the  internal  world. 
What  's  here?  A  mist!  No  more? — 

[A  chud  comes  from  the  founliun.  He  stands  gazing 
mponit :  it  is  dispelleij  and  a  tall  black  mancomes 
towards  him. 

Am,  What  would  you  ?  Speak ! 

Spirit  or  man  ? 

Stran.  As  man  is  both,  why  not 

Say  both  in  one  ? 

Ant.  Your  form  is  man's,  and  yet 

You  may  be  devil. 

Stran.  So  many  men  are  that 

Which  is  so  called  or  thought,  that  you  may  add  me 
To  which  you  please,  without  much  wrong  to  either. 
But  come :  you  wish  to  kill  yourself;  —  pursue 
Your  purpose. 

Am.  You  have  interrupted  me. 

Stran.  What  is  that  resolution  which  can  e'er 
Be  interrupted  ?  If  I  be  the  devil  ^ 


112  THE   DSFOBXSD   lltANSFOBMBD,  Pitri. 

You  deeniy  a  single  foment  would  have  made  you 
Mine,  and  for  ever,  by  your  suicide  ; 
And  yet  my  coming  saves  you. 

Am.  I  said  not 

You  toere  the  demon,  but  that  your  approach 
Was  like  one. 

Siran.  Unless  you  keep  company 

With  him  (and  you  seem  scarce  used  to  such  high 
Society)  you  can't  tell  how  he  approaches ; 
And  for  lus  aspect,  look  upon  the  fountain. 
And  then  on  me,  and  judge  which  of  us  twain 
Look  likest  what  the  boors  believe  to  be 
Their  cloven-footed  terror. 

Am.  Do  you  —  dare  you 

To  taunt  me  with  my  born  deformity  7 

Stran.  Were  I  to  taunt  a  buffalo  with  this 
Cloven  foot  of  thine,  or  the  swift  dromedary 
With  thy  sublime  of  humps,  the  animals 
Would  revel  in  the  compliment.     And  yet 
Both  beings  are  more  swifl,  more  strong,  more  mighty 
In  action  and  endurance  than  thyself, 
And  all  the  fierce  and  fair  of  the  same  kind 
With  thee.     Thy  form  is  natural :  't  was  only 
Nature's  mistaken  kurgess  to  bestow 
The  gifls  which  are  of  others  upon  man. 

Am.  GivQ  me  the  strength  then  of  the  buffalo's  foot, 
When  he  spurs  high  the  dust,  beholding  his 
Near  enemy  ;  or  let  me  have  the  long    . 
And  patient  swiftness  of  the  desert-ship, 
The  hehnlqss  dromedary ! — and  I  '11  bear 
Thy  fiendish  sarcasm  with  a  saintly  patience. 
Stran.  I  will. 

Am.  {with  surpriae.)  Thou  canst  ? 
Stran.  Perhaps.     Would  you  aught  else  ? 

Am.  Thou  mockest  me^ 

Stran.  Not  I.    Why  should  1  mock 

What  all  are  mocking  ?  That  's  poor  sport,  methinks. 
To  talk  to  thee  in  human  language  (for 
Thou  canst  not  yet  speak  mine,)  the  'forester 
Hunts  not  the  wretched  coney,  but  the  boar. 
Or  wolf,  or  lion,  leaving  paltry  game 
To  petty  burghers,  who  leave  once  a  yeax 
Their  walls,  to  fill  their  household  caldrons  with 
Such  scullion  prey.    The  meanest  gibe  at  thee,«-^ 
Now  /can  mock  the  mightiest. 
Am.  Then  waste  not 


▲  IXSAIEA*  118 

Thy  time  on  me :  I  seek  thee  not. 

StroH.  Tour  thoughts 

Are  not  fiur  from  me.    Do  not  send  me  back : 
I  am  not  so  easily  recall'd  to  do 
€rood  service. 

.Ant.  What  wilt  thou  do  for  me  7 

Siran*  Change 

Shapes  with  you,  if  you  will,  since  yours  so  irks  you ; 
Or  form  you  to  your  wish  in  any  shape. 

Am.  Oh !  then  you  are  indeed  the.  demon,  for 
Nought  else  would  wittingly  wear  minei 

Stran.  11  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  so^l 
To  look  like  other  meUt  and  now  you  pause 
To  wear  the  form  of  heroes. 

Am*  No ;  I  will  not. 

1  must  not  compromise  my  soul. 

Stran.  What  soul, 

Worth  naming  so,  would  dwell  in  such  a  carcass  ? 

Am.  T  is  an  aspiring  one,  whate'er  the  tenement 
In  which  it  is  mislcKlged.  But  name  your  compact : 
Must  it  be  sign'd  in  blood  T 

Stran.  Not  in  your  •wn. 

Am.  Whose  Mood  then  7 

Stran.  We  will  talk  of  that  hereafter. 

But  1 11  be  moderate  with  you,  for  I  see 
Great  things  within  you.     You  shall  have  no  bond 
But  your  own  will,  no  contract  save  your  deeds. 
Are  you  content  7 

Arn.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word. 

Stran.  Now  then!  — 

[The  Stranger  approachea  thefounkany  and  turns  te 
Abnold. 

A  little  of  your  blood. 

Am.  For  what  7 

Stran.  To  mingle  with  the  magic  of  the  waters, 
And  make  the  charm  effective. 

Am.  (hoU&ng  out  his  wounded  arm.'S  Take  it  all. 

Stran.  Not  now.    A  few  drops  will  suffice  for  this. 

[The  Stranger  takes  ^ome  of  Abnold's  Mood  in  his 
handj  and  casts  it  tnto  Hie  fountain. 

VOL.  ▼.— I 


114  THE    DEFORUED   TRATTSFOSltEDy  PiKTi. 

Stran.  Shadows  of  beauty ! 
Shadows  of  power ! 
Rise  to  your  duty  — 

This  is  the  hour ! 
Walk  lovely  and  pliant 

From  the  depth  of  this  fountain, 
As  the  cloud-shapen  giant 

Bestrides  the  Hartz  Mountain.* 
Come  as  ye  were. 

That  our  eyes  may  behold 
The  model  in  air 

Of  the  form  I  will  mould, 
Bright  as  the  Iris 

When  ether  is  spann'd ;  *- 
Such  his  desire  is,  [PoitUing  to  Arnold 

Such  my  command ! 
Demons  heroic  — 

Demons  who  wore 
The  form  of  the  stoic 

Or  sophist  of  yore  — 
Or  the  shape  of  each  victor. 

From  Macedon's  boy 
To  each  high  Roman's  picture. 

Who  brcath'd  to  destroy  — 
Shadows  of  beauty ! 
Shadows  of  power ! 
.    Up  to  your  duty  — 
«  This  is  the  hout ! 

[Various  Phantoms  arise  from  the  waiers,  and  pass  w 
succession  before  the  Stranger  and  Arnold. 
Am.  What  do  I  see  ? 

Stran.  The  black-eyed  Roman,  with 

The  eagle's  beak  between  those  eyes  which  ne'er 
Beheld  a  conqueror,  or  lookM  aloi^ 
The  land  he  made  not  Rome's,  while  Rome  became 
His,  and  all  theirs  who  heir'd  his  very  name. 
Am,  The  phantom  's  bald  ;   my    quest    is  beauty 
Could  I 
Inherit  but  his  fame  with  his  defects ! 

Stran.  His  brow  was  girt  with  laurels  more  than  hairs. 
You  see  his  aspect  —  choose  it,  or  reject. 
I  can  but  promise  you  his  form ;  his  fame 
Must  be  long  sought  and  fought  for. 

*  This  u  a  well-known  Gennan  superstition  —-a  gigantic  shadow  prodaced  by 
reflection  on  the  Brocken. 


A   DRAMA.  115 

Am.  J[  will  fight  teoy 

But  not  as  a  mock  Cfesar.     Let  him  ]>ass  ; 
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  Jess  in  the  eye  than  heart. 
But  be  it  so !  Shadow,  pass  on  ! 

[The  phantom  of  Jtdius  Cctsar  disappears. 

Am.  And  can  it 

Be,  that  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,  't  is  no  more  than  yours, 
Except  a  little  longer  and  less  crook'd 
T'  the  sun.     Behold  another ! 

[A  second  phantom  passes. 

Am,  Who  is  he  ? 

Siran.  He  was  the  fairest  and  the  bravest  of 
Athenians.    Look  upon  him  well. 

Am.  He  is 

More  lovely  than  the  last.     How  beautiful ! 

Stran.  Such  was  the  curled  son  of  Clinias  ;  —  wouldst 
thou 
Invest  thee  with  his  formf 

Am.  Would  that  I  had 

Been  bom  with  it !    But  since  I  may  choose  further, 
I  will  lo(^  further. 

[The  shade  of  Alcibiades  disappears. 

Stran.  Lo !  behold  again  I 

Am.  What!  that  low,  swarthy,  short-nosed,  round^yed 
satyr, 
With  the  wide  nostrils  and  Silenus'  aspect, 
The  splay  feet  and  low  stature !     I  had  better 
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  t 

Am.  If  his  form  could  bring  me 

That  which  redeemed  it-* no. 

Siran.  I  have  no  power 

To  promise  that ;  but  you  may  try,  and  find  it 
Easier  in  such  a  form,  or  in  your  own. 


116  THB   DEFORMED   TRANSFORUED,  pactl 

Am.  No«    I  was  not  born  for  philosophy. 
Though  I  have  that  about  me  which  has  need  on*t. 
Let  hun  fleet  on. 

Stran,  Be  air,  thou  hemlock-drinker ! 

{The  shadow  of  Socrates  disappears  :  another  rises. 

Am.  What 's  here  ?  whose  broad  brow  and  whose  curly 
beard 
And  manly  aspect  look  like  Hercules, 
Save  that  his  jocund  eye  hath  more  of  Bacchus 
Than  the  sad  purger  of  the  infernal  world, 
Leaning  dejected  on  his  club  of  conquest, 
As  if  he  knew  the  worthlessness  of  those    • 
For  whom  he  had  fought. 

Stran.  I  was  the  man  who  lost 

The  ancient  world  for  love. 

Am,  I  cannot  blame  him. 

Since  I  have  risk'd  my  soul  because  I  find  not 
That  which  he  exchanged  the  earth  for. 

Siran.  Since  so  far 

You  seem  congenial,  will  you  wear  his  features  ? 

Am.  No.     As  you  leave  me  choice,  I  am  difficult, 
If  but  to  see  the  heroes  I  should  ne'er 
Have  seen  else  on  this  side  of  the  dim  shore 
Whence  they  float  back  before  us. 

Stran.  Hence,  triumvir ! 

Thy  Cleopatra  's  waiting. 

iThe  shade  of  AfUhonp  du(^ppear8 :  another  rises. 

Am.  Who  is  this? 

Who  truly  looketh  like  a  demigod, 
'  Blooming  and  bright,  with  golden  hair,  and  stature^ 
If  not  more  high  than  mortal,  yet  immortal 
In  all  that  nameless  bearing  of  his  limbs. 
Which  he  wears  as  the  sun  his  rays — a  something 
Which  shines  from  him,  and  yet  is  but  the  flashing 
Emanation  of  a  thing  more  glorious  still. 
Was  he  e'er  human  (my  7  '   ' 

Stran.  Let  the  earth  speak. 

If  there  be  atoms  of  him  left,  or  even 
Of  the  more  solid  gold  that  form'd  his  urn. 

Am.  Who  was  this  gk>ry  of  mankind  ? 

Stran.  The  shame 

Of  Greece  in  peace,  her  thunderbolt  in  war  — 
Demetrius  the  Macedonian,  and 
Taker  of  cities* 

Am.  Yet  one  shadow  more. 

Stran.  (addressing  the  shadow.)  Get  thee  to  Lamia's  lap ! 


A   DSAXA.  117 

[Tke  shade  cfDemetrm  PoUorcelei  vamshes : 
another  rites. 

1 11  fit  you  still, 
Fear  not,  my  hunchback :  if  the  ahadows  of 
That  which  existed  please  not  your  nice  taate» 
I  11  animate  the  ideal  marUe,  till 
Tour  aoul  be  reconciled  to  her  new  garment. 

Am,  Content !    I  will  fix  here. 

Sbran.  I  must  commend 

Your  choice.     The  godlike  son  of  the  sea^goddess, 
The  unriiom  boy  of  Peleus,  with  his  locka 
Aa  beautiful  and  clear  as  the  amber  waves 
Of  rich  Pactolus,  roU'd  o'er  sands  of  gold, 
Soften'd  by  intervening  crystal,  and 
Rippled  like  flowing  waters  by  the  wind, 
AU  vow'd  to  Sperchius  as  they  were— behold  them! 
And  AtM-^aa-he  stood  by  Polixena, 
With  aanction'd  and  with  soflen'd  love,  before 
Tlie  altar,  gazing  on  his  Trojan  bride, 
With  some  remorse  within  for  Hector  alain 
And  Priam  weeping,  mingled  with  deep  passion 
For  the  sweet  downcast  virgin,  whose  young  hand 
Trembled  in  his  who  slew  iMr  brother.     So 
He  stood  i'  the  temple  !     Look  upon  him  as 
Greece  looked  her  last  upon  her  best,  the  instant 
Ere  Paris'  arrow  flew.     . 

Am.  I  gaase  upon  him 

As  if  I  were  his  soul,  whose  form  shall  soon 
Envelope  mine. 

^oii.  You  have  done  well.    The  greatest 

Deformity  should  only  barter  with 
The  extremest  beauty,  if  the  proverb  's  true 
Of  mortals,  that  extremes  meet. 

Am.  Come!  Be  quick! 

I  am  impatient. 

Stran.  As  a  youthful  beauty 

Before  her  glass.     You  both  see  what  is  not, 
But  dream  it  is  what  must  be. 

Am*  Must  I  wait  7 

Stran.  No ;  that  were  a  pity.    But  a  word  or  two : 
His  stature  is  twelve  cubits ;  would  you  so  far 
Outstep  these  times,  and  be  a  Tit&n  ?    Or 
(To  talk  canonically)  wax  a  son 
OfAnakt 

Am.         Why  not? 

Sirofi^. '  Glorious  ambition  ! 


118  THE    DEFORMBD    THAKSFORKSD,  P4BTL 

I  love  thee  most  in  dwarfs  !     A  mortal  of 

Philistine  stature  would  have  gladly  pared 

His  own  Goliath  down  to  a  slight  David  : 

But  thouy  my  manikinfy  wouldst  soar  a  show 

Rather  than  hero*    lliough  shalt  be  indulged, 

If  such  be  thy  desire  ;  and  yet,  by  being 

A  little  less  removed  from  present  men 

In  figure,  thou  canst  sway  them  more  f  for  all 

Would  rise  against  thee  now,  as  if  to  hunt 

A  new-found  mammoth ;  and  their  cursed  engines, 

Their  culverins,  and  so  forth,  would  find  way 

Through  our  friend's  armeur  there,  with  greater  ease 

Than  the  adulterer*^  arrow  through. his  heel, 

Which  Thetis  had  forgotten  to  baptize 

In  Styx. 

Am.    Then  let  it  be  as  thoa  deem'st  best. 

Stran,  Thou  shalt  be  beauteous  as  the  things  thou  seest, 
And  strong  as  whal  it  was,  and   ■  ■ 

Am,  I  ask  not 

For  valour,,  since  deformity  is  daring. 
It  is  its  essence  to  overtake  mankind 
By  heart  and  soul,  and  make  itself  the  equal  — 
Ay,  the  superior  of  the  rest.     There  is 
A  spur  iir  its  halt  movements,  to  become 
All  that  the  others  cannot,  in  such  things 
As  still  are  free  from  both,  to  compensate 
For  stepdame  Nature's  avarice  at  first. 
They  wo»  with  fearless  deeds  the  smiles  ef  fortune. 
And  oft,  like  Timour  the  lame  Tartar,  wm  them. 

Stran.  Well  spoken  !  And  thou  doubtless  wilt  remain 
Form'd  as  thou  art.     I  may  dismiss  the  mould 
Of  shadow,  which  must  turn  to  flesh,  to  incase 
This  daring  soul,  whieh  could  achieve  no  less 
Without  it. 

Am.  Had  no  power  presented  me 

The  possibility  of  change,  I  would 
Have  done  the  best  which  spirit  may  to  make 
Its  way  with  all  deformity's  dull,  deadly. 
Discouraging  weight  upon  me,  like  a  mountain. 
In  feeling,  on  my  heart  as  on  my  shoulders  — 
An  hateftd  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. 


A   DSAXA.  110 

Though  to  a  heart  all  love,  what  could  not  love  me 
In  turn,  because  of  this  vile  crooked  clog, 
Which  makes  me  lonely.     Nay,  I  could  have  borne 
It  all,  had  not  my  mother  spum'd  roe  from  her. 
The  she*bear  licks  her  cubs  into  a  sort 
Of  shape ;  —  my  dam  beheld  my  shape  was  hopeless* 
Had  she  exposed  me,  hke  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  perseverance  could  have  done,  perchance 
Had  made  me  something  —  as  it  has  made  heroes 
Of  the  same  mould  as  mme.     You  lately  saw  me 
Master  of  my  own  life»  and  quick  to  puit  it .; 
And  he  who  is  so  is  the  master  of 
Whatever  dreads  to  die. 

Stran*  Decide  between 

What  you  have  been,  or  will  bew 

Am.  I  have  done  so. 

You  have  open'd  brighter  prospects  to  my  eyes, 
And  sweeter  to  my  heart.     As  I  am  now, 
I  might  be  fear'd,  admired,  respected,  loved 
Of  all  save  those  next  to  me,  of  whom  I 
Would  be  beloved.     As  thou  showest  me 
A  choice  of  forms,  I  take  the  one  I  view. 
Haste !  haste ! 

S^an,  And  what  shall  /  wear  ? 

Am.  Surely  he 

Who  can  command  all  forms  will  choose  the  highest. 
Something  superior  even  to  that  which  was 
Pelides  now  before  us.     Perhaps  hia 
Who  slew  him,  that  of  Paris  ;  or — still  higher  — 
The  poet's  god,  clothed  in  such  limbs  as  are 
Themselves  a  poetry. 

Stran.  Less  will  content  me  ; 

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  1 11  take  your  figure. 

Am.  Mine ! 


IdO  THE    DEFORMED   TRA2V8FORHED.  FAET  1. 

Stran,  Yes.     Yoa 

Shall  change  with  Thetis'  son,  and  I  with  Bertha, 
Your  mother's  offspring.     People  have  their  tastes ; 
You  have  yours  —  I  mine.  - 

Am,  Despatch!  despatch! 

Sinm,  Even  so. 

[  The  Stranger  takes  some  earth  and  moulds  U  along  (Ae 
turf,  and  then  addresses  the  phantom  of  Achi&es, 

Beautiful  shadow 
.      Of  Thetis's  boy  ! 
Who  sleeps  in  the  meadow 

Whose  grass  grows  o'er  Troy  : 
From  the  red  earth,  like  Adam,* 

Thy  likeness  I  shape, 
As  the  being  who  made  him. 

Whose  actions  I  ape. 
Thou  clay,  be  all  glowing, 

Till  the  rose  in  his  cheek 
Be  as  fair  as,  when  blowing. 

It  weMTS  its  first  streak ! 
Ye  violets,  I  scatter. 

Now  turn  into  eyes ! 
And  thou,  sunshiny  water. 

Of  blood  take  the  guise  ! 
Let  these  hyacinth  laughs 

Be  his  long  flowing  hair. 
And  ware  o'er  his  brows, 

As  thou  wavest  in  air  ! 
Let  his  heart  be  this  marble 

I  tear  from  the  rock ! 
But  his  voice  as  the  warble 

Of  birds  on  yon  oak ! 
Let  his  flesh  be  the  purest 

Of  mould,  in  which  grew 
The  lily -root  surest, 

And  drank  the  best  dew ! 
Let  his  limbs  be  the  lightest 

Which  clay  can  compound, 
And  his  aspect  the  brightest 

On  earth  to  be  found  1 
Elements,  near  me. 

Be  mingled  and  stirred, 
Know  me,  and  hear  me. 

And  leap  to  my  wordl 

*  Adam  meana  "  red  aartht'*  fiom  which  the  first  mail  waa  IbnMd. 


BL  A  DBA3IA.  121 

Sunbeams,  awaken 

This  earth's  animation ! 
T  is  done !    He  hath  taken 

His  stand  in  creation  ! 
[Abnold  fcMs  senseless ;  his  smd  fosses  wto  ike 
shape  of  AchUUSf  which  rises  from  the  ground ; 
wh^  the  phantam  has  discqppeared^  part  by 
party  as  the  figure  was  formed  from  the  earth. 

Am*  (m  his  new  form,)  I  love,  and  I  shall  be  beloved  ! 
Oil  life! 
At  last  I  feel  thee !    Glorious  ^irit ! 

Stran.  Stop  ? 

What  shall  beoome  of  your  abandon'd  garment. 
Tou  hump,  and  lump,  and  clod  of  u^nessy    ' 
Which  late  you  wore,  or  were  ? 

Am.  Who  caxes?  Let  wolves 

And  vultures  take  it,  if  they  will. 

Siran.  And  if 

They  do,  and  are  not  scared  by  it,  you  'U  say 
It  must  be  peace-time,  and  no  better  fare 
Abroad  i'  the  fields. 

Am.  Let  us  but  leave  it  there ; 

No  matter  what  becomes  on  't. 

Stran.  That 's  ungracious. 

If  not  ungrateful.     Whatsoe'er  it  be. 
It  hath  sustain'd  your  soul  full  many  a  day. 

Am.  Ay,  as  the  dunghill  may  conceal  a  gem 
Which  is  now  set  in  gold,  as  jewels  should  he. 

Stran.  But  if  I  give  another  form,  it  must  be 
By  fair  exchange,  not  robbery.     For  they 
Who  make  men  without  women's  aid  have  long 
Had  patents  for  the  same,  and  do  not  love 
Your  interlopers.    The  devil  may  take  men. 
Not  make  them,  —  though  he  reap  the  benefit 
Of  the  original  workmanship :  —  and  therefore 
Some  one  nmst  be  found  to  assume  the  shape 
You  have  quitted. 

Am.  Who  would  do  86 1 

Stran.  That  I  know  not, 

And  therefore  I  must. 

Am.  You ! 

Stran.  1  said  it  ere 

You  inhabited  your  present  dome  of  beauty. 

Am.  True.     I  forget  all  things  in  the  new  joy 
Of  this  inmwrtal  change. 

Siran.  Tn  a  few  moments 


132  THE   DEFOBX^D  TRANSFOBKED,  Fi&TL 

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  whfit  you  were  ? 
Am.  Do  as  thou  wilt. 

Stran.  {to  the  late  form  of  Aknold,  extended  on  ike 
earth.) 
Clay !  not  dead,  but  soul-less  ^ 

Though  no  man  would  choose  thee. 
An  immortal  no  less 

Deigns  not  to  refuse  thee. 
Clay  thou  art ;  and  unto  spirit 
All  clay  is  of  equal  merit. 
Fire !  without  which  nought  can  live ; 
Fire  !  but  in  which  nought  can  live, 
Save  the  fabled  salamander, 
Or  immortal  souls,  which  wand^. 
Praying  what  doth  not  forgive. 
Howling  for  a  drop  of  water. 

Burning  in  a  quenchless  lot : 
Fire !  the  only  element 

Where  nor  fish,  'beast,  bird,  nor  worm, 

Save  the  worm  which  dieth  not. 
Can  preserve  a  moment's  form. 
But  must  with  thyself  be  blent : 
Fire !  man's  safeguard  and  his  slaughter : 
Fire !  Creation's  first-born  daughter. 
And  Destruction's  threaten'd  son, 
Wh^i  heaven  with  the  world  hath  done : 
Fire !  assist  me  to  renew 
Life  in  what  lies  in  my  view 

Stiff  and  cold ! 
His  resurrection  rests  with  me  and  you  ! 
One  little,  marshy  spark  of  flame — 
And  he  again  shall  seem  the  same ; 
But  I  his  spirit's  place  shall  hold ! 

[An  ignis  faiuus  fiUs  through  the  wood,  and  redi 
on  tlie  brow  of  the  body.     The  Stranger  disap' 
pears:  the  body  rises. 
Am.  {in  his  new  form.)  Oh!  horrible! 
Stran.  {in  Abjxqld^b  Ude  sJiape.)  What !  tremblest  thou ! 
Am.  Not  so— 

I  merely  shudder.    Where  is  fled  the  shape 
Thou  lately  worest? 


i 


A   DSAMA.  133 

Stran*  To  the  world  of  shadows. 

But  let  us  thread  the  present.     Whither  wilt  thou  ? 

Am.  Must  thou  be  my  companion  ? 

Stran.  Wherefore  not  ? 

Tour  betters  keep  worse  company. 

Am.  My  betters ! 

Siran.  Oh !  you  wax  proud,  I  see,  of  your  new  form : 
I  'm  ^lad  of  that.     Ungrateful  too !     That 's  well : 
You  improve  apace  : — two  changes  in  an  instant, 
And  you  are  old  in  the  world's  ways  already. 
But  bear  with  me :  indeed  you  '11  find  me  useful 
Upon  your  pilgrimage.    But  come,  pronounce 
Where  shall  we  now  be  errant  ? 

Am.  Where  the  world 

Is  thick^  that  I  may  b^old  it  in 
Its  workings. 

Stran.  That 's  to  say,  wher«  there  is  war 

And  woman  in  activity.     Let 's  see  I 
Spain  —  Italy  —  the  new  Atlantic  world  — 
Afric,  with  all  its  Moors.    In  very  truth. 
There  is  small  choice :  the  whole  race  ^upe  just  now 
Tugging  as  usual  at  each  other's  hearts. 

Am.  I  have  heard  great  things  of  Rome. 

Stran.  A  goodly  choice  — 

And  scarce  a  better  to  be  found  on  earth. 
Since  Sodom  wafi  put  out..    The  field  is  wide  too ; 
For  now  the  Frank,  and  Hun,  and  Spanish  scion 
Of  the  old  Vandals,  are  at  play  along 
The  sunny  shores  of  the  world's  garden. 

Am.  How 

Shall  we  proceed  ? 

Stran,  Like  gallants,  on  good  coursers. 

What  ho !  my  chargers  f    Never  yet  were  better. 
Since  Phaeton  was  upset  in  the  Fo. 
Our  pages  too ! 

ErUer  two  PageSy  with  four  coai4flaek  horses. 

Am.  A  noble  sight ! 

Stran.  And  of 

A  nobler  breed.     Match  me  in  Baxbary, 
Or  your  Kochlini  race  of  Araby, 
With  these ! 

Am,  The  mighty  steam,  which  volumes  high 

From  their  proud  nostrils,  bums  the  very  air ; 
And  sparks  of  flame,  like  dancing  fire-flies,  wheel 


124  THE   DEFOBMSD  TSA178FOSKBD,  PiKTL 

Around  their  manes,  as  common  insects  swarm 
Kound  common  steeds  towards  sunset. 

Stran.  Mount,  my  lord : 

They  and  I  are  your  servitors. 

Am.  And  these 

Our  dark-eyed  pages  —  what  may  be  their  names  ? 

Stran.  Tou  shidi  baptize  them. 

Am.  What!  in  holy  water! 

I^ran.  Why  not  7    The  deeper  sinner,  better  saint 

Am*  They  ar^' beautiful,  and  cannot,  sure,  be  demons. 

Stttm.  True ;  the  devil 's  always  ugly ;  and  your  beauty 
Is  never  diaboiicaL 

Am,  I  '11  call  him 

Who  bears  the  golden  horn,  and  wears  such  bright 
And  blooming  aspect,  Huan ;  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  thoughtfhl,  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  ? 

Stran.  I  have  ten  thousand  names,  and  twice 
As  many  attributes :  but  as  I  wear 
A  human  shape,  will  take  a  human  name. 

Am»  More  human  than  the  shape  (though  it  was  mine 
once) 
I  trust.  • 

Strem*  Then  call  me  CsBsar. 

Am.  Why,  that  name 

Belongs  to  empires,  and  has  been  but  borne 
By  the  world's  lords. 

Stran*  And  therefore  fittest  for 

The  devil  in  disguise  —  since  so  you^ deemme, 
Unless  you  call  me  pope  instead. 

Am.  Wdl,  then, 

CsBsar  thou  shalt  be.     For  myself,  my  name 
Shall  be  plain  Arnold  still. 

C<w.  We  11  add  a  title  — 

**  Count  Arnold ;  '*  it  hath  no  imffracious  sound. 
And  will  look  well  upon  a  biUet-doux. 

Am*  Or  in  an  order  for  a  battle-field. 

Cos*  (sings,)  To  horse!  to  horse!  my  coal4>lack  steed 
Paws  the  ground  and  snufis  the  air ! 
There  's  not  a  foal  of  Arab's  breed 
More  knows  whom  he  must  bear ; 


A  BBAJIA.  135 

On  the  hiD  he  wiB  not  tire. 
Swifter  as  it  wues  higher  ; 
In  the  marsh  he  will  not  slacken, 
On  the  plain  be  overtaken ; 
In  the  wave  he  will  not  siidc, 
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  stifien,  . 
But  be  winged  as  a  grifiin. 
Only  flaring  with  his  feet : 
And  wul  not  such  a  voyage  be  sweet  ? 
Merrily !  merrily !  never  unsound, 
Shall  our  bonny  black  horses  skim  over  the  eround  f 
From  the  Alps  to  the  Caucasus,  ride  we,  or  Sy  ! 
For  we  11  l^ve  them  behind  in  the  ghince  of  an  eye. 
[They  numnt  their  Aor«e«,  md  ii$appear. 


SCENE  II. 

A  Camp  lefcre  the  Walls  of  Rome. 

Arkolp  and  Cjesar. 

Cat,  You  are  well  entered  now. 

Am.  Ay ;  l^t  my  path 

Has  been  o'er  carcasses :  mine  eyes  are  full 
Of  blood. 

C<B9.       Then  wipe  them,  and  see  clearly.    Why ! 
Thou  art  a  conqueror ;  the  chosen  knight 
And  free  companion  of  the  gallant  Bourbon, 
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  worid. 

.  Am.  UowMf    What!  are  there 

New  worlds  ? 

CiBS.  To  ytw*    You  11  find  there  are  such  shortly, 

By  its  rich  harvests,  new  disease,  and  gold ; 
From  one  kalfot  the  world  named  a  whole  new  one, 


126  TRB   DSFORinSD   TSAK8F0SXED,  parTL 

Because  you  know  no  better  than  the  dull 
And  dubious  notice  of  your  eyes  and  eara. 

Am.  I  '11  trust  them. 

Cos,  Do !  They  wiD  deceive  you  sweetly 

And  that  is  better  than  the  bitter  truth. 

Am.  Dog! 

CcM.  Man ! 

Am*  Devil ! 

Cos.  Your  obedient  humble  aerrant 

Am.  Say  nuuter  rather.     Thou  hast  lured  me  on, 
Through  scenes  of  blood  and  lust,  till  I  am  here. 

C(B8.  And  where  wouldst  thou  be  ? 

Am.  Oh,  at  peace — in  peace! 

C(B8.  And  where  is  that  which  is  so  7     From  the  star 
To  the  winding  worm,  all  life  is  motion ;  and 
In  life  commotion  \a  the  extremest  point 
Of  life.     The  planet  wheels  till  it  becomes 
A  comet,  and  destroying  as  it  sweeps 
The  stars,  goes  out.     The  poor  worm  winds  its  way. 
Living  upon  the  death  of  other  things, 
But  still,  like  them,  must  live  and  die,  the  subject 
Of  something  which  has  made  it  live  and  die. 
You  must  o^y  what  all  obey,  the  rule 
Of  fix'd  necessity :  against  her  edict 
Rebellion  prospers  not. 

Am.  And  when  it  prospers  — 

Cat.  T  is  no  rebellion. 

Am*  Will  it  prosper  now  t 

Oju.  The  Bourbon  hath  given  orders  for  the  assault. 
And  by  the  dawn  there  will  be  work. 

Ant.    *  Alas! 

And  shall  the  city  yield  ?  I  see  the  giant 
Abode  of  the  true  God,  and  his  true  saint, 
Saint  Peter,  rear  its  dome  and  cross  into 
That  sky  whence  Christ  ascended  from  the  cross. 
Which  his  blood  made  a  badge  of  glory  and 
Of  joy  (as  once  of  torture  unto  him, 
God  and  God's  Son,  roan's  sole  and  only  refuge). 

C<B8.  T  is  there,  and  shall  be. 

Am.  What? 

Ccu.  The  crucifix 

Above,  and  many  altar  shrines  below. 
Also  some  culverins  upon  the  walls. 
And  harquebusses,  and  what  not ;  besides 
The  men  who  are  to  kindle  them  to  death 
Of  other  men. 


A  DSAXA.*  127 

Am.  And  those  scarce  mortal  arches. 

Pile  above  pile  of  everlasting  wall, 
The  theatre  where  emperors  and  their  subjects 
(Those  subjects  Romatu)  stood  at  gaze  upon 
The  battles  of  the  monarchs  of  the  wild 
And  wood,  the  lion  and  his  tusky  rebels 
Of  the  then  untamed  desert,  brought  to  joust  % 

In  the  arena  (as  right  well  they  might. 
When  they  had  left  no  human  foe  unconquer'd) ; 
Made  even  the  forest  pay  its  tribute  of 
Life  to  their  amphitheatre,  as  well 
As  Dacia  men  to  die  the  eternal  death 
For  a  sole  instant's  pastime,  Mid  *<  Pass  on 
To  a  new  gladiator!  "  —  Must  it  faU? 

Cos.  T^  city,  or  the  amphith^tret 
The  church,  or  one,  or  all  ?  for  you  confound 
Both  them  and  me. 

Am.  To-morrow  sounds  the  assault 

With  the  first  cock*crow. 

C<e#.  Which,  if  it  end  with 

The  evening's  first  nightingale,  wiU  be 
Something  new  in  the  annsilB  of  great  sieges ; 
For  men  must  have  their  prey  after  long  toil. 

Am.  The  sun  goes  down  as  calmly,  and  perhaps 
More  beautifully,  than  he  did  on  Rome 
On  the  day  Remus  leapt  her  wall. 

CcBf .  I  saw  him. 

Am.  Tou! 

Car.  Tes,  sir.    You  forget  I  am  or  was 

Spirit,  tin  I  took  up  with  your  cast  shape 
Ajid  a  worse  name.    I  'm  Coosar  and  a  hunchback 
Now.    Well !  the  first  of  Cflssars  was  a  bald-head. 
And  loved  his  laurels  better  as  a  wiff 
(So  history  says)  than  as  a  glory.    Thus 
The  world  runs  on,  but  we  'U  be  merry  still. 
I  saw  your  Romulus  (simple  as  I  am) 
Slay  his  own  twin,  quick-bom  of  the  same  womb, 
Because  he  leapt  a  ditch  ('t  was  then  no  wall, 
Whate'er  it  now  be^  ;  and  Rome's  earliest  cement 
Was  brother's  blooa ;  and  if  its  native  blood 
Be  spilt  till  the  choked  Tiber  be  as  red 
As  e  er  't  was  yellow,  it  will  never  wear 
The  deep  hue  of  the  ocean  and  the  earth. 
Which  the  great  robber  sons  of  fratricide 
Have  made  their  never-ceasing  scene  of  slaughter 
Forages. 


128  THE   DEFOirtED   TBANSFORXBDy  Pi«n 

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? 

,€€u.  And  what  had  t^  done*  whom  the  old 
Romans  o'erswept  ?  —  Hark ! 

^^m.  They  are  soldiers  singing 

A  reckless  roundday,  upon  the  eve 
Of  many  deaths,  it  may  be  of  their  own. 
'  Cos.  And  why  should  they  not  sing  as  well  as  swans  t 
They  are  black  ones,  to  be  sur6. 

Am.  Sq,  you  are  leam*d, 

I  see,  too  ? 

Cos.         In  my  grammar,  certes.    I 
Was  educated  for  a  monk  of  all  times, 
And  once  I  was  well  versed  In  the  forgotten 
Etruscan  letters^  and — were  I  so  minded-* 
Could  make  their  hieroglyphics  plainer  than 
Your  alphabet. 

Am.  And  wherefore  do  you  not  7 

Ckss.  It  answers  better  to  resolve  the  alphabet 
Back  into  hieroglyphics.    Like  your  statesman, . 
And  prophet,  pontiff,  doctor,  alchymist, 
Philosopher,  and  what  not,  they  have  built 
More  BabeLs,  without  new  dispersion,  than 
The  stammering  young  ones  of  the  flood's  dull  ooze, 
Who  fail'd  aind  fled  each  other.     Why  ?  why,  marry, 
Because  no  man  could  understand  his  neighbour. 
They  are  wiser  now,  and  will  not  separate 
For  nonsense.     Nay,  it  is  their  brotherhood, 
Their  Shibboleth,  their  Koran,  Tahnud,  their 
Cabala ;  their  best  brick-work,  wherewithal 
They  build  more 

Anti  {intermpting  him.)  Oh,  thou  everlasting  sneerer  f 
Be  silent !  How  the  soldiers'  rough  strain  seems 
Soften'd  by  distance  to  a  h3rmn.like  cadence ! 
Listen ! 

CcM.    Yes.    I  have  heard  the  angels  sing. 

Am.  And  demons  howl. 

CcBs.  And  man  too.    Let  us  listen : 

I  love  all  music. 


ann.  a  dbaka.  139 

Song  of  the  SMien  wUkm. 

The  black  bands  came  over 

The  Alps  and  their  snow ; 
With  Boarbon,  the  rover, 

They  passM  the  broad  Po. 
We  have  beaten  all  foemen. 

We  have  captured  a  kingt 
We  have  tum'd  back  on  no  men. 

And  so  let  us  sing  ! 
Here  *s  the  Bourbon  for  ever  : 

Thou^  pennyless  all, 
We  11  have  one  more  endeavour 

At  yonder  old  walK 
With  the  Bourbon  we  11  gather 

At  day-dawn  before 
The  gates,  and  together 

Or  break  or  climb  o'er 
The  wall :  on  the  ladder 

As  mounts  each  firm  foot, 
Our  shout  shall  srow  gladder, 

And  death  only  be  mute. 
With  the  Bourbon  we  11  mount  o'er 

The  walls  of  old  Rome, 
And  who  then  shaU  count  o'er 

The  spoils  of  each  dome  ? 
Up !  up  with  the  lily ! 

And  down  with  the  keys ! 
In  old  Rome,  the  seven-hilly, 

We  11  revel  at  ease. 
*  Her  streets  shall' be  gory. 

Her  Tiber  all  red. 
And  her  temples  so  hoary 

Shall  clang  with  our  tread* 
Oh,  the  Bourbon !  the  Bourbon ! 

The  Bourbon  for  aye  ! 
Of  our  song  bear  the  burden ! 

And  fire,  fire  away ! 
With  Spain  for  the  vanguard, 

Our  varied  host  comes ; 
And  next  to  the  Spaniard 

Beat  Germany's  druiiis, 
And  Italy's  lances 

Are  couch'd  at  their  mother ; 
But  our  leader  from  France  is, 

Who  warr'd  with  his  brother. 

▼01,  v.^K 


180  THE   DEFOBMKD   TRANSFORKED,  PAETI. 

Oh,  the  Bourbon !  the  Bourbon ! 

Sans  country  or  home, 
We  11  follow  the  Bourbon, 

To  plunder  old  Ronoe. 

C<Bs.  An  indifferent  song 

For  those  within  the  walls,  methinks,  to  hear. 

Am,    Yes,  if  they  keep  to  their  chorus.     But  here 
comes 
The  general  with  his  chiefs  and  men  of  trust. 
A  goodly  rebel ! 

Enter  the  CarutaUe  Boubbon,  ^^cum  suUt**  ^c.  6lc. 

Phil.  How  now,  noble  prince, 

You  are  not  cheerful  ? 

Bourb,  Why  should  I  be  so  ? 

PhU,  Upon  the  eve  of  conquest,  such  as  ours. 
Most  men  would  be  so. 

Bowlh  If  I  were  secure  ! 

PhiL    Doubt  not  our  soldiers.     Were  the  walb  oi 
adamant, 
They  'd  crack  them.     Hunger  is  a  sharp  artillery. 

Bourb.  That  they  will  falter  is  my  least  of  fears. 
That  they  will  be  repulsed,  with  Bourbon  for 
Their  chief,  and  all  their  kindled  appetites 
To  marshal  them  on  —  were  thoee  hoary  walls 
Mountains,  and  those  who  guard  them  like  the  gods 
Of  the  old  fables,  I  would  trust  my  Titans ;  — 
But  now  — 

PML  They  are  but  men  who  war  with  mortals. 

Baurb.  True :  but  those  walls  have  girded  in  great  ages, 
And  sent  forth  mighty  spirits.     The  past  earth. 
And  present  phantom  of  imperious  Rome 
Is  peopled  with  those  warriors  ;  and  methinks 
They  flit  along  the  eternal  city's  rampart, 
And  stretch  their  glorious,  gory,  shadowy  hands. 
And  beckon  me  away  ! 

PhU.  So  let  them !  Wilt  thou 

Turn  back  from  shadowy  menaces  of  shadows  ? 

Bourb,  They  do  not  menace  me.     I  could  have  faced, 
Methinks,  a  Sylla's  menace  ;  but  they  clasp. 
And  raise,  and  wring  their  dim  and  deathlike  hands, 
And  with  their  thin  aspen  faces  and  fixed  eyes 
Fascinate  mine.     Look  there ! 


A   DKAXA.  181 

PkU.  I  look  upon 

A  lofly  battlement, 

Bourh.  And  there ! 

Pha.  Not  even 

A  guard  in  sight ;  they  wisely  keep  below, 
Sheltered  by  the  gray  parapet  from  some 
Stray  bullet  of  our  lansquenets,  who  might 
Practise  in  the  cool  twilight. 

Bourh.  You  are  blind. 

Phil.  Ifseeing  nothing  more  than  may  be  seen 
Be  so. 

Bourb,  A  thousand  years  have  mann'd  the  walls 
With  all  their  heroes,  —  the  last  Cato  stands 
And  tears  his  bowels,  rather  than  survive 
The  liberty  of  that  I  would  enslave. 
And  the  first  Ceesar  with  his  triumphs  flits 
From  battlement  to  battlement. 

Phil.  Then  conquer 

The  walls  for  which  he  conquered,  and  be  greater  ! 

Bcurh.  True :  so  I  will,  or  perish* 

PhU,  You  can  ncL 

In  such  an  enterprise  to  die  is  rather 
The  dawn  of  an  eternal  day,  than  death. 

[Count  Abnold  and  Cjbsar  adoance* 

Cos.  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  master, 
The  beauty  of  our  host,  and  brave  as  beauteous, 
And  generous  as  lovely.     We  shall  find 
Work  for  you  both  ere  morning. 

Cos.  You  will  find. 

So  please  your  hishness,  no  less  for  yourself. 

Bourb.  And  iff  do,  there  will  not  be  a  labourer 
More  forward,  hunchback ! 

C€Bs.  You  may  well  say  so* 

For  you  have  seen  that  back — as  general. 
Placed  in  the  rear  in  action  —  but  your  foes 
Have  never  seen  it. 

Bourb.  That 's  a  fair  retort. 

For  I  provoked  it :  —  but  the  Bourbon's  breast 
Has  been,  and  ever  shall  be,  far  advanced 
In  danger's  face  as  yours,  were  you  the  devil. 

Ccu.  And  if  I  were,  I  might  have  saved  mysdf 
The  toil  of  coming  here. 

PhU.  Why  so? 


182  THB   DEFORXBD   TRAXSFORMEO,  rmi 

Cos.  One  half 

or  your  brave  bands  of  their  own  bold  accord 
Will  go  to  him,  the  other  half  be  sent. 
More  swiftly,  not  less  surely. 

Bowrh.  Arnold,  your 

Slight  crooked  friend  's  as  8nake*like  in  his  words 
As  his  deeds. 

C(B8.  Your  highness  much  mistakes  me. 

The  first  snake  was  a  flatterer  —  I  am  none  ; 
And  for  my  deeds,  I  only  sting  when  stiing. 

Bourb.  You  are  brave,  and  that  's  enough  for  me ;  anJ 
,  quick 

In  speech  as  sharp  in  action  —  and  that 's  mor6. 
I  am  not  alone  a  soldier,  but  the  soldiers' 
Comrade. 

C<B8.        They  are  but  bad  company,  your  highness ; 
And  worse  even  for  their  friends  than  iocs,  as  being 
More  permanent  acquaintance. 

PhU.  How  now,  fellow  f 

Thou  waxest  insolent,  beyond  the  privilege 
Of  a  buffoon. 

C€M.  You  mean  I  i^peak  the  truth* 

I  '11  lie  —  it  is  as  easy :  then  you  'II  praise  me 
For  calling  you  a  hero. 

Baurb.  Philibert ! 

Let  him  alone ;  he  's  brave,  and  ever  has 
Been  first,  with  that  swart  face  and  mountain  shouldcff 
In  field  or  storm,  and  patient  in  starvation ; 
And  for  his  tongue,  the  camp  is  full  of  license, 
And  the  sharp  stinging  of  a  lively  rogue 
Is,  to  my  mind,  far  preferable  to 
The  gross,  dull,  heavy,  gloomy  execration 
Of  a  mere  famish'd,  sullen,  grumbling  slave, 
Whom  nothing  can  convince  save  a  full  meal,  , 

And  wine,  and  sleep,  and  a  few  maravedis. 
With  which  he  deems  him  rich. 

C(B8.  It  would  be  well 

If  the  earth's  princes  ask'd  no  more. 

Bourb.  Be  silent ! 

Cos.  Ay,  but  not  idle.     Work  yourself  with  words  ? 
You  have  few  to  speak. 

Pkil*  What  means  the  audacious  prater  *? 

C(Bs,  To  (Mute,  like  other  prophets. 

Bourb.  Philibert  t 

Why  will  you  vex  him  ?  Have  we  not  enough 
To  think  on  ?  Arnold !  I  will  lead  the  attack 


A   DRAMA.  193 

To-morrow* 

Am.  I  have  heard  as  much,  my  lord. 

Bourb.  And  you  will  foUow  7 

Am,  Since  I  must  not  lead. 

B<mrb*  T  is  necessary  for  the  further  daring 
Of  our  too  needy  army,  that  their  chief 
IMant  the  first  foot  upon  the  foremost  ladder's 
First  step. 

C(M.  Upon  its  topmost,  let  us  hope  : 

So  shall  he  havo  his  full  deserts. 

Bourb.  The  world's 

Great  capital  perchance  is  ours  to-morrow. 
Through  every  change  the  sevcn-hiUM  city  hath 
Retained  her  sway  o'er  nations,  and  the  C&esars, 
But  yielded  to  the  Alarics,  the  Alarics 
Unto  the  pontiffs.     Roman,  Goth,  or  priest. 
Still  the  world's  masters  !  Civilized,  barbarian. 
Or  saintly,  still  the  walls  of  Romulus 
Have  been  the  circus  of  an  empire.     Well ! 
T  was  iheir  turn  —  now  't  is  ours ;  and  let  us  hope 
That  we  will  fight  as  well,  and  rule  much  better. 

C<BS.  No  doubt,  the  camp  's  the  school  of  civic  rights. 
What  would  you  make  of  Rome  ? 

Bourb.  That  which  it  was. 

Cos.  In  Alaric's  time  ? 

Bourb.  No,  iriave !  in  the  first  Caesar's, 

Whose  name  you  bear  like  other  curs  -^— 

Cat.  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  ? 

CiB9.  On  the  eve  of  battle,  no ;  — 

That  were  not  soldier-Iike.     'T  is  for  the  general 
To  be  more  pensive :  we  adventurers 
Must  be  more  cheerful.     Wherefore  should  we  think  7 
Our  tutelar  deity,  in  a  leader's  shape. 
Takes  care  of  us.     Keep  thought  aloof  from  hosts  * 
If  the  knaves  take  to  thinking,  you  will  have 
To  crack  those  walls  alone. 

Bourb.  You  may  sneer,  since 

T  is  lucky  for  you  that  you  fight  no  worse  for  't. 

Cos.  I  thank  you  lor  the  freedom ;  't  is  the  only 
Pay  I  have  taken  in  your  highness'  service. 

Bourb.  Well,  sir,  to-morrow  you  shall  pay  yourself. 
Look  on  those  towers  ;  they  hold  my  treasury : 


184  THE    DEFORMBD   TRANSFORMED,  PAST  I. 

But,  Philibert,  we  11  in  to  council.     Arnold, 
We  would  request  your  presence. 

Am,  Prince !  my  service 

Is  yours,  as  in  the  field. 

Bourb.  In  both  we  prize  it, 

And  yours  will  be  a  post  of  trust  at  daybreak. 

CiBS,  And  mine  ? 

Baurb.  To  follow  glory  with  the  Bourbon. 

Good  night ! 

Am,  {to  Cjbsar.)  Prepare  our  armour  for  the  assault, 
And  wait  within  my  tent. 

[Exeuta  Bourbon,  Arnold,  Philibert,  S^ 

Cos,  (sohts.)     .  Within  thy  tent ! 

Think'st  thou  that  I  pass  from  thee  with  my  presence  ^ 
Or  that  this  crooked  cofier,  which  contain'd 
Thy  principle  of  life,  is  aught  to  me 
Except  a  mask  ?    And  these  are  men,  forsooth ! 
Heroes  and  chiefs,  the  flower  of  Adam's  bastards  I 
This  is  the  consequence  of  givinj^  matter 
The  power  of  thought.     R:  is"  ar  stubborn  substance, 
And  thinks  chaotically,  a»  it  a<;ts. 
Ever  relapsing  into  its  first  elements. 
Well !  I  must  play  with*  these  poor  puppets :  't  is 
The  spirit's  pa&time  in  his  idler  hours. 
When  I  grow  weary  of  it,  I  have  business 
Amongst  the  stars,  which  these  poor  creatures  deem 
Were  made  for  them  to  look  at.     'T  were  a  jest  now 
To  bring  one  down  amongst  them,  and  set  fire 
Unto  their  anthill :  how  the  pismires  then 
Would  scamper  o'er  the  scalding  soil,  and,  ceasing 
From  tearing  down  eaoh-  other's  nests,  pipe  forth 
One  universal  orison !     Ha !  ha !  [Exit  Cjesar. 


•GHI.  A   DXAKA.  185 

PART  IL 
SCENE  L 

Before  the  waBs  of  Rome.'^Tke  aeeauU :  the  army  in  motion^ 
with  ladders  to  icale  the  waUs;  Boubbon,  tokhawhxtc  scarf 
over  hie  armour^  foremost. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  in  the  air. 

I. 
T  is  the  morn,  but  dim  and  dark. 
Whither  flies  the  silent  lark? 
Whither  shrinks  the  clouded  sun  ? 
[s  the  day  indeed  begun  ? 
Nature's  eye  is  melancholy 
O'er  the  city  high  and  holy : 
But  without  there  is  a  dia 
Should  arouse  the  saints  within, 
And  revive  the  heroic  ashes 
Round  which  yelTow  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 ! 

On  they  march,  though  to  self-slaughteri 

Regular  as  rolling  water. 

Whose  high  waves  o'ersweep  the  border 

Of  huse  moles,  but  keep  their  order. 

Breaking  only  rank  by  rank. 

Hearken  to  the  armour's  clank  ! 

Look  down  o'er  each  frowning  warrior, 

How  he  glares  upon  the  barrier : 

Look  on  each  step  ofeach  ladder. 

As  the  stripes  that  streak  an  adder. 

3. 
Look  upon  the  bristling  wall, 
Mann'd  without  an  interval ! 


186  THE    DEFOBKBD  TBAKSFOBKBD,  scatA 

Round  and  round,  and  tier  on  tier. 
Cannon's  black  mouth,  shining  spear. 
Lit  match,  beil^mouth'd  musquetoon, 
Gaping  to  be  murderous  soon. 
All  the  warlike  gear  of  old, 
Mix'd  with  what  we  now  behold, 
In  this  strife  'twixt  old  and  new, 
Gather  like  a  locusts'  crew, 
Shade  of  Remus !  't  is  a  time ! 
Awful  as  thy  brother's  crime ! 
Christians  war  against  Christ's  shrine :  — 
Must  its  lot  be  like  to  thine  7 

4. 
Near  —  and  near  —  and  nearer  still, 
As  the  earthquake  saps  the  hill, 
First  with  trembling,  hollow  motion. 
Like  a  scarce-awaken'd  ocean. 
Then  with  stronger  shock  and  louder, 
Till  the  rocks  are  crush'd  to  powder,  — 
Onward  sweeps  the  rolling  host ! 
Heroes  of  the  immortal  boast ! 
Mighty  chiefs !  eternal  shadows ! 
First  flowers  of  the  bloody  meadows 
Which  encompass  Rome,  the  mother 
Of  a  people  without  brother  ! 
Will  you  sleep  when  nations'  quarrels 
Plough  the  root  up  of  your  laurels  ? 
Ye  who  weep  o'er  Carthage  burning, 
Weep  not  —  gtrike  /  for  Rome  is  mourning !  * 

Onward  sweep  the  varied  nations ! 
Famine  long  bath  dealt  their  rations. 
To  tbe  wall,  with  hate  and  hunger, 
Numerous  as  wolves,  and  stronger, 
On  they  sweep.     Oh !  gbrious  city, 
Must  thou  be  a  theme  for  pity? 
Fight,  like  your  first  sire,  each  Roman ! 
Alarie  was  a  gentle  foeman, 
Matoh'd  with  Bourbon's  black  banditti ! 
Rouse  thee,  thou  eternal  city  ; 
Rouse  thee  1     Rather  give  the  torch 
With  thy  own  hand  to  thy  porch, 

*  Bciplo,  the  second  Afticanue,  is  said  to  have  repeated  a  verse  of  Homer,  and 
wept  over  tbe  burning  of  Carthage.    He  had  better  oavo  gmted  it  a  capitulation 


A  DSAXA*  197 


Than  behold  mieh  hosts  ] 
Tour  worst  dweUing  wit] 

6. 
Ah !  behold  yon  bleeding  spectre ! 
Ilion's  children  find,  no  Hector ; 
Priam*s  offspring  loved  their  Inrother ; 
Rome's  great  sire  forffot  his  mother, 
When  he  slew  his  gaUant  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  towering  like  a  Babel, 
Who  to  stop  his  steps  are  able  ? 
Stalking  o'er  thy  highest  dome, 
Remus  claims  his  vengeance,  Rome ! 


Now  they  reach  thee  in  their  anger : 
Fire  and  smoke  and  hellish  clangour 
Are  around  thee,  thou  world's  wonder ! 
Death  is  in  thy  walls  and  under. 
Now  the  meeting  steel  first  clashes. 
Downward  then  the  ladder  crashes, 
With  its  iron  load  all  gleaming, 
Lying  at  its  foot  blaspheming ! 
Up  again !  for  every  warrior 
Slain,  another  climbs  the  barrier. 
Thicker  grows  the  strife  :  thy  ditches 
Europe's  mingling  gore  enriches. 
Rome  !  although  thy  wall  may  perish. 
Such  manure  thy  fields  will  cherish. 
Making  gay  the  harvest-home  ; 
But  thy  hearths,  alas  !  oh,  Rome !  — 
Yet  be  Rome  amidst  thine  anguish. 
Fight  as  thou  wast  wont  to  vanquish  !     . 

8. 
Yet  once  more,  ye  old  Penates  ! 
Let  not  your  quench'd  hearths  be  Atd's ! 
Yet  again,  ye  shadowy  heroes, 
Yield  not  to  these  stranger  Neros  ! 
Though  the  son  who  slew  his  mother 
Shed  Rome's  blood,  he  was  your  brother : 


186  THE    DBFOHXSD    TRAN8F0HMBD,  PiBTJL 

T  was  the  Roman  curbM  the  Roman ;  — 
Brennus  was  a  baffled  foeman. 
Yet  again,  ye  saints  and  martyrs, 
Rise  !  for  yours  are  holier  charters  ! 
Mighty  gods  of  temples  falling, 
Yet  in  ruin  still  appalling ! 
Mightier  founders  of  those  altars, 
True  and  Christian,  —  strike  the  assaulters ! 
Tiber  !  Tiber !  let  thy  torrent 
Show  even  nature's  self  abhorrent. 
Let  each  breathing  heart  dilated 
Turn,  as  doth  the  lion  baited  ! 
Rome  be  crush'd  to  one  wide  tomb, 
But  be  still  the  Roman's  Rome ! 
Bourbon,  Abnold,  Cssab,  astd  others^  arrwe  atthefodof 
the  vxM*     Arkold  is  about  to  plant  hU  ladder. 
Bourh.  Hold,  Arnold !     I  am  first. 
Am*  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Bourh.  Hold,  sir,  I  charge  you  !     Follow  !  I  am  proud 
Of  such  a  follower,  but  will  brook  no  leader. 

[Boubbon  pZonfo  his  ladder,  and  begins  to  mowit* 
Now,  boys !    On !  on ! 

[A  shot  strikes  him,  and  Boubbon /(i2b. 
Cass.  And  off! 

Am.  Eternal  powers ! 

The  host  will  be  appall'd,  —  but  vengeance !  vengeance  I 
Bourb.  ^  is  nothing  —  lend  me  your  hand. 
[Boubbon  takes  Abnold  by  the  hand  and  rises ;  hd 
as  Jie  puts  Jus  foot  on  the  step,  falls  again. 

Arnold !  I  am  sped. 
Conceal  my  fall  —  all  will  go  well  —  conceal  it ! 
Fling  my  cloak  oVr  what  will  be  dust  anon ; 
Let  not  the  soldiers  see  it. 

Am.  You  must  be 

Removed;  the  aid  of 

Bourb.  No,  my  gallant  boy ; 

Death  is  upon  me.     But  what  is  one  life  7 
The  Bourbon's  spirit  shall  command  them  still. 
Keep  them  yet  ignorant  that  I  am  but  cla^, 
Till  they  are  conquerors — then  do  as  you  may. 

Cos.  Would  not  your  highness  choose  to  kiss  the  cross  1 
We  have  no  priest  here,  but  the  hilt  of  sword 
May  serve  instead :  —  it  did  the  same  for  Bayard. 

Bourb.  Thou  bitter  slave !  to  name  him  at  this  time  * 
But  I  deserve  it. 

Am.  {to  Cjbsab.)  Villain,  hold  your  peace ! 


A    DHAMA*  189 

C<BS,  What,  when  a  Christian  dies  ?     Shall  I  not  offer 
A  Christian  '<  Vade  in  pace  1 " 

Am.  Silence!  Oh! 

Those  eyes  are  glazing  which  o'erlook'd  the  world, 
And  saw  no  equal. 

Bourh.  Arnold,  should'st  thou  see 

France  -*—  But  hark !  hark  !  the  assault  grows  wanner  — 

Oh! 
For  but  an  hour,  a  minute  more  of  life 
To  die  within  the  wall !     Hence,  Arnold*  hence ! 
You  lose  time  —  they  will  conquer  Rome  without  thee. 

Am.  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 !  and  be 
Victorious ! 

Am.  But  I  must  not  leave  thee  thus. 

Bourlh  Tou  must -— farewell — Up!  up!  the  world  is 
winning.  [Bourbon  dies. 

C<B9.  {to  Abnold.)  Come,  count,  to  business. 

Am.  True.     I  11  weep  hereaHer. 

[Ashold  cofoers  Boubbon's  body  teUh  a  raande^  and 
mounU  the  ladder^  crying^ 
The  Bourbon  !  Bourbon  !     On,  boys !  Rome  is  ours  ! 

C(B8.  Good  niffht,  lord  constable  !  thou  wert  a  man. 
[C.£SAS^^22otm  Arnold  ;  they  reach  the  battlement ; 
Arnold  and  Caesar  are  struck  dawn. 

Cos.  A  precious  somerset !  Is  your  countship  injured  ? 

Am.  No.  [Remounts  the  ladder. 

Cos.  A  rare  blood-hound,  when  his  own  is  heated  ! 
And  't  is  no  boy's  play.     Now  he  strikes  them  down  I 
His  hand  is  on  the  battlement  —  he  grasps  it 
As  though  it  were  an  altar  ;  now  his  foot 
Is  on  it,  and -»— What  have  we  here  7 —  a  Roman  ? 

[A  man  falls. 
The  first  bird  of  the  covey !  he  has  fallen 
On  the  outside  of  the  nest.     Why,  how  now,  fellow? 

Wounded  Man.  A  drop  of  water ! 

Cos.  Blood  's  the  only  liquid 

Nearer  than  Tiber. 

Wounded  Man.        I  have  died  for  Rome.  [Dies. 

Ccu.  And  so  did  Bourbon,  in  another  sense. 
Oh  these  immortal  men !  and  their  great  motives ! 
But  I  most  after  my  young  charge.     He  is 
By  this  time  i'  the  forum.     Charge !  charge ! 

[Cjbsar  mocmlf  the  ladder;  the  scene  closes. 


140  THB   DEFOSMBD   TSANSFOHICBD. 


SCENE  II. 

The  City. — dmbatt  between  the  Benegers  and  Beiieged  in  ihe 
streets.     Inhabitants  Jlying  in  confusion. 

Enter  CiESAR. 

Cos.  I  cannot  find  my  hero ;  he  is  mixM 
With  the  heroic  crowd  that  now  pursue 
The  fugitives,  or  battle  with  the  desperate. 
What  have  we  here  ?     A  cardinal  or  two 
That  do  not  seem  in  love  with  mart3rrdom. 
How  the  old  red-shanks  scamper  \  Could  they  doff 
Their  hose  as  they  have  doff'd  their  hats,  't  would  be 
A  blessing,  as  a  mark  the  less  for  plunder. 
But  let  them  Idy ;  the  crimson  kennels  now 
Will  not  much  stain  their  stockings,  since  the  mire 
Is  oF  the  self-same  purple  hue. 

Enter  a  Party  fighting — Arnold  at  the  head  of  the  Besiegers, 

He  comes, 
Hand  in  hand  with  the  mild  twins  —  Gore  and  Glory. 
Holla !  hold,  count ! 

Am*  Away !  they  must  not  rally. 

CiBS,  I  tell  thee,  be  not  rash ;  a  golden  bridge 
Is  for  a  flying  enemy.     I  gave  thee 
A  form  of  beauty,  and  an 
Exemption  from  some  maladies  of  body, 
But  not  of  mind,  which  is  not  mine  to  give. 
But  though  I  gave  the  form  of  Thetis'  son, 
I  dipt  thee  not  in  Styx ;  and  'gainst  a  foe 
I  would  not  warrant  thy  chividric  heart 
More  than  Pelides'  heel ;  why  then,  be  cautious. 
And  know  thyself  a  mortal  still. 

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? 

[Arnold  rushes  into  the  cowM 

C<B8.  A  precious  sample  of  humanity ! 


US.  A  DSAXA.  141 

Well,  his  blood  *8  up ;  and  if  a  little  'a  shed, 
T  will  aenre  to  curb  his  fever. 

[Arnold  engages  with  a  Roman^  w?io  retires  tO" 
words  A  pofttco* 

Am,  Yield  thee,  slave  f 

I  promise  quarter. 

Rom,  That 's  soon  said. 

Am,  And  done  — 

My  word  is  known. 

Ram.  So  shall  be  my  deeds. 

[They  re-engage,     Casas  comes  forward. 

CiEs,  Why,  Arnold  !  hold  thine  own :  thou  hast  in  hand 
A  famous  artisan,  a  cunning  sculptor ; 
Also  a  dealer  in  the  sword  and  dagger 
Not  so,  my  musqueteer ;  't  was  he  who  slew 
The  Bourbon  from  the  wall. 

Am,  Ay,  did  he  so  ? 

Then  he  hath  carved  his  monument. 

Rom*  I  yet 

May  live  to  carve  your  betters. 

Ctts,  Wqll  said,  my  man  of  marble  !  Benvenuto, 
Thou  hast  some  practice  in  both  ways ;  and  he 
Who  slays  Cellini  will  have  work'd  as  hard 
As  e'er  thou  didst  upon  Carrara's  blocks. 

[Ajrnold  disarms  and  wounds  Cellini,  but  slightly : 
the  latter  draws  a  pistolf  and  fires ;  then  retires^ 
and  disappears  through  the  portico, 

Cos,  How  farest  thou  ?  Thou  hast  a  taste,  methinks. 
Of  red  Bellona's  banquet. 

Am,  (staggers,)  T  is  a  scratch. 

Lend  me  thy  scarf.     He  shall  not  'scape  me  thus. 

Cos,  Where  is  it  7 

Am,  In  the  shoulder,  not  the  sword  arm  — > 

And  that 's  enough.     I  am  thirsty  :  would  I  had 
A  helm  of  water ! 

CcM,  That 's  a  liquid  now 

In  requisition,  but  by  no  means  easiest 
To  come  at. 

Am,  And  my  thirst  increases ;  — •  but 

I  11  find  a  way  to  quench  it. 

CiM,  Or  be  quench'd 

Thyself? 

Am,  The  chance  is  even  ;  we  will  throw 
The  dice  thereon.  But  I  lose  time  in  prating ; 
Prithee  be  quick.  [Cjesah  Unds  on  the  scarf. 

And  what  dost  thou  so  idly  1 


142  THS   DBFOBXED   TmAKBFOKXED,  PiBTJL 

Why  dost  not  strike  ? 

Cos,  Your  old  f^ilosopbers 

Beheld  mankindt  as  mere  spectators  of 
The  Olympic  games.     When  I  behold  a  prize 
Worth  wrestling  for,  I  may  be  found  a  Milo. 

Am,  Ay,  'gainst  an  oak. 

C(B8,  A  forest,  when  it  suits  me. 

I  combat  with  a  mass,  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 ! 

CcBs,      And  thou-* a  man. 

Am.  Why,  such  I  fain  would  show  me. 

Cos.  True  —  as  men  are 

Am,  And  what  is  that  ? 

Cos,  Thou  feelest  and  thou  see'st. 

[Exit  AnvoLDj  joining  in  the  combat  uihich  sUU  con- 
tinues between  detwshed  parties.  The  scene  closer. 


SCENE    III. 


St.  Peter's— The  Interior  of  the  Church—  The  Pope  at  the  Altar 
—  Priests,  4*^.  crowding  in  eonfusionf  and  Citizens  Jlying  for 
refuge,  pursued  by  Soldiery. 

Enter  Cjbsas. 

A  Spanish  Soldier.  Down  with  them,  comrades  !  seize 
upon  those  lamps ! 
Cleave  yon  bald-pated  shaveling  to  the  chine ! 
His  rosary  's  of  gold  ! 

Lutheran  Soldier.  Revenge !  revenge ! 
Plunder  hereafter,  but  for  vengeance  now — 
Yonder  stands  Anti.Christ ! 

Cos.  (interposing.)  How  now,  schismatic ! 

What  would'st  thou? 

Luth.  Sold.  In  the  holy  name  of  Christ. 

Destroy  proud  Anti.Christ.     I  am  a  Christian. 

C<BS.  Yea,  a  disciple  that  would  make  the  founder 
Of  your  belief  renounce  it,  could  he  see 
Such  proselytes.     Best  stint  thyself  to  plunder. 

Luth.  Sold.  I  say  he  is  the  devil. 


acaam.  A  dbaka.  14d 

CiB8.  Hush !  keep  that  secret, 

Lest  he  shook!  recognize  you  for  his  own. 

IaA.  Sold,  Why  would  you  save  him  1  I  repeat  he  is 
The  devil,  or  the  devil's  vicar  upon  earth. 

Cos.  And  that 's  the  reason :  would  you  msike  a  quarrel 
With  your  hest  friends  ?  You  had  far  best  be  quiet ; 
His  hour  is  not  yet  come. 

Luth.  Sold.  That  shall  be  seen ! 

[The  Lutheran  Soldier  ruihes  forward ;  a  shoi  strikes 
him  from  one  of  the  Pope^s  Gtiardtf  and  he  falls  at 
the  foot  of  the  Altar. 

C<BS.  (to  the  Lutheran.)  I  told  you  so. 

Luth.  Sold*  And  will  you  not  avenge  me  ? 

Cos.  Not  I !  You  know  that  "  Vengeance  is  the  Lord's  : " 
You  see  he  loves  no  inteifepers. 

Luth.  Sold,  (dying.)  Oh! 

Had  I  but  slain  him,  I  had  gone  on  high, 
Crown'd  with  eternal  glory !  Heaven,  forgive 
My  feebleness  of  arm  &at  reach'd  him  not, 
*    And  take  thy  servant  to  thy  mercy.     T  is 
A  glorious  triumph  still ;  proud  Babylon  's 
No  more  ;  the  Harlot  of  tiie  Seven  HiUs 
Hath  changed  her  scarlet  raiment  for  sackcloth 
And  ashes !  [TTie  Lutheran  dies. 

Cos.  Yes,  thine  own  amidst  the  rest. 

Wdll  done,  old  Babel ! 

[The  Guards  defend  themselves  desperately^  while  the 
Pontiff  escapes^  by  a  private  passage,  to  the  Vatican 
and  Sie  Castle  of  St.  Angelo* 

Ciss.  Ha  !  right  nobly  battled ! 

Now,  priests  !  now,  soldier  !  the  two  great  professions, 
Together  by  the  ears  and  hearts !  I  have  not 
Se^  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  Sol.  They  have  barr'd  the  narrow  paasage  up. 
And  it  is  clogg'd  with  dead  even  to  the  door. 

CiBs.  I  am  glad  he  hath  escaped :  he  may  thank  me  for  't 
In  part.     I  would  not  have  his  bulls  abolish'd  — 
T  were  worth  one  half  our  empire :  his  indulgences 
Demand  some  in  return ;  —  no,  no,  he  must  not 
Fall ;  —  and  besides,  his  now  escape  may  furnish 
A  future  miracle,  in  future  proof 
Of  his  infallibility.  [ToOe  Spanish  Soldiery. 


144  THE   DEFOBKBD   TKANSFOSIOSD)  PHTfl. 

Well,  cut-throats ! 
What  do  you  pause  for  ?  If  you  make  not  haste^ 
There  will  not  be  a  link  ofpious  gold  left. 
And  ycuj  too,  Catholics !  Would  ye  return 
iProm  such  a  pilgrimage  without  a  relic  ? 
The  very  Lutherans  Imve  more  true  devotion ; 
See  how  they  strip  the  shrines  ! 

Soldiers.  By  holy  Peter  1 

He  speaks  the  truth  ;  the  heretics  will  bear 
The  best  away. 

CiBB.  And  that  were  shame !  Go  to ! 

Assist  in  their  conversion. 

[The  Soldien  disperse;  many  ^ the  Church,€then 
enter 

They  are  gone, 
And  others  come  :  so  flows  the  wave  on  wave 
Of  what  these  creatures  call  eternity, 
Deeming  themselves  the  breakers  of  the  ocean. 
While  they  are  but  its  bubbles,  ignorant 
That  foam  is  their  foundation.     So,  another !  • 

Enter  Olimpia,  Jiying  from  the  pursuit —  She  springs  upon  the 

AJUar. 

Sodl,  She  's  mine  ! 

Another  Sold,  (opposing  the  former.)  You  lie,  I  tracked 
her  first ;  and  were  she 
The  Pope's  niece,  I  '11  not  yield  her.  [Theyjight, 

Sd  Sdd.  (advancing  towards  Oldetia.)  You  may  settle 
Your  claims ;  I  'U  make  mine  good. 

Olimp.  Infernal  slave ! 

You  touch  me  not  alive. 
Sd  SM.  Alive  or  dead ! 

Olimp.    (embracing  a  massiee  crucyix.)    Respect  your 

God! 
Sd  Sold.  Yes,  when  he  shines  in  gold. 

Girl,  you  but  grasp  your  dowry. 

[As  he  adoanceSf  Olimpia,  ufith  a  strong  and  sudden 
effort^  casts  down  the  crucifix :  itstrikesthe  Soldier^ 
whoJfaUs. 
M  SM.  Oh,  great  God ! 

OUmp.  Ah !  now  you  recognize  him. 
Sd  Sold.  My  brain  's  crush'd ! 

Comrades,  help,  ho !  All 's  darkness  !  [He  dies* 

Other  Soldiers,  (cmmg  up.)  Slay  her,  although  she  had 
a  thousand  lives : 
She  hath  kill'd  our  comrade. 


■cEnm.  A  DmAMA*  146 

OUmp^  Welcome  such  a  death  ! 

You  have  no  life  to  give,  which  the  worst  slave 
Would  take.     Great  God  !  through  thy  redeemiug  Sob^ 
And  thy  Son's  Mother,  now  receive  me  as 
I  would  approach  thee,  worthy  her,  and  him,  and  thee  ! 

Enter  Arnold. 

Am.  What  do  I  see  ?  Accursed  jackals  * 
Forbear ! 

C€M.   {aside,  and  laughing.)  Ha !  ha !  here  's  equity  ! 
The  dogs 
Have  as  much  right  as  he.     But  to  the  issue ! 

Soldiers.  Count,  she  hath  slain  our  comrade. 

Am.  With  what  weapon  ? 

Sold.  The  cross,  beneath  which  he  is  crush'd ;  behold 
him 
Lie  there,  more  like  a  worm  than  man  ;  she  cast  it 
Upon  his  head. 

Am.  Even  so ;  there  is  a  woman 

Worthy  a  brave  man's  liking.     Were  ye  such, 
Ye  would  have  honour'd  her.     But  get  ye  hence. 
And  thank  your  meanness,  other  Gcfd  you  have  none. 
For  your  existence.     Had  you  touch'd  a  hair 
Of  those  dishevell'd  locks,  1  would  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. 

A  Sold,  (murmuring,)  The  lion 

Might  conquer  for  himself  then. 

Am.  {cuts  him  down.)  Mutineer 

Rebel  in  hell  —  you  shall  obey  on  earth  ! 

[The  Soldiers  assavU  Aksolv. 

Am.  Come  on  !  I  'm  glad  on  'til  will  show  you,  slaves. 
How  you  should  be  commanded,  and  who  led  you 
First  o'er  the  wall  you  were  so  shy  to  scale. 
Until  I  waved  my  banners  from  its  height. 
As  you  are  bold  within  it. 

[AsNOLD  maws  dawn  the  foremost ;  the  rest  throw 
down  their  anas. 

Soldiers.  Mercy  !  mercy ! 

Am.  Then  learn  to  grant  it.     Have  I  taught  you  wkct 
Led  you  o'er  Rome's  eternal  battlements  ? 

Soldiers.  We  «aw  it,  and  we  know  it ;  yet  forgive 
A  moment's  error  in  the  heat  of  conquest — 
The  conquest  which  you  led  to. 

VOL.  V. — L 


I4d 


TRS    DKF0SXB9  TEAlfSFOBXED, 


PUT  a 


Get  you  hence  !  * 
you  will  find  them  fix'd 


Am. 
Hence  to  your  quarters  ! 
In  llie  Colonna  palace. 

Oiimp.  (aside.)  In  my  father's 

House ! 

Am.  (to  the  Soldiers,)  Leave  your  arms ;  ye  have  no 
further  need 
Of  such :  the  city  's  rendered.     And  mark  well 
You  keep  your  hands  clean,  or  I  'U  find  out  a  stream 
As  red  as  Tiber  now  runs,  for  your  baptism. 

Soldiers,  (depositing  their  arms  and  departing,)  We  obey ! 
Am,  (to  Olikfia.)  Lady,  you  are  safe. 
Olimp,  I  should  be  so. 

Had  I  a  knife  even  ;  but  it  matters  not  — 
Death  liath  a  thousand  gates ;  and  on  the  marble, 
Even  at  the  altar  foot,  whence  I  look  down 
Upon  destruction,  shall  my  head  be  dash'd. 
Ere  thou  ascend  it.     God  forgive  thee,  man ! 
Am,  I  wish  to  merit  this  forgiveness,  and 
Tliine  own,  although  I  have  not  injured  thee. 

Olimp,  No !  thou  hast  only  sack'd  my  native  land- 
No  injury !  ^—  and  made  my  father's  house 
A  den  of  thieves !  No  injury  !  — this  temple  — 
Slippery  with  Roman  and  holy  gore. 
No  injury  !  And  now  thou  wouldst  preserve  me. 

To  be but  that  shall  never  be ! 

[She  raises  her  eyes  to  Heaven,  fdds  her  robe  round 
her,  and  prepares  to  dash  herself  down  on  the  side 
of  the  Altar  opposite  to  that  where  Arnold  stands. 
Am,  Hold!  held? 

I  swear. 

Olimp,  Spare  thine  already  forfeit  soul 
A  perjury  for  which  even  heU  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  ii^  for  (jod  to  judge  thee  as  thou  art. 
I  see  thee  purple  with  the  blood  of  Rome ; 
Take  mine,  't  is  all  thou  e'er  shalt  have  of  me ! 
And  here,  upon  the  marble  of  this  temple, 
Wfiere  the  baptismal  font  baptized  me  God's, 
1  offer  liim  a  blood  less  holy 
But  not  less  pure  (pure  as  it  left  me  then, 
A  redeem'd  infant)  than  the  holy  water 
The  saints  Have  sanctified ! 


■GDBm.  A   DKAXA.  147 

[OuxpiA  wooes  her  hand  to  Ajrnold  with  disdain,  and 
dashes  herself  an  the  paoementfrm  the  AUar, 

Am*  Eternal  God ! 

I  feel  thee  now  !     Help  !  help !     She  's  gone. 

Cos,  (approaches,)  I  am  here. 

Am*  Thou  !  but  oh,  save  her  ! 

Cos.  (assisting  him  to  raise  Oumfia.)  She  hath  done  it 
well! 
The  leap  was  serious. 

Am.  Oh !  she  is  lifeless ! 

Cos.  If 

She  be  so,  I  have  nought  to  do  with  that : 
The  resurrection  is  beyond  me. 

Am.  Slave ! 

CcBs.  Ay,  slave  or  master,  't  is  all  one :  methinks 
Good  words,  however,  are  as  well  at  tiroes. 

Am,  Words!  —  Canst  thou  aid  her? 

Cos,  I  will  try.     A  sprinkling 

Of  that  same  holy  water  may  be  useful. 

[He  brings  some  in  his  helmet  from  the  font. 

Am,  *T  is  mix'd  with  blood. 

CcBs.  There  is  no  cleaner  now 

In  Rome. 

Am,        How  pale  !  how  beautiful !  how  lifeless  ! 
Alive  or  dead,  thou  essence  of  all  beauty, 
I  love  but  thee  ! 

Ca^,  Even  so  Achilles  loved 

Penthesilea  :  with  his  form  it  seems 
You  have  his  heart,  and  yet  it  was  no  soflt  one. 

Am.  She  breathes !  But  no,  't  was  nothing,  or  the  last 
Faint  flutter  Ufe  disputes  with  death. 

CcBs,  She  breathes. 

Am,  Thau  say'st  it  ?    Then  't  is  truth. 

CiBs,  You  do  me  right  — 

The  devil  speaks  truth  much  oOener  than  he  's  deenrd  : 
He  hath  an  ignorant  audience. 

Am,  (without  attending  to  him,)  Yes  !  her  heart  beats. 
Alas !  that  the  first  beat  of  the  only  heart 
I  ever  wish'd  to  beat  with  mine  should  vibrate 
To  an  assassin's  pulse. 

CiBs,  A  sage  reflection, 

But  somewhat  late  i'  the  day.     Where  shall  we  bear  her  ? 
I  say  she  lives. 

Am,  And  will  she  live  ? 

C(BS,  As  much 

As  dust  can. 


148 


THE    DEFORMED   TRANSFORMED, 


PABTIL 


Am,  Then  she  is  dead  ? 

C{BS.  Bah !  bah  !     You  are  so, 

And  do  not  know  it.     She  will  come  to  life  — 
Such  as  you  think  so,  such  as  you  now  are ; 
But  we  must  work  by  human  means. 

Anr,  We  will 

Convey  her  unto  the  Colonna  palace, 
Where  I  have  pitch'd  my  banner. 

CcBs*  Come  then !  raise  her  up  ! 

Am.  Softly! 

C€BS,  As  softly  as  they  bear  the  dead, 

Perhaps  because  they  cannot  feel  the  jolting. 

Am.  But  doth  she  live  indeed  ? 

Cos.  Nay,  never  fear ! 

But  if  you  rue  it  after,  blame  not  me. 

Am,  Let  her  but  live  ! 

C{BS.  The  spirit  of  her  life 

Is  yet  within  her  breast,  and  may  revive. 
Count !  count !  I  am  your  servant  in  all  things, 
And  this  is  a  new  office :  —  't  is  not  oft 
I  am  employed  in  such  ;  but  you  perceive 
How  stanch  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  beautiful  half-clay,  and  nearly  spirit ! 
I  am  almost  enamour'd  of  her,  as 
Of  old  the  angels  of  her  earliest  sex. 

Am.  Thou! 

Cos.  I !     But  fear  not.     I  'II  not  be  your  rival. 

Am.  Rival ! 

C<BS.  I  could  be  one  right  formidable  ; 

But  since  I  slew  the  seven  husbands  of 
Tobias'  future  bride  (and  after  all 
'T  was  suck'd  out  by  some  incense),  I  have  laid 
Aside  intrigue :  't  is  rarely  worth  the  trouble 
Of  gaining,  or  —  what  is  more  difficult  — 
Getting  rid  of  your  prize  again  ;  for  there  's 
The  rub  !  at  least  to  mortals. 

Am.  Prithee,  peace ! 

Softly  !  methinks  her  lips  move,  her  eyes  open  ! 

Cos.  Like  stars,  no  doubt ;  for  that  's  a  metaphw 
For  Lucifer  and  Venus. 

To  the  palace 


Am. 
Colonna,  as  I  told  you ! 

C€U. 

My  way  through  Rome. 


Oh !  I  know 


I.  A   DRAMA*  140 

Am.  Now  onward,  onward !  Gently  \ 

[ExewU^  hearing  Olimpia. — The  scene  closes. 


PART  III. 
SCENE    I. 


A  CagUe  in  the  ApermineSf  surrounded  hy  a  wild  but  smiling 
country.     Chorus  of  Peasants  singing  before  the  Gates. 

CHORUS. 

1. 
The  wars  are  over, 

The  spring  is  come ; 
The  bride  apd  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home : 
They  are  happy,  we  rejoice ;. 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  in  every  voico . 

2. 

The  spring  is  come ;  the  violet  's  gone, 

The  first-bom  child  of  the  early  sun  : 

With  us  she  is  bat  a  winter's  flower, 

The  snow  on  the  hilb  cannot  blast  her  bower, 

And  she  lifts  up  her  dewy  eye  of  blue 

To  the  youngest  sky  of  the  self-same  hue. 

8. 
And  when  the  spring  comes  with  her  host 
Of  flowers,  that  flower  beloved  the  most 
Shrinks  from  the  crowd  that  may  confuse 
Her  heavenly  odour  and  virgin  hues. 

4. 
Pluck  the  others,  but  still  remember  ^ 

Their  herald  out  of  dim  December —  I 

The  morning  star  of  all  the  flowers,  ■ 

The  pledge  of  daylight's  lengthen'd  hours 
Nor,  midst  the  roses,  e'er  forget 
The  virgin,  virgin  violet. 


150 


THE   DEFORMED  TRAN8F0SMBD,  purnj. 

Enter  Cmsam. 
C<Bs.  (singing.)  The  wars  are  aU  over, 
*  Our  sworda  are  all  idle. 

The  steed  bites  the  bridle, 
The  casque  *s  on  the  wall. 
There  's  rest  for  the  rover : 
But  his  armour  is  rusty. 
And  the  veteran  grows  crusty, 
As  he  yawns  in  the  hall. 

He  drinks—  but  what 's  drinking? 
A  mere  pause  from  thinking » 
No  bugle  awakes  him  with  life-and-death  call. 

CHORUS. 

But  the  hound  bayeth  loudly, 

The  boar  's  in  the  wood, 
And  the  falcon  longs  proudly 

To  spring  from  her  hood  : 
On  the  wrist  of  the  noble 

She  sits  like  a  crest. 
And  the  air  is  in  trouble 

With  birds  from  their  nest. 


Cos. 


Oh !  shadow  of  glory  ! 

Dim  image  of  war  ! 
^ut  the  chase  hath  no  story. 

Her  hero  no  star. 
Since  Nimrod,  the  founder 

Of  empire  and  chase. 
Who  made  the  woods  wonder 

And  quake  for  their  race. 
When  the  lion  was  young. 

In  the  pride  of  his  might, 
Then  't  was  sport  for  the  strong 

To  embrace  him  in  fight  • 
To  go  forth,  with  a  pine      * 

For  a  spear  'gainst  the  mammoth. 
Or  strike  through  the  ravine 
At  the  foaming  behemoth  : 
While  man  was  in  stature 

As  towers  in  our  time. 

The  first-born  of  Nature, 

And,  like  her,  subfime ! 


A  VtLAMA.  151 

GHOSHS. 

But  the  wan  are  over, 
.  The  spring  is  come ; 
The  bride  ami  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home  : 
They  are  happy,  and  we  rejoice ; 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  from  every  voice ! 

[ExewU  the  Peataadryy  singing 


HEi^VEN    AND    EARTH; 

A  MYSTERY. 

FODITDKO  ON  THE  FOLLOWING  PASIAOr   IN   GKNraiSk   ClUP.   Vt. 

''  And  it  came  to  pan that  the  sons  of  GihI  nw  thv  ilauffhlom  of  men  that 

they  wert  fur;  and  they  took  them  wives  of  aU  which  Uii?y  chD».'' 


*And  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover/*— CortitttKiSK 


^i 


DRAMATIS    PERSONJE, 


Angels,  —  Samiasa. 

AZAZIEL. 

Raphael  the  Archangel. 
Men.  —  Noah  and  his  Sons. 
Irad. 
Jafhst. 

Women.  —  Anah. 

Aholibamah. 


Chants  of  Spirits  of  the  Earth.  —  Chorus  of  Mortals. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


PART  I. 


SCENE  I. 

•'i  woody  and  mountainous  district  near  Mount  Jrarat.  —  Time^ 
midnight. 

Enter  Anah  and  Ahoubamah. 

Anah.  OuB  father  tAeepa :  it  is  the  hour  when  they 
Who  love  us  are  accustom'd  to  descend 
Through  the  deep  clouds  o'er  rocky  Ararat :  — 
How  my  heart  beats  ! 

Aho.  Lfet  us  proceed  upon 

Our  invocation. 

Anah.  But  the  stars  are  hidden. 

I  tremble. 

Aho.        So  do  I,  but  not  with  fear 
Of  aught  save  their  delay. 

Anah.  My  sister,  though 

I  love  Azaziel  more  than  —oh,  too  much ! 
What  was  I  going  to  say  7  my  h^art  grows  impious. 

Aho.  And  where  is  the  impiety  of  loving 
Celestial  natures? 

Anah.  But,  Aholibamah, 

I  love  our  God  less  since  his  angel  loved  me : 
This  cannot  be  of  good ;  and  tlu>ugh  I  know  not 
That  I  do  wrong,  I  feel  a  thousand  fears 
Which  are  not  ominous  of  right. 

Aho.  Than  wed  thee 

Unto  some  son  of  clay,  and  toil  and  spin ! 
There  's  Japhet  loves  thee  well,  hath  loved  thee  loog^  i 
Marry,  and  bring  forth  dust ! 

Asiah.  I  should  have  loved 

Azaziel  not  less  were  he  mortal ;  yet 
I  am  glad  he  is  not.     I  can  not  outlive  him. 
And  when  I  think  that  his  immortal  wings 


156 


HEAVEN   AND  BABTH. 


Will  one  day  hover  o'er  the  sepulchre 

Of  the  poor  child  of  clay  which  so  adored  hinii 

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. 

Aho.  If  I  thought  thus  of  Samiasa's  love. 
All  seraph  as  he  is,  I'd  spurn  him  from  me. 
But  to  our  invocation  ! — T  is  the  hour. 
Anah,  Seraph ! 

From  thy  sphere ! 
Whatever  star  contain  thy  glory  , 
In  the  eternal  depths  of  heaven 
Albeit  thou  watchest  with  the  **  seven,*** 
Though  through  space  infinite  and  hoary 
Before  thy  bright  wings  worlds  be  driven, 
Yet  hear! 
Oh  !  think  of  her  who  holds  thee  dear  ! 

And  though  she  nothing  is  to  thee. 
Yet  think  that  thou  art  all  to  her. 
Thou  canst  not  tell, —  and  never  be 
Such  pangs  decreed  to  aught  save  me,— 
The  bitterness  of  tears. 
Eternity  is  in  thine  years. 
Unborn,  undying  beauty  in  thine  eyes ; 
With  me  thou  canst  not  sympathise. 
Except  in  love,  and  there  thou  must 
Acknowledge  that  more  loving  dust 
Ne'er  wept  beneath  the  skies. 
Thou  walk'st  thy  many  worlds,  thou  see'st 

The  face  of  him  who  made  thee  great, 
As  he  hath  made  me  of  the  least 
Of  those  oast  out  from  Eden's  gate  : 
Yet,  Seraph  dear ! 
Oh  hear ! 
For  thou  hast  loved  me,  and  I  would  not  die 
Until  I  know  what  I  must  die  in  knowing. 
That  thou  forget'st  in  thine  eternity 

Her  whose  heart  death  could  not  keep  from  o'erflowiog 
*  The  archangels,  said  to  be  seven  in  number. 


For  theCf  immortal  essence  as  thou  art  ] 
Great  Ib  their  love  who  love  in  sin  and  fettr ; 
And  such,  I  (ggU  ^re  waging  in  n\y  ht^art 
A  war  unworthy  :  to  an  Adamite 
Forgive,  my  Seraph!  that  such  thoughts  appear. 
For  aorrow  is  our  elemeut ; 
Delight 
An  Eden  kept  alar  from  sight, 

Though  soQoe times  with  our  visioni  blent. 
The  hour  is  near 
Which  telb  me  we  are  not  abandon^  quite. — 
Appear!  Appear! 
Seraph ! 
My  own  Azaziel !  be  but  here, 
And  leave  the  atara  to  their  owa  light  * 
Aha,  Sainiasa  f 

Wheresoever 
Thou  rulest  in  the  upper  air  — 
Or  warring  with  the  spirits  who  raay  dare 
Dispute  with  him 
Who  made  all  empires,  empire  ;  or  recalling 
Sonie  wandering  atar>  which  ahootii  through  the  a  by  as, 
Whose  tenants  dyings  wliile  their  world  is  falling, 
Share  the  dim  destiny  of  clay  in  this  ; 
Or  joining  with  the  inferior  cherubim, 
Thou  doigneat  to  partake  their  hymn-^ 
Sumiasa ! 
I  call  thee,  I  await  thee,  and  I  love  tliee. 

Many  raay  worship  thee,  that  will  I  not : 
If  that  thy  spirit  down  to  mine  may  move  thee, 
Deaccnd  and-  a  ha  re  my  lot ! 
Though  1  be  form'd  of  clay, 

And  thou  of  beams 
More  bright  than  those  of  day 
On  Eden's  slreama, 
Fhinc  imraortatity  can  not  repay 

With  love  more  warm  than  mine 
My  love.     There  is  a  ray 
In  me,  which,  though  for  hidden  yet  to  sbtn^ 
I  feel  waa  lighted  at  tljy  God's  and  tbine. 
It  may  be  bidden  long  :  death  and  decay 

Out  mother  Eve  bequ(!athM  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  —  ao  am  I  :  1  feel  — 
I  feel  my  immortality  o'ersweep 


I 


156 


HEAVEN  Ain>   EARTH* 


PAKTL 


All  pains,  all  tears,  all  fears,  and  peal. 

Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep. 
Into  my  ears  this  truth — <*  Thou  liv'st  for  ever! " 
But  if  it  be  in  joy 

I  know  not,  nor  would  know ; 
That  secret  rests  with  the  Almighty  giver 

Who  folds  in  clouds  the  fonts  of  bliss  and  woe. 
But  thee  and  me  he  never  can  destroy ; 

Change  us  he  may,  but  not  o'erwhelm ;  we  are 

Of  as  eternal  essence,  and  must  war 

With  him  if  he  will  war  with  us  :  with  thee 
I  can  share  all  things,  even  immortal  sorrow ; 

For  thou  hast  ventured  to  share  life  with  me, 

And  shall  /  shrink  from  thine  eternity  ? 

No !  though  the  serpent's  sting  should  pierce  me  througlw 

And  thou  thyself  wert  like  the  serpent,  coil 

Around  me  still !  and  I  will  smile, 
And  curse  thee  not ;  but  hold 
Thee  in  as  warm  a  fold 
As  — —  but  descend ;  and  prove 
A  mortal's  love 
For  an  immortal.     If  the  skies  contain 
More  joy  than  thou  canst  give  and  take,  remain ! 

Anah.  Sister !  sister  !  I  view  them  winging 
Their  bright  way  through  the  parted  night. 

Aho,  The  clouds  from  off  their  pinions  flinging, 
As  though  they  bore  to-morrow's  light . 

Anah,  But  if  our  father  see  the  sight ! 

Aho,  He  would  but  deem  it  was  the  moon 
Rising  unto  some  sorcerer's  tune 
An  hour  too  soon. 

Anah,  They  come !  he  comes !  —  Azaziel ! 

Aho.  Haste 

To  meet  them  !  Oh !  fof  wings  to  bear 
My  spirit,  while  they  hover  there, 
To  Samiasa's  breast ! 

Anah,  Lo !  they  have  kindled  all  the  west, 
Like  a  returning  sunset ;  — lo  ! 

On  Ararat's  late  secret  crest 
A  mild  and  many-colour'd  bow. 
The  remnant  of  their  flashing  path. 
Now  shines  !  and  now,  behold !  it  hath 
Retum'd  to  night,  as  rippling  foam, 

Which  the  leviathan  hath  lash'd 
From  his  unfathomable  home, 
When  sporting  on  the  face  of  the  cahn  deep, 


tCE^rsn.  HEAVEN  AlTD  BART0*   .  100 

SubBides  soon  after  1m  again  hath  dash'd 
^  Down,  down,  to  where  the  ocean's  fountains  sleep. 
Aho.  They  have  touch'd  earth !  Samiasa ! 
Anah,  My  Azaziel ! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 
Enter  Irad  and  jAPHEt. 

Irad.  Despond  not :  wherefore  wilt  thou  wander  thus 
To  add  thy  silence  to  the  silent  night, 
And  lifl  thy  tearfiil  eye  unto  the  stars  ? 
They  cannot  aid  thee. 

Japh.  But  they  soothe  me — now 

Perhaps  she  looks  upon  them  as  I  look. 
Methinks  a  being  that  is  beautiful 
Becometh  more  so  as  it  looks  on  beauty, 
The  eternal  beauty  of  undying  things. 
Oh,  Anah ! 

Irad,  But  she  loves  thee  not. 

Japh.  Alas? 

Irad.  And  proud  Aholibamah  spurns  me  also. 

Japh.  I  feel  for  thee  too. 

Irad.  Let  her  keep  her  pride. 

Mine  hath  enabled  me  to  bear  her  scorn : 
It  may  be,  time  too  will  avenge  it. 

Jixph.  Canst  thou 

Find  joy  in  such  a  thought  ? 

Irad.  Nor  joy  nor  sorrow. 

I  loved  her  well ;  I  would  have  loved  her  better. 
Had  love  been  met  with  love :  as  't  is,  I  leave  her 
To  brighter  destinies,  if  so  she  deems  them. 

Japn.  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. 

Japh.  Ay,  but  not  Anah :  she  but  loves  her  God. 


160 


HBAVEN   AMD   EARTH. 


Irad.  Whate'er  she  loveth,.so  she  loves  thee  not, 
What  can  it  profit  thee? 

Japh.  True,  nothing ;  but 

1  love, 

Irad*  And  so  did  I. 

JapJi*  And  now  thou  lov'st  not, 

Or  think'st  thou  lov'st  not,  art  thou  hi4>pier  ? 

Irad.  Yes. 

Japh.  I  pity  thee. 

Irad.  Me!  why? 

Japh.  For  being  happy, 

Deprived  of  that  which  makes  my  misery. 

Irad.  I  take  thy  taunt  as  part  of  thy  distemper. 
And  would  not  feel  as  thou  dost  for  more  shekels 
Than  all  our  father's  herds  would  bring  if  weigh'd 
Against  the  metal  of  the  sons  of  Cain  — 
The  yellow  dust  they  try  to  barter  with  us. 
As  if  such  useless  and  discolour'd  trash. 
The  refuse  of  the  earth,  could  be  received 
For  milk,  and  wool,  and  flesh,  and  fruits,  and  all 
Our  flocks  and  wilderness  afibrd. —  Go,  Japhet, 
Sigh  to  the  stars,  as  wolves  howl  to  the  moon — 
I  must  back  to  my  rest. 

Japh.  And  so  would  I 

If  I  could  rest. 

Irad.  Thou  wilt  not  to  our  tents  then? 

Japh.  No,  Irad ;  I  will  to  the  cavern,  whose 
Mouth  they  say  opens  from  the  internal  world 
To  let  the  inner  spirits  of  the  earth 
Forth  when  they  walk  its  surface. 

Irad.  Wherefore  so  ? 

What  wouldst  thou  there  ? 

Japh,  Soothe  further  my  sad  spirit 

With  gloom  as  sad :  it  is  a  hopeless  spot, 
And  I  am  hopeless. 

Irad.  But 't  is  dangerous  ; 

Strange  sounds  and  sights  have  peopled  it  with  terrors. 
I  must  go  with  thee. 

Japh.  Irad,  no  ;  believe  me 

I  feel  no  evil  thought,  and  fear  no  evil. 

Irad.  But  evil  things  will  be  thy  foe  the  more 
As  not  being  of  them :  turn  thy  steps  aside, 
Or  let  mine  be  with  thine. 

Japh.  No,  neither,  Irad ; 

I  must  proceed  alone. 


■JBATKK   AlfB   KAXTH.  161 

Irad.  Then  peace  be  with  thee  ! 

[ExH  Iead. 

Japh,  (M&if .')  Peace  1  I  ha^e  tougfat  it  where  it  should 
be  found, 
In  love  —  with  love,  too,  which  perhaps  deserved  it ; 
And,  in  its  stead,  a  heaviness  of  heart  — 
A  weakness  of  the  spirit  —  listless  days, 
And  nights  inexorable  to  sweet  sleep  — 
Have  come  upon  me.    Peace !  what  peace  ?  the  calm 
Of  desolation,  and  the  stillness  of  * 

The  untrodden  forest,  only  broken  by 
The  sweeping  tempest  through  its  groaning  boughs ; 
Such  is  the  sulen  or  the  fitful  state 
Of  my  mind  overworn.    The  earth  's  grown  wicked, 
And  many  signs  and  portents  have  proclaimed 
A  change  at  hand,  and  an  o^erwhdming  doom 
To  perishable  beings.     Oh,  my  Anah ! 
When  the  dread  hour  denounced  shall  open  wide 
The  fountains  of  the  deep,  how'mightest  thou 
Have  lain  within  this  bosom,  folded  from 
The  elements  ;  this  bosom,  which  in  vain 
Hath  beat  for  thee,  and  then  will  t)eat  more  vainly, 

Whila  thine Oh,  God !  at  least  remit  to  her 

Thy  wrath !  for  she  is  pure  amidst  the  failing 

As'  a  star  in  the  clouds,  which  cannot  quench. 

Although  they  obscure  it  for  an  hour.     My  Anah ! 

How  would  I  have  adored  thee,  but  thou  wouldst  not ; 

And  still  would  I  redeem  thee  —  see  thee  live 

When  ocean  is  earth's  grave,  and,  unopposed 

By  rock  or  shallow,  the  leviathan, 

Lord  of  the  shoreless  sea  and  watery  world, 

Shall  wonder  at  his  boundlessness  of  realm. 

\Exil  Japhet. 

Enter  Noah  and  Sbbk. 

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  Anali's  tents,  round  which  he  hovers  nightly, 
Like  a  dove  round  and  round  its  pillaged  nest ; 
Or  else  he  walks  the  wild  up  to  the  cavern 
Which  opens  to  the  heart  of  Ararat. 

Noah.  VIHiat  doth  he  there?  It  is  an  evil  spot 
Upon  an  earth  all  evil ;  for  things  worse 
VOL.  T. — a. 


162  HBAVEir   AND   SARTH.  pjUtTI. 

Than  even  wicked  men  resort  there :  he 
Still  loves  this  daughter  of  a  fated  race^ 
Although  he  could  not  wed  her  if  she  loved  him, 
And  that  she  doth  not.     Oh,  the  unhappy  hearts 
Of  men  !  that  one  of  my  blood,  knowing  well 
The  destiny  and  evil  of  these  days. 
And  that  the  hour  approacheth,  should  indulge 
In  such  forbidden  yearnings  ?  Lead  the  way  ; 
He  must  be  sought  for ! 

Shrnn.  Go  not  forward,  father : 

I  will  seek  Japhet. 

Noah.   .  Do  not  fear  for  me : 

All  evil  things  are  powerless  on  the  man 
Selected  by  Jehovah. —  Let  us  on. 

Shem.  To  the  tents  of  the  father  of  the  sisters  ? 

Noah.  No  ;  to  the  cavern  of  the  Caucasus. 

[ExauU  Noah  and  Shex. 


6CENE  IE. 
The  Mountains. —  A  cacem,  and  the  rocks  of  Caucasus. 

Japh.  (solus.)    Ye  wilds,  that  look  eternal;  and  thou 
cave. 
Which  secm'st  unfathomable ;  and  ye  mountains, 
So  varied  and  so  terrible  in  beauty  ; 
Here,  in  your  rugged  majesty  of  rocks 
And  toppling  trees  that  twine  their  roots  with  stone 
In  perpendicular  places,  where  the  foot 
Of  man  would  tremble,  could  he  reach  them — yes. 
Ye  look  eternal !  Yet,  in  a  few  days, 
Perhaps  even  hours,  ye  will  be  changed,  rent,  hurl'd 
Before  the  mass  of  waters ;  and  yon  cave, 
Which  seems  to  lead  into  a  lower  world. 
Shall  have  its  depths  search'd  by  the  sweeping  wave, 
And  dolphins  gambol  in  the  lion's  den ! 

And  man Oh,  men  !  my  fellow-beings !  Who 

Shall  weep  above  your  universal  grave, 

Save  1 7  Who  shaU  be  left  to  weep  ?  My  kinsmen, 

Alas  !  what  am  I  better  than  ye  are. 

That  I  must  live  beyond  ye  ?  Where  shall  be  ? 

The  pleasant  places  where  I  thought  of  Anah 

While  I  had  hope  ?  or  the  more  savage  haunts, 


tCEmill.  HSATBN   AND   SAHTH.  163 

Scarce  less  beloved,  where  I  despair'd  for  her  ? 
And  can  it  be  !  —  Shall  yon  exulting  peak, 
Whose  glittering  top  is  like  a  distant  star, 
Lie  low  beneath  the  boiling  of  the  deep  ? 
No  more  to  have  the  morning  sun  break  forth, 
And  scatter  back  the  mists  in  floating  folds 
From  its  tremendous  brow  ?  no  more  to  have 
Day's  broad  orb  drop  behind  its  head  at  even. 
Leaving  it  with  a  crown  of  many  hues  ? 
No  more  to  be  the  beacon  of  the  world, 
For  angels  to  alight  on,  as  the  spot 
Nearest  the  stars  ?  And  can  those  words  "'  no  more  " 
Be  meant  for  thee,  for  all  things,  save  for  us, 
'  And  the  predestined  creeping  things  reserved 
By  my  sire  to  Jehovah's  bidding  ?  May 
He  preserve  tJiem^  and  /  not  have  the  power 
To  snatch  the  loveliest  of  earth's  daughters  from 
A  doom  which  even  some  serpent,  with  his  mate, 
Shall  'scape  to  save  his  kind  to  be  prolong'd, 
To  hiss  and  sting  through  some  emerging  world, 
Reeking  and  dank  from  out  the  slime,  whose  ooze 
Shall  slumber  o'er  the  wreck  of  this  until 
The  salt  morass  subside  into  a  sphere 
Beneath  the  sun,  and  be  the  monument, 
The  sole  and  undistinguish'd  sepulchre, 
Of  yet  quick  myriads  of  all  life  ?  How  much 
Breath  will  be  still'd  at  once !  All  beauteous  world ' 
So  young,  so  mark'd  out  for  destruction,  I 
With  a  cleft  heart  look  on  thee  day  by  day. 
And  night  by  night,  thy  number'd  days  and  nights  : 
I  cannot  save  thee,  cannot  save  even  her 
Whose  love  had  made  me  love  thee  more ;  but  as 
A  portion  of  thy  dust,  I  cannot  think 
Upon  thy  coming  doom  without  a  feeling 
Such  as  — Oh  God !  and  canst  thou     ■■  [He  pauses, 

A  rtuhmg  sound  from  the  caoem  is  heard,  and  shouts  of  laughter 
—  afterwards  a  Spirit  passes, 

Japh,  In  the  name 

Of  the  Most  High,  what  art  thou  ? 

Spirit  (laughs.)  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Japh,  By  all  that  earth  holds  holiest,  speak  ! 

Spirit  (laughs.)  Ha  !  ha  ! 

Japh,  By  the  approaching  deluge  !  by  the  earth 
Which  will  be  strangled  by  the  ocean  !  by 


164  HSAVSV   ANB   XABTB* 

The  deep  which  wiU  lay  open  ull  her  fountaiDS  ! 
The  heaven  which  will  convert  her  clouds  to  i 
And  the  Omnipotent,  who  makes  and  crushes ! 
Thou  unknown,  terrible,  and  indistinct, 
Yet  awful  Thing  of  Shadows,  speak  to  me  ! 
Why  dost  thou  laugh  that  horrid  laugh  ? 

Spirit,  Why  wecp'st  thou! 

Japh,  For  earth  and  all  her  childten. 

SptrU.  Ha !  ha  !  ha ! 

[Spirii  vaniskeSm 
Japk.  How  the  fiend  mocks  the  tortures  of  a  world, 
The  oojning  desolation  of  an  orb. 
On  which  the  sun  shall  rise  and  warm  no  life ! 
How  the  earth  sleeps !  and  all  that  in  it  is 
Sleep  too  upon  the  very  eve  of  death  ! 
Why  should  they  wake  to  meet  it  ?    What  is  here, 
Which  look  like  death  in  life,  and  speak  like  things 
Bom  ere  this  dying  world !    They  come  like  clouds  ! 

[VariouB  Spirits  pass  from  the  cavern* 
Spirit.  R^ice ! 

The  abhorred  rac^ 
Which  could  not  keep  in  Eden  their  high  place. 

But  listen'd  to  the  voice 
Of  knowledge  without  power, 
Are  nigh  the  hour 
Of  death! 
Not  alow,  not  single,  not  by  sword,  nor  sorrow, 

Nor  years,  nor  heart-break,  nor  time's  sappng 
motion. 
Shall  they  drop  off.     Behold  their  last  to-morrow  ? 
Earth  shall  be  ocean ! 
And  no  breath, 
Save  of  the  winds,  be  on  the  unbounded  wave ! 
Angels  shall  tire  their  wings,  but  find  no  spot : 
Not  even  a  rock  fr<Mn  out  the  liquid  grave 

Shall  lift  its  point  to  save, 
Or  show  the  place  where  strong  Despair  hath  died, 
Afler  long  looking  o'er  the  ocean  wide 
For  the  expected  ebb  which  cometh  not ; 
All  shall  be  void, 
Destroyed ! 
Another  element  shall  be  the  lord 

Of  life,  and  the  abhorred 
Children  of  dust  be  quench'd ;  and  of  each  hue 
Of  earth  nought  lef^  but  the  unbroken  blue ; 
And  of  the  variegated  mountain 


MBCCm. 


BSAVSK  AITD   XAXTS.  165 


Shall  nought  remain 
Unchang^y  or  of  the  level  plain  ; 
Cedar  and  pine  shall  lift  their  tope  in  Tain : 
All  merged  within  the  universal  fountain, 
Man,  earthy  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  forward,)  My  sire ! 
Earth's  se^  shall  not  expire ; 
Only  the  evil  shall  be  put  away 

From  day. 
Avaunt !  ye  exulting  demons  of  the  waste  * 
Who  howl  your  hideous  joy 
When  God  destroys  whom  you  dare  not  destroy ; 
Hence !  haste ! 
Back  to  your  inner  caves ! 
Until  the  waves 
Shall  search  you  in  your  secret  place. 
And  drive  your  sullen  race 
Forth,  to  be  rollM  upon  the  tossing  winds 

In  restless  wretchedness  along  all  space  ! 
Spirit.  Son  of  the  saved ! 

When  thou  and  thine  have  braved 
The  wide  and  warring  element ; 
When  the  great  barrier  of  the  deep  is  rent^ 
Shall  thou  and  thine  be  good  or  happy? — No ! 
Thy  new  world  and  new  race  shail  be  of  woo -^ 
Less  ffoodly  in  their  aspect,  in  their  years 
Less  than  the  glorious  giants,  who 
Yet  walk  the  world  in  pride. 
The  Sons  of  Heaven  by  many  a  mortal  bride. 
Thine  shall  be  nothing  of  the  past,  save  tears. 
And  art  thou  not  ashamed 

Thus  to  survive. 
And  eat,  and  drink,  and  wive  ? 
With  a  base  heart  so  far  subdued  and  tamed, 
As  even  to  hear  this  wide  destruction  named, 
Without  such  grief  and  courage,  as  should  rather 
'    Bid  thee  await  the  world-dissolvine  wave, 
Than  seek  a  shelter  with  thy  favoured  father. 
And  build  thy  city  o'er  the  drown'd  earth's  grave  T 
Who  would  outlive  their  kind, 
Except  the  base  and  blind  1 


160  heave:?  and  sabtv. 

Mine 
Hateth  thine 
As  of  a  difiereDt  order  in  the  sphere. 
But  not  our  own. 
There  is  not  one  who  hath  not  left  a  throne 

Vacant  in  heaven  to  dwell  in  darkness  here. 
Rather  than  see  his  mates  endure  alone. 
Goy  wretch  !  and  give 
A  life  like  thine  to  other  wretches  —  live  f 
And  when  the  annihilating  waters  roar 

Above  what  they  have  done» 
Envy  the  giant  patriarchs  then  no  more. 
And  scorn  thy  siie  as  the  surviving  one ! 
Thyself  for  being  his  son  ! 

Choru9  ofSpiriU  Ustungfram  the  ctnem. 

Rejoice! 
No  more  the  human  voice 
Shall  vex  our  joys  in  middle  air 
With  prayer ; 
No  more 

Shall  they  adore ; 
And  we,  who  ne'er  for  ages  hav.e  adored 

The  prayer-exacting  Lord, 
To  whom  the  omission  of  a  sacrifice 
Is  vice ; 
We,  we  shall  view  the  deep's  salt  sources  pour'd 
Until  one  element  shall  do  the  work 
Of  all  in  chaos ;  until  they, 
The  creatures  proud  of  their  poor  clay, 
Shall  perish,  and  their  bleached  bones  shall  lurk 
In  caves,  in  dens,  in  clefts  of  mountains,  where 
The  deep  shall  follow  to  their  latest  lair ; 

Where  even  the  brutes,  in  their  despair, 
Shall  cease  to  prey  on  man  and  on  each  other, 

And  the  striped  tiger  shall  lie  down  to  die 
Beside  the  lamb,  as  though  he  were  his  brother  * 
Till  all  things  shall  be  as  they  were. 
Silent  and  uncreated,  save  the  sky : 
While  a  brief  truce 
Is  made  with  Death,  who  shall  forbear 
The  little  remnant  of  the  past  creation, 
To  generate  new  nations  for  his  use ; 

This  remnant,  floating  o'er  the  undulation 
Of  the  subsiding  deluge,  from  its  slime. 


Pitri 


[.  HKAVEN  A3(1>   EABTH.  167 

When  the  hot  sun  hath  haked  the  reeking  soil 
Into  a  world,  shall  give  again  to  Time 
New  beings — years — diseases  —  sorrow  —  crime  — 
With  all  companionship  of  hate  and  toil. 

Until 

Japh,  {tnterrupting  them,)    The  eternal  will 
Shall  deign  to  expound  this  dream 
Of  good  and  evil ;  and  redeem 

Unto  himself  all  times,  all  things ; 
And,  gathered  under  his  almighty  wings, 
Abolish  bell ! 
And  to  the  expiated  Earth 
Restore  the  beauty  of  her  birth, 

Her  Eden  in  an  endless  paradise, 
Where  man  no  more  can  fall  as  once  he  fell, 
And  even  the  very  demons  shall  do  well ! 
Spirits,  And  when  shall  take  eflfect  this  wondrous  spell  ? 
Japh,  When  the  Redeemer  cometh  ;  first  in  pain. 

And  then  in  glory. 
Spirit.  Meantime  still  struggle  in  the  mortal  ohain. 
Till  earth  wax  hoary ; 
War  with  yourselves,  and  hell,  and  heaven,  in  vain, 

Until  the  clouds  look  gory 
With  the  blood  reeking  from  each  battle  plain ; 
New  times,  new  climes,  new  arts,  new  men ;  but  still, 
The  same  old  tears,  old  crimes,  and  oldest  ill. 
Shall  be  amongst  your  race  in  different  forms ; 
But  the  same  moral  storms 
Shall  oversweep  the  future,  as  the  waves 
In  a  few  hours  the  glorious  giants'  graves.* 

Chorui  of  Spirits, 

Brethren,  rejoice ! 
Mortal,  farewell ! 
Hark  !  hark !  already  we  can  hear  the  voice 
Of  growing  ocean's  gloomy  swell ; 

The  winds,  too,  plume  their  piercing  wings  ; 

The  clouds  have  nearly  fiU'd  their  springs.; 
The  fountains  of  the  great  deep  shall  be  broken. 

And  heaven  set  wide  her  windows  ;t  while  mankind 
View,  unacknowledged,  each  tremendous  token  — 

Still,  as  they  were  from  the  beginning,  blind. 

*  "  And  there  were  gianta  in  the  earth  in  those  deyi,  and  after ;  mighty  men, 
which  were  of  old,  men  of  renown."  —  Ctenegu. 

t  "  The  nrae  day  were  all  the  ibantaine  of  the  gfeat  deep  broken  up,  and  the 
fsindowi  of  heaven  were  opened." — Ibid, 


108  fUAVSN  AKD  B^XTH. 


PAST  I- 


We  hear  the  sound  they  cannot  hear» 
The  mustering  thunders  of  the  threatening  sphere ; 
Yet  a  few  hours  their  coming  is  delay'd  — 
Their  flashing  banners,  folded  still  on  high, 
Tet  undisplay'dy 
Save  to  the  Spirit's  all-pervading  eye. 

Howl !  howl !  oh  EarUi ! 
Thy  death  is  nearer  than  thy  recent  birth  : 
Tremblct  ye  mountains,  soon  to  shrink  below 

The  ocean's  overflow ! 
The  wave  shall  break  upon  your  clifls ;  and  sheOs  ^ 

The  little  shells,  of  ocean's  least  things  be 
Deposed  where  now  the  eagle's  ofispring  dwells  — 
How  shall  he  shriek  o'er  the  remorseless  sea ! 
And  call  his  nestlings  up  with  fruitless  yell, 
Unanswer'd,  save  by  the  encroaching  swell ;  — 
While  man  shall  long  in  vain  for  his  broad  wings. 

The  wings  which  could  not  save :  — 
Where  could  he  rest  them,  while  the  whole  space  brings 
Nought  to  his  eye  beyond  the  deep,  his  gravel 
Brethren,  rejoice ! 
And  loudly  lift  each  superhuman  voice  — 

All  die, 
Save  the  slight  remnant  of  Seth's  seed  — 

TheseedofSeth, 
Exempt  for  future  sorrow's  sake  from  death. 
But  of  the  sons  of  Cain 
None  shall  remain ; 
And  all  his  goodly  daughters 
Must  lie  beneath  the  desolating  waters  — 
Or,  floating  upward,  with  their  long  hair  laid 
Along  the  wave,  the  cruel  heaven  upbraid. 
Which  would  not  spare 
Bein^  even  in  death  so  fair. 
It  IS  decreed, 
All  die! 
And  to  the  universal  human  cry 
The  universal  silence  shall  succeed ! 
Fly,  brethren,  fly ! 
But  still  rejoice ! 
We  fell! 
They  fall ! 
So  perish  all 
These  petty  foes  of  Heaven  who  shrink  from  hell ! 

[The  SpiriU  disappear^  soaring  upwardt* 
Japh.  (solus).     God  h&ih  proclaim'd  the  destiny  of  earth ; 


scnnia.  heavkn  and  xabth.  161 

My  father's  ark  of  safety  hath  amiounced  it ; 

Tlie  Tery  demons  shriek  it  from  their  caves ; 

Th&  scroll*  of  Enoch  prophesied  it  long 

In  silent  books,  which,  in  their  silence,  say 

More  to  the  mind  than  thunder  to  the  ear : 

And  yet  men  listened  not,  nor  listen  ;  but 

Walk  darkling  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  few,  and  of  their  wonted  texture ; 

The  sun  will  rise  upon  the  earth's  last  day 

As  on  the  fourth  day  of  creation,  when 

God  said  unto  him,  ^  Shine !"  and  he  broke  forth 

Into  the  dawn,  which  lighted  not  the  yet 

Unform'd  forefather  of  mankind — but  roused 

Before  the  human  orison  the  earlier 

Made  and  far  sweeter  voices  of  the  birds, 

Which  in  the  open  firmament  of  heaven 

Have  wings  like  angels,  and  like  them  salute 

Heaven  first  each  day  before  the  Adamites : 

Their  matins  now  draw  nigh  —  the  east  is  kindling— 

And  they  will  sing !  and  day  will  break !    Both  near, 

So  near  the  awful  close !  For  these  must  drop 

Their  outworn  pinions  on  the  deep ;  and  day. 

After  the  bright  course  of  a  few  brief  morrows,  — 

Ay,  day  will  rise  ;  but  upon  what  ?  —  a  chaos. 

Which  was  ere  day ;  and  which,  renew'd,  makes  time 

Nothing !  for,  without  life,  what  are  the  hours  1 

No  more  to  dust  than  is  eternity 

Unto  Jehovah,  who  created  both. 

^*ithout  him,  even  eternity  would  be 

A  void  :  without  man,  time,  as  made  for  man. 

Dies  with  man,  and  is  swallow'd  in  that  deep 

Which  has  no  fountain  ;  as  his  race  will  be 

Devoured  by  that  which  drowns  his  infant  world.— 

What  have  we  here?  Shapes  of  both  earth  and  airt 

No — dU  of  heaven,  they  are  so  beautiful. 

I  cumot  trace  their  features ;  but  their  forms, 

How  lovelily  they  move  along  the  side 

Of  die  gray  mountain,  scattering  its  mist! 

And  after  the  swart  savage  spirits,  whose 

Infer  ^  immortality  pour'd  forth 

^Theboo     f  Enoch,  praeerved  by  the  Ethinpiiini,  ii  said  by  them  to  be  tntwiof 
to  the  flood 


170  mATCX   AXD   EA^TH.  FASTI. 

Their  impious  hymn  of  triun^h,  they  shall  be 
Welcome  as  Eden.     It  may  be  they  come 
To  tell  me  the  reprieve  of  our  young  worid. 
For  which  I  have  so  often  pray'd  —  They  come  ? 
Anah !  oh,  God  !  and  with  her  — — 

Enter  Sajoasa,  Azazisl,  Anah,  and  Ahoubamah. 

Anah*  Japhet ! 

Sam.  Lo! 

A  son  of  Adam  f 

Aza,  What  doth  the  earth-bora  here, 

While  all  his  race  are  slumbering  ? 

Japh.  Angel!  what 

Dost  thou  on  earth  when  thou  shouldst  be  on  high  ? 

Aza^  Know'st  thou  not,  or  forget'st  thou,  that  a  part 
Of  our  great  function  is  to  guard  thine  earth  1 

Japh.  But  all  good  angels  have  forsaken  earth, 
Which  is  condeomM  ;  nay,  even  the  evil  fly 
The  approaching  chaos.     Anah !  Anah !  my 
In  vain,  and  long,  and  still  to  be  beloved  ! 
Why  walk'st  thou  with  this  spirit,  in  those  hours 
When  no  good  spirit  longer  lights  below  ? 

Anah.  Japhet,  [  cannot  answer  thee ;  yet,  yet 
Forgive  me  — 

Japh.  May  the  Heaven,  which  soon  no  more 

Will  pardon,  do  so  !  for  thou  art  greatly  tempted. 

Aho.  Back  to  thy  tents,  insulting  son  of  Noah ! 
We  know  thee  not. 

Japh,  The  hour  may  come  when  thou 

May'st  know  me  better ;  and  thy  sister  know 
Me  still  the  same  which  I  have  ever  been. 

Sam,  Son  of  the  patriarch,  who  hath  ever  been 
Upright  before  his  God,  whatever  thy  gifts. 
And  thy  words  seem  of  sorrow,  mix'd  with  wrath, 
How  have  Azaziel,  or  myself,  brought  on  thee 
Wrong? 

Ja/j^i,  Wrong !  the  greatest  of  all  wrongs ;  but  thou 
Say'st  well,  though  she  be  dust,  I  did  not,  could  not. 
Deserve  her.     Farewell,  Anah !  I  have  said 
That  word  so  often  !  but  now  say  it,  ne'er 
To  be  repeated.     Angel !  or  whate'er 
Thou  art,  or  must  be  soon,  hast  thou  the  power 
To  save  this  beautiful  —  these  beautiful 
Children  of  Cain? 

Aza*  From  what  ? 


SCBREUI.  RSAVEN   AXD   EABTH.  171 

Japh.  And  is  it  so. 

That  ye  too  know  not  ?  Angels !  angels  !  ye 
Have  shared  man's  sin,  and,  it  may  be,  now  most 
Partake  his  punishment ;  or,  at  the  least. 
My  sorrow.  , 

Sam*  Sorrow !  I  ne'er  thought  till  now 

To  hear  an  Adamite  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,  they  will  not  shrink 
More  to  be  mortal,  than  I  would  to  dare 
An  immortality  of  agonies 
With  Samiasa ! 

Anah.  Sister !  sister !  speak  not 

Thus. 

Ami.  Fearest  thou,  ray  Anah  ? 

Anah*  Yes,  for  thee : 

I  would  resign  the  greater  remnant  of 
This  little  life  of  mine,  before  one  hour 
Of  thine  eternity  should  know  a  pang. 

Jctph.  It  is  for  Aim,  then !  for  the  seraph  thou 
Hast  left  me  !  That  is  nothing,  if  thou  hast  not 
Left  thy  God  too  !  for  unions  like  to  these, 
Between  a  mortal  and  an  immortal,  cannot 
Be  happy  or  be  hallow'd.     We  are  sent 
Upon  the  earth  to  toil  and  die ;  and  they 
Are  made  to  minister  on  high  unto 
The  Highest :  but  if  he  can  saoe  thee,  soon 
The  hour  will  come  in  which  celestial  aid 
Alone  can  do  so. 

Anoih.  Ah !  he  speaks  of  death. 

Sam.  Of  death  to  us  /  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  Scth  ! 

Aho.  And  dost  thou  think  that  we. 


172  HSAVBIC  AND 


FiUL 


Witb  Cain's,  the  eldest  bom  of  Adam's,  blood 
Warm  in  our  veins, — strong  Cain !  who  was  begotten 
In  Paradise, —  would  mingle  with  Seth's  children? 
Seth,  the  last  offspring  of  old  Adam's  dotage  ? 
No,  not  to  save  all  earth,  wer^  earth  in  peril ! 
Our  race  hath  alway  dwelt  apart  from  thine 
From  the  beginning,  and  shall  do  so  ever. 

Jixph.  I  did  not  speak  to  thee,  Aholibamah ! 
Too  much  of  the  forefather  whom  thou  vauntest 
Has  come  down  in  that  haughty  blood  which  springs 
From  him*  who  shed  the  ^rst,  and  that  a  brother's ! 
But  thou,  my  Anah !  let  me  call  thee  mine. 
Albeit  thou  art  not ;  't  is  a  word  I  cannot 
Part  with,  although  I  must  from  thee.     My  Anah ! 
Thou  who  dost  rather  make  me  dream  that  Abel 
Had  left  a  daughter,  whose  pure  pious  race 
Survived  in  thee,  so  much  unlike  thou  art 
The  rest  of  the  stern  Cainites,  save  in  beauty, 
For  all  of  them  are  fairest  in  their  favour 

Aho*  (interrupting  him.)   And  wouldst  thou  have  her 
like  our  father's  foe 
In  mind,  in  soul  7  If  J  partook  thy  thought. 
And  dream'd  that  aught  of  Abel  was  in  her  !  — 
Get  thee  hence,  son  of  Noah ;  thou  makest  strife. 

Japh.  Offspring  of  Cain,  thy  father  did  so ! 

Aho.  But 

He  slew  not  Seth ;  and  what  hast  thou  to  do 
With  other  deeds  between  his  God  and  him  ? 

Japh.  Thou  speakest  well :  his  God  hath  judged  him, 
and 
I  had  not  named  his  deed,  but  that  thyself 
Didst  seem  to  glory  in  him,  nor  to  shrink 
From  what  he  had  done* 

Aho*                               He  was  our  father's  fiither ; 
The  eldest  born  of  man,  the  strongest,  bravest. 
And  most  enduring :  —  Shall  I  blush  for  him 
From  whom  we  had  our  being  ?  Look  upon 
Our  race  ;  behold  their  stature  and  their  beauty. 
Their  courage,  strength,  and  length  of  days 

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  God  of  Seth  as  Cain,  I  must  obey, 


HXAVSN  AHD  lASTH.  178 

And  will  endeavoor  patiently  to  obey. 

fiut  could  I  dare  to  pray  in  his  dread  hour 

Of  universal  ▼engeance  \if  such  should  be), 

It  would  not  be  to  live,  alone  exempt 

Of  all  my  boose.     My  sister !  oh,  my  sister ! 

What  were  the  world,  or  other  worlds,  or  all 

The  bri^test  future,  without  the  sweet  past  — 

Thy  love— my  father's-* all  the  life,  and  all 

The  things  which  sprang  up  with  me,  like. the  stars. 

Making  my  dim  existence  radiant  with 

Soft  Uihts  which  were  not  mine?  Aholibamah ! 

Oh !  if  there  should  be  mercy  — seek  it,  find  it : 

I  abhor  death,  because  that  thou  must  die. 

JlAo.  What !  hath  this  dreamer,  with  his  father's  ark. 
The  bugbear  he  hath  built  to  scare  the  world. 
Shaken  my  sister  7  Are  we  not  the  loved 
Of  seraphs?  and  if  we  were  not,  must  we 
Cling  to  a  son  of  Noah  for  our  lives  7  . 
Ratl^r  tkan  thus  -«»  But  the  enthusiast  dreams 
The  worst  of  dreams,  the  fantasies  engendered 
By  hopeless  love  and  heated  vigils.     Who 
•Shall  shake  these  solid  mountains,  this  firm  earth, 
And  bid  those  clouds  and  waters  take  a  shape 
Distinct  from  that  which  we  and  all  our  sires 
Have  seen  them  wear  on  their  eternal  way  7 
Who  shall  do  this  7 

Japh,  He  whose  one  word  produced  them. 

Aho.  Who  heard  that  word  7 

Japh.  The  universe,  which  leap'd 

To  life  before  it.     Ah  !  smilest  thou  still  in  scorn  ? 
Turn  to  thy  seraphs :  if  they  attest  it  not, 
'Diey  are  none. 

Sam.  Aholibamah,  own  thy  God  ! 

Aho.  I  have  ever  hail'd  our  Maker,  Samiosa, 
As  thine,  and  mine :  a  God  of  love,  not  sorrow. 

Japh.  Alas !  what  else  is  love  but  sorrow  7  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  Shbx. 

Noah.  Japhet!  What 

Dost  thou  here  with  these  children  of  the  wicked  7 
Dread'st  thou  not  to  partake  their  coming  doom  7 


174  HEAV£X   AND   EARTH4  PAlf  t. 

Jctpk.  Father,  it  cannot  be  a  sin  t*  seek 
To  save  an  earth-born  being ;  and  behold. 
These  are  not  of  the  sinful,  since  they  have 
The  fellowship  of  angels. 

Noah.  These  are  they,  then* 

Who  leave  the  throne  of  God,  to  take  them  wives 
From  out  the  race  of  Cain  ;  the  sons  of  heaven, 
Who  seek  earth's  daughters  for  their  beauty  ? 

Aza.  Patriarch ! 

Thou  hast  said  it. 

Noah,  Woe,  woe,  woe  to  such  communion ! 

Has  not  God  made  a  barrier  between  earth 
And  heaven,  and  limited  each,  kind  to  kind  t 

Sam*  Was  not  man  made  in  high  Jehovah's  image  t 
Did  God  not  love  what  he  had  made  ?     And  what 
Do  we  but  imitate  and  emulate 
His  love  unto  created  love  7 

Noah,  I  am 

But  man,  and  ik%s  not  made  to  judge  mankind. 
Far  less  the  sons  of  God ;  but  as  our  God 
Has  deign'd  to  commune  with  me,  and  reveal 
His  judgments,  I  reply,  that  the  descent 
Of  seraphs  from  their  everlasting  seat 
Unto  a  perishable  and  perishing. 
Even  on  the  very  ene  ofperishingt  world. 
Cannot  be  good. 

Aza.  What !  though  it  were  to  save  t 

Noah.  Not  ye  in  all  your  glory  can  redeem 
What  he  who  made  you  glorious  hath  condemn'd. 
Were  your  immortal  mission  safety,  't  would 
Be  general,  not  for  two,  though  beautiful ; 
And  beautiful  they  are,  but  not  the  less 
Condemn'd. 

Japh,  Oh,  father !  say  it  not. 

Noah.  Son!  son! 

If  that  thou  wouldst  avoid  their  doom,  forget 
That  they  exist ;  they  soon  shall  cease  to  be, 
While  thou  shalt  be  the  sire  of  a  new  world, 
And  better. 

Japh.  Let  me  die  with  this,  and  iJiem  !  [ho 

Noah.  Thou  shouldsl  for  such  a  thought,  but  shalt  not ; 
Who  can  redeem  thee. 

Sam.  And  why  him  and  thee, 

More  than  what  he,  thy  son,  prefers  to  both  T 

Noah.  Ask  him  who  made  thee  greater  than  myself 
And  mine,  but  not  less  subject  to  his  own 


HIU.VSN  Air]>  BAttTH.  17ft 

Almightiness.    And  lo  !  his  mildest  and 
Least  to  be  tempted  messenger  appears ! 

Enter  Raphael  the  Archangel. 

Raph.  Spirits ! 

Whose  seat  is  near  the  throne. 
What  do  ye  here? 
Is  thus  a  seraph's  duty  to  be  shown/ 
Now  that  the  hour  is  near 
When  earth  must  be  alone  ? 
Return! 
Adore  and  burn 
In  glorious  homage  with  the  elected  **  seven.'' 
Your  place  is  heaven. 
Sam.  Raphael ! 

The  first  and  fairest  of  the  sons  of  God, 
How  long  hath  this  been  Uiw, 
That  earth  by  angels  must  be  left  untrod  ? 

Earth  !  which  oft  saw 
Jehovah's  footsteps  not  disdain  her  sod ! 
The  world  he  loved,  and  made 
For  love ;  and  oft  have  we  obey'd 
His  frequent  mission  with  delighted  pinions  : 

Adoring  him  in  his  least  works  display'd  * 
Watching  this  youngest  star  of  his  dominions ; 
And,  as  the  ktest  birth  of  his  great  word, 
Eager  to  keep  it  worthy  of  our  Lord. 
Why  is  thy  brow  severe  ? 
And  wherefore  speak'st  thou  of  destruction  near  f 
Raph.  Had  Samiasa  and  Azaziel  been 
In  their  true  place,  with  the  angelic  choir, 
Written  in  fire 
They  would  have  seen 
Jehovah's  late  decree, 
And  not  inquired  their  Maker's  breath  of  me  : 
But  ignorance  must  ever  be 
A  part  of  sin ; 
And  even  the  spirits'  knowledge  shall  grow  less 

As  they  wax  proud  within  ; 
For  Blindness  is  the  first-born  of  Excess. 

When  all  good  angels  left  the  world,  ye  stay'd, 
Stung  with  strange  passions,  and  debased 
By  mortal  feelings  for  a  mortal  maid : 
But  yc  are  pardon'd  thus  fai,  and  replaced 
With  your  pure,  equals.     Hence !  away !  away  ! 


176  HBAVKC  AlTD   BABTH.  HMtTU 

Or  stay, 
And  lose  eternity  by  that  delay ! 
Axa.  And  thou  \  if  earth  be  thus  forbidden 
In  the  decree 
To  us  until  this  moment  hidden, 
Dost  thou  not  err  as  we 
In  being  here  ? 
Raph,  I  came  to  call  ye  back  to  your  fit  sphere. 
In  the  great  name  and  at  the  word  of  God. 
Dear,  dearest  in  themselves,  and  scarce  less  dear 

That  which  I  came  to  do  :  till  now  we  trod 
Together  the  eternal  space  ;  together 

Let  us  still  walk  the  «tars.     True,  earth  must  die  !• 
Her  race,  retum'd  into  her  womb,  must  wither. 
And  much  which  she  inherits :  but  oh !  why 
Cannot  this  earth  be  made,  or  be  destroyed, 
Without  involring  ever  some  vast  void 
In  the  immortal  ranks?  immortal  still 

In  their  immeasurable  forfeiture. 
Our  brother  Satan  fell ;  his  burning  will 
Rather  than  longer  worship  dared  endure ! 
But  ye  who  still  are  pure ! 
Seraphs !  less  mighty  than  that  mightiest  one, 

Think  how  he  was  undone ! 
And  think  if  tempting  man  can  compensate 
For  heaven  desired  too  late  ? 
Long  have  I  warr'd. 
Long  must  I  war 
With  htm  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  the  archangels  at  his  right  hand  dim. 

I  loved  him  —  beautiful  he  was :  oh  Jieaven ! 
Save  his  who  made,  what  beauty  and  what  power 
Was  ever  like  to  Satan's !     Would  the  hour 
In  which  he  fell  could  ever  be  forgiven ! 
The  wish  is  impious  :  but,  oh  ye  ! 
Yfet  undestroy'd,  be  warn'd  !  Eternity 

With  him,  or  with  his  God,  is  in  your  choice : 
He  hath  not  tempted  you ;  he  cannot  tempt 
The  angels,  from  his  further  snares  exempt : 

But  man  hath  listen'd  to  his  voice. 
And  ye  to  woman's — beautiful  she  is. 
The  serpent's  voice  less  subtle  than  her  kiss. 


HBATBN  A!VB   BAmTH.  .'77 

The  snake  but  vampushM  d«8t;  but  ahe  will  draw 
A  second  ho«t  from  heaven,  ta  break  heaven's  law. 
Yet,  yet»oh  flyl 
Ye  cannot  die  4 
Butthe^ 
Shall  pass  away* 
While  ye  shall  fill  with  shrieks  the  upper  sky 

For  perishable  clay, 
Whose  memory  in  your  immortality 

Shall  long  outlast  the  sun  which  gave  them  day. 
Think  how  your  essence  difereth  from  theirs 
In  all  bttt  suffering !  why  partake 
The  agony  to  which  they  must  be  heirs  — 
Born  to  be  plough'd  with  years,  and  sown  with  cares, 
And  reap'd  by  Death,  k)rd  of  the  human  soil  ? 
Even  had  their  days  been  lefl  to  toil  their  path 
Through  time  to  dust,  unshorten'd  by  God's  ^rath, 
Still  they  are  Evil's  prey  and  Sorrow's  spoil. 

Aho.  Let  them  fly ! 

I  hear  the  Voice  which  says  that  all  must  die 
Sooner  than  our  white-bearded  patriarchs  died ; 
And  that  on  high 
An  ocean  is  prepared, 
While  from  below 
The  deep  shall  rise  to  meet  heaven's  overflow. 

Few^shall  be  spared, 
It  seems ;  and,  of  that  few,  the  race  of  Cain 
Must  Ufl  their  eyes  to  Adam's  God  in  vain. 
Sister  !  since.it  is  so, 
And  the  eternal  Lord 
In  vain  would  be  implored 
For  the  remission  of  one  hour  of  woe, 
Let  us  resign  even  what  we  have  adored. 
And  meet  the  wave,  as  wc  would  meet  the  sword, 

If  not  unmoved,  yet  undismayM, 
And  wailing  less  for  us  than  those  who  shall 
Survive  in  mortal  or  immortal  thrall. 

And,  when  the  fatal  waters  are  allayM* 
Weep  for  the  myriads  who  ^an  weep  no  more. 
Fly,  seraphs !  to  your  own  eternal  shore, 
Where  winds  nof  howl  nor  waters  roar. 
Our  portion  is  to  die. 
And  yours  to  live  for  ever : 
But  which  is  best,  a  dead  eternity. 
Or  living,  is  but  known  to  the  great  Giver. 


VOL.  v.— N 


179  HBAVBN  AND  BABTH. 

Obey  him,  as  we  shall  obey ; 
I  would  not  keep  this  life  of  mine  in  day 
An  hour  beyond  his  will ; 
Nor  see  ye  lose  a  portion  of  his  grace^ 
For  all  the  mercy  which  Seth's  race 
Find  still. 
Fly! 
And  as  your  pinions  bear  ye  back  to  heaven. 
Think  that  my  love  still  mounts  with  thee  on  high 

Samiasa ! 
And  if  I  look  up  with  a  teariess  eye» . 

Tis  that  an  angel's  bride  disdains  to  weepr-* 
Fan^well  1  Now  rise,  inexorable  deep ! 
Anah.  And  must  we  die  ? 

And  must  I  lose  thee  too» 

Azaziel  ? 
Oh,  my  heart !  my  heart ! 

Thy  prophecies  were  true ! 
And  yet  thou  wert  so  happy  too ! 
The  blow,  though  not  imlookM  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  be 
Eternal,  if  repulsed  from  heaven  for  me. 
Too  much  already  hast  thou  deign'd 
To  one  of  Adam's  race ! 
Our  doom  is  sorrow :  not  to  us  alone. 
But  to  the  spirits  who  have  not  disdain'd  . 
To  love  us,  Cometh  anguish  with  disgrace. 
The  first  who  taught  us  knowledge  hath  been  hurl'd 
From  his  once  archangelic  throne 
Into  some  unknown  world  : 
And  thou,  Azaziel !  No  — 
Thou  shalt  not  suffer  woe 
For  me.     Away  !  nor  weep ! 
Thou  canst  not  weep ;  but  yet 
May'st  sufier  more,  not  weeping  :  then  forget 
Her.  whom  the  surges  of  the  all^trangling  deep 

Can  bring  no  pang  like  this.     Fly !  fly ! 
Being  gone,  't  will  b^  less  difficult  to  die. 
Japh»  Oh  say  not  so ! 

Father !  and  thou,  archangel,  thou ! 
Surely  celestial  mercy  lurks  below 
That  pure  severe,  serenity  of  brow  : 


PABT?, 


m:gmm.  HBAVBN   AND   SAXTO.  179 

Let  them  not  meet  this  sea  without  a  shore. 
Save  in  oar  ark»  or  let  me  be  no  more ! 

NodL  Peace,  child  of  passion^  peace ! 
If  not  within  thy  heart,  yet  with  thy  tongue 

Do  God  no  wrong ! 
Live  as  he  wills  it — die,  when  he  ordains, 
A  righteous  death,  unlike  the  seed  of  Cain's. 

Cease,  or  be  sorrowful  in  silence ;  cease 
To  weary  Heaven's  ear  with  thy  selfish  plaint. 

Wouldst  thou  have  God  commit  a  sin  for  thee  T 
Such  would  it  be 
To  alter  his  intent 
For  a  mere  mortal  sorrow.     Be  a  man ! 
And  bear  what  Adam's  race  must  bear,  and  can. 

Japh.  Ay,  father !  but  when  they  are  gone. 

And  we  are  all  alone. 
Floating  upon  the  azure  desert,  and 
The  depth  beneath  us  hides  our  own  dear  land. 

And  dearer,  silent  friends  and  brethren,  all 

Buried  in  its  immeasurable  breast. 
Who.  who,  our  tears,  our  shrieks,  shaU  then  command  ^ 

Clin  we  in  desolation's  peace  have  rest  ? 
Oh  God !  be  thou  a  God,  and  spare 
Yet  while  't  is  time  ! 
Renew  not  Adam's  fall: 

Mankind  were  then  but  twain,  . 
But  they  are  numerous  now  as  are  the  waves 

And  the  tremendous  rain, 
Whose  drops  shall  be  less  thick  than  would  their  graves. 

Were  graves 'permitted  to  the  seed  of  Cain. 

Nocih.  Silence,  vain  boy !  each  word  of  thine  's  a  crime. 
Angel !  forgive  this  stripling's  fond  despair. 

Raj^,  Seraphs  !  these  mortals  speak  in  passion :  Ye  ! 
Who  are,  or  should  be,  passionless  and  pure. 
May  now  return  with  me. 

Sam,  It  may  not  be : 

We  have  chosen,  and  will  endure. 

Raph.  Say'st  thou ! 

Axa.  He  hath  said  it,  and  I  say,  Amen ! 

Raph.  Again ! 

Then  from  this  hour. 
Shorn  as  ye  are  of  all  celestial  power. 
And  aliens  from  your  God, 
Farewell ! 

J(^h.  Alas  !  where  shall  they  dwell  f 

Hark,  hark !  Deep  sounds,  and  deeper  stilJ, 


180  HJBAVBN   AND   BABTII.  PARTI. 

Are  howling  from  the  mountain's  bosom  : 
There  ^s  not  a  breath  of  wind  upon  the  hill, 

Yet  quivers  every  leaf,  and  drops  each  blossom  : 
Earth  groans  as  if  beneath  a  heavy  load. 
NocJi.  Hark,  hark !  the  sea-birds  cry  ! 
In  clouds  they  overspread  the  lurid  sky, 
And  hover  round  the  mountain,  where  before 
Never  a  white  wing,  wetted  by  the  wave, 

Yet  dared  to  soar, 
Even  when  the  waters  wax'd  too  fierce  to  brave. 
Soon  it  shall  be  their  only  shorct 
And  then,  no  more ! 
Japh,  The  sun  !  the  sun  ! 

He  riseth,  but  his  better  light  is  gone ; 
And  a  black  circle,  boand 

His  glaring  disk  around, 
Proclaims  earth's  last  of  summer  days  hath  shone ! 

The  clouds  return  int»  the  hues  of  night, 
Save  where  their  brazen*oo)ourM  edges  streak 
The  verge  where  brighter  moms  were  wont  to  break. 

Noah,  And  lo !  yon  flash  of  light. 
The  distant  thunder's  harbinger,  appears  9  • 

It  cometh  !  hence,  away ! 
Leave  to  the  elements  their  evil  prey ! 
Hence  to  where  our  all-hallow'd  ark  uprears 
Its  safe  and  w reckless  sides ! 
Japh.  Oh,  father,  stay  ! 
Leave  not  my  Anah  to  the  swallowing  tides  ! 

Noah*  Must  we  not  leave  all  life  to  such  7    Begone ! 
Japh,  Not  I. 

Noah.  Then  die 

With  them ! 
How  darest  thou  look  on  that  prophetic  sky. 
And  seek  to  save  what  all  things  now  condemn. 
In  overwhelming  unison 

With  just  Jehovah's  wrath ! 
Japh,  Can  rage  and  justice  join  in  the  same  path  ? 
Noah,  Blasphemer  !  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  dnnk 

With  sobs  the  salt  foam  of  the  swelling  waters  ; 
But  be,  when  passion  passeth,  good  as  thou, 

Nor  perish  like  heaven's  children  with  man's  daughters. 
Alio,  The  tempest  cometh  ;  heaven  and  earth  unite 
For  the  annihilation  of  aU  life. 


nm.  HCAVSsr  akd  basth.  181 

• 
Unequal  is  the  strife 
Between  our  strength  and  the  Eternal  Might ! 

Sam*  But  ours  is  with  thee ;  we  will  bear  ye  far 

To  some  untroubled  8tar» 
Where  thou  and  Anah  shalt  partake  our  lot : 

And  if  thou  dost  not  weep  for  thy  lost  earth 
Our  forfeit  heaven  shall  also  be  forgot. 

Anah,  Oh !  my  dear  father's  tents,  my  place  of  birth, 
And  mountains,  land,  and  woods  !  when  ye  are  not, 
Who  shall  dry  up  my  tears  ? 

Axa.  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  flaming  sword, 
Which  chased  the  first-born  out  of  Paradise, 
Still  flashes  in  the  angelic  hands. 

Aza.  It  cannot  slay  us :  threaten  dust  with  death. 
And  talk  of  weapons  unto  that  which  bleeds. 
What  are  thy  swords  in  our  immortal  eyes  ? 

Raph*  The  moment  cometh  to  approve  thy  strength  ; 
And  learn  at  length 
How  vain  to  war  with  what  thy  God  commands : 
Thy  former  force  ^as  in  thy  faith. 

Enter  Mortalst  flying  for  refuge. 

Chorue  ofMortaU. 

The  heavens  and  earth  are  mingling  —  God !  oh  God  * 

What  have  we  done  ?     Yet  spare  ! 

Hark  !  even  the  forest  beasts  howl  forth  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  rod 
Of  wrath,  and  pity  thine  own  world's  despair ! 
Hear  not  man  only  but  all  nature  plead ! 

Raph.  Farewell,  thou  earth  !  ye  wretched  sons  of  clay, 
I  cannot,  must  not,  aid  you.     'T  is  decreed  ! 

[Exit  Raphabl. 

Japh*  Some  clouds  sweep  on  as  vultures  for  their  prey, 
While  others,  fix'd  as  rocks,  await  the  word 
At  which  their  wrathful  vials  shall  be  pour'd. 
No  azure  more  shall  robe  the  firmament, 
Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious  :  Death  hath  risen  : 


182  ttBAVBN  AND   BAJnV.  MBTI 

In  the  sun's  place  a  pale  and  gfaasdy  glare 
Hath  woond  itself  around  the  dying  air. 

Axa.  Comey  Anah !  quit  this  chcuM^founded  prison, 
To  which  the  elements  again  repair. 
To  turn  it  into  what  it  was  :  beneath 
The  shelter  of  these  wings  thou  shalt  be  safe* 
As  was  the  eagle's  nestling  once  within 
Its  mother's, —  Let  the  coming  chaos  chafe 
With  all  its  elements !     Heed  not  their  din  ! 
A  brighter  world  than  this,  where  thou  shait  breathe 
Ethereal  life,  will  we  explore : 
These  darken'd  clouds  are  not  the  only  skies* 

[A&ABiBL  and  BAiaABJiJly  off,  and  dUappear  wiih 
Anah  and  Ahoubamah. 

Japh.  They  are  gone !    They  have  disappear'd  amidst 
the  roar 
Of  the  forsaken  world ;  and  never  more, 
Whether  they  live,  or  die  with  all  earth's  life, 
Now  near  its  last,  can  aught  restore 
Anah  unto  these  eyes. 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

Oh  son  of  Noah  !  mercy  on  thy  kind ! 
What !  wilt  thou  leave  us  all  —  all — dH  behind  t 
While  safe  amidst  the  elemental  strife, 
Thou  sitt'st  within  thy  guarded  ark  ? 
A  Mother  {offering  her  infant  to  Japhbt).    Oh  let  this 
child  embark ! 
I  brou^t  him  forth  in  woe. 

But  thought  it  joy 
To  see  him  to  my  bosom  clinging  so. 
Why  was  he  bom  ? 
What  hath  he  done  — 
My  unwean'd  son  — 
To  move  Jehovah's  wrath  or  scorn  1 
What  is  there  in  this  milk  of  mine,  that  death 
Should  stir  all  heaven  and  earth  up  to  destroy 

My  boy, 
And  roll  the  waters  o'er  his  placid  breath  ? 
Save  him,  thou  seed  of  Seth  ! 
Or  cursed  be  —  with  him  who  made 
Thee  and  thy  race,  for  which  we  are  betray'd ! 

Japh.  Peace !  't  is  no  hour  for  curses,  but  for  prayer ! 


BOL  RBAVBir  A2n>   BASTR.  183 

Chorus  of  Mortals, 

For  prayer ! ! ! 
And  where 
Shall  prayer  ascend, 
When  the  BWo\n  clouds  unto  the  mountains  bend 

And  burst, 
And  gushing  oceans- every  barrier  rend, 
Until  the  very  deserts  know  no  thirst ! 
Accurst 
Be  he  who  made  thee  and  thy  sire ! 
We  deem  our  curses  vain ;  we  must  expire ; 

But  as  we  know  the  worst, 
Why  should  our  hymn  be  raised,  our  knees  be  bent 
Before  the  implacable  Omnipotent, 
Since  we  must  fall  the  same  ? 
If  he  hath  made  earth,  let  it  be  his  shame, 

To  make  a  world  for  torture. —  Lo !  they  comei 
The  k>athsome  waters,  in  their  rage ! 
And  with  their  roar  make  wholesome  nature  dumb ! 

The  forest's  trees  (coeval  with  the  hour 
When  Paradise  upsprung, 

Ere  Eve  gave  Adam  knowledge  for  her  dower, 
Or  Adam  his  first  hymn  of  slavery  sune), 

So  massy,  vast,  yet  green  in  their  old  age, 
Are  overtopped. 

Their  summer  blossoms  by  the  surges  lopp'd, 
Which  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise. 
Vainly  we  look  up  to  the  lowering  skies  — 

They  meet  the  seas. 
And  shot  out  Grod  from  our  beseeching  eyes. 
Fly,  son  of  Noah,  fly  !  and  take  thine  ease 
In  thine  allotted  ocean-tent ; 
And  view,  all  floating  o'er  the  element, 
The  corpses  of  the  world  of  thy  young  days : 
Then  to  Jehovah  raise 
Thy  song  of  praise ! 
A  MorUd.  Blessed  are  the  dead 
Who  die  in  the  Lord ! 
And  though  the  waters  be  o'er  earth  outspread. 
Yet,  as  his  word. 
Be  the  decree  adored ! 
Heffave  me  life  —  he  taketh  but 
l^e  breath  which  is  his  own  : 
And  though  these  eyes  should  be  for  ever  shut, 


164  HBArBN   AND   BABTV. 

Nor  longer  this  weak  voice  before  his  throne 
Be  heard  in  supplicating  tone, 

Still  blessed  be  the  Lord, 
For  what  is  past. 
For  that  which  is : 
For  all  are  his, 
From  first  to  last  ^ 
Time  —  space  —  eternity  —  life  —  death  — 

The  vast  known  and  immeasurable  unknown. 
He  made,  and  can  unmake  ; 

And  shall  /,  for  a  little  gasp  of  breath, 
Blaspheme  and  groan  1 

No ;  let  me  die,  as  I  have  lived,  in  faith, 
Nor  quiver,  though  the  universe  mnj  quake ! 

Chonu  of  MwiaU. 

Where  shall  we  fly  ? 
Not  to  the  mountains  high ; 
For  now  their  torrents  riisb,  with  double  roar. 
To  meet  the  ocean,  which,  advancing  still, 
Already  grasps  each  drowning  hill. 
Nor  leaves  an  unsearoh'd  cave. 

Eniera  Woman. 

Woman.  Oh,  save  me,  save ! 
Our  valley  is  no  more  : 

My  father  and  my  father's  tent. 
My  brethren  and  my  brethren's  herds. 

The  pleasant  trees  that  o'er  our  noonday  bent 
And  sent  forth  evening  sones  from  sweetest  birds, 
The  little  rivulet  which  frewen'd  all 
Our  pastures  green. 
No  more  are  to  be  seen. 
When  to  the  mountain  cliff  I  climb'd  this  morot 

I  tum'd  to  bless  the  spot, 
And  not  a  leaf  appear'd  about  to  fall ;  — 

And  now  they  are  not !  — 
Why  was  I  bom? 

Japh.  To  die !  in  youth  to  die ; 

And  happier  in  that  doom. 
Than  to  behold  the  universal  tomb 

Which  I 
Am  thus  condemn'd  to  weep  above  in  vain. 
.    Why,  when  all  perish,  why  must  I  remain  ? 


PAST  I- 


HBAVBN  Atm   BASTH.  185 

[The  waUrs  rise :  Men  fly  in  every  direction;  many 

are  overtaken  by  the  wooes ;  the  Chorus  of  Mor- 

ials  disperses ^in  search  of  safety  up  the  moun' 

tains :  Japhet  remains  upon  a  rock,  while  the  Ark 

Jloats  towards  him  in  the  distance* 


THE    ISLAND; 

OR, 

CHRISTIAN  AND  HIS  COMRADES. 


The  foundation  of  the  following  story  will  be  found  partly 
In  the  account  of  the  mutiny  of  the  Botmty  in  the  South  Seas, 
(in  1789,)  and  partly  in  ^  Mariner's  Account  of  the  Tonga 
Idandt." 


THE   ISLAND. 


CANTO  TH£  F1MT. 


Ths  morning  watch  was  come  ;  the  vessel  lay 
Her  course,  and  gently  made  her  liquid  way ; 
The  cloven  billow  flash'd  from  off  her  prow 
In  furrows  form'd  by  that  majestic  plough  ; 
The  waters  with  their  world  were  all  before ; 
Behind,  the  South  iSea's  many  an  islet  shore. 
The  quiet  night,  now  dappling,  'gan  to  wane,  ^ 
Dividing  darkness  from  the  dawning  main  ; 
The  dolphins,  not  unconscious  of  the  day, 
Swam  high,  as  eager  of  the  coming  ray  ; 
The  stars  from  broader  beams  began  to  creep, 
And  lift  their  shining  eyelids  from  the  deep ; 
The  sail  resumed  its  lately  shadow 'd  white. 
And  the  wind  flutter'd  with  a  freshening  flight ; 
The  purpling  ocean  owns  the  coming  sun. 
But  ere  he  break  —  a  deed  is  to  be  done. 

11. 
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  to  the  glorious  roll 
Of  those  who  search  the  storm-surrounded  Pole. 
The  worst  was  over,  and  the  rest  seem'd  sure. 
And  why  should  not  his  slumber  be  secure  ? 
Alas !  his  deck  was  trod  by  unwilling  feet. 
And  wilder  hands  wt>uld  hold  the  vessel's  sheet ; 
Young  hearts,  which  languish'd  for  some  sunny  isle* 
Where  summer  years  and  summer  women  smile  ; 
Men  without  country,  who,  too  long  estranged. 
Had  found  no  native  home,  or  found  it  changed. 


100  THE   ISLAND.  OlNTO  I. 

Andy  half  uncivilized,  preferred  the  cave 

Of  some  soft  savage  to  the  uncertain  wave— > 

The  gushing  fruits  that  nature  gave  untili'd ; 

The  wood  without  a  path  but  where  they  will'd  ; 

The  field  o'er  which  promiscuous  plenty  pour*d 

Her  horn ;  the  equal  land  without  a  lord  ; 

The  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  glowing  sun  and  produce  all  its  gold ; 

The  freedom  which  can  call  each  grot  a  home ; 

The  general  garden,  where  all  steps  may  roam. 

Where  Nature  owns  a  nation  as  her  chUd, 

Exulting  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  wild ; 

Their  shells,  their  fruits,  the  only  wealth  they  know. 

Their  unexploring  navy,  the  canoe ; 

Their  sport,  the  Ashing  breakers  and  the  chase ; 

Their  strangest  sight,  an  European  face : — 

Such  was  the  country  which  these  strangers  yeam'd 

To  see  again ;  a  sight  they  dearly  earn'd. 

m. 

Awake,  bold  Bli^ !  the  foe  is  at  the  gate  ! 
Awake !  Awake !  Alas  !  it  is  too  late ! 

Fiercely  beside  thy  cot  the  mutineer 
Stands,  and  proclaims  the  reign  of  rage  and  fear. 
Thy  limbs  are  bound,  the  bayonet  at  thy  breast ; 
The  hands,  which  trembled  at  thy  voice,  arrest ; 
Dragg'd  o'er  the  deck,  no  more  at  thy  command 
The  obedient  helm  shall  veer,  the  sail  expand  ; 
That  savage  spirit,  which  would  lull  by  wrath 
Its  desperate  escape  from  duty's  path. 
Glares  round  thee,  in  the  scarce  believing  eyes 
Of  those  who  fear  the  chief  they  sacrifice : 
For  ne'er  can  roan  his  conscience  all  assuage. 
Unless  he  drain  the  wine  of  passion  —  rage. 

IV. 

In  vain,  not  silenced  by  the  eye  of  death, 
Thou  call'st  the  loyal  with  thy  menaced  breath :  — 
They  come  not ;  they  are  few,  and,  overawed. 
Must  acquiesce,  while  sterner  heai^  applaud. 
In  vain  thou  dost  demand  the  cause  :  a  curse 
Is  all  the  answer,  with  the  threat  of  worse. 
Full  in  thine  eyes  is  waved  the  glittenng  blade, 
Close  to  thy  throat  the  pointed  bayonet  laid. 


THK  XSLAITD*  191 

The  leveird  muskets  circle  round  thy  breast 
In  hands  as  steel'd  to  do  the  deadly  rest. 
Thou  darest  them  to  their  worst,  exclaiming — ^*  Fire  ! " 
But  they  who  pitied  not  could  yet  admire ; 
Some  lurking  remnant  of  their  former  awe 
Restrained  them  longer  than  their  br<^en  law ; 
They  would  not  dip  their  souls  at  once  in  blood, 
But  left  thee  to  the  mercies  of  the  flood. 

V. 

^  Hoist  out  the  boat !  '*  was  now  the  leader's  cry ; 

And  who  dare  answer  ^  No  !  "  to  Mutiny, 

in  the  first  dawning  of  the  drunken  hour. 

The  Saturnalia  of  unhoped-for  power  ? 

The  boat  is  lower'd  with  all  the  haste  of  hate. 

With  its  slight  plank  between  thee  and  thy  fate  ; 

Her  only  cargo  such  a  scant  supply 

As  promises  the  death  their  hands  deny  ; 

And  just  enough  of  water  and  of  bread 

To  keep,  some  days,  the  dying  from  the  dead  : 

Some  cordage,  canvass,  sails,  and  lines,  and  twine» 

But  treasures  all  to  hermits  of  the  brine. 

Were  added  after,  to  the  earnest  prayer 

Of  those  who  saw  no  hope,  save  sea  and  air ; 

And  last,  that  trembling  vassal  of  the  Pole-« 

The  feeling  compass -v*  Navigation's  soul. 

VI. 

And  now  the  self-elected  ehief  finds  time 

To  stun  the  first  sensation  of  his  crime, 

And  raise  it  in  his  folk>wers  —  ^  Ho !  the  bowl !  " 

Lest  passion  should  return  to  reason's  shoal. 

^*  Brandy  for  heroes !  "  Burke  could  once  eKclaim— 

No  doubt  a  liquid  path  to  epic  fame  ; 

And  such  the  new-born  heroes  found  it  here. 

And  drain'd  the  draught  with  an  applauding  cheer. 

<*  Huzza  !  for  Otaheice  I "  was  the  cry. 

How  strange  such  shouts  from  sons  of  Mutiny ! 

The  gentle  island,  and  the  genial  soil, 

The  triendly  hearts,  the  feasts  without  a  toil, 

The  courteous  manners  but  from  nature  caught, 

The  wealth  unbearded,  and  the  love  unbought ; 

Could  these  have  charms  for  rudest  sea-boys,  driven 

Before  the  mast  by  every  wind  o£  heaven  ? 

And  now,  even  now  prepared  with  others'  woes 

To  earn  mild  virtue's  vain  desire,  repose  ? 


192  THE   ISLAND. 

Alas !  siich  is  our  nature  !  all  but  aim 
At  the  same  end  by  pathways  not  the  same  ; 
Our  means,  our  birth,  our  nation,  and  our  name. 
Our  fortune,  temper,  even  our  outward  frame, 
Are  fur  more  potent  o'er  our  yielding  clay 
Than  aught  we  know  beyond  our  little  day. 
Yet  still  there  whispers  the  small  voice  within. 
Heard  through  Gain's  silence,  and  o'er  Glory's  din^ 
Whatever  creed  be  taught  or  land  be  trod, 
Man's  conscience  is  the  oracle  of  God. 

VII. 

The  launch  is  crowded  with  the  faithful  few 
Who  wait  their  chief,  a  melancholy  crew  : 
But  some  remain'd  reluctant  on  the  deck 
Of  that  proud  vessel  —  now  a  moral  wreck  -^ 
And  view'd  their  captain's  fate  with  piteous  eyes 4 
While  others  scofTd  his  augur 'd  miseries, 
Sneer'd  at  the  prospect  of  his  pigmy  sail,  . 
And  the  slight  bark  so  laden  and  so  frail. 
The  tender  Nautilus,  who  steers  his  prow. 
The  sea-bom  sailor  of  his  shell  canoe. 
The  ocean  Mab,  the  fairy  of  the  sea, 
Seems  far  less  fragile,  and,  alasi  more  free. 
He,  when  the  lightning- wing'd  tornaidos  sweep 
The  surge,  is  safe  —  his  port  is  in  the  deep  — 
And  triumphs  o'er  the  armadas  of  mankind, 
Which  shake  the  world,  yet  crumble  in  the  wind. 

VIII. 

When  all  was  now  prepared,  the  vessel  clear. 
Which  hail'd  her  master  in  the  mutineer — 
A  seaman,  less  obdurate  than  his  mates, 
Show'd  the  vain  pity  which  but  irritates ; 
Watch'd  his  late  chieftain  with  exploring  eye. 
And  told,  in  signs,  repentant  sympathy  ; 
Held  the  moist  shaddock  to  his  parched  mouth. 
Which  felt  exhaustion's  deep  and  bitter  drouth. 
But  soon  observed,  this  guardian  was  withdrawn. 
Nor  further  mercy  clouds  rebellion's  dawn. 
Then  forward  stepp'd  the  bold  and  fcoward  boy 
His  chief  had  cherish'd  only  to  destroy. 
And,  pointing  to  the  helpless  prow  beneath, 
Exclaim'd,  "  Depart  at  once  !  delay  is  death '  " 
Yet  then,  even  then,  his  feelings  ceased  not  all : 
In  that  last  moment  could  a  word  recall 


GilTMf. 


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CHILDE  HAROLD. 
HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 
ENGLISH  BARDS. 
HEBREW  MELODIES. 
ODE  TO  NAPOLEON. 
HINTS  PROM  HORACE. 
THE  GIAOUR. 
THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYD08. 
THE  CORSAIR. 
LARA.— PARI8INA. 
THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 
BEPPO.— MAZEPPA. 


IT  WILL  CONTAIN 

MANFRED. 

MARINO  FALIERO. 

THE  CURSE  OP  MINERVA. 

SARDANAPALU8. 

THE  TWO  POSCARL 

THE  DEFORMED. 

CAIN.— WERNER. 

DON  JUAN. 

HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 

PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

THE  ISLAND. 

THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE. 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT,  Ac  See. 

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CAREY  &  HART,  PiriiUshm. 
Philadelphia,  Mat  10, 1843. 


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CRITICAL  Am  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS 


OF 

JAMES    STEPHEN. 

Id  On«  Volttmo  l^mcht  tinli^iTn  with  *' Mfu^olnj'i  Miii»1I«iti«B.*^ 

COWTAlNiNO 
Th«r«fl  Ho/alNdj,  l^niUiiiB  I /?/<'] ,i,  t^iwiii  ilm  Faii^  D'Aubign^'A  Bluiitry  (if  ifao 
Ltro  ^f  WlLlMffiJite^  WLMftLd,  Boici-'i  Ltrc  and  WrtUtigB,  4«. 


CAMTOI.  TBM  ULAm.  m 

Remorse  for  the  black  deed  as  yet  half  donoi 
And  what  he  hid  from  many  show'd  to  one : 
When  Bligh  in  stem  reproach  demanded  where 
Was  now  his  grateful  sense  of  former  care  ? 
Where  all  his  hopes  to  see  his  name  aspire, 
And  blazon  Britain's  thousand  glories  higher  7 
His  feverish  lips  thus  broke  their  gloomy  spell, 
'^T  is  that!  't  is  that !  I  am  in  hell !  in  hell!" 
No  more  he  said ;  but  urging  to  the  bark 
His  chief,  commits  him  to  his  fragile  aric ; 
These  the  sole  accents  from  his  tongue  that  fell. 
But  volumes  lurk'd  below  his  fierce  farewell. 

IX. 

The  arctic  sun  rose  broad  above  the  wave ; 
The  breeze  now  sank,  now  whisper'd  from  his  cave ; 
As  on  the  .£olian  harp,  his  fitful  wings 
Now  swell'd,  now  fluttered  o'er  his  ocean  strings. 
With  slow,  despairing  oar,  the  abandon'd  skiff 
Ploughs  its  drear  progress  to  the  scarce-seen  cliffy 
Which  Hits  its  peak  a  cloud  above  the  main  : 
That  boat  and  ship  shall  never  meet  again ! 
But 't  is  not  mine  to  tell  their  tale  of  grief. 
Their  constant  peril,  and  their  scant  relief; 
Their  days  of  danger,  and  their  nights  of  pain ; 
Their  manly  courage  even  when  deem'd  in  vain ; 
The  sapping  famine,  rendering  scarce  a  son 
Known  to  his  mother  in  the  skeleton ; 
The  iUs  that  lessen'd  still  their  little  store, 
And  starv'd  even  Hunger  till  he  wrung  no  more ; 
The  Varyinff  frowns  and  favours  of  the  deep, 
That  now  almost  ingulfs,  then  leaves  to  creep 
With  crazy  oar  and  shattered  strength  along 
The  tide  that  yields  reluctant  to  the  strong ; 
The  incessant  fever  of  that  arid  thirst 
Which  welcomes,  as  a  well,  the  clouds  that  burst 
Above  their  naked  bones,  ai]id  feeb  delight 
In  the  cold  drenching  of  the  stormy  night. 
And  from  the  outspread  canvass  gladly  wrings 
A  drop  to  moisten  hfe's  all-gasping  springs ; 
The  savage  foe  escaped,  to  seek  again 
More  hospitable  shelter  from  the  main  ; 
The  ghastly  spectres  which  were  doom'd  at  last 
To  tell  as  true  a  tale  of  dangers  past. 
As  ever  the  dark  annals  of  the  deep 
Disclosed  for  man  to  dread  or  woman  weep. 
▼OL.  v.— o 


194  THB   ISLAND.  CAMTOI. 

X. 

We  leave  them  to  their  fate,  but  not  unknown 

Nor  unredfeaB'd.     Revenge  may  have  her  own  : 

Roused  discipline  aloud  proclaims  their  cause* 

And  injured  navies  urge  their  broken  laws. 

Pursue  we  on  his  track  the  mutineer, 

Whom  distant  vengeance  had  not  taught  to  fear. 

Wide  o'er  the  wave  —  away  !  away !  away ! 

Once  more  his  eyes  shall  hail  the  welcome  bay  ; 

Once  more  the  happy  shores  without  a  law 

Receive  the  outlaws  whom  they  lately  saw ; 

Nature,  and  Nature's  goddess  —  woman  —  woos 

To  lands  where,  save  their  conscience,  none  accuse ; 

Where  all  partake  the  earth  without  dispute, 

And  bread  itself  is  gather'd  as  a  fruit  ;* 

Wh^re  none  contest  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  streams :  — 

The  goldless  age,  where  gold  disturbs  no  dreams, 

Inhabits  or  inhabited  the  shore. 

Till  Europe  taught  them  better  than  before  : 

Bestow'd  her  customs,  and  amended  theirs, 

But  lejfl  her  vices  also  to  their  heirs. 

Away  with  this  !  behold  them  as  they  were, 

Do  good  with  Nature,  or  with  Nature  err. 

**  Huzza  !  for  Otaheite  i  "  was  the  cry, 

As  stately  swept  the  gallant  vessel  by. 

The  breeze  springs  up ;  the  lately  flapping  sail 

Extends  its  arch  before  the  growing  gale  ; 

In  swifter  ripples  stream  aside  the  seas. 

Which  her  bold  bow  flings  ofi*  with  dashing  ease 

Thus  Argo  plough'd  the  Euxine's  virgin  foam ; 

But  those  she  wafled  still  look'd  back  to  home  —  ' 

These  spurn  their  country  with  their  rebel  bark, 

And  fly  her  as  the  raven  fled  the  ark ; 

And  yet  they  seek  to  nestle  with  the  dove, 

And  tame  their  fiery  spirits  down  to  love. 

*  Tlie  now  celebrated  bread-fruiti  to  tnuiB{>lant  which  Captain  61igh*t  ezpe- 
ditioB  was  undertaken. 


CANTO  IL  THI    ISLAim.  106 


CANTO  TUS  SECOND. 


J. 

How  pleasant  were  the  eoQgs  of  Toobonai,"' 

When  summer's  sun  went  down  the  coral  bay  ! 

Come,  let  us  to  tlie  islet!s  softest  shade, 

And  hear  the  warbling  birds.!  the  damsels  said : 

The  wood-dove  from  the  forest  depth  shall  coo, 

Like  voices  of  the  gods  from  Bolotop  ; 

We  '11  cull  the  flowers  Jthat  grow  aWve  the  dead. 

For  these  most  bloom  whegre  rests  the  warrior's  head ; 

And  we  will  sit  in  twilight's  face,  and  see 

The  sweet  moon  glancing  through  the  tooa  tfee, 

The  lofty  accents  of  whose  sighing  bough 

Shall  sadly  please  us  as  we  lean  belpw  ; 

Or  climb  the  steep,  and  view  the  surf  in  vaia 

Wrestle  with  rocky  giants  o'er  the  main, 

Which  spurn  in  columns  baqk  the  baffled  spray 

How  beautiful  are  these  !  how  hajfiy  jthey« 

Who,  from  the  toil  and  tumult  of  their  live^ 

Steal  to  look  down  where  nought  but  ocean  strives ! 

Even  ho  too  loves  at  times  the  blue  lagoon. 

And  smooths  his  ruffled  mane  beneath  tlie  moon. 

Yes -9- from  the  sepulchre  we  'U  gather  fl«»w>er% 

Then  feast  like  spirits  in  their  promised  bowG^rib 

Then  plunge  and  revel  in  the  rolling  surf. 

Then  lay  our  limbs  along  the  tender  tur^ 

And,  wet  and  shining  from  the  sportive  toi1« 

Anoint  our  bodies  with  the  fragrant  oil. 

And  plait  our  garlands  gather'd  fcon  the  gca:Ke« 

And  wear  the  wreaths  that  sprung  j&om  out  the  Urave« 

But  lo  !  night  comes,  the  Mooa  woos  us  back) 

The  sound  of  mats  are  heard  along  our  track  ^ 

Anon  the  torchlight  dance  shall  fling  its  sheen 

lo  flashing  mazes  o'er  the  Marley's  green ; 

*  The  fint  three  leetioni  are  taken  fiom  nn  actual  song  of  the  Tonga  iBlanderi*, 
of  which  aprofie  tranaiation  is  given  in  "  Marinor*fl  Acoount  of  the  Tonga  Islandii/' 
Toohonai  »  nol  however  one  of  them ;  hut  waa  one  of  tiiose  where  Christian 
and  the  mutineen  took  refuse.  I  have  altered  and  added,  but  have  retained  aa 
much  ai  poMiblc  of  the  origiiuil. 


196  THB   ISI^ND.  CAl 

And  we  too  will  be  there ;  we  too  recall 
The  memory  bright  with  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 : 
Forgotten  is  the  rapture,  or  unknown. 
Of  wandering  with  the  moon  and  love  alone. 
But  be  it  so  :  — they  taught  us  how  to  wield 
The  club,  and  rain  our  arrows  o'er  the  field : 
Now  let  them  reap  the  harvest  of  their  art ! 
But  feast  to-night !  to-morrow  we  depart. 
Strike  up  the  dance  !  the  cava  bowl  fill  high ! 
Drain  every  drop  !  —  to-morrow  we  may  die. 
In  summer  garments  be  our  limbs  arrayM  ; 
Around  our  waists  the  tappa's  white  displayed ; 
Thick  wreaths  shall  form  our  coronal,  like  spring's. 
And  round  our  necks  shall  glance  the  hooni  strings ; 
So  shall  their  brighter  hues  contrast  the  glow 
Of  the  dusk  bosoms  that  beat  high  below. 

in. 
But  now  the  dance  is  o'er  —  yet  stay  awhile  ; 
Ah,  pause !  nor  yet  put  out  the  social  smile. 
To-morrow  for  the  Mooa  we  depart, 
But  not  to-night  —  to-night  is  for  the  heart. 
Again  brstow  the  wreaths  we  gently  woo, 
Ye  young  enchantresses  of  gay  Licoo ! 
How  lovely  are  your  forms !  how  every  sense 
Bows  to  your  beauties,  soften'd,  but  intense. 
Like  to  the  flowers  on  Mataloco's  steep. 
Which  fling  their  fragrance  far  athwart  the  deep !  — 
We  too  will  see  Licoo  ;  but  —  oh  ?  my  heart !  — 
What  do  I  say  ?  —  to-morrow  we  depart  ? 

rv. 
Thus  rose  a  song — the  harmony  of  times 
Before  the  winds  blew  Europe  o'er  these  climes. 
True,  they  had  vices  — such  are  Nature's  growth  — 
But  only  the  barbarian's  —  we  have  both : 
The  sordor  of  civilisation,  mix'd 
With  all  the  savage  which  man's  fall  hath  fix'd. 
Who  hath  not  seen  Dissimulation's  reign. 
The  prayers  of  Abel  link'd  to  deeds  of  Cain  ? 
Who  such  would  see  may  from  his  lattice  view 
The  Old  World  more  degraded  than  the  New,-* 


CAMTOn. 


THI    ISLAND.  197 


Now  new  no  moM,  save  where  Columbia  rears 
Twin  giants,  bom  by  Freedom  to  her  spheres, 
Where  Chimborazo,  over  air,  earth,  wave. 
Glares  with  his  Titan  eye,  and  sees  no  slave. 

V. 

Sach  was  this  ditty  of  Tradition's  days. 
Which  to  the  dead  a  lingering  fame  conveys 
In  song,  where  fame  as  yet  hath  left  no  sign 
Beyond  the  sound  whose  charm  is  half  divine ; 
Which  leaves  no  record  to  the  sceptic  eye. 
But  yields  young  history  all  to  harmony ; 
A  boy  Achilles,  with  the  Centaur's  lyre 
In  hajid,  to  teach  him  to  surpass  his  sire. 
For  one  long-cherish'd  ballad's  simple  stave, 
Rung  from  the  rock,  or  minted  with  the  wave. 
Or  from  the  bubbling  streaidet's  grassy  side. 
Or  gathering  mountain  echoes  as  they  glide. 
Hath  greater  power  o'er  each  true  heart  and  ear. 
Than  all  the  columns  Conquest's  minions  rear : 
Invites,  when  hieroglyphics  are  a  theme 
For  sages'  labours  or  the  student's  dream  ; 
Attracts,  when  History's  volumes  are  a  toil,  — 
The  first,  the  freshest  bud  of  Feeling's  soil. 
Such  was  this  rude  rhyme  —  rhyme  is  of  the  rude  - 
But  such  inspired  the  Norseman's  solitude. 
Who  came  and  conquer'd  ;  such,  wherever  rise 
Lands  which  no  foes  destroy  or  civilise, 
Exist :  and  what  can  our  accomplish'd  art 
Of  verse  do  more  than  reach  the  awaken'd  heart  t 

VI. 

And  sweetly  now  those  untaught  melodies 

Broke  the  luxurious  silence  of  the  skies. 

The  sweet  siesta  of  a  summer  day. 

The  tropic  afternoon  of  Toobonai, 

When  every  flower  was  bloom,  and  air  was  balm. 

And  the  first  breath  began  to  stir  the  palm, 

The  first  yet  voiceless  wind  to  urge  the  wave 

All  gently  to  refresh  the  thirsty  cave. 

Where  sat  the  songstress  with  the  stranger  boy. 

Who  taught  her  passion's  desolating  joy, 

Too  powerful  over  every  heart,  but  most 

O'er  those  who  know  not  how  it  may  be  lost ; 

O'er  those  who,  burning  in  the  new-born  fire, 

Like  martyrs  revel  in  their  funeral  pyre. 


IM  THB   I8Likin>. 


CAMTOB. 


With  such  devotion  to  their  ecstasy, 
That  life  knows  no  such  rapture  as  to  die : 
And  die  they  do  ;  for  earthly  life  has  nought 
Match 'd  with  that  burst  of  nature,  even  in  thought. 
And  all  our  dreams  of  better  life  above 
But  close  in  one  eternal  gush  of  love. 

vji. 
There  sat  the  gentle-  savage  of  the  wild, 
In  growth  a  woman,  though  in  years  a  child, 
As  childhood  dates  within  our  colder  clime, 
Where  nought*  is  ripened  rapidly  save  crime  ; 
The  infant  of  an  infant  world,  as  pure 
From  nature  — loveLy,  warm,  and  premature  ; 
Dusky  like  night,  bat  night  with  all  her  stars ; 
Or  cavern  sparkling  with  its  native  spars  ; 
With  eyes  that  were  a  language  and  a  spell, 
A  form  like>  Aphrodi4e's  in  her  shell, 
With  all  her  loves  around  her  on  the  deep. 
Voluptuous  as  the  first  approach  of  sleep ; 
Yet  full  of  life  —  for  through  her  tropic  cheek 
The  blush  would  make  its  way,  and  all  but  speak ; 
The  sun-born  blood  suffused  her  neck,  and  threw 
O'er  her  clear  nut-brown  skin  a  lucid  hue. 
Like  coral  reddening  through  the  darkened  wave. 
Which  draws  the  diver  to  the  crimson  cave. 
Sucb  was  this  daughter  of  the  southern  seas, 
Herself  a  billow  in  her  energies, 
To  bear  the  bark  of  others'  happiness, 
Nor  feel  a  sorrow  till  their  joy  grew  less : 
Her  wild  and  warm  yet  faithful  bosom  knew 
No  joy  like  what  it  gave ;  her  hopes  ne'er  drew 
Aught  from  experience,  that  chill  touchstone,  whose 
Sad  proof  reduces  all  things  from  their  hues  : 
She  fear'd  no  ill,  because  she  knew  it  not. 
Or  what  she  knew  was  soon  —  too  soon  —  forgot : 
Her  smiles  and  tears  had  pass'd,  as  light  winds  pass 
O'er  lakes  to  rufBe,  not  destroy,  their  glass, 
Whose  depths  unsearch'd,  and  fountains  from  the  hill^ 
Restore  their  surface,  in  itself  so  still, 
Until  the  earthquake  tear  the  naiad's  cave, 
Root  up  the  spring,  and  trample  on  the  wave, 
And  crush  the  living  waters  to  a  mass, 
Tlie  amphibious  desert  of  the  dank  morass  ! 
And  must  their  fate  be  hers?     The  eternal  change 
But  grasps  humanity  with  quicker  ran^ 


CAVroo. 


THK   ISLAND.  199 


And  they  who  fall  but  fall  as  worlds  will  fall. 
To  rise,  if  just,  a  spirit  o'er  them  all. 

vin. 
And  who  is  he  t  the  Uue-eyed  northern  child 
Of  isles  more  known  to  man,  but  scarce  less  wild ; 
The  fair-hair'd  offspring  of  the  Hebrides, 
MThere  roars  the  Pentland  with  its  whirling  seas ; 
Rock'd  in  his  cradle  by  the  roaring  wind, 
The  tempest-born  in  body  and  in  mind. 
His  young  eyes  opening  on  the  ocean-foam, 
Had  frmn  that  moment  deem'd  the  deep  his  home^ 
The  giant  comrade  of  his  pensive  moods. 
The  sharer  of  his  craggy  solitudes, 
The  only  Meptor  of  his  youth,  where'er 
His  bark  was  borne ;  the  sport  of  wave  and  air ; 
A  careless  thing,  who  placed  his  choice  in  chance, 
Nursed  by  the  legends  of  his  land's  romance ; 
£ager  to  hope,  but  not  less  firm  to  bear. 
Acquainted  with  all  feelings  save  despair. 
Placed  in  the  Arab's  clime,  he  would  have  been 
As  bold  a  rover  ns  the  sands  have  seen, 
And  braved  their  thirst  with  as  enduring  lip 
As  Ishmael,  wafted  on  his  desert-ship  ;* 
Fiz'd  upon  Chili's  shore,  a  proud  cacique ; 
On  Hellas'  mountains,  a  rebellious  Greek ; 
Bom  in  a  tent,  perhaps  a  Tamerlane  ; 
Bred  to  a  throne,  perhaps  unfit  to  reign. 
For  the  same  soul  that  rends  its  path  to  sway, 
If  rear'd  to  such,  can  find  no  further  prey 
Beyond  itself,  and  must  retrace  its  way,t 
Plunging  for  pleasure  into  pain  :  the  same 
Spirit  which  made  a  Nero,  Rome's  worst  shame, 
A  humbler  state  and  discipline  of  heart, 
Had  fonn'd  his  glorious  namesake's  counterpart  ;^ 

*  The  "ihip  of  ihe  Aeant"  u  the  Oriental  figara  for  the  eeinel  or  dromeda- 
ry ;  and  they  deaerve  the  metaphor  well,  —  the  former  for  hia  endurance,  the  latter 
for  hia  awinneai. 
t  **  Lueullna,  when  fragafitv  conld  charm. 

Had  roaated  tumipa  in  the  Sabine  farm."  — Pojte, 
t  Hie  eonanl  Nero,  who  made  the  unequalled  march  which  deceived  Hanni- 
bal, and  defeated  Aadrubal ;  thereby  accomplishing  an  achievement  almost  un- 
rivalled in  military  annals.  T^e  first  intelligence  of  hia  return,  to  Hannibal,  was 
the  aisht  of  Aadrubal's  head  thrown  into  his  camp.  When  Hannibal  saw  this, 
he  exclaimed  with  a  sigh,  that  **  Rome  would  now  be  the  mistress  of  the  world.'* 
And  yet  to  this  victory  of  Nero*s  it  might  be  owinff  that  his  imperial  namesake 
1  at  alL  But  the  infamy  of  the  one  has  eclipsed  the  glory  of  the  other. 
ot  the  .  -     " 


i  the  name  of  "  Nero"  is  heard,  who  thinks  ot  the  consul  7 — But  such  are 
human  things. 


200  THE   ULAHD. 

But  grant  his  vices,  grant  them  all  his  own, 
How  small  their  theatre  without  a  throne ! 


n. 

Thou  smilest ;  —  these  comparisons  seem  high 

To  those  who  scan  all  things  with  dazzled  eye  ; 

Link'd  with  the  unknown  name  of  one  whose  doom 

Has  nought  to  do  with  glory  or  with  Rome, 

With  Chili,  Hellas,  or  with  Araby  ;  — 

Thou  smilest  ?  —  Smile ;  't  is  better  thus  than  sigh  ; 

Yet  such  he  might  have  been  ;  be  was  a  man, 

A  soaring  spirit,  ever  in  the  van, 

A  patriot  hero  or  despotic  chief, 

To  form  a  nation's  glory  or  its  grief. 

Born  under  auspices  which  make  us  more 

Or  less  than  we  delight  to  ponder  o'er. 

But  these  are  visions ;  say,  what  was  he  here  ? 

A  blooming  boy,  a  truant  mutineer* 

The  fair-hair'd  Torquil,  free  as  ocean's  spray. 

The  husband  of  the  bride  of  Toboonai. 

X* 

By  Neuha's  side  he  sate,  and  watch'd  the  waters,  — 
Neuha,  the  sun-flower  of  the  island  daughters. 
Highborn,  (a  birth  at  which  the  herald  smiles. 
Without  a  scutcheon  for  these  secret  isles,) 
Of  a  long  race,  the  valiant  and  the  free. 
The  naked  knights  of  savage  chivalry, 
Whose  grassy  cairns  ascend  along  the  shore  ; 
And  thine  —  I  've  seen  —  Achilles !  do  no  more. 
She,  when  the  thunder*bearing  strangers  came. 
In  vast  canoes,  begirt  with  bolts  of  flame, 
Topp'd  with  tall  trees,  which,  loftier  than  the  palm» 
Seem'd  rooted  in  the  deep  amidst  its  calm  : 
But  when  the  winds  awaken'd,  shot  forth  wings 
Broad  as  the  cloud  along  the  horizon  flings. 
And  sway'd  the  waves,  Tike  cities  of  the  sea. 
Making  the  very  billows  look  less  free ;  — 
She,  with  her  paddling  oar  and  dancing  prow. 
Shot  through  the  surf,  like  reindeer  through  the  snow 
Swifl-gliding  o'er  the  breaker's  whitening  edge. 
Light  as  a  pereid  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  in  the  sun  asleep. 


CAirroii. 


G&MTOU. 


IfLAlID  901 


While  round  it  swannM  the  proaa'  flitting  chain, 
Like  summer  bees  that  hum  around  his  mane. 

The  white  man  landed !  —  need  the  rest  be  told  t 

The  New  World  stretch'd  its  dusk  hand  to  the  Old  ; 

Each  was  to  each  a  manrely  and  the  tie 

•Of  wonder  warm'd  to  better  sympathy. 

Kind  was  the  welcome  of  the  sun*born  sires, 

And  kinder  still  their  daughters'  gentler  fires. 

Their  union  grew  :  the  children  of  the  storm 

Found  beauty  link'd  with  many  a  dusky  form ; 

While  these  in  turn  admired  the  paler  glow, 

Which  seem'd  so  white  in  climes  that  knew  no  snow 

The  chase,  the  race,  the  liberty  to  roam. 

The  soil  where  every  cottage  show'd  a  home ; 

The  sea-spread  net,  the  lightly .launcb'd  canoe, 

Which  stemin'd  the  studded  archipelago. 

O'er  whose  blue'  bosom  rose  the  starry  isles ; 

The  healthy  slumber,  eam'd  by  sportive  toils  ; 

The  palm,  the  loftiest  dryad  of  the  woods, 

Within  whose  bosom  infant  Bacchus  broods. 

While  eagles  scarce  build  higher  than  the  crest 

Which  shadows  o'er  the  vineyard  in  her  breast ; 

The  cava  feast,  the  yam,  the  cocoa's  root. 

Which  bears  at  once  the  cup,  and  milk,  and  fruit ; 

The  bread*tree,  which,  without  the  ploughshare,  yields 

The  unreap'd  harvest  of  unfurrow'd  fieldb. 

And  bakes  its  unadulterated  loaves 

Without  a  furnace  in  unpurchased  groves, 

And  flings  ofi*  famine  from  its  fertile  breast, 

A  priceless  market  for  the  gathering  guest ;  — 

These,  with  the  luxuries  of  seas  and  woods, 

The  airy  joys  of  social  solitudes. 

Tamed  each  rude  wanderer  to  the  sympathies 

Of  those  who  were  more  happy,  if  less  wise. 

Did  more  than  Europe's  discipline  had  done. 

And  civilised  Civilisation's  son ! 

xu. 
Of  these,  and  there  was  many  a  willing  pair, 
Neuha  and  Torquil  were  not  the  least  fair : 
Both  children  of  the  isles,  though  distant  far; 
Both  born  beneath  a  sea-presiding  star ; 
Both  nourish'dlamidst  nature's  native  scenes, 
Loved  to  the  last,  whatever  intervenes 


^2  TBM   ISLAKD.  CANTO  P- 

Between  us  and  our  childhood's  83nnpa(]iy, 

Which  still  reverts  to  what  first  caught  the  eye. 

He  who  first  met  the  Highlands'  swelling  blue 

Will  love  each  peak  that  shows  a  kindred  hue^ 

Hail  in  each  crag  a  friend's  familiar  face. 

And  clasp  the  mountain  in  his  mind's  embrace. 

Long  have  I  roam'd  through  lands  which  are  not  mine. 

Adored  the  Alp,  and  loved  the  Apennine, 

Revered  Parnassus,  and  beheld  the  steep 

Jove's  Ida  and  Olympus  crown  the  deep  : 

But 't  was  not  all  long  ages'  lore,  nor  all 

Their  nature  held  me  in  their  thrilling  thrall ; 

The  infant  rapture  still  survived  the  ^y, 

And  Loch-na-gar  with  Ida  look'd  o^er  Troy,* 

Mix 'd.  Celtic  memories  with  the  Phrygian  mount, 

And  Highland  linns  with  Gastalie^  clear  fount. 

Forgive  me,  Homer's  universal  shade  ! 

Forgive  me,  Phoebus !  that  my  fancy  stray'd : 

The  north  and  nature  taught  me  to  adore 

Your  scenes  sublime,  from  those  beloved  before. 

xin.. 
The  love  which  maketh  all  things  fond  and  fair, 
The  youth  which  makes  one  rainbow  of  the  air. 
The  dangers  past,  that  make  even  man  enjoy 
The  pause  in  which  he  ceases  to  destroy. 
The  mutual  beauty,  which  the  sternest  feel 
Strike  to  their  hearts  like  lightning  to  the  steel. 
United  the  half  savage  and  the  whole. 
The  maid  and  boy,  in  one  absorbing  soul. 
No  more  the  thundering  memory  of  the  fight 
Wrapp'd  his  wean'd  bosom  in  its  dark  delight ; 
No  more  the  irksome  restlessness  of  rest 
Disturb'd  him  like  the  eagle  in  her  nest. 
Whose  whetted  beak  and  far-pervading  eye 
Darts  for  a  victim  over  all  the  sky ; 
His  heart  was  tamed  to  that  voluptuous  state, 
At  once  Elysian  and  efi[eminate, 

•  When  very  young,  about  eight  years  of  age,  after  an  attack  of  the  scarlei 
fever  at  Aberdeen,  I  was  removed  by  medical  advice  into  the  Highlands.  Here 
I  pamed  occasionally  some  summers,  and  from  this  period  I  date  my  love  of 
mountainous  countries.  I  can  never  forget  the  effect,  a  few  years  afterwards, 
in  England,  of  the  only  thing  I  had  long  seen,  even  in  miniature,  of  a  mountain, 
in  the  Malvern  Hills.  After  I  returned  to  Cheltenham,  I  used  to  watch  them 
every  afternoon,  at  sunset,  with  a  sensation  which  I  cannot  describe.  TliiB  was 
boyish  enough ;  but  I  was  then  only  thirteen  years  oHlge,  and  it  was  in  the  hoU> 
days. 


CMMTOtL  THB   ISLAND.  208 

Which  leaves  no  laurels  o'er  the  heroes  urn  ;  «»- 

These  wither  when  for  aught  save  blood  they  bum  ; 

Yet  when  their  ashes  in  their  nook  are  laid, 

Doth  not  the  myrtle  leave  as  sweet  a  shade  ?       • 

Had  CiBsar  known  but  Cleopatra's  kiss, 

Rome  had  been  free,  the  world  had  not  been  his« 

And  what  have  CsBsar's  deeds  and  Coesar's  fame 

Done  for  the  earth  7    We  feel  them  in  our  shame : 

The  gory  sanction  of  his  glory  stains 

The  rust  which  tyrants  cherish  on  our  chains. 

Though  Glory,  Nature,  Reason,  Freedom,  bid 

Roused  millions  do  what  single  Brutus  did  — 

Sweep  these  mere  mock-birds  of  the  despot's  song 

From  the  tall  bough  where  they  have  perch'd  so  long^  — 

Still  are  we  hawk  d  at  by  such  mousing  owls, 

And  take  for  falcons  those  ignoble  fowls, 

When  biit  a  word  of  freedom  would  dispel 

These  bugbears,  as  their  terrors  show  too  well. 

XIV. 

Rapt  in  the  fond  forgetfulness  of  life, 
Neuha,  the  South  Sea  girl,  was  all  a  wife. 
With  no  distracting  world  to  call  her  off 
From  love  ;  with  no  society  to  scoff 
At  the  new  transient  Hame  ;  no  babbling  crowfl 
Of  coxcombry  in  admiration  loud. 
Or  with  adulterous  whisper  to  alloy 
Her  duty,  and  her  glory,  and  her  joy  : 
With  faith  and  feelings  naked  as  her  form, 
She  stood  as  stands  a  rainbow  in  a  storm, 
Changing  its  hues  with  bright  variety, 
But  still  expanding  lovelier  o'er  the  sky, 
Howe'er  its  arch  may  swell,  its  colours  move, 
The  doud-compelling  harbinger  of  love. 

XV. 

Here,  in  this  grotto  of  the  wave- worn  shore, 
They  pass'd  the  tropic's  red  meridian  o'er ; 
Nor  long  the  hours  —  they  never  paused  o'er  time. 
Unbroken  by  the  clock's  funereal  chime. 
Which  deals  the  daily  pittance  of  our  span. 
And  points  and  mocks  with  iron  laugh  at  man. 
What  deem'd  they  of  the  future  or  the  past  ? 
The  present,  like  a  tyrant,  held  them  fast : 
Their  hour-glfls  was  the  sea-sand,  and  the  tide, 
Like  her  smooth  billow,  saw  their  moments  glide  ; 


S04  *  TBM  IMLJkJXD^  CANTO  n. 

Theii  clock  the  sun,  in  his  unbounded  towV  ; 
They  reckoned  not^  whose  day  was  but  an  hour ; 
The  nightingale,  their  only  vesper-belly 
^ng  sweetly  to  the  rose  the  day's  farewell  f 
The  broad  sun  set,  but  not  with  lingering  sweep, 
As  in  the  north  he  mellows  o'er  the  deep  ; 
But  £ery,  full,  and  fierce,  as  if  he  left 
The  world  for  ever,  earth  of  light  bereft, 
Plunged  with  red  forehead  down  along  the  wave, 
As  dives  a  hero  headlong  to  his  grave. 
Then  rose  they,  looking  first  along  the  skies. 
And  then  for  light  into  each  others  eyes. 
Wondering  that  summer  show'd  so  brief  a  sun. 
And  asking  if  indeed  the  day  were  done. 

XVI. 

And  let  not  this  seem  strange :  the  devotee 

Lives  not  in  earth,  but  in  his  ecstasy  : 

Around  him  days  and  worlds  are  heedless  driven. 

His  soul  is  gone  before  his  dust  to  heaven. 

Is  love  less  potent  ?     No  —  his  path  is  trod, 

Alike  uplifted  gloriously  to  God  ; 

Or  link  d  to  all  we  know  of  heaven  below, 

The  other  better  self,  whose  joy  or  woe 

Is  more  than  ours ;  the  all-absorbing  flame 

Which,  kindled  by  another,  grows  the  same, 

Wrapt  in  one  blaze  ;  the  pure,  yet  funeral  pile, 

Where  gentle  hearts,  like  Bramins,  sit  and  smile. 

How  often  we  forget  all  time,  when  lone. 

Admiring  Nature's  universal  throne. 

Her  woods,  her  wilds,  her  waters,  the  intense 

Reply  of  hers  to  our  intelligence  ! 

Live  not  the  stars  and  mountains  ?    Are  the  waves 

Without  a  spirit  ?     Are  the  dropping  caves 

Without  a  feeling  in  their  silent  tears  ? 

No,  no ;  —  they  woo  and  clasp  us  to  their  spheres. 

Dissolve  this  clog  and  clod  of  clay  before 

Its  hour,  and  merge  our  soul  in  the  great  shore. 

Strip  off  this  fond  and  false  identity  !  — 

Who  thinks  of  self,  when  gazing  on  the  sky  ? 

And  who,  though  gazing  lower,  ever  thought. 

In  the  young  moments  ere  the  heart  is  taught 

Time's  lesson,  of  man's  baseness  or  his  own  ? 

All  nature  is  his  realm,  and  love  his  throne. 

Tlie  now  well-knowii  story  of  tho  lovei  of  the  ni|hiiig«le  and  io«e  need  nut 
be  more  than  alluded  to,  being  lufHciendy  lamiUar  to  the  Western  as  wcU  aus  tu 
the  Eastern  reader. 


CAJITOS. 


TRB  ULAKD.  %  205 


Neoha  arose,  and  Torquil :  twilight's  hour 
Came  sad  and  softly  to  their  rocky  bower, 
Which,  kindling  by  degrees  its  dewy  sfuirs,  ^ 

Echoed  their  dim  light  to  the  mustering  stars. 
Slowly  the  pair,  partaking  nature's  calm, 
Sought  out  their  cottage,  buUt  beneath  the  palm  ; 
Now  smiling  and  now  silent,  as  the  scene ; 
Lovely  as  Love — the  spirit !  —  when  serene. 
The  Ocean  scarce  spoke  louder  with  his  swell, 
Than  breathes  his  mimic  murmurer  in  the  shell,* 
As,  far  divided  from  his  parent  deep, 
TIm  sea-born  infant  cries,  and  will  not  sleep, 
Raising  his  little  pliant  in  vain,  to  rave 
For  the  broad  bosom  of  his  nursing  wave : 
The  woods  droop'd  darkly,  as  inclined  to  rest, 
The  tropic  bird  wheel'd  rockward  to  his  nest, 
And  the  blue  sky  spread  round  them  like  a  lake 
Of  peace,  where  Piety  her  thirst  might  slake. 

xvin. 
But  through  the  pabn  and  plantain,  hark,  a  voice  * 
Not  such  as  would  have  been  a  lover's  choice, 
In  such  an  hour,  to  break  the  air  so  still ; 
No  dying  night-breeze,  harping  o'er  the  hill. 
Striking  the  strings  of  nature,  rock  and  tree. 
Those  best  and  earliest  lyres  of  harmony, 
With  Echo  for  their  chorus ;  nor  the  alarm 
Of  the  loud  war-whoop  to  despel  the  charm ; 
Nor  the  soliloquy  of  the  hermit  owl. 
Exhaling  all  his  solitary  soul. 
The  dim  though  large-eyed  winged  anchorite, 
Who  peals  his  dreary  paean  o'er  the  night ;  — 
But  a  loud,  long,  and  naval  whistle,  shrill 
As  ever  started  through  a  sea-bird's  bill ; 
And  then  a  pause,  and  then  a  hoarse  <<  Hillo ! 
Torquil !  my  boy  !  what  cheer  ?  Ho !  brother,  ho ! " 

*  If  the  reader  will  apply  to  hia  earthe  aeapahell  onhia  chimney-pieeef  he  will 
be  aware  of  vrhax  ia  alluded  to.  If  the  teit  ahoiild  appear  obacure,  he  will  find 
in  **  Gebir"  the  same  idea  better  eipreaaed  in  two  linea. — The  poem  I  never 
read,  but  have  heard  the  Imea  quoted  by  a  more  recondite  reader — who  seema 
to  be  of  a  different  opinion  from  the  editor  of  the  Quarterly  Retiew,  who  quali- 
fied it,  in  hia  anawer  to  the  Critical  Reviewer  of  hia  Juvenal,  aa  traah  of  the  worat 
and  moatinaane  deaciiption.  It  ia  to  Mr.  Landor,  the  author  of  **  Gebir/*  ao 
qualified,  and  of  aome  Latin  ooema,  which  vie  with  Martial  or  Catullua  in  ob- 
acenity,  that  the  immaculate  Mr.  Sonthey  addreaaee  hia  declamation  againat  im- 
poziiy! 


ft 

30G  •  THB   ISLAND.  CANTO  n 

*«  Who  hails?  "  cried  Torquil»  following  with  his  eye 
The  sound.     "  Here-'s  one,"  was  all  the  brief  reply. 

XIX. 

Bufhere  the  herald  of  the  self-same  mouth 

Came  breathing  o'er  the  aromatic  south, 

Not  like  a  "  bed  of  violets  "  on  the  gale, 

But  such  as  waflts  its  cloud  o'er  grog  or  ale. 

Borne  from  a  short  frail  pipe,  which  yet  had  blown 

Its  gentle  odours  over  either  zone. 

And  puflTd  where'er  winds  rise  or  waters  roll. 

Had  wafted  smoke  from  Portsmouth  to  the  Pole, 

Opposed  its  vapour  as  the  lightning  flash'd, 

And  reek'd,  'midst  mountain-billows  unabash'd, 

To  iBolus  a  constant  sacrifice. 

Through  every  change  of  all  the  varying  skies. 

And  what  was  he  who  bore  it  ? —  I  may  err, 

But  deem  him  sailor  or  philosopher.* 

Sublime  tobacco !  which  from  east  to  west 

Cheers  the  tar's  labour  or  the  Turkman's  rest ; 

Which  on  the  Moslem's  ottoman  divides 

His  hours,  and  rivals  opium  and  his  brides ; 

Magnificent  in  Stamboul,  but  less  grand. 

Though  not  less  loved,  in  Wapping  or  the  Strand ; 

Divine  in  hookas,  glorious  in  a  pipe, 

When  tipp'd  with  amber,  mellow,  rich,  and  ripe ; 

Like  other  charmers,  wooing  the  caress 

More  dazzlingly  when  daring  in  full  dress ; 

Yet  tliy  true  lovers  more  admire  by  far 

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  the  merry  vessels  sweep, 
And  the  rough  saturnalia  of  the  tar 
Flock  o'er  the  deck,  in  Neptune's  borrow 'd  car  ;f 
And,  pleased,  the  god  of  ocean  sees  his  name 
Revive  once  more,  though  but  in  mimic  game 

*  Hobbes,  the  father  of  Lockers  and  other  phfloeophy,  waa  an  inTvterata 
•moker, — even  to  pipei  beyond  computation. 

t  TlitB  rouffh  but  jovial  ceremonv,  used  in  crossing  the  line,  has  been  so  oftea 
and  so  weU  deseribed,  that  it  need  not  be  more  than  alluded  to. 


ran.  TKX  lUAKP  207 

Of  his  true  sons,  who  riot  in  the  breeze 
Undreamt  of  in  his  native  Cyclades. 
SttU  the  old  god  delights,  from  out  the  main, 
To  snatch  some  glimpses  of  his  ancient  reign. 
Our  saUor's  jacket,  though  in  ragged  trim, 
His  constant  pipe,  which  never  yet  burn'd  dim. 
His  foremast  air,  and  somewhat  rolling  gait. 
Like  his  dear  vessel,  spoke  his  former  state ; 
But  then  a  sort  of  kerchief  round  his  head, 
Not  over-tightly  bound,  nor  nicely  spread ; 
And,  'stead  of  trousers  (ah !  too  early  torn ! 
For  even  the  mildest  woods  will  have  their  thorn) 
A  curious  aort  of  somewhat  scanty  mat 
Now  served  for  inexpressibles  and  hat ; 
His  naked  feet  and  neck,  and  sunburnt  face. 
Perchance  might  suit  alike  with  cither  race. 
His  arms  were  all  his  own,  our  Europe's  growth, 
Which  two  worids  bless  for  civilising  both  ; 
The  musket  swung  behind  his  shoulders  broad. 
And  somewhat  stoop'd  by  his  marine  abode. 
But  brawny  as  the  boar's ;  and  hung  beneath. 
His  cutlass  droop'd,  unconscious  of  a  sheath. 
Or  lost  or  worn  away ;  his  pistols  were 
Link'd  to  his  belt,  a  matrimonial  pair — 
(Let  not  this  metaphor  appear  a  scoff, 
Though  one  miss'd  fire,  the  other  would  go  off) ; 
These,  with  a  bayonet,  not  so  free  from  rust 
As  when  the  arm-chest  held  its  brighter  trust, 
Completed  his  accoutrements,  as  Night 
Survey'd  him  in  his  garb  heteroclite. 

zxx. 
*<  What  cheer,  Ben  Bunting?"  cried  (when  in  full  view 
Our  new  acquaintance)  Torquil.     **  Aught  of  new  ?  " 
<*  Eyt  ey ! "  quoth  Ben,  "  not  new,  but  news  enow ; 
A  strange  sail  in  the  offing."  —  ^  Sail !  and  how  ? 
What !  could  you  make  her  out  ?    It  cannot  be  ; 
I  've  seen  no  nig  of  canvass  on  the  sea." 
*^  Belike,'"  said  Ben,  **  you  might  not  from  the  bay. 
But  from  the  bluff-head,  where  I  watch'd  to-day, 
I  saw  her  in  the  doldrums ;  for  the  wind 
Was  light  and  baffling." -^^  When  the  sun  declined 
Where  lay  she  7  had  she  anchor'd  ?  "  — <<  No,  but  stiU 
She  bore  down  on  us,  till  the  wind  grew  still." 
^  Her  fiag  ?  "  — ^  I  had  no  glass  ;  but  fore  and  aft 
Egad !  she  seemed  a  wicked-looking  craft." 


208  *  THB   ULAin>«  CANTO  &. 

^  Arm'd  ?  '^  —  '<  I  expect  so  ;  —  sent  on  the  look-out : 

T  is  time,  belike,  to  put  our  helm  about •'' 

^  About  ?  —  Whate'er  may  have  us  now  in  chase. 

We  '11  make  no  running  fight,  for  that  were  base ; 

We  will  die  at  our  quarters,  like  true  men." 

*"  Ey,  ey  !  for  that  *t  is  all  the  same  to  Ben." 

<\Does  Christian  know  this  ?"-*<<  Ay  ;  he  has  piped  all 

hands 
To  quarters.     They  are  furbishing  the  stands 
Of  arms ;  and  we  have  got  some  guns  to  bear, 
And  scaled  them.  You  are  wanted."  —  ^  That 's  but  fair ; 
And  if  it  were  not,  mine  is  not  the  soul 
To  leave  my  comrades  helpless  on  the  shoal. 
My  Neuha  I  ah !  and  roust  my  fate  pursue 
Not  me  alone,  but  one  so  sweet  and  true  ? 
But  whatsoe'er  betide,  ah,  Neuha !  now 
Unman  me  not ;  the  hour  will  not  allow 
A  tear ;  I  am  thine  whatever  intervenes !  " 
**  Right,"  quoth  Ben,  <<  that  wUl  do  for  the  marines."* 

*  **  Thot  will  do  for  the  marines,  but  the  sailDrs  won*t  believe  it,*'  is  an  old  say- 
inff ;  and  one  of  the  few  fragments  of  ibnner  jealousies  which  still  survive  (in  jest 
ouy)  between  these  gallant  services. 


ttliAJID*  3M 


GAMTO  THE  TBIM). 


I. 

Thb  fight  was  o'er ;  the  flashing  through  the  gloomy 

Which  robes  the  cannon  as  he  wings  a  tomb. 

Had  ceased ;  and  sulphury  vapdUrs  upward  driyen 

Had  left  the  earth,  and  but  polluted  heaven : 

The  rattling  roar  which  rung  in  every  volley 

Had  left  the  echoes  to  their  melancholy ; 

No  more  they  shriek'd  their  horror,  boom  for  boom ; 

The  strife  was  done,  the  vanquish'd  had  their  doom ; 

The  mutineers  were  crush'd,  dispersed,  or  ta'en, 

Or  hved  to  deem  the  happiest  were  the  slain. 

Few,  few  escaped,  and  tl^se  were  hunted  o'er 

The  isle  they  loved  beyond  their  native  shore. 

No  further  home  was  theirs,  it  seem'd,  on  earth, 

Once  renegades  to  that  which  gave  them  birth ; 

Track'd  like  wild  beasts,  like  them  they  sought  the  wild, 

As  to  a  mother's  bosom  flies  the  child  ; 

But  vainly  wolves  and  lions  seek  their  den, 

And  still  more  vainly  men  escape  from  men. 

n. 
Beneath  a  rock  whose  jutting  base  protrudes 
Far  over  ocean  in  his  fiercest  moods, 
When  scaUng  his  enormous  crag  the  wave 
Is  hurl'd  down  headlong,  like  the  foremost  brave. 
And  falls  back  on  the  foaming  crowd  behind. 
Which  fight  beneath  the  banners  of  the  wind, 
But  now  at  rest,  a  little  remnant  drew 
Together,  bleeding,  thirsty,  faint,  and  few  ; 
But  still  their  weapons  in  their  hands,  and  stiH 
With  something  of  the  pride  of  former  will, 
As  men  not  all  unused  to  meditate. 
And  strive  much  more  than  wonder  at  their  fate* 
Their  present  lot  was  what  they  had  foreseen, 
And  dared  as  what  was  likely  to  have  been ; 
Yet  still  the  lingering  hope,  which  deem'd  their  lot 
Not  pardon'd,  Init  unsought  for  or  forgot, 
Or  trusted  that,  if  sought,  their  distant  caves 
Might  stiU  be  miss'd  amidst  the  world  of  waves^ 

▼03U  V. — ^F 


210  THE   ISLAND.  CAMTOm. 

Had  wean'd  their  thoughts  in  part  from  what  they  saw 
And  felt,  the  vengeance  of  their  country's  law, 
.  Their  sea-green  isle,  their  guilt- won  paradise, 
No  more  could  shield  their  virtue  or  their  vice : 
Their  better  feelings,  if  such  were,  were  thrown 
Back  on  themselves, — ^their  sins  remained  alone. 
Proscribed  even  in  their  second  country,  they 
Were  lost ;  in  vain  the  world  before  them  lay  ; 
All  outlets  seem'd  secured.     Their  new  allies 
Had  fought  and  bled  in  mutual  sacrifice ; 
But  what  avail'd  the  ckib  and  spear,  and  arm 
Of  Hercules,  against  the  sulphury  charm. 
The  magic  of  the  thunder,  which  destroyed 
The  warrior  ere  his  strength  could  be  employ'd  t 
Dug,  like  a  spreading  pestilence,  the  grave 
No  kjss  of  human  bravery  than  the  brave  !* 
Their  own  scant  numbers  acted  all  the  few 
Against  the  many  oft  will  dare  aad  do ; 
But  though  the  choice  seems  native  to  die  free. 
Even  Greece  can  boast  but  one  Thermopyl®, 
Till  noWf  when  she  has  forged  her  broken  chain 
Back  to  a  sword,  and  dies  and  lives  again ! 

m. 

Beside  the  jutting  rock  the  few  appeared, 

Like  the  last  remnant  of  the  red-deer's  herd ; 

Their  eyes  were  feverish,  and  their  aspect  worn. 

But  still  the  hunter's  blood  was  on  their  horn, 

A  little  stream  came  tumbling  from  the  height. 

And  straggling  into  ocean  as  it  might. 

Its  bounding  crystal  frolick'd  in  the  ray. 

And  gush'd  from  cliff  to  crag  with  saltleas  spray ; 

Close  on  the  wild,  wild  ocean,  yet  as  pure 

And  fresh  as  innocence,  and  more  seeure. 

Its  silver  torrent  glitterM  o'er  the  deep. 

As  the  shy  chamois'  eye  o'eriooks  the  steep. 

While  far  bek»w  the  vast  and  sullen  swell 

Of  ocean's  alpine  azure  rose  and  fell. 

To  this  young  spring  they  rush'd, —  all  feelings  first 

Absorb'd  in  passion's  and  in  nature's  thirsty — 

Drank  as  they  do  who  drink  their  last,  and  threw 

Their  arms  aside  to  revel  in  its  dew ; 

*  ArchidamuB,  kin^  of  Sparta,  and  son  of  Agesflaui*  when  he  saw  a  machine 
invented  for  the  casting  of  stones  and  darts,  exclaimed  that  it  was  the  *'  grave 
of  valour."  The  same  story  has  been  told  of  some  knights  on  the  first  ap- 
pttcation  of  gunpowder ;  but  the  original  anecdote  is  in  Hatarch. 


CAJSTOm.  THE    ISIiAND.  211 

Cool'd  their  scorch'd  throats,  and  wash'd  the  gory  stains 
From  wounds  whose  only  bandage  might  be  cliains  ; 
Then,  when  their   drought  was    quench'd,  look'J    sadly 

round, 
As  wondering  how  so  many  still  were  found 
Alive  and  fetterless :  —  bat  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. 


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  by  the  rock,  all  menacing,  but  mute. 

He  stood  ;  and,  save  a  slight  beat  of  his  foot, 

Which  deepen'd  now  and  then  the  sandy  dint 

Beneath  his  heel,  his  form  seemM  turn'd  to  flint. 

Some  paces  further  Torquil  lean'd  his  head 

Against  a  bank,  and  spoke  not,  but  he  bled, — 

Not  mortally ; — 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  nature's  ebb.     Beside  him  was  another, 

Rough  as  a  bear,  but  willing  as  a  brother, — 

Ben  Bunting,  who  essay'd  to  wash,  and  wipe, 

And  bind  his  wound  —  then  calmly  lit  his  pipe, 

A  trophy  which  survived  a  hundred  fights, 

A  beacon  which  had  cheer'd  ton  thousand  nights. 

The  fourth  and  last  of  this  deserted  group 

Walk'd  up  and  down  —  at  times  would  stand,  then  stoop 

To  pick  a  pebble  up  —  then  let  it  drop  — 

Then  hurry  as  in  haste  —  then  quickly  stop  — 

Then  cast  his  eyes  on  his  companions  —  then 

Half  whistle  half  a  tune,  and  pause  again  — 

And  then  his  former  movements  would  redouble. 

With  something  between  carelessness  and  trouble. 

This  is  a  long  description,  but  applies 

To  scarce  five  minutes  pass'd  before  the  eyes; 


31S  TBS  IfLAlfD* 

But  yet  tbhm  mimites  ?  MomentB  like  to  these 
Rend  men's  lives  into  inunortalities* 


V. 

At  length  Jack  Sfikyscrape,  a  mercurial  man, 

Who  flatterM  over  all  things  like  a  fan. 

More  brave  than  firm,  and  more  disposed  to  dare 

And  die  at  once  than  wrestle  with  despair, 

Exclaim'd  ^G  —  d  damn  ! " — those  syllables  intense  - 

Nucleus  of  England's  native  eloquence. 

As  the  Turk's  •<  Allah  !  "  or  the  Roman's  moie 

Pagan  *«  Proh  Jupiter !  "  was  wont  of  yore 

To  give  their  first  impressions  such  a  vent,  ' 

By  way  of  echo  to  embarrassment. 

Jack  was  embarrassed, —  never  hero  more, 

And  as  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  he  swore  : 

Nor  swore  in  vain ;  the  long  congenial  sound 

Revived  Ben  Bunting  from  his  pipe  profound  ; 

He  drew  it  from  his  mouth,  and  look'd  full  wise^ 

But  merely  added  to  the  oath  his  eyes ; 

Thus  rendering  the  imperfect  phrase  complete, 

A  peroration  I  need  not  repeat. 

VI. 

But  Christiim,  of  a  higher  order,  stood 

Like  an  extinct  volcano  in  his  mood  ; 

Silent,  and  sad,  and  savage, —  with  the  trace 

Of  passion  reeking  from  his  clouded  face  ; 

Till  lifling  up  again  his  sombre  eye. 

It  glanced  on  Torquil,  who  lean'd  faintly  by. 

"And  is  it  thus?"  he  cried,  «  unhappy  boy  ? 

And  thee,  too,  thee  —^  my  madness  must  d^troy !  " 

He  said,  and  strode  to  where  young  Torquil  stood. 

Yet  dabUed  with  his  lately  flowing  blood  ; 

Seized  his  hand  wistfully,  but  did  not  press. 

And  shrunk  as  fearful  of  his  own  caress ; 

Inquired  into  his  state ;  and  when  he  heard 

The  wound  was  slighter  than  he  deem'd  or  fearM, 

A  moment's  brightness  pass'd  along  his  brow, 

As  much  as  such  a  moment  would  allow. 

^  Yes,"  he  exclaim'd,  "  we  are  taken  in  the  toil. 

But  not  a  coward  or  a  common  spoil ; 

Dearly  they  have  bought  us  —  dearly  still  may  boy,-— 

And  I  must  fall ;  but  have  you  strength  to  fly  ? 

T  would  be  some  comfort  still,  could  you  survive ; 

Our  dwindled  band  is  now  too  few  to  strive. 


AAjnOBL 


CAMTOm. 


THB   I8LA.K9.  213 


Oh !  for  a  8ole  canoe !  though  Init  a  shelly 
To  bear  you  hence  to  where  a  hope  may  direil  * 
For  me«  my  lot  is  what  I  sought ;  to  be, 
In  life  or  death,  the  fearless  and  the  free.'* 

Even  as  he  spoke,  around  the  promontory. 
Which  nodded  o'er  the  billows  high  and  hoary, 
A  dark  speck  dotted  ocean :  on  it  flew 
Like  to  the  shadow  of  a  roused  sea-mew  , 
Onward  it  came  —  and,  lo !  a  second  fbllow'd  — 
Now  seen  —  now  hid  —  where  ocean's  vale  was  ho&ow'd 
And  near,  and  nearer,  till  their  dusky  crew 
Presented  well-known  aspects  to  the  view, 
Till  on  the  surf  their  skimming  paddles  play. 
Buoyant  as  wings,  and  flitting  through  the  spray  ;  — 
Now  perching  on  the  wave's  high  curl,  and  now 
Dash'd  downward  in  the  thundering  foam  below, 
Which  flings  it  broad  and  boiling  sheet  on  sheet, 
And  slings  its  high  flakes,  shiver  d  into  sleet : 
But  floating  still  through  surf  and  swell,  drew  nigh 
The  barks,  like  small  birds  through  a  lowering  sky. 
Their  art  seem'd  nature  —  such  the  skill  to  sweep 
The  wave  of  these  born  playmates  of  the  deep. 

viu. 
And  who  the  first  that,  springing  on  the  strand 
Leap'd  like  a  nereid  from  her  shell  to  land, 
With  dark  but  brilliant  skin,  and  dewy  eye 
Shining  with  love,  and  hope,  and  constancy  ? 
Neuha — the  fond,  the  faithful,  the  adored  — 
Her  heart  on  Torquil's  hke  a  torrent  pour'd ; 
And  smiled,  and  wept,  and  near,  and  meajrer  dasp'd. 
As  if  to  be  assured  't  was  him  she  grasp'd  ; 
Shudder 'd  to  see  his  yet  warm  wound,  and  then. 
To  find  it  trivial,  smiled  and  wept  .again. 
She  was  a  warrior's  daughter,  and  could  bea 
Such  sights,  and  feel,  and  mourn,  but  not  despair. 
Her  lover  lived, —  nor  foes  nor  fears  could  blight 
That  full-bbwn  moment  in  its  all  delights 
Joy  trickled  in  her  tears,  joy  fill'd  the  sob 
That  rock'd  her  heart  till  almost  hbabs  to  throb ; 
And  paradise  was  breathing  in  Ihe  sigh 
Of  nature's  child  in  nature*s  ecstasy. 


Qli  TBS   ISLAND.  CAMTOn 

IX. 

The  sterner  spirits  who  beheld  that  meeting 

Were  not  unmoved ;  who  are,  when  hearts  are  greeting  ? 

Even  Christian  gazed  upon  the  maid  and  boy 

With  tearless  eye,  but  yet  a  gloomy  joy 

Mix'd  with  those  bitter  thoughts  the  soul  arrays 

In  hopeless  visions  of  our  better  days, 

When  all 's  gone  —  to  the  rainl>ow's  latest  ray. 

**  And  but  for  me !  '^  he  said,  and  tum'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  or  his  further  destinies. 

X. 

But  brief  their  time  €or  good  or  evil  thought ; 

The  billows  round  the  promontory  brought 

The  plash  of  hostile  oars. —  Alas  !  who  made 

That  sound  a  drtead  ?  All  around  them  seem'd  array'd 

Against  them,  save  the  bride  of  Toobonai : 

She,  as  she  caught  the  first  glimpse  o'er  the  bay 

Of  the  arm'd  boats,  which  hurried  to  complete 

The  remnant's  ruin  with  their  flying  feet, 

Beckon'd  the  natives  round  her  to  their  prows, 

Embark'd  their  guests  and  launched  their  light  canoes; 

In  one  placed  Christian  and  his  comrades  twain ; 

But  she  and  Torquil  must  not  part  again. 

She  fix'd  him  in  her  own.—  Away  !  away  ! 

They  clear  the  breakers,  dart  along  the  bay 

And  towards  a  group  of  islets,  such  as  bear 

The  sea-bird's  nest  and  seal's  surf-hollow'd  lair. 

They  skim  the  blue  tops  of  the  billows ;  fast 

They  flew,  and  fast  their  fierce  pursuers  chased. 

They  gain  upon  them  —  now  they  lose  again, — 

Again  make  way  and  menace  o'er  the  main ; 

And  now  the  two  canoes  in  chase  divide, 

And  follow  dificrent  courses  o'er  the  tide, 

To  baffle  the  pursuit. —  Away !  away  ! 

As  life  is  on  each  paddle's  flight  to-day. 

And  more  than  life  or  lives  to  Neuha :  Love 

Freights  the  frail  bark  and  urges  to  the  cove  — 

And  now  the  refuge  and  the  foe  are  nigh  — 

Yet,  yet  a  moment !  — Fly,  thou  light  ark,  fly  ! 


oiaroiT.  not  ttLAHD*  SI  J 


CAMTO  THE  POUBTH. 


I. 

Whitb  as  a  white  sail  on  a  dusky  sea. 
When  half  the  horizon  's  clouded  and  half  free» 
Fluttering  betw^n  the  dun  wave  and  the  sky, 
Is  hope's  last  gleam  in  man's  extremity* 
Her  anchor  parts ;  but  still  her  snowy  sail 
Attracts  our  eye  amid  the  rudest  gale : 
Though  every  wave  she  climbs  divides  us  more^ 
The  heart  stUl  follows  from  the  loneliest  shore. 

II. 
Not  distant  from  the  isle  of  Toobonai, 
A  Mack  rock  rears  its  bosom  o'er  the  spray, 
The  haunt  of  birds,  a  desert  to  mankind, 
Where  the  rough  seal  reposes  from  the  wind, 
And  sleeps  tinwieldy  in  his  cavern  dun, 
Or  gambols  with  huge  frolic  in  the  sun  : 
There  shrilly  to  the  passing  oar  is  heard 
The  startled  echo  of  the  ocean  bird. 
Who  rears  on  its  bare  breast  her  callow  brood, 
The  feather'd  fishers  of  the  solitude. 
A  narrow  segment  of  the  yellow  sand 
On  one  side  forms  the  outline  of  a  strand ; 
Here  the  young  turtle,  crawling  from  his  riiell, 
Steals  to  the  deiep  wherein  his  parents  dwell ; 
Chipp'd'by  the  beam,  a  nursling  of  the  day. 
But  hatch'd  for  ocean  by  the  fostering  ray  ; 
The  rest  was  one  bleak  precipice,  as  e'er 
Gave  mariners  a  shelter  and  despair ; 
A  spot  to  make  the  saved  regret  the  deck 
Which  late  went  down,  and  envy  the  lost  wreec 
Such  was  the  stern  asylum  Neuha  chose 
To  shield  her  lover  from  his  following  foes ; 
But  all  its  secret  was  not  told ;  she  knew 
In  this  a  treasure  hidden  from  the  view. 

III. 
Ere  the  canoes  divided,  near  the  spot, 
The  men  that  raann'd  what  held  her  Torqoil's  lot. 


2lA  xm  vBLAm^  gahtoit. 

By  her  commaDd  removedy  to  strengthen  more 

The  skiff  which  wafled  Christian  from  the  shore. 

This  he  would  have  opposed ;  but  with  a  soiile 

She  pointed  cabnly  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  lay  within  its  length 

Of  the  crag's  steep,  inexorable  face. 

With  nought  but  soundless  waters  for  its  base ; 

Within  a  hundred  boats'  length  was  the  foe, 

And  now  what  refuge  but  their  frail  canoe  ? 

This  Torquil  ask'd  with  half  upbraiding  eye, 

Which  said  — **  Has  Neuha  brought  mc  here  to  die  ? 

Is  this  a  place  of  safety,  or  a  grave, 

And  yon  huge  rock  the  tombstone  of  the  wave  ?  " 

rv. 
They  rested  on  their  paddles,  and  uprose 
Neuha,  and  pointing  to  the  approaching  foes, 
Cried,  <'  Torquil,  follow  me,  and  fearless  folk)w  !  " 
Then  plunged  at  once  into  the  ocean's  hollow. 
There  was  no  time  to  pause  *—  the  foes  were  near  — • 
Chains  in  his  eye,  and  menace  in  his  ear ; 
With  vigour  they  pull'd  on,  and  as  they  came, 
Hail'd  lum  to  yield,  and  by  his  forfeit  name. 
Headlong  he  leapt  —to  him  the  swimmer's  skill 
Was  native,  and  now  all  his  hope  from  ill ; 
But  how,  or  where  ?  He  dived,  and  rose  no  more  ; 
The  boat's  crew  look'd  amazed  o'er  sea  and  shore. 
There  was  no  landing  on  that  precipice. 
Steep,  harsh,  and  slippery  as  a  berg  of  ice. 
They  watch'd  awhile  to  see  him  float  again. 
But  not  a  trace  rebubbled  from  the  main : 
The  wave  roU'd  on,  no  ripple  on  its  face. 
Since  their  first  plunge  recall'd  a  single  trace  ; 
The  little  whirl  which  eddied,  and  slight  foam. 
That  whiten'd  o'er  what  seem'd  their  latest  home^ 
White  as  a  sepulchre  above  the  pair 
Who  left  no  marble  (mournful  as  an  heir) 


ejjmMT.  THX  ttLAJnK  S17 

The  quiet  proa  waveriDg  oW  the  tide 

Was  all  that  told  of  Torquil  and  his  bride  ; 

And  but  for  this  alone  the  whole  might  seem 

The  vanish'd  phantom  of  a  seaman's  dream* 

They  paused  and  search'd  in  vain,  thea  puU'd  away  ; 

Even  superstition  now  forbade  their  stay. 

Some  said  he  had  not  plunged  into  the  wave, 

But  vanish'd  like  a  corpse-Tight  from  a  grave ; 

Others,  that  something  supernatural 

Glared  in  his  figure,  more  than  mortal  tall , 

While  all  agreed  that  in  his  cheek  and  eye 

There  was  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. 


And  where  was  he  the  pilgrim  of  the  deep, 
Following  the  nereid  ?  Had  they  ceased  to  weep 
For  ever  ?  or,  received  in  coral  caves, 
Wrung  life  and  pity  from  the  softening  waves  ? 
Did  they  with  ocean's  hidden  sovereigns  dwell, 
And  sound  with  mermen  the  fantastic  shell  7 
Did  Neuha  with  the  mermaids  comb  her  hair 
Flowing  o'er  ocean  as  it  streamed  in  air 
Or  had  they  perish'd,  and  in  silence  slept 
Beneath  the  gulf  wherein  they  boldly  leapt  ? 

VI. 

Young  Neuha  plunged  into  the  deep,  and  he 

Follow 'd  :  her  track  beneath  her  native  sea 

Was  as  a  native's  of  the  element, 

So  smoothly,  bravely,  brilliantly  she  went. 

Leaving  a  streak  of  light  behind  her  heel. 

Which  struck  and  flash'd  like  an  amphibious  steel. 

Closely,  and  scarcely  less  expert  to  trace 

The  depths  where  divers  hold  the  pearl  in  chase, 

Torquil,  the  nursling  of  the  northern  seas, 

Pursued  her  liquid  steps  with  heart  and  eas^. 

Deep  —  deeper  for  an  instant  Neuha  led 

The  way  —  then  upward  soar'd  — «  and  as  she  spread 

Her  arms,  and  flung  the  foam  from  off  her  locks, 

Laugh'd,  and  the  sound  was  answer'd  by  the  rocks. 

They  had  gain'd  a  central  realm  of  earth  again, 

But  look'd  for  tree,  and  field,  and  sky,  in  vain. 


3iB  THS   ISLAND.  CJ 

Around  she  pointed  to  a  'Spacious  cave. 

Whose  only  portal  was  the  keyless  wave,* 

(A  hollow  archway  by  the  sun  unseen. 

Save  through  the  billows'  glassy  veil  of  green. 

In  some  transparent  ocean  holiday, 

When  all  the  finny  people  are  at  play,) 

Wiped  with  her  hair  the  brine  from  Torqoil's  eyes, 

And  clapp'd  her  hands  with  joy  at  his  surprise ; 

Led  him  to  where  the  rock  appear^  to  jut, 

And  form  a  something  like  a  Triton's  hut ; 

For  all  was  darkness  for  a  space,  till  day, 

Through  clefts  above  let  in  a  sobered  ray; 

As  in  some  old  cathedral's  glimmering  aisle 

The  dusty  monuments  from  light  recoil, 

Thus  sadly  in  their  refuge  submarine 

The  vault  drew  hidf  her  shadow  from  the  scene. 


vn. 
Forth  from  her  bosom  the  young  savage  drew 
A  pine  torch,  strongly  girded  with  gnatoo  ; 
A  plantain-leaf  o'er  ail,  the  more  to  keep 
Its  latent  sparkle  from  the  sapping  deep. 
This  mantle  kept  it  dry ;  then  from  a  nook 
Of  the  same  plantain-leaf  a  flint  she  took, 
A  few  shrunk  wither'd  twigs,  and  from  the  blade 
Of  Torquil's  knife  struck  fire,  and  thus  array'd 
The  grot  with  torchlight.     Wide  it  was  and  high. 
And  show'd  a  self-born  Gothic  canopy  ; 
The  arch  uprear'd  by  nature's  architect. 
The  architrave  some  earthquake  might  erect ; 
The  buttress  from  some  mountain's  bosom  hurl'd, 
When  the  Poles  crash'd,  and  water  was  the  world ; 
Or  harden'd  from  some  earth-absorbing  fire, 
While  yet  the  globe  reek'd  from  its  funeral  pyre  ; 
The  fretted  pinnacle,  the  aisle,  the  nave,f 
Were  there,  all  scoop 'd  by  Darkness  from  her  cave. 

*  Of  this  cave  (which  u  no  fiction)  the  original  will  be  found  in  the  ninth 
chapter  of  **  Mariner^s  Account  of  the  Tonga  Islands."  I  have  taken  the 
|N>etical  liberty  to  transplant  it  to  Toobonai,  the  last  island  where  any  dis- 
tinct account  is  left  of  Christian  and  his  comrades. 

t  This  may*  seem  too  minute  for  the  general  outline  (in  Mariner's  Aceoont/ 
from  whi(^  it  is  taken.  But  few  men  have  travelled  without  seeing  some- 
thing of  the  kind — on  land,  that  is.  Without  adverting  to  EUora,  in  Mungo 
Park's  last  journal  fif  my  memory  do  not  err,  for  mere  are  eight  years 
since  I  read  the  book),  he  mentions  having  met  with  a  rock  or  mountain  so 
exactly  resembling  a  Gothic  cathedral,  that  only  nunute  inspection  oooM 
convince  him  that  it  was  a  work  of  nature. 


i:un>oiT.  TBI  liLAiiD.  910 

There,  with  a  little  tinge  of  phantaej, 
Fantastic  faces  mop'd  and  mow'd  on  high, 
And  then  a  mitre  or  a  shrine  would  fix 
The  eye  upon  its  seeming  crucifix. 
Thus  Nature  play'd  with  the  stalactites, 
And  built  herself  a  chapel  of  the  seas. 

vui. 
And  Neuha  took  her  Torquil  by  the  hand, 
And  waved  along  the  vault  her  kindled  brand. 
And  led  him  into  each  recess,  and  show'd  | 

The  secret  places  of  their  new  abode.  i 

Nor  these  aJone,  for  all  had  been  prepared  ! 

Before,  to  soothe  the  lover's  lot  she  shared : 
The  mat  for  rest ;  for  dress  the  fresh  gnatoo. 
And  sandal  oil  to  fence  against  the  dew  ; 
For  food  the  cocoa-nut,  the  yam,  the  bread 
Borne  of  the  fruit ;  for  board  the  plantain  spread 
With  its  broad  l^f^  or  turtle-shell  which  bore 
A  banquet  in  the  flesh  it  cover'd  o'er ; 
The  gourd  with  water  recent  from  the  rill. 
The  ripe  banana  from  the  mellow  hill ; 
A  pine-torch  pile  to  keep  undying  light, 
And  she  hersdf,  as  beautiful  as  night. 
To  fling  her  shadowy  spirit  o'er  the  scene, 
And  make  their  subterranean  world  serene. 
She  had  foreseen,  since  first  the  stranger's  sail 
Drew  to  their  isle,  that  force  or  flight  might  fail, 
And  form'd  a  refuge  of  the  rocky  den 
For  Torquil's  safety  from  his  countrymen. 
Each  dawn  had  wafted  there  her  light  capoe 
'        Laden  with  all  the  golden  fruits  that  grew ; 

Each  eve  had  seen  her  gliding  through  the  hour 
With  all  could  cheer  or  deck  their  sparry  bower ; 
And  now  she  spread  her  little  store  with  smiles, 
The  happiest  daughter  of  the  loving  isles. 

xz. 

She,  as  he  gazed  with  grateful  wonder,  press'd 

Her  shelter  d  love  to  her  iropassion'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  :* 

*  Tha  reader  will  recoDect  the  epigram  of  the  Greek  anthology,  or  its  transladoii 
into  most  of  the  modem  language! :  — 


TBS   ULAHD.  CUnO 

How  a  young  chief,  a  thousand  moons  ago. 

Diving  for  turtle  in  the  depths  below, 

Had  risen,  in  tracking  fast  his  ocean  prey, 

Into  the  cave  which  round  and  o'er  them  lay  ; 

How  in  some  desperate  feud  of  afler-tirae 

He  sheltered  there  a  daughter  of  the  clime, 

A  foe  beloved,  and  offspring  of  a  foe. 

Saved  by  his  tribe  but  for  a  captive's  woe ; 

How,  when  the  storm  of  war  was  stiU'd,  he  led 

His  island  clan  to  where  the  waters  spread 

Their  deep-green  shadow  o'er  the  rocky  door. 

Then  dived  —  it  seem'd  as  if  to  rise  no  more ; 

His  wondering  mates,  amazed  within  their  bark. 

Or  deem'd  him  mad,  or  prey  to  the  blue  shark ; 

Row'd  round  in  sorrow  the  sea-girded  rock, 

Then  paused  upon  their  paddles  from  the  shock ; 

When,  fresh  and  springing  from  the  deep,  they  saw 

A  goddess  rise — so  deem'd  they  in  their  awe ; 

And  their  companion,  glorious  by  her  side. 

Proud  and  exulting  in  his  mermaid  bride  ; 

And  how,  when  undeceived,  the  pair  they  bore 

With  sounding  conchs  and  joyous  shouts  to  shore ; 

How  they  had  gladly  lived  and  calmly  died,  — 

And  why  not  also  Torquil  and  his  bride  ? 

Not  mine  to  tell  the  rapturous  caress 

Which  foUow'd  wildly  in  that  wild  recess 

This  tale  ;  enough  that  all  within  that  cave 

Was  love,  though  buried  strong  as  in  the  grave 

Where  Abelard,  through  twenty  years  of  death. 

When  Eloisa's  form  was  lower'd  beneath 

Their  nuptial  vault,  his  arms  outstretch'd  and  pressM 

The  kindling  ashes  to  his  kindled  breast.* 

The  waves  without  sang  round  their  couch,  their  roar 

As  much  unheeded  as  if  life  were  o'er ; 

Within,  their  hearts  made  all  their  harmony. 

Love's  broken  murmur  and  more  iHroken  sigh*  . 


And  they,  the  cause  and  sharers  of  the  shock 
Which  left  them  exiles  of  the  hollow  rock, 

**  Whoe*er  thou  «]t,  tfiy  master  toe- 
He  WEB,  or  is,  or  ia  to  be.** 

*  1^  tradition  ie  attached  to  the  story  of  Eloisa,  that  when  her  body  was  low- 
end  into  tho  grave  of  Abelard  (who  had  been  biiried«wenCy  years,)  he  opened 
his  arms  to  feceive  her. 


euffonr. 


ram  making  231 


Where  were  they  ?    O'er  the  eea  for  life  they  plied, 
To  eeek  from  Heaven  the  shelter  men  denied. 
Another  course  had  been  their  choice —  but  where? 
The  wave  which  bore  them  still  their  foes  would  bear, 
Who,  disappointed  of  their  former  chase, 
In  search  of  Christian  now  renew'd  their  race. 
Eager  with  anger,  their  strong  arms  made  way. 
Like  vultures  baffled  of  their  previous  prey. 
They  gain'd  upon  them,  all  whose  safety  lay 
In  some  bleak  crag  or  deeply-hidden  bay : 
No  further  chance  or  choice  remained ;  and  right 
For  the  first  further  rock  which  met  their  sight 
They  steer'd,  to  take  their  latest  view  of  land. 
And  yield  as  victims,  or  die  sword  in  hand ; 
Dismiss'd  the  natives  and  their  shallop,  who 
Would  still  have  battled  for  that  scanty  crew ; 
But  Christian  bade  them  seek  their  shore  again, 
Nor  add  a  sacrifice  which  were  in  vain  ; 
For  what  were  simple  bow  and  savage  spear 
Against  the  arms  which  most  be  wielded  here  ? 

zi. 

They  landed  on  a  wild  but  narrow  scene, 

Where  few  but  Nature's  footsteps  yet  had  been ; 

Prepared  their  arms,  and  with  that  gloomy  eye, 

Stem  and  sustain'd,  of  man's  extremity. 

When  hope  is  gone,  nor  glory's  self  remains 

To  cheer  resistance  against  death  or  chains,  — 

They  stood,  the  three,  as  the  three  hundred  stood 

Who  dyed  ThermopylsB  with  holy  blood. 

But,  ah !  how  different !  't  is  the  cause  makes  all, 

Degrades  or  hallows  courage  in  its  fall. 

O'er  them  no  fame,  eternal  and  intense, 

Blazed  through  the  clouds  of  death  and  beckon'd  hence  ; 

No  grateful  country,  smiling  through  her  tears, 

Begun  the  praises  of  a  thousand  years ; 

No  nation's  eyes  would  on  their  tomb  be  bent 

No  heroes  envy  them  their  monument ; 

However  boldly  their  warm  blood  was  spUt, 

Their  life  was  shame,  their  epitaph  was  guUt. 

And  this  they  knew  and  felt,  at  least  the  one, 

The  leader  of  the  band  he  had  undone ; 

Who,  born  perchance  for  better  things,  had  set 

His  life  upon  a  cast  which  linger'd  yet : 

But  now  the  die  was  to  be  thrown,  and  all 

The  chances  were  in  favour  of  his  fall : 


392  THE    IflLAIfD.  GAMTOIT. 

And  such  a  fill !     But  still  he  faced  the  shock, 
Obdurate  as  a  portion  of  the  rock 
Whereon  he  stood,  and  fix'd  his  kvell'd  gun, 
Dark  as  a  sullen  cloud  before  the  sun. 

xn. 
The  boat  drew  nigh,  well  arm'd,  and  firm  the  crew 
To  act  whatever  duty  bade  them  do ; 
Careless  of  danger,  as  the  onward  wind 
Is  of  the  leaves  it  strews,  nor  looks  behind. 
And  yet  perhaps  they  rather  wish'd  to  go 
Against  a  nation's  than  a  native  foe, 
And  felt  that  this  poor  victim  of  self-will, 
Briton  no  more,  had  once  been  Britain's  still. 
They  hail'd  him  to  surrender  —  no  reply  ; 
Their  arms  were  poised,  and  glitter'd  in  the  sky. 
They  hail'd  again  —  no  answer ;  yet  once  more 
They  offer'd  quarter  louder  than  before. 
The  echoes  only,  from  the  rock's  rebound, 
Took  their  last  farewell  of  the  dying  sound. 
Then  flash'd  the  flint,  and  blazed  the  volleying  flame. 
And  the  smoke  rose  between  them  and  their  aim, 
'    While  the  rock  rattled  with  the  bullets'  knell, 
Which  pealed  in  vain,  and  flatten'd  as  they  fell ; 
Then  flew  the  only  answer  to  be  given 
By  those  who  had  lost  all  hope  in  earth  or  heaven. 
Afler  the  first  fierce  peal,  as  they  pull'd  nigher, 
They  heard  the  voice  of  Christian  shout,  ^  Now,  fire !  " 
And  ere  the  word  upon  the  echo  died, 
Two  fell ;  the  rest  assail'd  the  rock's  rough  side, 
And,  furious  at  the  madness  of  their  foes, 
Disdain'd  all  further  efforts,  save  to  close. 
But  steep  the  crag,  and  all  without  a  path. 
Each  step  opposed  a  bastion  to  their  wrath  ; 
While,  placed  midst  clefls  the  least  accessible. 
Which  Christian's  eye  was  train'd  to  mark  full  well. 
The  three  maintaiii'd  a  strife  which  must  not  yield, 
In  spots  where  eagles  might  have  chosen  to  build 
Their  every  shot  told ;  while  the  assailant  fell, 
Dash'd  on  the  shingles  like  the  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  trio  held  aloof  their  fate 
But  by  a  thread,  like  sharks  who  have  gorged  the  bait ; 


CAMTOTV.  TBM   HLATO.  2t8 

Yet  to  the  very  la«t  they  battled  well, 

And  net  a  groan  inform'd  their  foes  toko  fell. 

Christian  <lied  la«t  —  twice  wounded ;  and  once  moie 

Mercy  was  offer'd  when  they  saw  his  gore  ; 

Too  kte  for  life,  but  not  too  late  to  die. 

With,  though  a  hostile  hand,  to  close  his  eye. 

A  limb  was  broken,  and  he  droop'd  along 

The  crag,  as  doth  a  falcon  reft  of  young. 

Tlie  sound  revived  him,  or  af>pear'd  to  wake 

Some  passion  which  a  weakly  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  aim'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 ;  th^,  like  a  serpent,  coil'd 

His  wounded,  weary  form,  to  where  the  steep 

Look'd  desperate  as  himself  along  the  deep  ; 

Cast  one  glance  back,  and  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  gory  mass, 

With  scarce  a  shred  to  tell  of  human  form. 

Or  fragment  for  the  sea-bird  or  the  worm ; 

A  fair-hair'd  scalp,  besmear'd  with  blood  and  weedfl» 

Yet  reek'd,  the  remnant  of  himself  and  deeds ; 

Some  splinters  of  his  weapons  (to  the  last 

As  long  as  hand  could  hold,  he  held  them  fast) 

Yet  glitter'd,  but  at  distance  —  hurl'd  away 

To  rust  beneath  the  dew  and  dashing  spray. 

The  rest  was  nothing — save  a  life  mis-spent. 

And  soul  —  but  who  shall  answer  where  it  went  ? 

T  is  ours  to  bear,  not  judge  the  dead  ;  and  they 

Who  doom  to  hell,  themselves  are  on  the  way. 

Unless  these  bullies  of  eternal  pains 

Are  pardon'd  their  bad  hearts  for  their  worse  brains. 

*  In  Tliibaiili'i  acoonitt  of  Ftedf  ric  the  Second  of  Praniai,  there  ie  a  nngidar 
relation  of  a  youne  Frenchman,  who  with  his  mistreu  appeared  to  be  of  aome 
nmk.  He  enliatea  and  deserted  at  Schweidnitx :  and  after  a  desperate  rosis- 
tonce  was  retaken,  having  killed  an  officer,  who  attempted  to  seize  nim  after  he 
waa  wounded,  by  the  dischai^ge  of  his  muaket  loaded  with  a  button  of  his  uni- 
form. Some  circumstanses  on  his  court-martial  raised  a  great  interest  amongst 
his  judges,  who  wi»hed  to  discover  his  real  situation  in  life,  which  he  offered  to 
disdose,  but  to  the  kiyig  only,  to  whom  he  requested  pennission  to  write.  This 
was  refused,  and  Frederic  was  filled  with  the  greatest  indisnation,  ftom  baffle<l 
curiofliiy  or  some  other  motive,  when  he  understood  that  nis  request  had  been 
denied. 


2t4  TBB  igLAifB.  camiT. 


The  deed  was  over !    All  were  gone  or  ta'eii» 

The  fugitire,  the  captive,  or  the  skin. 

Chain'd  on  the  deck,  where  once,  a  gallant  crew, 

They  stood  with  honour,  were  the  wretched  few 

Survivors  of  the  skirmish  on  the  isle  ; 

But  the  last  rock  left  no  surviving  spoil. 

Cold  lay  they  where  they  fell,  and  weltering, 

While  o'er  them  flapp'd  the  sea-birds'  dewy  wing. 

Now  wheeling  nearer  from  the  neighbouring  surge. 

And  screaming  high  their  harsh  and  hungry  dirge : 

But  calm  and  careless  heaved  the  wave  below, 

Eternal  with  unsympathetic  flow ; 

Far  o'er  its  face  the  dolphins  sported  on. 

And  sprung  the  flying  fish  against  the  sun 

Till  its  dried  wing  relapsed  m>m  its,  brief  hei^t. 

To  gather  moisture  for  another  fligtit. 

xrv. 
'T  was  mom ;  and  Neuha,  who  by  dawn  of  day 
Swam  smoothly  forth  to  catch  the  rising  ray. 
And  watch  if  aught  approach'd  the  amphibious  lair 
Where  lay  her  lover,  saw  a  sail  in  air : 
It  flapp'd,  it  fill'd,  and  to  the  growing  gale 
Bent  its  broad  arch :  her  breath  began  to  fail 
With  fluttering  fear,  her  heart  beat  thick  and  high. 
While  yet  a  doubt  sprung  where  its  course  might  lie ; 
But  no !  it  came  not ;  fast  and  far  away 
The  shadow  lessen'd  as  it  clear'd  the  bay. 
She  gazed,  and  flung  the  sea.foam  from  her  eyes, 
To  watch  as  for  a  rainbow  in  the  skies* 
On  the  horizon  verged  the  distant  deck, 
Dimimsh'd,  dwindl^  to  a  very  speck  — 
Then  vanish'd.     All  was  ocean,  all  was  joy ! 
Down  plunged  she  through  the  cave  to  rouse  her  boy  ; 
Told  all  she  had  seen,  and  all  she  hoped,  and  all 
That  happy  love  could  augur  or  recall ; 
Sprung  forth  again,  with  Torquil  following  free 
His  bounding  nereid  over  the  broad  sea ; 
Swam  round  the  rook,  to  where  a  shallow  cleft 
Hid  the  canoe  that  Neuha  there  had  left 
Drifting  along  the  tide,  without  an  oar. 
That  eve  the  strangers  chased  them  from  the  shore ; 
But  when  these  vanish'd,  she  pursued  her  prow, 
Rcgain'd,  and  urged  to  where  they  found  it  now  : 


THB   ISLAND.  395 

Nor  eTor  did  more  love  and  joy  embarky 
Tliaii  now  were  wafted  in  that  slender  ark. 

XV. 

Again  their  own  diore  rises  on  the  vieWy 

No  more  polluted  with  a  hostile  hue ; 

No  sullen  ship  lay  bristling  o'er  the  foamy 

A  floating  dungeon :  — all  was  hope  and  home  ! 

A  thousand  proas  darted  o'er  the  bay. 

With  sounding  shells,  and  heralded  their  way ; 

The  chiefs  came  down,  around  the  people  pour'dy 

And  welcomed  Torquil  as  a  son  restored ; 

The  women  throng'dy  embracing  and  embraced 

By  Neuha,  asking  where  they  had  been  chased, 

And  how  escaped  7    The  tale  was  told  ;  and  then 

One  acdamatipn  rent  the  sky  again ; 

And  from  that  hour  a  new  tnulition  gave 

Their  sanctuary  the  name  of  "  Neuha's  Cave." 

A  hundred  fires,  far  flickering  from  the  height. 

Blazed  o'er  the  general  revel  of  the  night. 

The  feast  in  honour  of  the  guest,  return'd 

To  peace  and  pleasure,  perilously  eam'd  ; 

A  night  succeeded  by  such  happy  days 

As  only  the  yet  infant  world  dispkys. 


VOL.  ▼. — q 


APPENDIX  TO  THE  ISLAND. 


EXTKAOT  mOM  THE  TOTAOK  BT  CAPTAlK  BLIOH. 

I 

On  the  27tb  of  December  it  bleiy  a  Mvere  ■form  of  wind  from  the  eaitwmrd, 
in  the  oouneof  which  we  suffered  greatly.  One  sea  broke  awav  the  spcuv  yards 
and  spars  out  of  the  starboard' mainchains ;  another  broke  into  the  ship  and  atove 
an  the  boats.  Several  casks  of  beer  that  had  been  lashed  on  deck,  broke  loose, 
and  were  washed  overboard ;  and  it  was  not  without  ereat  risk  and  difficuhy 
that  we  were  able  to  secure  the  boats  from  beins  washed  away  entirely.  A 
irreat  quantity  of  our  bread  was  also  damaged  and  rendered  useless,  for  the  sea 
had  stove  in  our  stom,  and  filled  the  cabin  with  water. 

On  the  5th  of  January,  1788,  we  saw  the  island  of  l^sneriffe  about  twelve 
lisigues  distant :  and  next  day,  being  Sunday,  came  to  an  anchor  in  the  road  of 
Santa  Cruz.  There  we  took  in  the  necessary  supplies,  and,  having  finished  our 
business,  sailed  on  the  10th. 

I  now  divided  the  people  into  three  watches,  emi  gave  the  charge  of  the 
third  watch  to  Mr.  Fletcher  Christian,  one  of  the  mates.  I  have  always  consi- 
dered this  a  desirable  regulation  when  circumstances  will  admit  of  it;  and  I  am 
persuaded  that  unbroken  rest  not  only  contributes  much  towards  the  health  of 
the  ship's  company,  but  enables  them  more  readily  to  exert  themselves  in  cases- 
of  sudden  emergency. 

As  I  wished  to  ]>Toceed  to  Otaheite  without  stopping,  I  reduced  the  allowance 
of  jyread  to  two  thirds,  and  caused  the  water  for  oiinking  to  be  filtered  through 
dnp-eiones,  bought  at  Teneriffe  for  that  purpose.  I  now  acquainted  the  ship's 
company  of  the  object  of  the  voyage,  and  g^ve  assurances  of  certain  promotion 
to  every  one  whose  endeavours  should  ment  it. 

On  Tuesday,  the  26th  of  February,  being  in  south  latitude  29e  39',  and  44<'  44' 
west  longitude,  we  bent  new  sails,  and  imide  other  necessary  preparations  for 
enooumering  the  weather  that  was  to  be  expected  in  a  high  latitude.  Our  dis 
tance  from  the  coast  of  Brazil  was  about  one  hundred  leagues. 

On  the  forenoon  of  Sunday,  the  2d  of  March,  after  seeing  that  every  person 
was  clean,  divine  service  was  performed,  aceordinir  to  my  usual  custom,  on  this 
day.  I  save  to  Mr.  Fletcher  Christian,  whom  I  had  oefore  directed  to  take  charge 
of  the  ihird  watch,  a  written  order  to  act  as  lieutenant. 

The  change  of  temperature  soon  began  to  be  sensibly  felt,  and  that  the  people 
might  notsonerfrom  their  own  negligence,  I  supplied  chem  with  thicker  clothing, 
asbetter  suited  to  the  climate.  A  great  number  of  whales  of  an  immense  size, 
with  two  spout-holes  on  the  back  of  the  head,  were  seen  on  the  11th. 

On  a  complaint  made  to  me  by  the  master,  1  fcmnd  it  necessary  to  punish 
Matthew  Quintal,  one  of  the  seamen,  with  two  dozen  of  lashes,  for  insolence  and 
routinouB  behaviour,  which  was  the  first  time  that  there  was  any  occasion  for 
punishment  on  board.  . 

We  were  off  Cape  St.  Diego,  the  eastern  part  of  the  Terra  del  Fuego,  and«  the 
wind  being  unfavourable,  I  thought  it  more  advisable  to  go  round  on  the  east 
ward  of  Staten-hind  than  to  attempt  pueing  thiough  Straits  le  Maire.  We  ' 
(vissed  New  Year's  Harbour  and  Cape  St.  John,  anaon  Monday  the  31st  were 
in  latitude  00^  y  gofuth.  But  the  wind  became  variable,  and  we  had  bad 
weather. 

Storms,  attended  with  a  great  sea,  prevafled  until  the  12th  of  April.    The  ship 
bejran  to  leak,  and  reouired  pumping  every  hour,  which  was  no  more  than  we  . 
had  reason  to  expect  mmi  such  a  continnaDce  of  gales  of  wind  and  high  seas 
The  decks  also  became  so  leaky,  that  it  was  neoessary  to  allot  the  great  cabin, 
of  which  I  made  little  use  except  in  fine  weather,  to  those  people  who  had  not 


228  AFFXNDIZ   TO   THB   ZBLAHD, 

berths  to  bang  their  hammockt  in,  and  by  tfaif  mems  the  ipeoebetvfeai  deekv 
wu  len  crriwded. 

With  all  thia  bad  weather,  we  had  the  additional  mortification  to  find,  at  the 
end  of  every  day,  that  we  were  lonru  ground ,  for,  notwithstanding  onrutmosc 
exertiona,  and  keeping  on  the  most  advantageous  tracka,  we  did  littte  better  than 
drift  before  the  wind.  On  Tuesday  the  22d  of  April,  we  had  eight  down  on  the 
sick  list,  and  the  rest  of  the  people,  though  in  good  health,  were  greatly  fa- 
tigued ;  but  I  saw,  with  much  concern,  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  a  pas- 
sage this  way  to  the  Society  Islands,  for  we  had  now  been  thirty  days  in  a  tem- 
pestuous ocean.  Thus  the  season  was  too  hr  advanced  for  us  to  expect  better 
weather  to  enable  us  to  doable  Cape  Horn ;  and,  from  theae  and  other  conside- 
tationa,  I  ordered  the  helm  to  be  put  a-weather,  and  bore  away  for  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hojie,  to  the  great  joy  of  every  one  on  board. 

We  came  to  an  anchor  on  Friday,  the  23d  of  May,  in  Simon's  Bay,  at  the  Cape, 
after  a  tolerable  run.  The  ship  required  complete  caulking,  for  she  had  become 
so  leaky,  that  we  were  obliged  to  pump  hourly  in  our  jMssaffe  from  Cape  Horn 
The  KaUaand  ringing  also  required  repair ;  anchon  examining  toe  provisions,  a  con 
siderably  (|ntkinity  was  found  damaged. 

HaviiK  remained  thirty-eight  days  in  thia  place,  and  my  people  having  received 
siD  the  advantage  that  could  be  derived  from  refreshments  of  every  kuul  thai 
could  be  met  with,  we  sailed  on  the  Ist  of  July. 

A  gale  of  wind  blew  on  the  20th,  with  a  high  sea :  it  increased  afler  noon  with 
such  violence,  that  the  ship  \^ni8  driven  almost  forecastle  undsr  before  we  could 
get  the  sails  clewed  up.  The  lower  yards  were  bwered,  and  the  topeaUant- 
masts  got  down  upon  deck,  which  relieved  her  much.  We  lay  to  all  nisnt,  and 
in  the  morning  bore  away  under  a  reefed  foresail.  The  sea  still  runmng  hieh. 
in  the  afternoon  it  became  very  unsafe  to  stand  on :  we  therefore  lay  to  aUnighTy 
without  any  accident,  exceptii^f  that  a  man  at  the  steerage  was  thrown  over  the 
wheel  and  much  bruised.  Towards  noon  the  violence  of  the  storm  abated,  and 
we  again  bore  away  under  the  reefed  foresail. 

In  a  few  days  we  passed  the  island  of  St.  Paul,  where  there  is  good  fresh 
water,  as  I  was  informed  by  a  Dutch  captain,  and  also  a  hot  spring,  which  boilj< 
ftsh  as  completely  as  if  done  by  a  fire.  Approaching  to  Van  Diemaa's  land,  we 
had  much  bad  weather,  with  snow  and  hau ;  but  nothiqg  was  seen  to  indicate 
our  vicinity  on  the  13th  of  August,  except  a  seal,  which  appeared  at  the  dbtance 
of  twenty  leagues  from  iL  We  anchored  in  Adventure  Bay  on  Wednesday 
the  20th. 

In  our  passage  hither  from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  the  winds  were  chiefly 
from  the  westward,  with  very  boisterous  weather.  The  approach  of  stioi^ 
southeriy  winds  is  announced  by  many  birds  of  the  albatross  or  peterel  tribe ; 
and  the  abatement  of  the  gale,  or  a  shift  of  wind  to  the  northward,  by  their  keep- 
ing away*  The  thermometer  also  varies  five  or  six  degrees  m  iu  height  when  a 
cmuige  of  these  winds  may  be  expected. 

In  the  land  surrounding  Adventure  Bay  are  many  forest  trees  one  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  high :  we  saw  one  which  measured  above  thinv-three  feet  in  girth. 
We  observed  several  eagles,  some  beautiful  bluo-plumaged  herons,  and  paio- 
qiueta  in  great  variety. 

The  natives  not  appearing,  we  went  in  search  of  them  towards  Cape  Frederic 
Henry.  Soon  after,  coming  to  a  grapnel  close  to  theshorey  for  it  was  impoeaible 
to  land,  we  heard  their  voices,  like  the  cackling  of  geeae,  and  twenty  peraone 
came  out  of  the  woods.  We  threw  trinkets  ashore  tied  up  in  parcela,  which 
they  would  not  open  until  I  made  an  appearance  of  leavii^  them :  they  then 
did  so,  and,  taking  the  articles  out,  put  them  on  their  heads.  On  first  coming  in 
sight  they  made  a  prodigious  clattering  in  their  sjieech,  and  held  their  arms  over 
ilieir  heads.  They  spose  so  quick,  that  it  was  impossible  to  catch  one  ainaie 
word  they  uttered.  Their  oobur  is  of  a  dull  black ;  their  skin  scarified  about  uie 
breast  and  shoulders.  One  was  distinguished  by  his  body  being  coloured  with 
red  ochre,  but  all  the  others  were  painted  black,  with  a  kind  of  soot,  so  thickly 
laid  over  their  faces  and  shouldera,  that  it  was  diflicult  to  aseertain  what  they 
were  like. 

On  Thursday,  the  4ih  of  Septeniber,  we  sailed  out  of  Ad  venCora  Bay,  stearic 
first  towards  easteouth-east,  and  then  to  the  northward  of  east,  when,  on  the 
19th,  we  came  in  sight«of  a  duMar  of  small  locky  islands,  which  I  named  Boonty 
Isles.    Soon  afterwards  we  fraqnamly  observatf  the  sea,  in  Ua  nignt-tima,  to  be 


▲PPBNDIX  TO  TBX   ItJJLm.  229 

by  hmunow  noli,  cnmtd  by  ■OMsing  dpantitaM  of  inMl!  blabben,  or 
Madiue,  which  eniit.a  li^ht  like  a  blaw  of  a  eaiMUe  ftMB  the  ■binga  or  filaments 
ezieoding  ih>iii  them,  while  the  f^  of  the  bodf  oontinaet  perfectly  dark. 

We  diaooTcred  the  island  of  Otaheite  on  the  Sltk,  and,  before  casting  anchor 
next  morning  in  MataYai  Bay,  such  nombers  of  canoes  had  come  off,  that,  after 
the  natives  ascertained  we  were  friends,  they  came  on  board,  and  crowded  the 
deck  so  mnch,  that  in  ten  minutes  I  covM  scarce  find  my  own  people.  The 
whole  dbtance  which  the  ship  had  ran,  in  direct  and  contrary  courses,  from  the 
tune  of  leaving  England  nntil  reaching  Otaheita,  was  twenty-seven  thousand 
and  eighty-flx  miles,  which  on  an  aveiage,  was  one  hundred  and  eight  miles  each 
iwenty-mur  hours. 

Here  we  lost  our  surgeon  on  the  9tk  of  December.  Of  late  he  had  scarcely 
ever  stirred  out  of  the  cabin,  though  not  apprehended  to  be  in  a  dangerous  state. 
Nevertheless,  appearing  worse  than  usual  in  the  evening,  he  was  removed 
where  he  could  obtain  more  air,  but  without  any  benefit,  for  be  died  in  an  hour 
afterwards.  This  unfortunate  man  drank  very  hard,  and  was  so  averse  to 
exercise,  that  be  weuk)  never  be  prevailed  on  to  take  half  a  dosen  turns 
Ml  deck  at  a  time  during  all  the  course  of  the  voyag9.    He  *vas  buried  on  riiore. 

On  Monday,  the  5th  of  January,  the  smaU  cutter  was  missed,  of  which  I  was 
snmediately  appriied.  The  ship's  company  being  mustered,  we  found  three 
men  absent,  who  had  carried  it  ofi*.  They  had  taken  with  them  eight  stand  of 
irais  and' ammunition ;  but  with  regard  to  their  plan,  every  one  on  board  seem- 
sd  to  be  quite  ignorant.  I  therefore  went  on  shore,  and  engaged  aU  the  chiefo  to 
sasist  in  recovering  both  the  boat  and  the  deserten.  Aceoraingly,  the  former 
was  brought  back  m  the  course  ef  the  day  by  five  of  ike  natives ;  but  the  men 
ware  not  taken  until  neariy  three  weeks  afterwards.  Learmng  the  place  where 
they  were,  in  a  different  quarter  of  the  island  of  Otaheite,  I  went  thithv  in  the 
oBtter,  thinking  there  would  be  no  great  difficulty  in  securing  them  with  the  as- 
sistance of  the  natives.  However,  they  heard  of  mj  arrivsl;  and  when  I  was 
near  a  house  in  which  they  were,  they  came  out  without  their  fire-arms,  and 
delivered  themselves  up.  Some  ef  the  chiefo  had  formeriy  seized  and  bound 
these  deserters ;  but  had  been  prevailed  on,  by  foir  promises  of  returning  peace- 
ably to  the  ship,  to  release  them.  But  finding  an  opportunity  again  to  get  pee- 
session  of  their  arms,  they  set  the  natives  at  defiance. 

The  objedof  the  voyage  being  now  completed,  all  the  bread-fhiit  plants,  to 
the  number  of  one  thousuHl  and  fifteen,  were  got  on  board  on  Tuesday,  the  31st 
of  March.  Besides  these,  we  had  collected  many  other  plants,  some  of  them 
bearing  tfaa  finest  fruits  in  die  worid ;  and  valuable,  from  aftbrdinff  brilliant  dyes, 
and  for  various  properties  besides.  At  sunset  of  the  4th  of  April,  we  mode  sail 
from  Otaheite,  bidding  forewell  to  an  island  where  for  twenty-three  weeks  we 
had  been  treated  with  the  utmost  affection  and  regard,  and  which  seemed  to  in- 
creaoe  in  proportion  to  our  stay.  That  we  were  not  insensible  to  their  kindness, 
the  succeeding  circumstances  sufficiently  proved ;  for  to  the  friendly  and  en- 
daarinjg  behavionr  of  these  people  may  be  ascribed  the  motives  inciting  an  event 
that  enected  the  ruin  of  our  expedition,  which  there  was  every  reason  to  believe 
would  have  been  attended  with  the  most  favourable  issue. 

Next  morning  we  got  sifj^ht  of  the  island  Huaheine ;  and  a  double  canoe  soon 
coming  akmgaiae,  containing  ten  natives,  I  saw  among  them  a  vonng  man,  who 
recollected  me,  and  called  me  by  my  name.  I  had  been  here  m  the  year  1T8(\ 
with  Captain  Cook,  in  the  Resolution.  A  few  days  after  sailing  from  this  island, 
the  weather  became  squally,  and  a  thick  body  of  black  ck>uds  coUeeted  in  the 
east.  A  water-spout  was  m  a  short  time  seen  at  no  great  distance  from  us, 
which  appeared  to  great  advantage  from  the  darkness  of  the  clouds  behmd  it. 
As  neariy  as  I  could  judge,  the  upper  part  was  about  two  feet  in  diameter,  and 
the  lower  about  eight  inches.  Scarcely  had  I  made  these  remarks,  when  I  ob- 
aerved  that  it  was  rafndly  advancing  towards  the  ship.  We  immediatelv  altered 
our  course,  and  took  m  all  the  sails  except  the  foresail ;  soon  after  whicn  it  pass- 
ed withm  ten  yards  of  the  stem,  with  a  rustling  noise,  but  without  our  feeling  the 
I0ast  eflfeet  from  it  bemg  so  near.  It  seemed  to  be  tmvelling  at  the  rate  of  about 
tan  miles  an  hour,  in  the  direction  of  the  wind,  and  it  disperMd  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  after  passing  us.  It  is  impossible  to  say  what  injury  we  should  have  re- 
oeivad  had  it  passed  directly  over  us.  Masts,  I  imagine,  might  have  been  carried 
•way,  bat  I  do  not  apprehend  that  it  would  hf\ve  endangered  the  loss  of  the 


280  APPBNDCC   TO   THBISLAim. 

Ptorfng  several  islands  on  the  way,  we  anchored  at  Annamooka  on  the  S3d  of 
April ;  and  an  old  lame  man  called  Tepa,  whom  I  had  known  here  in  1777,  and 
immediately  recollected,  came  on  boecrd,  alonsf  with  othera,  from  diflferent  islands 
in  the  vicinity.  They  were  desirous  to  see  tne  ship,  and  on  heing  token  below, 
where  the  bread-fruit  plants  were  arranged,  they  testified  great  surprise.  A  f?w 
•f  these  being  decayea,  we  went  on  shore  to  procure  some  in  tiieh-  place. 

The  natives  exhibited  numerous  marks  of  the  peculiar  mourning  which  thny 
express  on  losing  their  relatives ;  such  as  bloody  temples,  their  heads  being  de- 
pnved  of  most  of  their  hair^  and,  what  was  worse,  almost  the  whole  of  them  had 
lost  some  of  their  fingers.  Several  fine  bojrs,  not  aboVe  six  years  old.  had  lort 
both  their  little  fingers;  and  several  of  the  men,  besides  these,  had  parted  with 
the  middle  finger  of  the  ri^ht  hand. 

The  chiefs  went  ofT  with  me  to  dinner,  and  we  carried  on  a  brisk  trade  for 
yams :  we  also  got  plantains  and  bread-fruit.  But  the  yams  were  in  great  abun- 
(jance,  and  very  fme  and  laiee.  One  of  them  weighed  above  forty-five  pounds, 
bailing  canoes  came,  some  ot  which  contained  not  less  than  ninety  passengers. 
Such  a  number  of  them  gradually  arrived  from  different  islands,  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  get  any  thing  done,  tlie  multitude  became  so  great,  and  there  was  no 
ehief  of  suincient  authority  to  command  the  whole.  I  therefore  ordered  a  wa- 
tering party,  then  employed,  to  come  on  .board/  and  sailed  on  Sunday  the  ^th 
of  April. 

We  kept  near  the  island  of  Kotoo  all  the  afternoon  of  Monday,  in  hopes  that 
some  canoes  would  come  off  to  the  ship ;  but  in  this  we  were  disappointea.  The 
wind  being  northeriy,  we  steered  to  the  westward  in  the  evening,  to  pass  south 
of  Tofoa;  and  I  gave  directions  for  this  course  to  be' continued  duriiig  the  ni^ht. 
The  master  had  the  first  watch,  the  gunner  the  middle  watch,  and  Au.  Christian 
the  morning  watch.    This  was  the  turn  of  duty  for  the  night. 

Hitherto  the  voyage  had  advanced  in  a  course  of  uninterrupted  prosperity, 
and  had  been  attended  with  circumstances  equally  pleasing  and  satisfactory. 
But  a  very  different  scene  was  now  tp  be  disclosed :  a  conspiracy  had  been 
formed,  which  was  to  render  all  our  past  labour  productive  only  of  misery  and 
distress ;  and  it  had  been  concerted  with  so  miich  secrecy  and  circumspection, 
that  no  one  circuAistance  escaped  to  betray  the  impending  calamity. 

On  the  night  of  Monday,  the  watch  was  set  as  I  hove  described.  Just  before 
sunrise  on  Tuesday  morning,  while  I  was  yet  asleep,  Mr.  Christian,  with  the 
master  at  arms,  gunner's  mate,  and  Thomas  Burkitt,  seaman,  came  into  my  ca-  . 
bin,  and  seizing  me,  tied  my  hands  with  a  cord  behind  my  back,  threatening 
me  with  instant  death  if  I  spoke  or  made  the  least  noise.  I  never^eless  called 
out  as  loud  as  I  could,  in  hopes  of  assistance :  but  the  officers  not  of  their  party 
were  already  secured  W  sentinels  at  their  doors.  At  my  own* cabin  door  weie 
three  men,  besides  the  four  within:  all  except  Christian  had  muDskets  and  bayo- 
nets ;  he  had  only  a  cutlass.  I  was  dragged  out  of  bed,  and  forced  on  deck  in 
my  shirt,  suffering  great  paiil  in  the  mean  time  from  -the  tiriitness  with  which 
my  hands  were  tied.  On  demanding  the  reason  of  such  violence,  the  only  an- 
swer was  abuse  for  not  holding  my  tongue.  The  master,  the  gunner,  surgeon, 
master's  mate,  and  Nelson  the  gardener,  were  kept  confined  below,  and  the  fore 
hatchway  was  guaided  by  sentinels.  The  boatswain  and  carpenter,  and  also 
the  clerk,  were  aUewed  t»  come  on  deck,  where  they  saw  me  standing  abaft 
the  mizzen-mastr  with  my  hands  tied  behind  my  back,  imder  a  £[uard,  with 
(christian  at  their  bead.  The  boatswain  was  then  ordered  to  hoist  out  the 
launch,  accompanied  by  a  threat,  if  he  did  not  do  it  instantly,  to  take  care  of  him- 

The  boat  being  hoisted  out,  Mr.  Ha3nKrajdand  Mr.  Hallet,  two  of  the  midship- 
men, and  Mr.  Samuel,  the  derk,  were  ordered  into  it.  I  demanded  liie  intention 
of  giving  this  order,  and  endeavoured  to  persuade  die  people  near  me  not  to 
pei^ist  in  such  acts  of  violence ;  but  it  was  to  no  effect ;  for  the  constant  an 
swer  was,  **  Hold  your  tongue,  sir,  or  you  are  dead  this  moment" 

llie  master  had  by  this  time  sent,  requesting  that  he  might  come  on  deck, 
which  was  permitted ;  but  he  was  soon  ordered  back  again  to  his  cabin.  My 
exertions  to  turn  the  tide  of  affairs  were  continued ;  when  Christian,  changing 
the  cutlass  he  held  for  a  bayonet,  and  holding  me  by  the  cord  about  my  hands 
with  a  strong  gnpa,  threatened  me  with  immediate  death  if  1  would  rwt  be 
quiet ;  and  the  villains  around  me  had  their  pieces  cocked  and  bayonets  fixed 

Certain  individuals  were  called  on  to  get  into  the  boat,  and  were  hurried  over 


▲FPniDIX   TO   THB   ^SEAIID.  381 

tke  ihip*t  ad«;  iwhenoe  loondnded  thmtakmg  with  them  1  was  to  be  Mt  adiift. 
Another  efibrt  to  biing  about  a  change  produced  nothing  bm  menacea  of  hairing 
mybraina  Uown  out 

The  boatswain,  and  those  seamen  who  were  to  be  put  faito  the  boat,  wsra  al- 
lowed to  eoUeet  twine,  canvass,  hnes,  sails,  cordage,  an  eight^and-twenty  gaDon 
cask  of  water ;  and  Blr.  Samuel  got  ISO  pounds  ot  bread,  with  a  small  quantity 
of  rum  and  vnne ;  also  a  quadrant  and  compass;  but  he  was  prohibited,  on  pain 
of  death,  to  touch  say  map  or.astranomical  book,  and  any  instrument,  or  any  of 
mystmreys  and  drawings. 

The  mutineers  having  thus  forced  those  of  the  seamen  whom  they  wished  to 
get  rid  of  into  the  boat.  Christian  directed  a  dram  to  be  served  to  each  of  his 
crew.  I  then  unhappily  saw  that  nothing  could  be*  done  to  recover  the  ship. 
The.  officers  were  next  called  on  deck,  and  forced  over  the  ship's  ade  into  the 
boat,  while  I  was  kept  uart  from  every  one  abaft  the  missen-mast.  Chrisiiaa, 
armed  with  a  bayonet,  held  the  cord  fastening  my  hands,  and  tibe  guard  around 
me  stood  with  their  pieces  cocked;  but  on  my  daring  the  ungrateful  wretches 
to  fire,  they  uncocked  them.  Isaac  Martin,  one  of  tlwm,  I  saw  had  an  inclina- 
tion to  assist  me ;  and  as  he  fed  me  with  shaddock,  my  lips  being  quite  parched, 
we  explained  each  other's  sentiments  by  looks.  But  this  was  observed,  and  he 
was  removed.  He  then  got  into  the  Boat,  attempting  to  leave  the  ship ;  how- 
ever, he  was  eon^Mlled  to  return.  Some  others'  were  also  kept  contrary  to 
their  indination. 

It  appeared  to  me  that  Christian  was  some  time  in  doubt  whether  he  should  . 
keep  the  carpenter  or  hie  mates.    At  lengtji  he  determined  on  the  latter,  and  the  ' 
carpenter  was  ordered  into  the  boat.    He  was  permitted,  though  not  without 
oppositioB,  to  take  his  tool-chest. 

Mr.  Samuel  secured  my  journals  and  commission,  with  some  important  ship 
papers :  this  he  did  with  great  resolution,  though  strictly  watched.  He  attempt- 
ed to  eave  the  time-keeper,  and  a  box  with  my  surveys,  <)rawings,  sod  remarks 
for  fifteen  years  past,  wnich  were  very  numerous,  when  he  was  hurried  away 
with  -^**  Damn  your  eyes,  you  are  wnl  off  to  get  what  you  have.'* 

Much  altercation  took  place  among  the  mutinous  crew  during  the  transaction 
of  this  whole  affair.  Some  swore,  "1  '11  be  damned  if  he  does  not  find  his  way 
home,  if  he  gets  any  thing  with  him,"  meaning  me ;  and  when  the  caipenter's 
chest  was  canying  away,  **  Damn  my  eyes,  he  will  have  a  vessel  bmit  in  a 
month ; "  while  others  ridiculed  the  helpless  situation  of  the  boat,  which  was 
very  deep  in  the  water,  and  had  so  httle  room  for  those  who  were  in  her.  As 
for  Christian,  he  seemed  as  if  meditating  destruction  on  hunself  sod  every  one 
else. 

I  asked  for  arms,  but  the  mutineers  laughed  at  me,  and  said  I  was  well  ae- 
auainted  widi  the  people  among  whom  I  was  going :  four  cutlasses,  however,  were 
uuown  into  tjbe  boat  after  we  were  veered  astern. 

The  officers  and  men  being  in  the  boat,  they  onl^  waited  for  me,  of  which 
the  master-at-aims  informed  Christian,  who  then  said,  "  Come,  Captain  Bligh, 
your  oflicers  and  men  are  now  in  the  boat,  and  you  must  go  with  them ;  if  you 
Attempt  to  make  the  least  resistance,  you  will  instantly  be  put  to  death ;"  aod 
without  further  ceremony  I  was  forced  over  the  side  by  a  trine  of  armed  ruffians, 
where  thev  untied  my  hands.  Being  in  the  boat,  we  were  veerisd  astern  by  a 
lUpe.  A  raw  pieces  of  pork  were  thrown  to  us,  also  the  four  cutlasses,  'rhe 
aimourar  and-  carpenter  dien  called  out  to  me  to  remember  that  they  had  no 
hand  in  the  transaction.  After  having  been  kept  some  time^to  make  sport  for 
these  imfeelin^  wretches,  and  having  undergone  much  ridicule,  we  were  at 
length  cast  adnft  in  the  open  ocean. 

Eighteen  persons  were  with  me  in  the  boat, — the  master,  acting  suigeon, 
botamst,.  gunner,  boatswain,  carpenter,  master,  and  quartennaster's  mate,  two 
.qnaitermasters,  the  sail-maker,  two  cooks,  my  clerk,  the  butcher,  and  a  boy. 
There  remained  on  board  Fletcher  Christian,  the  master's  mate ;  Peter  Hay- 
woodt  Edward  Young,  George  Stewart,  midshipmen  i  the  master-alarms,  gun- 
ner's mate,  boatswaiiTs-mate,  gardener,  armourer,  carpienter's  mate,  carpenter's 
crew,  and  fourteen  seamen,  being  altogedier  the  most  able  men  of  the  ship's 
company. 

Having  little  or  no  wind,  we  rowed  pretty  fast  towards  the  island  of  Tofoa, 
which  bore  noith-east  about  ten  leagues  distant  The  ship  while  m  sight  steered 


SS2  APPnrDU  to  thb  island. 

wit  north-Wit;  but  thia  I  oonaderad  only  m  a  feint,  for  when  we  w«m  sMtt 
ew»y,  **  Hnna  for  Otaheite !  *'  wu  frequently  heerd  emonf  the  mnlineeie. 

Christian,  the  chief  of  them,  was  of  a  respectable  fiunily  in  the  north  of  Ei^- 
land.  This  was  tlie  third  ▼oyage  he  had  made  with  me.  Notwithstsndiiw  the 
rovghness  with  which  I  was  treated,  the  remembrance  of  poet  kindnesses  prodoced 
MMBM  remorse  in  him.  While  they  were  forcing  me  out  of  the  shqi,!  asked  him 
whether  this  was  a  proper  return  for  die  many  mstsnces  he  had  experieneed  of 
my  friendship?  He  appeared  disturbed  at  the  questbn,  and  answered  widi 
much  emotion,  ** That >- Captain  Bligh— that  is  the  thing— I  am  in  hell — 
I  am  in  hell!  **  His  abilities  to  take  chaige  of  the  third  watdi,  as  I  had  so 
divided  the  ship's  oompany,  were  foOy  equal  to  the  task. 

Haywood  was  also  of  a  respeetabM  nmilyin  the  north  of  Endand,  and  a 
young  man  of  abilities,  as  well  as  Christian.  Theaetwohadbeenobiectsofmy 
particular  regard  and  attantioB,  and  I  had  taken  great  pains  to  instrucc  diem, 
having  entartuned  hopes  that,  as  profcsiional  men,*  they  wooUl  have  become  a 
credit  to  their  oountrr.  Youqg  was  well  recommended,  and  Stewart  of  credita- 
ble parents  in  the  Orkneys,  at  which  place,  on  the  return  of  the  Reaohdion  from 
the  South  Seas  in  1780,  we  received  so  many  dvifities,  that,  in  consideration  of 
these  alone,  I  should  gladly  have  taken  him  wiUi  me.  Bat  he  had  alwaya  bonke 
a  cood  character. 

When  I  had  time  to  reflect,  an  inward  satisfoetion  prevented  the  depraason 
of  my  spirits.  Yet,  a  few  hours  before,  my  situation  nad  been  peculiariy  flat- 
tering; I  had  a  ship  in  the  most  perfect  oioer,  stored  with  every  necessary,  bodi 
for  health  and  service ;  the  object  of  die  voyage  Waa  attained,  and  two  thirda 
of  it  now  completed.    The  remaining  part  had  every  proapeet  of  socceaa. 

It  will  naturally  be  asked,  what  coma  be  the  cause  of  such  a  revolt?  fai  an- 
swer, I  can  only  ooniecture  that  the  mutineera  had  flattered  thwiiaelvea  with  the 
hope  of  a  happier  Ule  mnong  the  Otaheitana  than  they  could  possibly  enjoy  in 
•  England,  which,  joined  to  some  female  oonneinna,  moat  probably  occasioned  the 
whole  transaction. 

The  women  of  Otaheite  are  handtome,  mild,  and  cheerful  in  manners  and 
oonveiaation,  pomaaaed  of  great  aenaibifity,  and  have  sufficient  deficacy  to  make 
them  be  admired  and  beloved.  The  chiels  were  so  much  attached  to  oar  peo- 
ple, that  they  rather  eiioouru[ed  their  stay  amoiw  them  than  otfaerwisa,  and 
even  made  them  promiaes  of  urge  possesrions.  Under  these  and  many  other 
oonoomitant  circnmstances,  it  oiuht  hardly  to  be  the  subfeot  of  auipriae  .that  a 
set  of  sailors,  most  of  them  void  of  conneikms,  should  be  isd  away,*  where  they 
had  the  power  of  finng  themselves  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  in  one  of  the  flneat 
islands  in  the  world,  where  there  was  no  necessity  to  labour,  and  where  the 
allurements  of  dissipation  are  beyond  any  eonoepiion  that  can  be  fonned  of  it. 
The  vtmoat,  however,  that  a  commander  could  have  eipected  waa  deaenlons, 
such  as  have  already  happened  more  or  leaa  in  the  South  Seaa,  and  not  an  act 
of  open  mutiny. 

But  the  aecrecy  of  this  mutmy  surpasses  belief.  Thirteen  ef  the  party  who 
were  now  with  me  had  always  lived  forward  amoqg  die  seamen,  yet  Mitber 
they,  nor  the  messmates  of  Christian,  Stewart,  Haywood,  and  Young,  had  ever 
observed  any  circumstance  to  excite  suspicion  of  what  was  plotting ;  and  it  is  not 
wonderftd  if  I  fell  a  sacrifice  to  it,  my  mind  beuig  entirsly  free  nam  auapidon. 
Perhaps,  had  marines  been  on  board,  a  sentinel  at  my  cabin  door  might  have 
prevented  it ;  for  I  constandy  slept  vrith  the  door  mn,  that  the  oflicer  of  the 
watch  might  have  access  to  me  on  all  occasions.    If  the  mutiny  had  been  occa- 


he  excused  mmself  from  supping  with  me  oo  the  pretence  of 
which  I  felt  concerned,  havmg  nd  suspicions  of  his  honour  or  integrity. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS 

A 

SERIES  OF  POEMS, 

OUOnrAL   AKD   TSAlfSLATBD. 


Viilinibiii  poMiiqiie  oanto 

HoKACs,  lib.  3.  Odt  1 
Htr*  1^  /tf  fiiX*  cfyct  ^#rc  ri  vtUtt. 

HoMKR,  Iliad,  i.  849 
Hi  wbuded  m  h«  w«nt,  for  want  of  thought 

Drtdkn 


THE   BIGHT   HOIfOUSABLB 

FREDERICK,  EARL  OF  CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT   OF  THE    GARTER,   ETC.    ETC. 

TBS 

SECOND  EDITION  Of  THESE  POEMS  . 

18   INSCRIBED, 
BT   HIS    OBLIGED   WARD    . 

AND   AFFECTIONATE   XIN8HAN, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


LoHD  Btsoiv  first  appewred  as  an  author  in  November,  1806, 
when  he  printed  a  collection  of  poems  for  distribution  among 
his  friends.  The  first  copy  of  this  volume,  which  is  a  thin 
quarto,  was  presented  to  Mr.  Becher,  who  immediaetly  per- 
ceived, on  looking  over  its  pages,  that  some  of  the  contents 
were  by  no  means  of  a  description  to  reflect  credit  on  their 
author ;  and  at  his  friendly  suggestion  the  whole  impression, 
with  the  exception  of  (too,  or,  at  the  most,  three  copies,  was  com- 
mitted to  the  flames.  AAer  the  destruction  of  this  volume, 
Lord  Byron  directed  the  collection  to  be  reprinted,  with  the 
omission  of  the  objectionable  poems.  This  edition,  which  was 
confined  to  a  hundred  copies,  and,  like  its  predecessor,  designed 
(or  private  circulation,  was  proceeded  in  so  quickly,  that  at 
the  end  of  about  six  weeks,  January,  1807,  it  was  ready  for  de- 
livery. The  volume  was  entitled  "  Poems  on  Various  Occa- 
sions,"  and  was  printed  at  Newark  by  S.  and  J.  Ridge  ;  the 
author's  name  was  not  given.  The  dedication  was,  **  To  those 
friends  at  whose  request  they  were  printed,  for  whose  amuse- 
ment or  approbation  they  were  solely  intended,  these  trifles  are 
respectfully  dedicated  by  the  author."  Immediately  following 
the  dedication  was  this  notice  :  —  **  The  only  apology  neces- 
sary to  be  adduced  in  extenuation  of  any  errors  in  the  follow- 
ing collection  is,  that  the  author  has  not  yet  completed  his  nine- 
teenth year.  December  23,  1806."  The  approbation  which 
this  volume  received  from  the  friends  to  whom  it  was  submitted, 
induced  Loh)  Byron  to  come  more  immediately  before  the  pub- 
lic ;  and  in  the  latter  end  of  May,  1807,  this  collection,  with 
considerable  alterations,  the  omission  of  some  poems,  and  the 
addition  of  others,  was  reprinted  and  published,  under  the  title 
of  **  Hours  of  Idleness,  a  Series  of  Poems,  original  and  trans- 
lated, by  George  Crordon,  Lord  B3rron,  a  Minor."  This  volume 
was  also  printed  at  Newark.  In  the  four  editions  of  this  work, 
which  rapidly  succeeded  each  other,  many  variations  are 
found :  several  corrections  were  made ;  several  pieces  were 
silently  withdrawn  and  replaced  bv  others ;  and  after  the  &nt 


238 

edition  a  dedication  to  Lord  Carlisle,  was  prefixed.  In  the  pre- 
sent  publication,  all  those  poems  from  the  *< Private  Volume," 
and  the  early  editions  of  **  Hours  of  Idleness,*'  which  were 
suppressed  by  the  author,  are  reprinted,  and  all  the  variations 
of  the  different  impressions  are  noticed. 


preface; 


Ui  sabmittiiig  to  toe  public  eye  the  fbllowing  collection,  I 
hare  not  only  to  combat  the  difficulties  that  writers  of  verse 
generally  encounter,  bat  may  incur  the  charge  of  presumption 
for  obtruding  myself  on  the  world,  when,  without  doubt,  I  might 
be,  at  my  age,  more  usefully  emplo3red.  These  productions 
are  the  fruits  of  the  lighter  hours  of  a  young  man  who  has  late- 
ly completed  his  nineteenth  year.  As  they  bear  the  internal, 
eridence  of  a  boyish  mind,  this  is,  perhaps,  unnecessary  inform- 
ation. Some  few  were  written  during  the  disadvantages  of 
illnesB  and  depression  of  spirits ;  under  the  former  influence, 
^CmLDisH  Rbcoilxotions,"  in  particular,  were  composed. 
Tliis  consideration,  though  it  cannot  excite  the  voice  of  Praise, 
may  at  least  arrest  the  arm  of  Cens^re•  A  considerable  por- 
tion  of  these  poems  has  been  privately  printed,  at  the  request 
and  for  the  perasal  of  my  friends.  I  am  sensible  that  the  par- 
tial and  frequently  injudicious  admiration  of  a  social  circle  is 
not  the  criterion  by  which  poetical  genius  is  to  be  estimated, 
yet,  **  to  do  gieatly,"  we  must  <*  dare  greatly  ; "  and  I  have 
hazarded  my  reputation  and  feelings  in  publishing  this  volume. 
^I  have  passed  the  Rubicon/*  and  must  stand  or  fall  by  the 
«cast  of  the  die.**,  in  the  latter  event,  I  shall  submit  without 
a  murmur ;  for,  though  not  without  solicitude  for  the  fate  of 
these  effusions^  my  expectations  are  by  no  means  sanguine.  It 
is  probable  that  I  may  have  dared  much  and  done  little ;  for,- 
in  the  words  of  Cowper,  ^  it  is  one  thing  to  write  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  may 
please  every  body ;  because  they  who  have  no  connexion,  or 
even  knowledge  of  the  author,  will  be  sure  to  find  fault  if  they 
can.**  To  the  truth  of  this,  howevetr,  I  do  not  wholly  sub- 
scribe ;  on  the  contrary,  1  feel  convinced  that  these  trifles  will 
not  be  treated  with  injustice.     Their  merit,  if  they  possess  any, 

^  Fkioted  in  th«  ibit  adStiaa  of  Hbm  oTIcDmimi  ;  omitted  in  th«  ImC 


240 

will  be  liberally  allowed ;  their  numerous  faults,  on  tiie  other 
handy  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  originality,  still  less 
have  I  studied  any  particular  moddi  for  imitation  :  some  trans- 
lations  are  given,  of  which  many  are  paraphr^tic.     In  the 
original  pieces  there  may  appear  a  casual  coincidence  with  au- 
thors whose  works  I  have  been  accustomed  to  read ;  but  I  have 
not  been  guilty  of  intentional  plagiarism.    To  produce  any 
thing  entirely  new,  in  an  age  so  fertile  in  rhyme,  would  be  a 
Herculean  task,  aa  every  subject  has  already  been  treated  to 
its  utmost  extent.— > Poetry, however,  is  not  my  primary  voca- 
tion ;  to  divert  the  dull  moments  of  indisposition,  or  the  mono- 
tony of  a  vacant  hour,  urged  me  '^  to  this  sin :"  little  can  be 
expected  from  so  unpromising  a  muse*     My  wreath,  scanty  as 
it  must  be,  is  all  I  shall  derive  from  these  productions ;  and  I 
shall  never  attempt  to  replace  its  fading  leaves,  or  pluck  a  sin- 
gle  additional  sprig  from  groves  where  I  am,  at  best,  an  intru«> 
der.    Though  accustomed,  in  my  younger  days,  to  rove  a  care- 
less  mountaineer  on  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  I  have  not,  of 
late  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  fhey  de- 
rive considerable  fame,  and  a  few  notices  profit,  from  their  pro- 
ductions ;  while  I  shall  expiate  my  rashness  as  an  interioper, 
certainly  without  the  latter,  and  in  all  probability  with  a  very 
slight  share  of  the  former,  I  leave  to  others  «<Vir{km  volitare  . 
per  ora."  I  look  to  the  few  who  will  hear  with  patience  <<  dulce 
est  desipere  in  loco.*' — To  the  former  worthies  I  resign,  with- 
out repining,  the  hope  of  immortality,  and  content  myself  with 
the  not  very  magnificent  prospect  of  ranking  •*  among  the  mob 
of  gentlemen  who  write;" — my   readers   must   determine 
whether  I  dare  say,  <«with  ease,"  or  the  honour  of  a  posthu- 
mous  page  in  '<  The  Catalogue  of  Royal  and  Noble  Authors,' 
a  work  to  which  the  peerage  is  under  infinite  obligations,  in- 
asmuch as  many  names  of  considerable  length,  sound,  and  anti- 
quity, are  ther«A)y  rescued  from  the  obscurity  which  unluckily 
overshadows  several  voluminous  productions  (^  their  illustrious 
bearers. 


PSEFACS. 


241 


With  slight  hopes,  and  some  fears,  I  publish  this  first  and 
last  attempt.  To  the  dictates  of  young  ambition  may  be 
ascribed  many  actions  more  criminal  and  equally  absurd.  To 
a  few  of  my  own  age  the  contents  may  afford  amusement :  I 
trust  they  will,  at  least,  be  found  harmless.  It  is  highly  im- 
probable,  from  my  situation  and  pursuits  hereafter,  that  I  should 
ever  obtrude  myself  a  second  time  on  the  public ;  nor  even  in 
the  very  doubtful  event  of  present  indulgence,  shall  I  be  tempt- 
ed to  commit  a  future  trespass  of  the  same  nature.  The  opi- 
nion of  Dr.  Johnson  on  the  Poems  of  a  noble  relation  of  mine,* 
^  That  when  a  man  of  rank  appeared  in  the  character  of  an 
author,  his  merit  should  be  handsomely  acknowledged,*'  can 
have  little  weight  with  verbal,  and  still  less  with  periodical 
censors ;  but  were  it  otherwise,  I  should  be  loath  to  avail  my 
self  of  the  privilege,  and  would  rather  incur  the  bitterest  cen 
sure  of  anonymous  criticism,  than  triumph  in  honours  granted 
solely  to  a  title. 

*  TIm  Etfl  of  Caritfle,  whose  worb  have  long  reeehred  the  meed  of  lynblie 
appbnae,  to  which,  by  their  intrinac  woith,  Ihey  were  well  entitled. 


▼OL.  V. — 1^ 


BOSGELLANEOUS    PIECES. 


ON  LEAYINO  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

**  Whj  doittfaou  boild  the  hall,  nn  of  the  winged  days  7  Thou  lookett  ftom 
thy  tower  to^y :  yet  a  few  yean,  and  the  blast  of  the  desert  comes,  it  howU 
in  thy  empty  court/*— Ossian.* 

Through  thy  battlements,  Newstead,  the  hoUow  winds 
whistle; 

Thouy  the  hall  of  my  fathers,  art  gone  to  decay  ; 
In  thy  once  smiling  garden*  the  hemlock  and  thistle 

Have  choked  up  the  rose  which  late  bloom'd  in  the  way. 

Of  the  mail-cover'd  Barons,  w)io  proudly  to  battle 
Led  their  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's  plain. 

The  escutcheon  and  shield,  whu^h  with  every  blast  rattle, 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain. 

No  more  doth  old  Robert,  with  harp-strinffing  numbers, 
Raise  a  flame  in  the  breast  for  the  war-hureU'd  wreath 

Near  Askalon's  towers,  John  of  Horistanf  slumbers. 
Unnerved  is  the  hand  of  his  minstrel  by  death. 

Paul  and  Hubert,  too,  sleep  in  the  valley  of  Cressy ; 

For  the  safety  of  Edward  and  England  they  fell : 
My  Others !  the  tears  of  your  country  redress  ye ; 

How  you  fought,  how  you  £ed,  still  her  annids  can  tell. 

On  Marston,^  with  Rupert,§  'gainst  traitors  contending, 
Four  brothers  enrich'd  with  their  blood  the  bleak  field 

For  the  rights  of  a  monarch  their  country  defending. 
Till  death  their  attachment  to  royalty  seaPd.    . 

Shades  of  heroes,  farewell !  your  descendant,  departing 
From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu ! 

Abroad,  or  at  home,  your  remembranoe  imparting 
New  courage,  he'll  think  upon  glory  and  you. 

*  The  motto  was  added  in  the  first  editkmof  Hows  of  Idleness. 

t  Honstan  Castle,  in  Derbyshire,  an  ancient  seat  of  the  Byion  ftmily. 

t  The  battle  of  Marston  Moor,  where  the  adherents  of  Charles  I.  were 
defeated. 

^  Son  of  the  Elector  Palatine,  and  related  to  Charies  L  He  afterwards 
commanded  the  fleet  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II. 


246  HOUBfl   OF  IDLEIfBSS. 

Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separatioiit 
T  is  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret ; 

Far  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  emulation. 
The  fame  of  his  fathers  he  ne'er  can  forget. 

That  fame^  and  that  memory,  still  will  he  cherish ; 

He  vows  that  he  ne'er  wiU  disgrace  your  renown ; 
Like  you  will  he  live,  or  like  you  wiU  he  perish ; 

When  decay'd,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  your  own. 

I80S. 


ON  A  DISTANT  VIEW  OP  THE  VILLAGE,  AND  SCHOOL 
OP  HARROW  ON  THE  HILL.* 

Oh !  mihi  pmteiitofMfeTat  ri  Jupiter  annoi.— YimoiL. 

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

Where  science  first  dawned  on  the  powers  of  reflection. 
And  friendships  were  form'd  too  romantic  to  last; 

Where  fancy  ftt  jbys  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  f 
The  school  where,  loud  wam'd  by  the  bell,  we  resorted. 

To  pore  o'er  the  precepts  by  pedagogues  taught. 

AgaiE  I  behokF  where  ibr  houra  I  have  ponder'd. 
As  reclining,  at  eve,  on  yon  tombstone  I  lay ; 

Or  round  the  steep  brow  of  the  ehurchyard  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,  I  trod  en  Alonzo  o'erthrown ; 

While  to  swell  my  young  pride  such  applauses  resounded, 
I  fancied  that  Mossopf  himself  was  outshone  : 

Thia  poem  wat  Dfinted  in  the  private  voliime,  and  in  the  fiztt  edition  of 
iloun  of  Idleness,  where  the  motto  from  Viigil  was  added.  It  was  afterwaids 
omitted. 

t  Moaiiop,  a  cotemporary  of  Garrick,  &mons  for  his  performance  of  Zanga> 
in  Young's  tragedy  oitbe  Revenge. 


HOUS8   OP  IDLENESS.  947 

Or,  as  Lear,  I  poured  forth  the  deep  unprecation, 
By  my  daughters  of  kingdom  and  reason  deprived ; 

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

Ye  dieams  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 ; 

Tour  pleasures  may  still  be  in  fancy  possest. 

To  Ida  f  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. 

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

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


TO  D.* 


In  thee  I  fondly  hoped  to  clasp 

A  friend,  whom  death  alone  could  sever , 

Till  envy,  with  malignant  grasp, 
Detach'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  ttane  ima^e  still  must  rest, 
Until  that  heart  shall  cease  to  beat. 

«  Your  memory  beams  through  thii  agnized  breait"   ^^ 

**  I  thought  this  poor  brain,  fever'd  even  to  madneat, 
Oftean,aBofreaM>n,foreverwaadTam'd; 

But  the  drope  which  now  flow  down  thia  bowm  of  sadmeaa, 
Convince  me  the  apringa  have  lome  moistore  retainM. 

^  Sweet  Boenet  of  my  childhood !  your  blest  recollection 
Has  wrong  from  these  eyelids,  to  v^reeping  long  dead, 
in  loRents  the  tears  of  my  warmest  affection. 
The  last  and  the  fondest  I  ever  shall  shed.'*    _  ^,_^  _. 

t  Mnted  in  the  private  volume  only. 


248  HouBfl  or  iDLBNSas. 

Andy  when  the  grave  restores  her  dead» 

When  life  again  to  dust  is  given, 
On  thy  dear  breast  I  '11  lay  my  head  — 

Without  thee,  where  would  be  my  heaven  ? 

Febniarj,  1803. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  FRIEND* 


Oh,  Friend !  for  ever  loved,  for  ever  dear,t 
What  fruitless  tears  have  bathed  thy  honoured  bier ! 
What  sighs  re*echo'd  to  thy  parting  breath. 
Whilst  thou  wast  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death  ! 
Could  tears  retard  the  tyrant  in  his  course ; 
Could  sighs  avert  his  dart's  relentless  force  ; 
Could  youth  and  virtue  claim  a  short  delay. 
Or  beauty  charm  the  spectre  from  his  prey ; 
Thou  stiU  hadst  lived  to  bless  my  aching  si^ht, 
Thy  comrade's  honour,  and  thy  friend's  delight. 
If  yet  thy  gentle  spirit  hover  nigh  | 
The  spot  where  now  thy  mouldering  ashes  lie, 
Here  wilt  thou  read,  recorded  on  my  heart, 
A  grief  too  deep  to  trust  the  sculptor's  art. 
No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
But  living  statutes  there  are  seen  to  weep  ; 

*  Theie  finef  were  printed  in  the  private  vohime,  the  title  being  **  Epitaph 
3n  a  beloved  Ftiend."    The  motto  was  added  in  the  first  edition  of  Houn  ef 


t  "  Oh,  Boy  !  for  ever  loved,  for  ever  dear." — Private  volume. 

t  **  Thou|B^h  low  thy  bt,  since  in  a  cottage  bom. 

No  titles  did  thy  humble  name  adorn ; 
To  me  far  dearer  was  thy  artless  love 
Than  all  the  joys  wealth,  fame,  and  friends  could  prove : 
For  thee  alone  I  lived,  or  wished  to  live ; 
Oh  God !  if  impious,  ttiis  rash  word  forgive ! 
Heartrbroken  now,  I  wait  an  equal  doom. 
Content  to  join  thee  in  thy  turf-dad  tomb ; 
Where,  this  frail  form  composed  in  endless  rest, 
I  '11  make  my  last  cold  pillow  on  thy  breast ; 
That  breast  where  oft  in  life  I  *ve  laid  my  head. 
Will  yet  receive  me  mouldering  with  the  dead ; 
This  life  resign'd,  without  one  parting  sigh. 
Together  in  one  bed  of  earth  we  'O  lie ! 
Together  share  the  fate  to  mortals  given, 
Togpther  mix  our  dust,  and  hope  for  heaven." 

Such  was  the  conclusion  in  the  private  volume. 


HOVB8  or  iDLsmiss  S4t 

Affliction's  flemblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb, 
Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 
What  though  thy  sire  lament  his  failing  line^ 
A  father's  sorrows  cannot  equal  mine ! 
Though  none  like  thee  his  dying  hour  will  cheer, 
Yet  other  offspring  soothe  his  anguish  here : 
But  who  with  me  shall  hold  thy  lormer  place  ? 
Thine  image  what  new  friendship  can  efface  7 
Ah  none !  —  a  father's  tears  will  cease  to  flow. 
Time  will  assuage  an  infant  brother's  woe ; 
To  all,  saye  one,  is  consolation  known, 
While  solitary  friendship  sighs  alone. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

Whsit,  to  their  airy  hall,  my  fathers'  voice 
Shall  call  my  spirit,  joyful  in  their  choice  : 
When,  poised  upon  the  gale,  my  form  shall  ride^ 
Or,  dark  in  mist,  descend  the  mountain's  side ; 
Oh  may  my  shade  behold  no  sculptured  urns 
To  mark  the  spot  where  earth  to  earth  returns ! 
No  lengthened  scroll,  no  praise-encumber'd  stone  ;'*' 
My  epitaph  shall  be  my  name  alone  : 
If  thai  with  honour  fail  to  crown  my  clay, 
Oh  may  no  other  fame  my  deeds  repay  ! 
Thatf  only  thatf  shall  single  out  the  spot  ; 
By  that  remember'd,  or  with  that  forgot.f 


1803L 


REPLY  TO  SOBflS  VERSES  OF  J.  M.  B.  PIOOT,  ESa,  ON 
THE  CRUELTY  OF  HIS  MISTRESS,  t 

Why,  Pigot,  complain 

Of  this  damsel's  disdain, 
Why  thus  in  despair  do  you  fret  7 

For  months  you  may  try. 

Yet,  believe  me,  a  sigh 
Will  never  obtain  a  coquette. 

*  **  No  langthen'd  icroll  of  virtue  and  renown." 

Private  vdheme^  andfint  edition  o/Houn  qflSeneu. 
t  *  By  that  remembered,  or  lor  e'er  forgot."—  Private  veUime. 
t  Ftinted  in  die  private  volmne  only. 


960  HOUBfl  or  IDLBXBtB. 

Would  you  teach  her  to  love  1 

For  a  time  seem  to  roye ; 
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 

Of  these  fanciful  fairs. 
They  think  all  our  homage  a  deht ; 

Yet  a  partial  neglect 

Soon  takes  an  effect. 
And  humhles  the  proudest  coquette. 

Dissemble  your  pain, 

And  lengthen  your  chain, 
And  seem  her  hauteur  to  regret; 

If  again  you  shall  sigh, 

She  no  more  will  deny 
That  yours  is  the  rosy  coquette. 

If  still,  from  false  pride, 

Your  pangs  she  deride. 
This  whimsical  virgin  forget ; 

Some  other  admire. 

Who  will  melt  with  your  fire. 
And  laugh  at  the  little  coquette. 

For  me,  I  adore 

Some  twenty  or  more. 
And  love  them  most  dearly ;  but  yet, 

Though  my  heart  they  enthral, 

I'd  al^ndon  them  all. 
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  coquette. 

Then  quit  her,  my  friend  ! 
Your  bosom  defend, 
•     Ere  quite  with  her  snares  you're  beset . 
Lest  your  deep-wounded  heart, 
When  incensed  by  the  smart, 
Should  lead  you  to  curse  the  coquette. 

October  S7ai,]aO& 


lIOUBfl   OF   IDLBIOMB.  S51 


TO  THE  SIQHINa  STRKPHON.  • 

Your  pardon,  my  friend, 

If  my  rhymes  did  offend, 
Your  pardon,  a  thousand  times  o'er  ; 

From  friendship  I  strove 

Your  pangs  to  remove. 
But  I  swear  I  will  do  so  no  more. 

Since  your  beautiful  maid 

Your  flame  has  repaid. 
No  more  I  your  folly  regret ; 

She 's  now  the  most  divine 

And  I  bow  at  the  shrine 
Of  this  quickly  reformed  coquette. 

Yet  still,  I  must  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  reserved. 

Since  the  balm-breathing  kiss, 

Of  this  magical  miss 
Can  such  wonderful  transports  produce  ; 

Since  the  "  world  you  forget. 

When  your  lips  once  have  met,** 
My  counsel  will  get  but  abuse. 

You  say,  when  "  I  rove, 

I  know  nothing  of  love ;" 
'Tis  true,  I  am  given  to  range : 

If  I  rightly  remember, 

I  've  loved  a  good  number, 
Yet  there's  pleasure,  at  least,  in  a  change. 

I  will  not  advance. 

By  the  rules  of  romance, 
To  humour  a  whimsical  fair  ; 

Though  a  smile  may  delight, 

Yet  a  frown  won't  affright* 
Or  drive  me  to  dreadful  despair. 

*  These  itanzai  were  only  printed  in  the  private  vohime. 


S63  H0UB8   OF  IBLEMS88. 

While  my  blood  is  thus  wann 

I  ne'er  shall  reform, 
To  mix  in  the  Platonists'  school ; 

Of  this  I  am  sure, 

Was  my  passion  so  pure, 
Thy  mistress  would  think  me  a  fool. 

And  if  I  should  shun 
Every  woman  for  one, 

Whose  image  must  fill  my  whole  breast - 
Whom  I  must  prefer. 
And  sigh  but  for  her  — 

What  an  insult 't  would  be  to  the  rest  1 

Now,  Strephon,  good  bye; 

I  cannot  deny 
Your  passion  appears  most  absurd  ; 

Such  love  as  you  plead 

Is  pure  love  indeed, 
For  it  only  consists  in  the  word. 


THE  TEAR. 


'*0  lachrymaruih  ions,  tenero  sacros 
Dacentinm  oitoa  ex  animo ;  qnateir 
Felix!  in  imo  qui scatentem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  eenrnt.'*— Gray.* 

When  Friendship  or  Love 

Our  sympathies  move. 
When  Truth  in  a  glance  should  appear, 

The  lips  may  beguile 

With  a  dimple  or  smile, 
But  the  test  of  affection's  a  Tear. 

Too  ofl  is  a  smile 

But  the  hypocrite's  wile. 
To  mask  detestation  or  fear ; 

Give  me  the  soft  sigh, 

Whilst  the  soul-telling  eye 
Is  dinmi'd  for  a  time  with  a  Tear. 

'  This  motto  was  inserted  in  the  first  edition  of  Hours  of  Idlen«sa. 


MOXJUM   OF  XDLB9BSS.  953 

Mild  Charity's  giow» 

To  U8  mortals  Mow, 
Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  clear ; 

Compassion  will  melt 

Where  this  virtue  is  felt. 
And  its  dew  is  diffused  in  a  Tear. 

The  man  doom'd  to  sail 

With  the  Uast  of  the  gale, 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer. 

As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave 

Which  may  soon  be  his  grave 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  Tear. 

The  soldier  braves  death, 

For  a  fanciful  wreath 
In  Glory's  romantic  career ; 

But  he  raises  the  foe 

When  in  battle  laid  low, 
And  bathes  every  wound  with  a  Tear. 

If  with  high-bounding  pride 

He  return  to  his  bride. 
Renouncing  the  gore-crimson'd  spear^ 

All  hii  toils  are  repaid 

When,  embracing  the  maid. 
From  her  eyelid  he  kuses  the  Tear. 

Sweet  scene  of  my  youth  ! 

Seat  of  Friendship  and  Truth, 
Where  love  chased  each  fast-fleeting  year. 

Loath  to  leave  thee,  I  mourned, 

For  a  last  look  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  rewarded  those  tows  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. 


2S4  HeVBS  OF  IDLBNBtB. 

Ye  firiendB  of  my  hearty 

Ere  from  you  I  depart. 
This  hope  to  roy  breast  is  most  near  : 

If  again  we  shall  meet 

In  this  rural  retreat. 
May  we  meet,  as  we  part,  with  a  Tear. 

When  my  soul  wings  her  flight 

To  the  regions  of  night, 
And  my  corse  shall  recline  on  its  bier,* 

As  ye  pass  by  the  tomb 

Where  my  ashes  consume, 
Oh  !  moisten  their  dust  with  a  Tear. 

May  no  marble  bestow 

The  splendour  of  woe 
Which  the  children  of  vanity  rear ; 

No  fiction  of  fiune 

Shall  blazon  my  name. 
All  I  ask  —  all  I  wish  —  is  a  Tear. 

October  as,  1806 


TO  MISS  PIGOT.t 

Eliza,  what  fools  are  the  Mussulman  sect, 

Who  to  woman  deny  the  soul's  future  existence  ; 

Could  they  see  thee,  Eliza,  they  'd  own  their  defect, 
And  this  doctrine  would  meet  with  a  general  resistance. 

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. 
« 
Yet  still  to  increase  your  calamities  more. 

Not  content  with  depriving  your  bodies  of  roirit, 
He  allots  one  poor  husband  to  share  amongst  four !  — 

With  souls  you'd  dispense;  but  this  last,  who  could 
b^rit? 

•  <*  And  mf  body  didl  deep  on  itobiar."--P^riiwle«oliMW. 

t  Foand  only  in  the  private  vdame 


BOUB8   or  IDI.BNE00^  2M 

His  religion  to  please  neither  party  is  ma^x  ; 

On  husbands  't  is  hard,  to  the  wives  the  n:  ost  uncivil , 
Still  I  can't  contradict,  what  so  oft  has  been  said, 

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


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  "  LETTERS  OP  AN  ITALIAN  NUN 
AND  AN  ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN.  BY  J.  J.  ROUSSEAU 
FOUNDED  ON  FACTS."* 

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

▲HSWXK   TO   THB   FOSBGOINO,   ADDRESSED   TO   MISS      ■ 

Dbak,  simple  girl,  those  flattering  arts, 

From  which  thou'dst  guard  frail  female  hearts, 

Exist  but  in  imaginaion, — 

Mere  phantoms  of  thine  own  creation ; 

For  he  who  views  that  witching  grace, 

That  perfect  form,  that  lovely  race. 

With  eyes  admiring,  oh  !  believe  me. 

He  never  wishes  to  deceive  thee  : 

Once  in  thy  polish'd  mirror  glance, 

Thou'It  there  descry  that  elegance 

Which  from  our  sex  demands  such  praises^ 

But  envy  in  the  other  raises  : 

Then  he  who  tells  thee  of  thy  beauty. 

Believe  me,  only  does  his  duty  : 

Ah !  fly  not  from  the  candid  youth  ; 

It  is  not  flattery,  —  'tis  truth. 

Jalf.lSDi 

*  Only  printed  in  the  private  volume. 


256  HOUBS  OF  IDIAIIB8S. 


THE  CORNELIAN.* 

No  specious  splendour  of  this  stone 

Endears  it  to  my  memory  ever ; 
With  lustre  only  once  it  shone. 

And  blushes  modest  as  the  giver. 

Some,  who  can  sneer  at  friendship's  ties. 
Have  for  my  weakness  oft  reproved  me ; 

Yet  still  the  simple  gift  I  prize, — 
For  I  am  sure  the  giver  loved  me. 

He  offer'd  it  with  downcast  look. 
As  fearful  that  J  might  refuse  it ; 

I  told  him  when  the  gift  I  took. 
My  only  fear  should  be  to  lose  it. 

This  pledge  attentively  I  view'd. 

And  sparkling  as  I  held  it  near, 
Methought  one  drop  the  stone  bedewed, 

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. 

"^Tis  not  tne  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  have  been  an  ample  share, 

If  well-proportion'd  to  his  mind. 

But  had  the  goddess  clearly  seen. 
His  form  had  fix'd  her  fickle  breast ; 

Her  countless  hoards  would  his  have  been^ 
And  none  remain'd  to  give  the  rest. 

*  1^  yoang  £ddle«ton.    Thu  poem  is  only  found  in  the  pnY»te  volime. 


■oma  or  tdlmhebb*  m 


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

HntH'D  are  the  winds,  and  still  the  evening  gloom. 
Not  e'en  a  zephyr  wanders  through  the  grove, 

Whilst  I  return  to  view  my  Margaret's  tomb, 
And  scatter  flowers  on  the  dust  I  love. 

Within  this  narrow  cell  reclines  her  clay. 

That  clay  where  once  such  animation  beamM ; 

The  King  of  Terrors  seized  her  as  his  prey. 
Not  worth,  nor  beauty,  have  her  life  redeem'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  fly  from  me  attempts  so  vain, 
I'll  ne'er  submission  to  my  God  refuse. 

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

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

*  MiM  Parker. 

t  To  these  ttanzat,  which  are  iWmi  the  private  volume,  the  foDowing  note  woe 
attached :  ^  The  author  claims  the  indulgence  of  the  reader  more  for  this  piece, 
than,  perhaps,  any  other  in  the  collection  ;  but  as  it  was  written  at  an  eariier  pe- 
nod  than  itie  rest  (being  composed  at  the  age  of  fourteen),  and  his  first  essay,  he 
preferred  submitting  it  to  the  indulgence  of  hli  friends  in  its  present  state,  to  mak- 
ing either  addition  or  alteration/' 


VOL.  V. 


tM  H0UK8   OF   lULB^nBSt. 


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  gir),  and  a11  ia  over. 

Alas !  that  pang  will  be  severe. 

Which  bids  us  part  to  meet  no  more* 

Which  tears  me  far  from  one  so  dear, 
Departing  for  a  distant  shore* 

Well :  we  have  pass'd  some  happy  hours. 
And  joy  will  mingle  with  our  tears ; 

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

Where  from  the  gothic  casement's  height. 
We  view''d  the  lake,  the  park,  the  dde, 

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

O'er  fields  through  which  we  used  to  run, 
And  spend  the  hounr  in  childish  play ; 

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

Whilst  I,  admiring,  too  remiss, 
Forgot  to  scare  the  hov'ring  flies, 

Yet  envied  every  fly  the  kiss 
It  dared  to  give  your  slumbering  eyes : 

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

See  there,  high  waving  o'et  the  park. 
The  elm  I  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  af  ail  ? 

*  Thia  poem  is  inrated  from  the  priToto  volume. 


HOVBf  OF   tDLBNBIi.  369 

Who  can  conceiTe,  who  has  not  proved, 

The  anguish  of  a  last  embrace  ? 
When,  torn  from  all  you  fondly  loved, 

You  bid  a  long  adieu  to  petfce. 

This  is  the  deepest  of  our  woes, 

For  this  these  tears  our  cheeks  bedew ; 
This  is  of  love  the  final  close. 

Oh,  God,  the  fondest,  last  adieu ! 


AN  OCCASIONAL  PROLOGUE, 

niLITSEKO  rftlVIOUS  TO  THE  riRrORMAITCB  OF  **  TBI  WHKEL  OF  FOR- 
TUn*'  AT  A  PKIVATK  THXATEB. 

SiKCB  the  refinement  of  this  polish 'd  age 

Has  swept  immoral  raillery  from  the  stage ; 

Since  taste  has  now  expunged  licentious  wit. 

Which  stamp'd  disgrace  on  all  an  author  writ ; 

Since  now  to  please  with  purer  scenes  we  seek. 

Nor  dare  to  call  the  Uush  from  Beauty's  cheek ; 

Oh !  let  the  Modest  muse  some  pity  claim. 

And  meet  indulgence,  though  she  find  not  fame. 

Still,  not  for  her  alone  we  wish  respect, 

Others  appear  more  conscious  of  defect : 

To-night  no  veteran  Roscii  you  behold. 

In  all  the  arts  of  scenic  action  old ; 

No  CooKB,  no  SjiiiBLB,  can  salute  you  here, 

No  SiDOOirs  draw  the  sympathetic  tear ; 

Tcnight  you  throng  to  witness  the  debut 

Of  embryo  actors,  to  the  Drama  new : 

Here,  then,  our  almost  unfledged  wings  we  try ; 

Clip  not  our  pinions  ere  the  birds  can  fly : 

Failing  in  this  our  first  attempt  to  soar, 

Drooping,  alas !  we  fall  to  rise  no  more. 

Not  one  poor  trembler  only  fear  betrays. 

Who  hopes,  yet  almost  dreads,  to  meet  your  praise ; 

But  all  our  dramatis  persona  wait 

In  fond  suspense  this  crisis  of  our*  fate. 

No  venal  views  our  progress  can  retard, 

Your  generous  plaudits  are  our  sole  reward ; 

For  these,  each  Hero  all  his  power  displa3rs, 

Each  timid  Heroine  shrinks  before  your  gaze* 

'^  IW.    In  tho  privBts  volmne,  llbetr. 


200  R0UB8   OF  IDLBRBM. 

Surely  the  last  will  aome  protection  find ; 
None  to  the  softer  sex  can  prove  unkind : 
Whilst  Youth  and  Beauty  form  the  female  shieldf 
The  sternest  Censor*  to  the  fair  must  yield. 
Yet,  should  our  feeble  efforts  nought  avail. 
Should,  after  all,  our  best  endeavours  fail, 
StOl  let  some  mercy  in  your  bosoms  live, 
And,  if  you  can't  applaud,  at  least  forgive* 


ON  THE  DEATH  OP  MR.  FOX. 

TBS  FOLLOWING    ILLIBERAL    IMFKOMPTa  APFEAKVP    IN  A  MOKNINO 
PAPER  .t 

*<  Our  nation's  foes  lament  on  Fox's  death. 
But  bless  the  hour  when  Pitt  resign'd  his  breath  : 
These  feelings  wide,  let  sense  and  truth  undue. 
We  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  its  due." 

TO  WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THESE  PIECES  SENT  THE  FOLLOWING  REPLY,  t 

Oh,  factious  viper !  whose  envenom'd  tooth 
Would  mangle  still  the  dead,  perverting  truth, 
What  though  our  <<  nation's  foes  "  lament  the  fate, 
With  generous  feeling,  of  the  good  and  great. 
Shall  dastard  tongues  essay  to  blast  the  name 
Of  him  whose  meed  exists  in  endless  fame  ? 
When  Pitt  expired  in  plenitude  of  power. 
Though  ill  success  obscured  his  dying  hour, 
Pity  her  dewy  wings  before  him  spread, 
For  noble  spirits  •*  war  not  with  the  dead :" 
His  friends,  in  tears,  a  last  sad  requiem  gave, 
As  all  his  errors  slumber'd  in  the  grave ; 
'    He  sunk,  an  Atlas  bending  'neath  the  weight 
Of  cares  o'erwhelming  our  conflicting  state: 
When  lo !  a  Hercules  in  Fox  appear  d. 
Who  for  a  time  the  ruin'd  fabric  rear'd : 
He,  too,  is  fall'n,  who  Britain's  loss  supplied, 
With  him  our  fast-reviving  hopes  have  died ; 
Not  one  great  people  only  raise  his  urn. 
All  Europe's  far-extended  regions  mourn. 

*  Ceiuor.    In  tfao  private  volume,  criUc. 
t  "In  the  Morning  Poet."— Prwiterolwwe. 

X  "  For  insertion  in  the  Mondng  Chronicle,"  wms  here  added  in  the  pnvmte  vo- 
lume. 


HOUB8   or  IDLBKXM.  361 

*^  These  feelingi  wide,  let  sense  and  truth  undue. 
To  ^ve  the  pum  where  Justioe  points  its  due ; '' 
Yet  let  not  canker'd  Calumny  assail, 
Or  round  our  statesman  wind  her  gloomy  veil. 
Fox  !  o'er  whose  corse  a  mourning  worM  must  weep, 
Whose  dear  remains  in  honour'd  marble  sleep ; 
For  whom,  at  last,  e'en  hostile  nations  gcoan, 
While'friends  and  foes  alike  his  talents  own ; 
Fox  shall  in  Britain's  future  annals  shine, 
Nor  e'en  to  Pitt  the  patriot's  palm  resign ; 
Which  Envy,  wearing  Candour's  sacred  mask« 
For  Pitt,  and  Prrr  alone,  has  dared  to  ask< 


TO  M.  S.  G.« 


Wheiob'es  I  view  those  lips  of  thine. 
Their  hue  invites  my  fervent  kiss ; 

Tet  I  forego  that  bliss  divine, 
Alas !  it  were  unhallow'd  bliss. 

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

Tet  is  the  daring  wish  represt, 

For  that,  —  would  banish  its  repose. 

A  dance  from  thy  soul-searching  eye 
Can  raise  with  hope,  depress  with  fear ; 

Yet  I  conceal  my  love,  and  why  ? 
I  would  not  £brce  a  painful  tear. 

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

And  shall  I  plead  my  passion  now. 
To  make  thy  bosom's  heaven  a  hell  t 

No !  for  thou  never  canst  be  mine, 
United  by  the  priest's  decree  ; 

By  any  ties  but  tibose  divine, 
Mine,  my  beloved,  thou  ne'er  shalt  be. 

^  Only  primed  in  tfa«  printe  vohniM. 


902  HOUBS  OF  IDUBllBSf. 

Then  let  the  secret  fire  oonsmne. 

Let  it  consume^  thou  shalt  not  know ; 

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

I  will  not  ease  my  tortured  heart. 
By  driving  dove-eyed  peaoe  from  thine ; 

Rather  than  such  a  sting  impart. 
Each  thought  presumptuous  I  resign. 

Yfis !  yield  those  lips,  for  which  I  'd  brave 
More  than  I  here  shall  dare  to  tell ; 

Thy  innocence  and  mine  to  save,  — 
I  bid  thee  now  a  last  farewell. 

Yes  !  yield  that  breast,  to  seek  despair. 
And  hope  no  more  thy  sof^  embrace* 

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

At  least  from  guilt  shalt  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.  • 


Thutr'st  thou  I  saw  thy  beauteous  eyest 
Suffused  in  tears,  implore  to  stay  ; 

And  heard  unmoved  thy  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  ; 

Yet  still,  my  girl,  this  bleeding  breast 
Throbb'd  with  deep  sorrow  as  thine  own. 

But  when  our  cheeks  with  anguish  glow'd, 
When  thy  sweet  lips  were  join'd  to  mine, 

The  tears  that  from  my  eyelids  flow'd, 
Were  lost  in  those  which  fell  from  thine 

*  Primed  oaly  in  the  private  volume. 


HOVBft  OF  IDUfiNSM.  SdB 

Thou  could'st  not  feel  my  baming  cheek. 

Thy  goahiog  tears  had  quenched  its  flamey 
And  9B  thy  tongue  essay'd  to  speak, 
•    In  sighs  alone  it  breathed  my  name. 

And  yet,  my  girl,  we  weep  in  vain. 

In  vain  our  fate  in  aigha  deplore ; 
Remembrance  only  can  remain,-— 

But  that  will  make  us  weep  the  mored 

Again,  thou  best  beloved,  adieu ! 

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

Our  only  hope  is  to  forget ! 


TO  CAROUNE.* 


Wbxit  I  hear  you  express  an  affection  so  warm. 
Ne'er  think,  my  beloved,  that  I  do  not  believe ; 

For  your  lip  would  the  soul  of  suspicion  disarm, 
And  your  eye  beams  a  ray  which  can  never  deceive^ 

Yet  stiU,  this  fond  bosom  regrets  while  adoring. 
That  love,  like  the  leaf,  must  fall  into  the  sear, 

That  age  will  come  on,  when  remembranoe,  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  the  breeze, 

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

Tis  this,  my  beloved,  which  spreads  gloom  o'er  my  fea* 
tures. 

Though  I  ne'er  shall  presume  to  arraign  the  decree 
Which  God  haa  proclaim'd  as  the  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  faithful  devotion, 
A  smile  can  enchant,  or  a  tear  can  dissuade« 

*  loMitod  ifoiii  the  privBte  volume 


364  H017S8   OF   IDLB1VB88. 

But  afl  death,  my  beloved,  soon  or  late  shall  overtake  us. 
And  our  breasts  which  alive  with  such  flympathy  glow. 

Will  sleep  in  the  grave  till  the  blast  shall  awake  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  CAROUNR* 


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

Oh,  when  shall  my  soul  wing  her  flight  from  this  clay  t 
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  fall  no  curses, 
I  blast  not  the  fiends  who  have  hurled  me  from  bliss : 

For  poor  is  the  soul  which  bewailing  rehearses 
Its  querulous  grief,  when  in  anguish  like  this. 

Was  my  eye,  'stead  of  tears,  with  red  fury  flakes  bright'ning, 
Wquld  my  lips  breathe  a  flame  which  no  stream  could  asa 
suage, 
On  our  foes  should  my  glance  launch  in  vengeance  its  light* 
ning, 
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  separation  bewaSing, 
Their  merciless  hearts  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  brin^  no  more  consolation, 
In  the  grave  is  our  hope,  for  in  life  is  our  fear. 

*  Thii  poeiiB  alio  it  repfintod  from  the  prhrate  voluiiM. 


■ouBs  ov  xDLmnMt.  9i6 

Oh !  wlieiit  tpj  adored,  in  the  tomb  will  they  place  me, 
Since  in  life,  love  and  friendship  for  ever  are  fled  ? 

If  again  in  the  mansion  of  death  I  embrace  thee. 
Perhaps  they  will  leave  unmolested  the  dead* 

180& 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY. 

WITB  TBS  rOKMS  OF  OAMOBHS. 

This  votive  pledge  of  fond  esteem, 
Perhaps,  dear  girl !  for  me  thou  It  prize ; 

It  sings  of  Love's  enchanting  dream, 
A  theme  we  never  can  despise. 

Who  blames  it  but  the  envious  fool. 
The  old  and  disappointed  maid  ? 

Or  pupil  of  the  prudish  school. 
In  single  sorrow  doom'd  to  fade  ? 

Then  read,  dear  girl !  with  feeling  read. 
For  thou  wilt  ne'er  be  one  of  those  ; 

To  thee  in  vain  I  shall  not  plead 
In  pity  for  the  poet's  woes. 

He  was  in  sooth  a  genuine  bard ; 

His  was  no  faint,  fictitious  flame  : 
Like  his,  may  love  be  thy  reward. 

But  not  thy  hapless  fate  the  same. 


THE  FIRST  KISS  OF  LOVE.* 

'A  Bofffirot  it  x^p^arf 
'EpMra  /tovvov  i^x^i. — Amiefeon. 

AwAT  with  your  fictions  of  flimsy  romance  ! 

Those  tissues  of  falsehood  which  folly  has  wove  If 
Give  the  mild  beam  of  the  soul-breathing  glance, 

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

*  Thete  itaiisM  wen  printed  in  the  privrnte  volume,  and  in  die  fint  edition  of 
Boon  of  Idlenen,  bntonutted  in  the  seoondl 

t  *  ThoM  tiMQM  of  fiuiey  Moriah  (*)  has  wove.'*— pyreoto  wAam. 
i*)  Morlab,  the  GoddM  of  F0II7. 


996  mojmM  or  iDuunss. 

Te  ihymen,  whose  bosoms  with  phantasy  glow, 
Whose  pastoral  passions  are  made  for  the  grove. 

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

If  ApoUo  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  try  the  effect  of  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

1  hate  you,  ye  cold  compositions  of  art : 

Though  prudes  may  condemn  me,  and  bigots  reprove, 
I  court  the  efiusions  that  spring  from  the  heart 

Which  throbs  with  delight  to  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

Your  shepherds,  your  flocks,*  those  fantastical  themes, 
Perhaps  may  amuse,  yet  they  never  can  move : 

Arcadia  displays  but  a  region  of  dreams ; 

What  are  visions  like  these  to  the  first  kiss  of  love  ? 

Oh !  cease  to  affirm  that  man,  since  his  birth,')* 

From  Adam  till  now,  has  with  wretchedness  strove ; 

Some  portion  of  paradise  still  is  on  earth, 
And  Eden  revives  in  the  first  kiss  of  love* 

When  age  chills  the  blood,  when  our  pleasures  are  past  -— 
For  years  fleet  away  with  the  wings  of  the  dove — 

The  dearest  remembrance  will  still  be  the  last, 
Our  sweetest  memorial  the  first  kiss  of  love. 


TO  MARY. 


Oh !  did  those  eyes,  instead  of  fire^ 
With  bright  but  mild  aflfection  shine. 

Though  they  might  kindle  less  desire. 
Love,  more  t^m  noortal,  would  be  thine* 

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

We  must  admire,  but  still  despair ; 
That  fatal  glance  forbids  esteem* 

•  •*  Yonr  snepherdi,  your  pipes,  dec." — Prkate  volume, 

t  ''  Oil !  ceaae  to  affinn  that  man,  from  hU  birth,"  ^.-*  Prwote  eobsM. 


967 


When  Nature  stamp'd  thy  beaoteoas  birth, 
So  much  perfection  in  thee  shone,     ' 

She  fear'd  that,  too  divine  for  earth, 
Tho  akiee  might  claim  thee  for  their  own ; 

Therefore,  to  guard  her  dearest  work. 
Lest  angels  might  dispute  the  prize, 

She  bade  a  secret  lightning  lurk 
Within  those  once  celestial  eyes. 

These  might  the  boldest  sylph  appal, 
When  gloaming  with  meridian  blaze ; 

Thy  beauty  must  enrapture  all. 

But  who  can  dare  thine  ardent  gaze  t 

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

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

For  did  those  eyes  as  planets  roll. 
Thy  sister-lights  would  scarce  appear  : 

E'en  suns,  which  systems  now  control. 
Would  twinkle  dimly  through  their  sphere. 


TO  WOMAN. 


Woman  !  experience  might  have  told  me 

That  all  must  love  thee  who  behold  thee ; 

Surely  experience  might  have  taught 

Thy  firmest  promises  are  nought 

Biit  placed  in  all  thy  charms  before  me^ 

All  I  forget  but  to  adore  thee. 

Oh,  Memory  !  thou  choicest  blessing 

When  join'd  with  hope,  when  still  possessing^ 

But  how  much  cursed  by  every  lover 

When  hope  is  fled  and  passion's  over. 

Woman,  that  fair  and  fond  deceiver. 

How  prompt  are  striplings  to  believe  her ! 

How  throbs  the  pulse  wfa^n  first  we  view 

The  eye  that  rolls  in  glossy  blue, 


S68  HoiTBs  OF  iDLsrans. 

Or  spaiides  black,  or  mildly  throws 
A  b^un  from  under  harjel  brows  ! 
How  quick  we  credit  every  oath, 
And  hear  her  pli^t  the  willing  troth ! 
Fondly  we  hope  't  will  last  for  aye, 
When,  lo !  she  changes  in  a  day* 
This  record  will  for  ever  stand, 
"  Woman,  thy  vows  are  traced  in  sand.'** 


TO  M.  S.  G. 


When  I  dream  that  you  love  me,  you  V  surely  forgive* 

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

I  rise,  and  it  leaves  me  too  weep. 

Then,  Morpheus !  envelope  my  faculties  fast, 

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

What  rapture  celestial  is  mine ! 

They  tell  us  that  slumber,  the  sister  of  death. 

Mortality's  emblem  is  given  : 
To  fate  how  I  long  to  resign  my  frail  breath. 

If  this  be  a  foretaste  of  heaven. 

Ah !  frown  not,  sweet  lady,  unbend  your  soft  brow, 

Nor  deem  me  too  happy  in  this ; 
If  I  sin  in  my  dream,  I  atone  for  it  now. 

Thus  doom'd  but  to  gaze  upon  bliss. 

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

Oh !  think  not  my  penance  deficient ! 
When  dreams  of  your  presence  my  slumbers  beguile. 

To  awake  will  be  torture  sufficient 

*  The  last  line  ii  aJmoit  a  literal  traoalatiim  from  a  Spaoiah  proverb. 


HOUM  OF  IDUBiaSflf.  S09 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  aUAKER.* 

SwssT  girl  j  though  only  once  we  met. 
That  meeting  I  shall  ne'er  forget ; 
And  though  we  ne'er  may  meet  again. 
Remembrance  will  thy  form  retain. 
I  would  not  say, ''  I  love,"  but  still 
My  senses  struggle  with  my  will : 
.  In  vain  to  drive  thee  from  my  breast, 
My  thoughts  are  more  and  more  repreflt ; 
In  vain  I  check  the  rising  sighs, 
Another  to  the  last  replies : 
Perhaps  this  is  not  love,  but  yet 
Our  meeting  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

What  though  we  never  silence  broke. 

Our  eyes  a  sweeter  language  spoke ; 

The  tongue  in  flattering  falsehood  deals. 

And  tells  a  tale  it  never  feels : 

Deceit  the  guilty  lips  impart, 

And  hush  the  mandates  of  the  heart ; 

But  soul's  interpreters,  the  eyes. 

Spurn  such  restraint,  and  scorn  disguise. 

AJs  thus  our  glances  ofl  conversed, 

And  all  our  bosoms  felt  rehearsed. 

No  spirit,  irom  within,  reproved  us, 

Say  rather,  **  't  was  the  spirit  moved  us." 

Though  what  they  utter'd  I  repress, 

Yet  I  conceive  thoult  partly  guess ; 

For  as  on  thee*my  memory  ponders. 

Perchance  to  me  thine  also  wanders. 

This  for  myself,  at  least,  I  '11  say, 

Thy  form  appears  through  night,  through  day  • 

Awake,  with  it  my  fancy  teems  ; 

In  sleep,  it  smiles  in  fleeting  dreams ; 

The  vision  charms  the  hours  away. 

And  bids  me  curse  Aurora's  ray 

For  breaking  slumbers  of  delight 

Which  make  me  wish  for  endless  night. 

Since,  oh  !  whate'er  my  future  &te. 

Shall  joy  or  woe  my  steps  await, 

*  Th0M  UnM  were  pobtished  in  the  privrnte  Tolinne,  aod  the  fiiet  editioB  of 
Boon  of  Idlenen,  but  ■ubeequently  omitted  by  the  author. 


370  HOintt  OP  EDLBIBM. 

Tempted  by  love,  by  storms  beset, 
Thine  image  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

Alas !  again  no  more  we  meet, 
No  more  our  former  looks  repeat ; 
Then  let  me  breathe  this  parting  prayer. 
The  dictate  of  my  bosom's  care ; 
**  May  Heaven  so  guard  my  lovely  quaker, 
That  anguish  never  can  overtake  her ; 
That  peace  and  virtue  ne'er  forsake  her, 
But  bliss  be  aye  her  heart's  partaker ! 
Oh  !  may  the  happy  mortal,  fated 
To  be,  by  dearest  ties,  related, 
For  her  each  hour  new  joys  discover. 
And  lose  the  husband  in  the  lover  *, 
May  that  fair  bosom  never  know 
What 't  is  to  feel  the  restless  woe 
Which  stings  the  soul,  with  vain  regret. 
Of  him  who  never  can  foget ! " 


SONG.* 


When  I  roved  a  young  Highlander  o'er  the  dark  heath, 

And  climb'd  thy  steep  summit,  oh  Morven  of  snow !  f 
To  gaze  on  the  torrent  that  thunder'd  beneath, 

Or  the  mist  of  the  tempest  that  gather'd  below,  j: 
Untutor'd  by  science,  a  stranger  to  fear. 

And  rude  as  the  rocks  where  my  infancy  grew, 
No  feeling,  save  one,  to  my  bosom  was  dear  ; 

Need  J  say,  my  sweet  Mary,  't  was  centred  in  you  ? 

Yet  it  could  not  be  love,  for  I  knew  not  the  name,  — 
What  passion  can  dwell  in  the  heart  of  a  child  ? 

But  still  I  perceive  an  emotion  the  same 

As  I  felt,  when  a  boy,  on  the  crag-cover'd  wild ; 

*  To  Mary  Duff.    Pint  published  in  the  eecond  edition  of  Hoon  of  IdlenesB. 

t  Morven,  a  lofty  mountain  in  Aberdeenehire ;  **  Gormal  of  snow,"  is  an  ox- 
pretsion  frequently  to  be  found  in  Ossian. 

t  This  will  not  appear  extraordinary  to  (hose  who  have  been  acoustonie<1  to 
the  mountains  ;  it  is  by  no  means  uncommon,  on  attaining  the  top  of  Ben-e-^-^^. 
Ben-y-bourd,  &c.  to  perceive  between  the  summit  and  the  valley,  clouds  pwHr- 
ing  down  rain,  and  occasionally  accompanied  by  lightninff,  while  the  fpectamr 
literally  looks  down  upon  the  stovm* j>e«feclLy  aecure  from  ita  effects. 


VOVMB  OF  IDLKRBia.  ^1 

One  imaffe  alone  on  my  bosom  impress'd, 

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  I  bounded  along  ; 
I  breasted  *  the  billows  of  Dee's  f  rushing  tide, 

And  heard  at  a  distance  the  Highlander's  song : 
At  eve,  on  my  heath-cover'd  couch  of  repose, 

No  dreams  save  of  Mary  were  spread  to  my  view ; 
And  warm  to  the  skies  my  devotions  arose. 

For  the  first  of  my  prayers  was  a  blessing  on  you. 

I  left  my  bleak  home,  and  my  visions  are  gone ; 

The  mountains  are  vanish'd,  my  youth  is  no  more ; 
As  the  last  of  my  race,  I  must  wither  alone. 

And  delight  but  in  days  I  have  witness'd  before  : 
Ah!  splendour  has  raised,  but  embitter'd,  my  lot ; 

More  dear  were  the  scenes  which  my  infancy  knew : 
Though  my  hopes  may  have  fail'd,  yet  they  are  not  forgot ; 

Though  cold  is  my  heart,  still  it  lingers  with  you. 

When  I  see  some  dark  hill  point  its  crest  to  the  sky, 

I  think  of  the  rocks  that  o'ershadow  Colbleen  ;  i 
When  I  see  the  soft  blue  of  a  love-speaking  eye, 

I  think  of  those  eyes  that  endear'd  the  rude  scene ; 
When,  haply,  some  light-waving  locks  I  behold, 

That  faintly  resemble  my  Mary's  in  hue, 
I  think  on  the  long-flowing  ringlets  of  gold, 

The  locks  that  were  sacred  to  beauty  and  you. 

Yet  the  day  may  arrive  when  the  mountains  once  more 

Shall  rise  to  my  sight  in  their  mantles  of  snow : 
But  while  these  soar  above  me  unchanged  as  before. 

Will  Mary  be  there  to  receive  me  ?  ah,  no  ! 
Adieu,  then,  ye  hills,  where  my  childhood  was  bred : 

Thou  sweet  flowing  Dee,  to  thy  waters  adieu ! 
No  home  in  the  forest  shall  shelter  my  head, 

Ah  !  Mary,  what  home  could  be  mine  but  with  you  7 

*  Breasting  tbe  lofty  waTgp.r^Shak8peare. 

t  Tbe  Dee  u  a  beautiful  river,  which  rises  near  Mar  Lodge,  and  fiUIs  into  the 
sea  at  New  Aberdeen. 
X  Colbleen  is  a  mountain  neiir  the  verge  of  the  Highlands,  not  hi  from  the 
'^- of  Deo  Castle. 


273  Bomti  or  n>LBin»a. 


TO- 


Oh  !  yes,  I  will  own  we  were  dear  to  each  other ; 

The  friendships  of  childhood,  though  fleeting,  are  true ; 
The  love  which  you  felt  was  the  love  of  a  brother, 

Nor  less  the  affection  I  cherish'd  for  you* 

But  friendship  can  vary  her  gentle  dominion, 
The  attachment  of  years  in  a  moment  expires  ; 

Like  love,  too,  she  moves  on  a  swifl-wavine  pinion. 
But  glows  not,  like  love,  with  unquenchsLole  fires. 

Full  oft  have  we  wander'd  through  Ida  together. 
And  blest  were  the  scenes  of  our  youth  I  allow  : 

In  the  spring  of  our  life,  how  serene  is  the  weather  ; 
But  whiter's  rude  tempests  are  gathering  now. 

No  more  with  affection  shall  memory  blending 
The  wonted  delights  of  our  childhood  retrace  : 

When  pride  steels  the  bosom,  the  heart  is  unbending, 
And  what  would  be  justice  appears  a  disgrace* 

However,  dear  S ,  for  I  still  must  esteem  you  — 

The  few  whom  I  love  I  can  never  upbraid — 

The  chance  which  has  lost  may  in  future  redeem  you. 
Repentance  will  cancel  the  vow  you  have  made* 

I  will  not  complain,  and  though  chill'd  is  affection. 
With  me  no  corroding  resentment  shall  live : 

My  bosom  is  calm'd  by  the  simple  reflection. 
That  both  may  be  wrong,  and  that  both  should  forgive* 

You  knew  that  my  soul,  that  my  heart,  my  existence, 
If  danger  demanded,  were  wholly  your  own  ; 

You  knew  me  unaltered  by  years  or  by  distance. 
Devoted  to  love  and  friendship  alone* 

You  knew but  away  with  the  vain  retrospection ! 

The  bond  of  affection  no  longef  endures  ; 
Too  late  you  may  droop  o'er  the  fond  recollection. 

And  sigh  for  the  friend  who  was  formerly  yours* 

*  Thia  poem  was  fint  published  in  Uie  Hoois  of  IdleDfisi. 


HOURS   OF   n>LBZ7B88«  378 

For  the  present,  we  part — I  will  hope  not  for  ever, 
For  time  and  regret  will  restore  you  at  last ; 

To  forget  our  dissension  we  both  should  endeavour, 
I  ask  no  atonement  but  days  like  the  past. 


TO  MARY. 

OH  KKOIIVING  HSR  PICTUAS. 

This  faint  resemblance  of  thy  charms, 
Though  strong  as  mortal  art  could  give^ 

My  constant  heart  of  fear  disarms. 
Revives  my  hopes,  and  bids  me  live* 

Here  I  can  trace  the  locks  of  gold 

Which  round  thy  snowy  forehead  wave, 
The  cheeks  which  sprung  from  Beauty's  mould. 

The  lips  which  made  me  Beauty's  slave. 

Here  I  can  trace  —  ah,  no !  that  eye 

Whose  azure  floats  in  liquid  fire. 
Must  all  the  painter's  art  defy, 

And  bid  him  from  the  task  retire. 

Here  I  behold  its  beauteous  hue. 
But  where's  the  beam  so  sweetly  straying* 

Which  gave  a  lustre  to  its  blue, 
Like  Luna  o'er  the  ocean  playing ! 

Sweet  copy !  far  more  dear  to  me, 

Lifeless,  unfeeling  as  thou  art. 
Than  all  the  living  forms  could  be, 

Save  her  who  placed  thee  next  my  heart* 

She  placed  it,  sad,  with  needless  fear. 
Lest  time  might  shake  my  wavering  soul, 

Unconscious  that  her  image  there 
Held  every  sense  in  fast  control* 

*  But  where*!  the  beam  of  soft  deaira  7 
Which  gave  a  hist  re  to  its  blue. 
Love,  only  lo\'e,  could  e'er  inspire 

PrnufevolKiM 

VOL.  V. — T 


274  HOUBS   OF  IDLS19E88. 

Throogh  hours,  through  years,  through  tune  't  wiil  cheer ; 

My  hope,  in  gloomy  moments,  raise  ^ 
In  life's  last  conflict 't  will  appear, 

And  meet  my  fond  expiring  gaze. 


TO  LESBIA.' 


Lesbia  !  since  far  from  you  Fve  ranged, 
Our  souls  with  fond  aflection  glow  not^ 

You  say  't  is  I,  not  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  I  lost. 

Or  told  my  love,  with  hope  grown  bolder* 

Sixteen  was  then  our  utmost  age. 

Two  years  have  lingering  past  away,  love! 
And  now  new  thoughts  our  minds  engage, 

At  least  I  feel  disposed  to  stray,  love ! 

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

Since  your  sweet  breast  is  still  the  same, 
Caprice  must  be  my  only  reason 

I  do  not,  love !  suspect  your  truth. 

With  jealous  doubt  my  bosom  heaves  not ; 

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

No,  no,  my  flame  was  not  pretended, 
For,  oh  !  I  loved  you  most  sincerely ; 

And  —  though  our  dreiun  at  last  is  ended  — 
My  bosom  still  esteems  you  dearly. 

No  more  we  meet  in  yonder  bowers ; 

Absence  has  made  me  prone  to  roving ; 
But  older,  firmer  hearts  than  ours. 

Have  found  monotony  in  loving. 

*  Only  printed  in  the  private  volume. 


mnjua  OF  iDhEffMaB*  275 

Tour  cheek's  fiod  bloom  is  unimpair'd, 
New  beauties  still  are  daily  bright'ning,    . 

Four  eye  for  conquest  beams  prepared, 
The  forge  of  love's  resistless  lightning. 

Arm'd  thus,  to  make  their  bosoms  bleed, 
Many  will  throng  to  sigh  like  me,  love ! 

More  constant  they  may  prove,  indeed ; 
Fonder,  alas!  they  ne!er  can  be^  love! 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY.* 

hM  the  author  was  discharging  his  pistoLi  in  a  garden,  two  ladies  passing  near  the. 
spot  were  alarmed  by  the  sound  of  a  bullet  hissing  nearthenit  to  one  of  whom 
toe  following  stanzas  were  addressed  the  next  morning. 

Doubtless,  sweet  girl,  the  hissing  lead, 

Wafling  destruction  o'er  thy  -charms, 
And  hurtling  f  o'er  thy  lovely  head, 

Has  fiU'd  that  breast  with  fond  alarms. 

Surely  some  envious  demon's  force, 

Vex'd  to  behold  sach  beauty  here, 
Impell'd  the  bullet's  viewless  course. 

Diverted  from  its  first  career. 

Yes,  in  that  nearly  fatal  hour. 

The  ball  oliey'd  some  hell-bom  guide ; 
But  Heaven,  with  interposing  power. 

In  pity  turn'd  the  death  aside^ 

Yet,  as  perchance  one  trembling  tear 

Upon  that  thrilling  bosom  fell ; 
Which  I,  th'  unconscious  cause  of  fear, 

Extracted  from  its  glistening  cdl : 

Say,  what  dire  penance  can  atone 

For  such  an  outrage  done  to  theef 
Arraign'd  before  thy  beauty's  throne. 

What  punishmest  wilt  thou  decree  f 

*  These  stansas  are  oaly  fouad  in  Ibe  private  vehime. 
t  This  word  is  used  by  Gray,  in  his  poem  to  the  Fatal  Sisters :  — 
"  Iron  sleet  of  arrowy  shower 
Hurtles  through  the  darken'd  air." 


276  BoriLs  OF  iDLxiness.         ' 

Might  I  perform  the  judge's  part, 
The  sentence  I  should  scarce  deplore ; 

It  only  would  restore  a  heart 

Which  but  belonged  to  thee  before. 

The  least  atonement  I  can  make 
Is  to  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  expiation  of  my  guilt : 

Come  then,  some  other  mode  elect ; 
Let  it  be  death,  or  what  thou  wilt. 

Choose  then,  relentless !  and  I  swear 
Nought  shall  thy  dread  decree  prevent ; 

Yet  hold  —  one  little  word  forbear ! 
Let  it  be  aught  but  banishment. 


LOVE'S  LAST  ADIEU.* 
Act  J*  0*1  nt  ^yu. — Anacntm. 

The  roses  of  love  glad  the  garden  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  ! 

In  vain  with  endearments  we  soothe  the  sad  heart. 
In  vain  do  we  vow  for  an  age  to  be  true ; 

The  chance  of  an  hour  may  command  us  to  part, 
Or  death  disunite  us  in  love's  last  adieu ! 

Still  Hope,  breathing    peace  through  the    grief-swoUen 
breast, 

Will  whisper,  "  Our  meeting  we  yet  may  renew :  " 
With  this  dream  of  deceit  half  our  sorrow's  represt, 

Nor  taste  we  the  poison  of  love's  last  adieu ! 

'  Tbii  poem  wa«  omitted  ia  the  Becond  edition  of  Hours  of  Idlenen. 


HoiTBf  or  iPLBinBss.  977 

Qh  !  mark  you  yon  pair  :  in  the  sunshine  of  youth 
Love  twined  round  their  childhood  his  flowers  as  they 
grew; 

They  flourish  awhile  in  the  season  of  tnith, 
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  why  do  I  ask  ?  —  to  distraction  a  prey, 
Thy  reason  has  perish'd  with  love's  last  adieu ! 

Oh  !  who  is  yon  misanthrope,  shunning  mankind  7 
From  cities  to  caves  of  tlie  forest  he  flew  : 

There,  raving,  he  howls  his  complaint  to  the  wind ; 
The  mountains  reverberate  love's  last  adieu ! 

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

Despair  now  inflames  the  dark  tide  of  his  veins ; 
He  ponders  in  frenzy  on  love's  last  adieu ! 

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. 

And  dreads  not  the  anguish  of  love's  last  adieu  ! 

Youth  flies,  life  decays,  even  hope  is  o'ercast ; 

No  more  with  love's  former  devotion  we  sue : 
He  spreads  his  young  wing,  he  retires  with  the  blast ; 

The  shroud  of  afiection  is  love's  last  adieu  ! 

In  this  life  of  probation  for  rapture  divine, 
Astrea*  declares  that  some  penance  is  due ; 

From  him  who  has  worshipp'd  at  love's  gentle  shrine. 
The  atonement  is  ample  in  love's  last  adiea ! 

*  Who  kneels  to  the  god  on  his  altar  oftKght 
Must  myrtle  and  cypress  alternately  strew  : 
His  myrtle,  an  emblem  of  purest  delight ; 
His  cypress,  the  garland  of  love's  last  adieu ! 

*  The  GoddMi  of  Jwtioe. 


978  HOUBS   OF  IPLBIIBSB* 


DAMiETAS. 


In  law  an  infant,*  and  in  years  a  boy, 

In  mind  a  slave  to  every  vicious  joy ; 

From  every  sense  of  shame  and  virtue  wean'd ; 

In  lies  an  adept,  in  deceit  a  fiend ; 

Versed  in  hypocrisy  while  yet  a  child  f 

Fickle  as  wind,  of  inclinations  wild  ; 

Woman  his  dupe,  his  heedless  friend  a  tool ; 

Old  in  the  world,  though  scarcely  broke  from'  school ; 

DamsBtas  ran  through  all  the  maze  of  sin. 

And  found  the  goal  when  others  just  begin  : 

Even  still  conflicting  passions  shake  his  soul, 

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

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

And  what  was  onee  his  bliss  appears  his  bane* 


TO  MARION. 

Mabion  !  why  that  pensive  brow  ? 
What  disgust  to  life  hast  thou  ? 
Change  that  discontented  air : 
Frowns  become  not  one  so  fair. 
T  is  not  love  disturbs  thy  rest. 
Love  's  a  stranger  to  thy  breast ; 
He  in  dimpling  smiles  appears,  » 

Or  mourns  in  sweetly  timid  tears. 
Or  bends  the  languid  eyelid  down. 
But  shuns  the  cold  forbidding  frown. 
Then  resume  thy  former  fire. 
Some  will  love,  and  all  admire ; 
While  that  icy  aspect  chills  us, 
Nought  but  cool  indiference  thrills  us. 
Wouldst  thou  wandering  hearts  beguile* 
Smile  at  least,  or  seem  to  smile. 
Eyes  like  thine  were  never  meant 
To  hide  their  orbs  in  dark  restraint ; 
Spite  of  all  thou  fain  wouldst  say, 
Still  in  truant  beams  they  play. 

"  Inlaw,  evcrjr  penon  is  aa  'm&iA  who  has  not  attained  the  age  of  twenty- 
on*. 


Boirss  OF  n>LB3nB88*  279 

Thy  lips  — but  here  my  modes/t  Muse^ 

Her  impulse  chaste  must  needs  refuse : 

She  blushes,  curt'sies,  frownsr—  in  short,  she 

Dreads  lest  the  subject  should  transport  me  ; 

And  flying  off  in  search  of  reason, 

Brings  prudence  back  to  proper  season. 

AH  I  shall  therefore  say  (whatever 

I  think,  is  neither  here  nor  there) 

Is,  that  such  lips,  of  looks  endearing, 

Were  form'd  for  better  things  than  oieering ; 

Of  soothing  compliments  divested^ 

Advice  at  least 's  disinterested ; 

Such  is  my  artless  song  to  thee. 

From  all  the  flow  of  flattery  free ; 

Counsel  like  mine  is  as  a  brother's. 

My  heart  is  given  to  some  others ; 

That  is  to  say,  unskill'd  to  cozeny 

It  shares  itself  among  a  dozen. 

Marion,  adieu !  oh !  pr'ythee  slight  not 

This  warning,  though  it  may  delight  not ; 

And,  lest  my  precepts  be  displeasing 

To  those  who  think  remonstrance  teasing. 

At  once  111  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  vs^ 

Howe'er  those  beauties  may  distract  us, 

Still  fickle,  we  are  prone  to  rove. 

These  cannot  fix  our  souls  to  love : 

It  is  not  too  severe  a  stricture 

To  say  they  form  a  pretty  picture  ; 

But  wouldst  thou  see  the  secret  chain 

Which  binds  us  in  your  humble  train, 

To  hail  you  queens  of  all  creation. 

Know,  in  a  word,  't  is  Aivimatioiv. 


880  H017X8  OF  IDURBSt. 


OSCAR  OP  ALVA.* 


How  sweetly  shines,  through  azure  skies. 
The  lamp  of  heaven  on  Lora's  shore  i 

Where  Alva's  hoary  turrets  rise, 
And  hear  the  din  of  arms  no  more. 

But  often  has  yon  rolling  moon 

On  Alva's  casques  of  silver  play'd  ; 
And  view'd,  at  midnight's  silent  noon. 

Her  chiefs  in  gleaming  mail  array'd : 

And  on  the  crimson'd  rocks  beneath, 
Which  scowl  o'er  ocean's  sullen  flow, 

Pale  in  the  scatter'd  ranks  of  death. 
She  saw  the  gasping  warrior  low  ; 

While  t  many  an  eye  which  ne'er  again 

Could  mark  X  ^^^  rising  orb  of  day 
Tum'd  feebly  from  the  gory  plain, 

Beheld  in  death  her  fading  ray. 

Once  to  those  eyes  the  lamp  of  Love, 
They  blest  her  dear  propitious  light ; 

But  now  she  glimmer'd  from  above, 
A  sad,  funereal  torch  of  night. 

Faded  is  Alva's  noble  race, 

And  gray  her  towers  are  seen  afar ; 

No  more  her  heroes  urge  th^  chase. 
Or  roll  the  crimson  tide  of  war. 

But,  who  was  last  of  Alva's  clan  ? 

Why  grows  the  moss  on  Alva's  stone  ? 
Her  towers  resound  no  steps  of  man, 

They  echo  to  the  gale  alone. 

*  Thifl  poem  was  published  for  the  fint  time  in  Honn  of  Idlenett. 

The  catastrophe  of  this  tale  was  suggested  by  the  story  of  **  Jeranymo  and 
Lorenzo,"  in  the  first  volume  of  the  '*  Armenian,  or  GhoMpSeer."  It  alao  beers 
some  resemblance  to  a  scene  in  the  third  act  of  ^  Macbeth." 

t  While,    First  edition,  lo^m. 

t  Mark.    First  edition,  view. 


HOmtS  OF  IDUBI^M.  381 

And  when  that  gale  is  fierce  and  high» 

A  sound  is  heard  in  yonder  hall ; 
It  rises  hoarsely  through  the  sky, 

And  vibrates  o'er  the  mouldering  wall. 

Tesy  when  the  eddying  tempest  sighs, 

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

No  more  his  plumes  of  sable  wave. 

Fair  shone  the  sun  on  Oscar's  birth. 

When  Angus  hail'd  his  eldest  born ; 
The  vassals  round  their  chieflain's  hearth 

Crowd  to  applaud  the  happy  morn. 

They  feast  upon  the  mountain  deer, 

The  pibroch  raised  its  piercing  note ; 
To  gladden  more  their  highland  cheer. 

The  strains  in  martial  numbers  float 

And  they  who  heard  the  war-notes  wild 
Hoped  that  one  day  the  pibroch's  strain 

Should  play  before  the  hero's  child 
While  he  should  lead  the  tartan  train. 

Another  year  is  quickly  past. 

And  Angus  hails  another  son ; 
His  natal  day  is  like  the  last, 

Nor  soon  the  jocund  feast  was  done. 

Taught  by  their  sire  to  bend  the  bow» 

On  Alva's  dusky  hills  of  wind. 
The  boys  in  childhood  chased  the  roe, 

And  left  their  hounds  in  speed  behind* 

But  ere  their  years  of  youth  are  o'er. 

They  mingle  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
They  lightly  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. 


HOI7B8  OF  JDlAiraSS. 

fiut  Oscar  ownM  a  hero's  soul, 

His  dark  eye  shone  through  beams  of  truth ; 
Allan  had  early  leam'd  control, 

And  smooth  his  words  had  been  from  youth. 

Both,  both  were  brave ;  the  Saxon  spear 
Was  shiver'd  oft  beneath  their  steel ; 

And  Oscar's  bosom  scom'd  to  fear, 
But  Oscar's  bosom  knew  to  feel ; 

While  Allan's  soul  belied  his  form, 
Unworthy  with  such  charms  to  dwell : 

Keen  as  the  lightning  of  the  storm. 
On  foes  his  deadly  vengeance  fell 

From  high  Southannon's  distant  tower 
Arrived  a  young  and  noble  dame ; 

With  Kenneth's  lands  to  form  her  dower 
Glenalvon's  blue-eyed  daughter  came ; 

And  Oscar  claim'd  the  beauteous  bride. 
And  Angus  on  his  Oscar  smiled  : 

It  soothed  the  father's  feudal  pride 
Thus  to  obtain  Glenalvon's  chUd. 

Hark  to  the  pibroch's  pleasing  note  \ 
Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song ! 

In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float. 
And  stiU  the  choral  peal  prolong* 

See  how  the  heroes'  blood-red  plumes 

Assembled  wave  in  Alva's  hall ; 
Each  youth  his  varied  plaid  assumes, 

Attending  on  their  chieftain's  call. 

It  is  not  war  their  aid  demands. 

The  pibroch  plays  the  song  of  peace ; 

To  Oscar's  nuptials  throng  the  bands. 
Nor  yet  the  sounds  of  pleasure  cease. 

But  where  is  Oscar  ?  sure  't  is  late : 
Is  this  a  bridegroom'is  ardent  flame  ? 

While  thronging  guests  and  ladies  wait, 
Nor  Oscar  nor  his  brother  came. 


HOUHS  OF  IDLSnSBS.  288 

At  length  youAg  Allan  join'd  the  hride  : 
**  Why  comes  not  Oscar?  "  Angus  said ; 

« Is  he  not  here  ?  "  the  youth  replied ; 
^  With  me  he  roved  not  o'er  the  glade  : 

**  Perchance,  forgetful  of  the  day, 

T  is  his  to  chase  the  bounding  roe ; 
Or  ocean's  waves  prolong  his  stay ; 

Yet  Oscar's  bark  is  seldom  slow." 

**  Oh,  no !  "  the  anguish'd  sire  rejoin'd, 
**  Nor  chase,  nor  wave,  my  boy  delay ; 

Would  he  to  Mora  seem  unkind  7 
Would  aught  to  her  impede  his- way? 

^  Oh,  search,  ye  chiels  !  oh,  search  around ! 

Allan,  with  these  through  Alva  fly  ; 
Till  Oscar,  till  my  son  is  found, 

Haste,  haste,  nor  dare  attempt  reply." 

All  is  confusion  -—  through  the  vale 

The  name  of  Oscar  hoarsely  rings, 
It  rises  on  the  murmuring  gale. 

Till  night  expands  her  dusky  wings ; 

It  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

But  echoes  through  her  shades  in  vain : 

It  sounds  through  mominff's  misty  light. 
But  Oscar  comes  not  oW  the  plain. 

Three  days,  three  sleepless  nights,  the  Chief 
For  Oscar  search'd  each  mountain  cave ; 

Then  hope  is  lost ;  in  boundless  grief. 
His  locks  in  gray-tom  ringlets  wave. 

"  Oscar !  my  son  ?  —  thou  God  of  Heav'n 

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

Yield  his  assassin  to  my  rage. 

*^Ye8,  on  some  desert  rocky  shore 

My  Oscar's  whiten'd  bones  must  lie ; 
Then  grant,  thou  God  !  I  ask  no  more, 

Wi£  him  his  frantic  sire  may  die  * 


384  H0UB8   OF  KDLBUXM* 

«  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  dusty 
The  hope  of  Alva's  age  is  o'er : 

Alas!  can  pangs  li^e  these  be  just  ?  ** 

Thus  did  the  hapless  parent  mourn, 
Till  Time,  who  soothes  severest  woe. 

Had  bade  serenity  return. 
And  made  the  tear-drop  cease  to  flow. 

For  still  some  latent  hope  survived 
That  Oscar  might  once  more  appear ; 

His  hope  now  droop'd  and  now  revived. 
Till  Time  had  told  a  tedious  year. 

Days  roll'd  along,  the  orb  of  light 
Again  had  run  his  destined  race ; 

No  Oscar  bless'd  his  father's  sight. 
And  sorrow  left  a  fainter  trace. 

For  youthful  Allan  still  remain'd, 
And  now  his  father's  only  joy : 

And  Mora's  heart  was  quickly  gain'd. 
For  beauty  crown'd  the  fair-hair'd  boy. 

She  thought  that  Oscar  low  was  laid. 
And  Allan's  face  was  wondrous  fair : 

If  Oscar  lived,  some  other  maid 

Had  claim'd  his  faithless  bosom's  care* 

And  Angus  said,  if  one  year  more 
In  fruitless  hope  was  pass'd  away. 

His  fondest  scruples  should  be  o'er, 
And  he  would  name  their  nuptial  day. 

Slow  roU'd  the  moons,  but  blest  at  last 
Arrived  the  dearly  destined  mom ; 

The  year  of  anxious  trembling  past. 
What  smiles  the  lovers'  cheeks  adorn ! 


B0US8   OF  IDLB2CBS8.  285 

Hark  to  the  pibroch's  pleanng  note ! 

Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song  * 
In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float, 

And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

Again  the  clan,  in  festive  crowd. 
Throng  through  the  gate  of  Alva's  hall ; 

The  sounds  of  mirth  re-echo  loud, 
And  all  their  former  joy  recall. 

But  who  is  he,  whose  darken'd  brow 
Glooms  in  the  midst  of  general  mirth  T 

Before  his  eyes*  far  fiercer  glow 

The  blue  flames  curdle  o'er  the  hearth. 

Dark  is  the  robe  which  wraps  his  form^ 

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

But  light  and  trackless  is  his  tread. 

'T  is  noon  of  night,  the  pledge  goes  round* 
The  bridegroom's  health  is  deeply  quaff'd  ; 

With  shouts  the  vaulted  roofs  resound. 
And  all  combine  to  hail  the  draught. 

Sudden  the  stranger-cltief  arose. 

And  all  the  clamorous  crowd  are  hush'd ; 

And  Angus'  cheek  with  wonder  glows. 
And  Mora's  tender  bosom  blush'd. 

**  Old  man ! "  he  cried,  <<  this  pledge  is  done : 
Thou  saw'st  't  was  duly  drank  by  me; 

It  hail'd  the  nuptials  of  thy  son : 
Now  will  I  claim  a  pledge  from  thee. 

"  While  all  around  is  mirth  and  joy, 

To  bless  thy  Allan's  happy  lot. 
Say,  had'st  thou  ne'er  another  boy  T 

Say,  why  should  Oscar  be  forgot  ? '' 

**  Alas ! "  the  hapless  sire  replied, 

The  big  tear  starting  as  he  spoke,  ~ 
«*  When  Oscar  left  my  hall,  or  died. 

This  aged  heart  was  almost  broke. 


286  UOVBB  OF  mLSlfBflS. 

^  Thrice  has  the  earth  rev<^Ted  her  course 
Since  Oscar's  form  has  bless'd  my  sight ; 

And  Allan  is  my  last  resource^ 

Since  martial  Oscar's  death  or  flight." 

**  T  is  well,"  replied  the  stranger  stem. 

And  fiercely  flash'd  his  rolling  eye ; 
**  Thy  0scar'<8  fate  I  fain  would  learn ; 

Perhaps  the  hero  did  not  die. 

**  Perchance,  if  those  whom  most  he  loved. 
Would  call,  thy  Oscar  might  return ; 

Perchance  the  chief  has  only  roved ; 
For  him  thy  Beltane  *  yet  may  burn. 

'<  Fill  high  the  bowl  the  table  round, 

We  mH  not  claim  the  pledge  by  stealth ; 

With  wine  let  every  cup  be  crown'd  ; 
Pledge  &6  departed  Oscar's  health." 

'*  With  all  my  soul,"  old  Angus  said, 

And£jrd  his  goblet  to  the  brim ; 
"  Here's  to  my  tKjy  !  alive  or  dead, 

I  ne'er  shaU  find  a  son  like  him." 

^  Bravely,  old  man,  this  health  has  sped  ; 

But  why  does  Allan  trembling  stand  ? 
Come,  drink  remembrance  of  the  dead^ 

And  raise  thy  cup  with  firmer  hand." 

The  crimson  glow  of  Allan's  face 
Was  tum'd  at  once  to  ghastly  hue  ; 

The  drops  of  death  each  other  chase 
Adown  in  agonizing  dew. 

Thrice  did  he  raise  the  goblet  high, 
And  thrice  his  lips  refused  to  taste  ; 

For  thrice  he  caught  the  stranger's  eye 
On  his  with  deadly  fiiry  placed. 

<<  And  is  it  thus  a  brother  hafls 

A  brother's  fond  remembrance  here  ? 

If  thus  affection's  strength  prevails, 
What  might  we  not  expect  from  feart" 

*  Beltane  Tree,  •  Highland  festival  on  the  first  of  May,  held  Aear  fires  lighted 
for  the  occasion. 


H0UB8   OF   IDftBRXSS.  28t 

Roused  by  the  sneer,  he  raised  the  bowl, 
**  Would  Oscar  now  could  share  our  mirth  !  " 

Interhal  fear  appali'd  his  soul ; 

He  said,  and  dashM  the  cup  to  earth. 

**  T  is  he !  I  hear  my  murderer's  voice !  **. 

Loud  shrieks  a  darkly  gleaming  form ; 
"  A  murderer's  voice ! "  the  roof  replies, 

And  deeply  swells  the  bursting  storm. 

The  tapers  winkr  the  chieftains  shrink. 
The  stranger  's  gone,  —  amidst  the  crew 

A  form  was  seen  in  tartan  green. 
And  tall  the  shade  terrific  grew. 

His  waist  was  bound  with  a  broad  belt  round. 
His  plume  of  sable  stream'd  on  high ; 

But  his  breast  was  bare,  with  the  red  wounds  there. 
And  fixM  was  the  ^are  ef  his  glassy  eye. 

And  thrice  he  smiled,  with  his  eye  so  wild, 

On  Angus  bendine  low  the  knee ; 
And  thrice  he  frown  d  en  a  chief  on  the  ground. 

Whom  shivering  crowds  with  horror  see. 

The  bolts  loud  roll,  from  pole  to  pole. 
The  thunders  through  the  welkin  ring. 

And  the  gleaming  form,  through  the  mist  of  the  storm. 
Was  lK»rne  on  high  by  the  whirlwind's  wing. 

Cold  was  the  feast,  the  revel  ceased. 

Who  lies  upon  the  stony  floor  ? 
Oblivion  press'd  old  Angus'  breast,* 

At  length  his  life-pulse  throbs  once  more. 

"  Away,  away  1  let  the  leech  essay 

To  pour  the  light  on  Allan's  eyes :  " 
His  sand  is  done,  —  his  race  is  run ; 

Oh !  never  more  shall  Allan  rise ! 

But  Oscar's  breast  is  cold  as  clay, 

His  locks  are  lifted  by  the  gale ; 
And  Allan's  barbed  arrow  lay 

With  him  in  dark  Glentanar's  vale. 

*  Old  Angus  pren'd  the  earth  with  his  breast.—  First  EdSOen. 


288  HOVSB   PF  IBLENEM* 

And  whence  the  dreadful  stranger  camey 
Or  who,  no  mortal  wight  can  tell ;     • 

But  no  one  doubts  the  form  of  flame. 
For  Alva^s  sons  knew  Oscar  welL 

Ambition  nerved  young  Allan's  hand. 
Exulting  demons  wing'd  his  dart ; 

While  Envy  waved  her  burning  brand, 
And  pour'd  her  venom  round  his  heart* 

Swift  is  the  shaft  from  Allan's  bow ; 

Whose  streaming  life-blood  stains  his  aide  ? 
Dark  Oscar's  sable  crest  is  low, 

The  dart  has  drunk  his  vital  tide. 

And  Mora's  eye  could  Allan  move. 
She  bade  his  wounded  pride  rebel : 

Alas !  that  eyes  which  beamed  with  love 
Should  urge  the  soul  to  deeds  of  hell ! 

Lo !  seest  thou  not  a  lonely  tomb 
Which  rises  o'er  a  warrior  dead  ? 

It  glimmers  through  the  twilight  gloom ; 
Oh  !  that  is  Allan's  nuptial  bed. 

Far,  distant  far,  the  noble  grave 

Which  held  his  clan's  great  ashes  stood ; 

And  o'er  his  corse  no  banners  wave. 

For  they  were  stain'd  with  kindred  blood. 

What  minstrel  gray,  what  hoary  bard. 
Shall  Allan's  deeds  on  harp-strings  raise? 

The  song  is  glory's  chief  reward, 

But  who  can  strike  a  murderer's  praise  1 

Unstrung,  untouch  d,  the  harp  must  stand, 
No  minstrel  dare  the  theme  awake ; 

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

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

A  dying  father's  bitter  curse, 

A  brother's  death-groan  echoes  there. 


HOVM  or  lounoM.  280 


TO  THE  DUKE  OF  DORSET. 

lia  lookiacoveT  my  pipen  to  wlect  a  few  ftdditionalpoeniB  for  this  teoond  edi- 
tion, I  foaai  the  foUowing  lines,  which  I  had  totally  forgotten,  composed  in  the 
summer  of  1806,  a  ibort  tame  previoiu  to  mj  departure  from  Hanon.  They 
were  addreand  to  a  young  eehooUeUow  of  lugh  rank,  who  had  been  my  fre- 
quent oompanioa  in  lome  rambles  through  the  neighbouring  country :  however, 
he  never  saw  die  lines,  and  most  probu>ly  never  will.  As,  on  a  re-perusal,  I 
found  them  not  worse  than  some  other  pieces  in  the  collection,  I  have  now  pub- 
liahied  them«  for  the  fint  time,  after  a  slight  revision. 

D0S8BT !  whose  early  steps  with  mine  have  strayM, 
Exploring  every  path  of  Ida's  glade, 
Whom  still  affection  taught  me  to  defend, 
And  made  me  loss  a  tyrant  than  a  friend ; 
Though  the  harsh  custom  of  our  youthful  band 
Bade  thee  obey,  and  gave  me  to  command ;  * 
Thee  on  whose  head  a  few  short  years  will  shower 
The  gifts  of  riches  and  the  pride  of  power; 
E'en  now  a  name  illustrious  is  thine  own, 
Renown'd  in  rank,  not  far  beneath  the  throne. 
Yet  Dorset,  let  not  this  seduce  thy  soul 
To  shun  fair  science,  or  evade  control ; 
Though  passive  tutors,  f  fearful  to  dispraise 
The  titled  child,  whose  future  breath  may  raise. 
View  ducal  errors  with  indulgent  eyes, 
And  wink  at  faults  they  tremble  to  chastise. 

When  youthful  parasites,  who  bend  the  knee 
To  wealth,  their  golden  idol,  not  to  thee,  — 
And  even  in  simple  boyhood's  opening  dawn 
Some  slaves  are  found  to  flatter  and  to  fawn,  -» 
When  these  declare,  **  that  pomp  alone  should  wait 
On  one  by  birth  predestined  to  be  great ; 
That  books  were  only  meant  for  drudging  fools, 
That  gallant  spirits  scorn  the  common  rules," 
Believe  then  not, — they  point  the  path  to  shame. 
And  seek  to  blast  the  honours  of  thy  name. 
Turn  to  the  few  in  Ida's  early  throng, 
Wliose  souls  disdain  not  to  condemn  the  wrong ; 
Or  if,  amidst  the  comrades  of  thy  youth, 
None  dare  to  raise  the  sterner  voice  of  truth, 

*  At  every jnibfie  school  the  junior  boys  are  completely  subservient  to  the 
upper  forms  till  thev  attain  a  seat  in  the  hkher  classes.  From  this  state  of  pro- 
batMm,  very  properly,  no  rank  ii  exempt ;  but  after  a  certain  period  they  com- 
mand in  turn  those  who  succeed. 

t  AHow  me  to  disclaim  any  personal  aUusions,  even  the  mostdistant :  I  mwekr 
mwttion  genenOy  what  is  too  often  the  weakness  of  precepUn. 
vol..  Y.— U 


290  Boms  or  isiisaBM. 

Ask  thine  own  heurt ;  't  will  bid  thee,  boy,  forbear; 
For  well  I  know  that  virtue  lingers  there* 

Yes  !  I  have  mark'd  thee  many  a  passing  day. 
But  now  new  scenes  invite  roe  far  away ; 
Yes  I  have  markM  within  that  generous  mind 
A  soul,  if  well  matured,  to  bless  mankind. 
Ah  1  though  myself,  by  nature  haughty^  wild. 
Whom  Indiscretion  hail'd  her  favourite  child  ; 
Thou^  every  error  stamps  me  for  her  own. 
And  dooms  my  fall,  I  fain  would  fall  alone ; 
Though 'my  proud  heart  no  precept  now  can  tame* 
I  love  the  virtues  which  I  cannot  claim. 

T  is  not  enough,  with  other  sons  of  power, 
To  gleam  the  lambent  meteor  of  an  hour ; 
To  swell  some  peerage  page  in  feeble  pride, 
With  long.drawn  names  that  grace  no  page  beside ; 
Then  share  with  titled  crowds  the  common  lot  — 
In  life  just  gazed  at,  in  the  grave  forgot ; 
While  nought  divides  thee  from  the  vulgar  dead. 
Except  the  dull,  cold  stone  that  hides  thy  head. 
The  mouldering  'scutcheon,  or  the  herald's  roll,. 
That  well-emblazon'd  but  neglected  scroll. 
Where  lords,  unhonour'd,  in  the  tomb  may  find 
One  spot,  to  leave  a  worthless  name  behind. 
There  sleep,  unnoticed  as  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  veil  their  dust,  their  follies,  and  their  faults,  * 
A  race,  with  old  armorial  lists  o'erspread, 
In  records  destined  never  to  be  read. 
Fain  would  I  view  thee,  with  prophetic  eyes. 
Exalted  more  among  the  good  and  wise, 
A  glorious  and  a  long  career  pursue. 
As  first  in  rank,  the  first  in  talent  too  : 
Spurn  every  vice,  each  little  meanness  shun ; 
Not  Fortune's  minion,  but  her  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  call'd,  proud  boast !  the  British  drama  forth,  f 
Another  view,  not  less  renown'd  for  wit ; 
Alike  for  courts,  and  camps,  or  senates  fit ; 
Bold  in  the  field,  and  favour'd  by  the  Nine; 
In  every  splendid  part  ordain'd  to  shine ; 

^  8«e  tha  aune  line  in  Lara,  ttanxft  11 

t  ^  Thomu  SackviUe.  Lord  Buckharst,  created  Eail  of  Dorset  by  Janee  thm 
Fint,  waa  one  of  the  eariieti  and  brighten  omamenta  to  the  poetry  of  bis  coun- 
try, and  the  iiiat  who  produced  a  regular  drama.*'  •—  AndenotCg  Britith  PoeU 


ROVXS  OF  IPLSnSM.  291 

Far,  far  distinguiah'd  from  the  guttering  throng. 

Hie  pride  of  princes,  and  the  boast  of  song.* 

Such  were  thy  fitthers ;  thus  preserve  their  name ; 

Not  heir  to  titles  onlj,  but  to  fame. 

The  hour  draws  nigh^  a  few  brief  days  will  close, 

To  me,  this  little  scene  of  joys  and  woes ; 

Each  knell  of  Time  now  warns  me  to  resign 

Shades  where  Hope,  Peace,  and  Friendship  all  were  mine ; 

Hope,  that  dould  vary  like  the  rainbow's  hue 

And  giid  their  pinions  as  the  moments  flew ; 

Peace,  that  reflection  never  frown*d  away. 

By  dreams  of  ill  to  cloud  some  future  day ; 

Friendship,  whose  truth  let  childhood  only  tell ; 

Alas  !  they  love  not  long  who  love  so  well. 

To  these,  aidieu !  nor  let  me  linger  o'er 

Scenes  hail'd,  as  exiles  hail  their  native  shore. 

Receding  slowly  through  the  dark-blue  deep. 

Beheld  by  eyes  that  mourn,  yet  cannot  weep. 

Dorset,  farewell !  I  will  not  ask  one  part 
Of  sad  remembrance  in  so  young  a  heart ; 
The  coming  morrow  from  thy  youthful  mind 
Will  sweep  my  name,  nor  leave  a  trace  behind. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  in  some  maturer  year. 
Since  chance  has  thrown  us  in  the  self-same  sphere, 
Since  the  same  senate,  nay,  the  same  debate. 
May  one  day  claim  our  suffrage  for  the  stat^ 
We  hence  may  meet,  and  pass  each  other  by 
With  faint  regard,  or  cold  and  distant  eye. 
For  me,  in  future,  neither  friend  nor  foe, 
A  stranger  to  thyself,  thy  weal  or  woe, 
With  thee  no  more  again  I  hope  to  trace 
The  recollection  of  our  eariy  race ; 
No  more,  as  once,  in  social  hours  rejoice. 
Or  hear,  unless  in  crowds,  ihy  weU-known  voice. 
Still,  if  the  wishes  of  a  heart  untaught 
To  veil  those  feelings  which  perchance  it  ought. 
If  these  —  but  let  me  cease  the  lengthen'd  strain,  — 
Oh  !  if  these  wishes  are  not  breathed  in  vain. 
The  guardian  seraph  who  directs  thy  fate 
Will  leave  thee  glorious,  as  he  found  thee  great. 

*  '*  Charln  tiackyille,  Earl  of  Dorset,  etteomod  the  mon  accorapliahed  nuui 
of  hi*  dey,  wai  alike  distingnitbed  in  the  voluptuout  court  of  Cherlet  II.  and  the 
gioomy  one  of  WilUam  lU.  He  behaved  with  |(reat  gallantry  in  the  aea-iight 
with  the  Dntch  in  1665 ;  on  the  day  prevknu  to  which  he  composed  hii  celebrated 
song,  *  To  all  yon  Ladies  now  at  Land.'  His  character  has  been  drawn  in  the 
highest  eolonnby  Dryden,  Pope,  Prior,  and  Coi«reve."  -^  Andgnoie$  Brit.  PotU 


TRANSLATIONS   AND    IMITATIONS. 


HouBfl  OF  iDLsnatt.  S05 


ADRIANS  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SOUL  WHEN  DYING. 


AinicuLA !  VEgula,  blandulay 
Hoepesy  comesque,  corporiay 
QiUB  nunc  abibis  in  loca  — 
Pallidula,  rigida,  nudula, 
Nec«  ut  solesi  dabia  jocoa  7 


TKAHSLATIOM. 


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

To  what  unknown  region  borney 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight  T 
No  more  with  wonted  humour  ffay» 

But  pallid,  cheerless*  and  forlorn. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 

AB  UMBIAH 

EauAL  to  Jove  that  youth  must  be  •— 
Greater  than  Joye  he  seems  to  me— 
Who*  firee  from  jealousy's  alarms, 
Securely  views  thy  matchless  charms. 
That  cheeky  which  ever  dimpling  glows. 
That  mouthy  from  whence  such  music  flows. 
To  him,  alikoy  are  always  known. 
Reserved  for  him,  and  him  alone. 
Ah !  Lesbia  !  though  't  is  death  to  mCy 
I  cannot  choose  but  look  on  thee ; 
But,  at  the  sight,  my  senses  fly ; 
I  needs  must  gaze,  but,  gazing,  die ; 
Whilst  trembling  with  a  thousand  fears, 
Parch'd  to  the  throat  my  tongue  adheres. 
My  pulse  beats  quick,  my  breath  heaves  short, 
My  limbs  deny  their  slight  support. 
Cold  dews  my  pallid  face  o'erspreaid. 
With  deadly  languor  droops  my  head. 
My  ears  with  tingling  echoes  ring. 
And  life  itself  is  on  the  wing ; 


S06  H017B8  OF  IDLBNB80* 

My  eyes  refuse  the  cheering  light, 
Their  orbs  are  veil'd  in  starless  night : 
Such  pangs  my  nature  sinks  beneath. 
And  feels  a  temporary  death. 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  EPITAPH  ON  VIRGIL  AND 
TIBULLUS. 

BT  DOMITIUS  MdmsUS. 

He  who  sublime  in  epic  numbers  roll'd. 
And  he  who  struck  the  softer  lyre  of  love. 

By  Death's  *  unequal  hand  alike  controU'd, 
Fit  comrades  in  Elysian  regions  move ! 


IMITATION  OF  TIBULLUS.  t 
**  Sulpicia  ad  Cerinthum."  —  X46.  Qmart, 

Cbusl  Cerinthus!  does  the  fell  disease 

Which  racks  my  breast,  your  fickle  bosom  please  T 

Alas !  I  wish'd  but  to  o'eroome  the  pain. 

That  I  might  live  for  love  and  you  again : 

But  now  I  scarcely  shall  bewail  my  &te : 

By  death  alone  I  can  avoid  your  hate. 


TRANSLATION  PROM  CATULLUa 

"LVCTUI  DX  MORTK-  PASBniS.'* 

Ts  Cupids,  droop  each  little  head, 
Nor  let  your  wings  with  joy  be  spread, 
My  Lesbians  favourite  bird  is  dead, 

Whom  dearer  than  her  eyes  she  loved : 
For  he  was  gentle,  and  so  true. 
Obedient  to  her  call  he  flew. 
No  fear,  no  wild  alann  he  knew, 

But  lightly  o'er  her  bosom  moved : 

*  Tlie  hand  of  Death  i*  nid  to  be  ui\just  or  unequal,  at  Vhgfl  \ 
biy  older  than  'nbullus  at  hi«  deceaw. 
t  Ttauk  Uie  priTate  volume. 


H017B8   OF  IBLBNBSfl  297 

And  softly  fluttering  here  and  there. 
He  never  sought  to  cleave  the  air. 
But  chirupp'd  oft,  and,  free  from  care. 

Tuned  to  her  ear  his  grateful  strain. 
Now  having  passed  the  gloomy  bourne 
From  whence  he  never  can  return, 
His  death  and  Lesbia's  grief  I  mourn. 

Who  sighs,  alas !  but  sighs  in  vain. 

Oh  !  curst  be  thou,  devouring  grave ' 
Whose  jaws  eternal  victims  crave, 
From  whom  no  earthly  power  can  save* 

For  thou  hast  ta'en  the  bird  away : 
From  thee  my  Lesbians  eyes  overflow, 
Her  swollen  cheeks  with  weeping  glow 
Thou  art  the  cause  of  all  her  woe. 

Receptacle  of  life's  decay. 


IMITATED  FROM  CATULLUa 

TO  BLLXlf. 

Oh  !  might  I  kiss  those  eyes  of  fire, 
A  million  scarce  would  quench  desire ; 
Still  would  I  steep  my  lips  in  bliss, 
And  dwell  an  age  on  every  kiss : 
Nor  then  my  soul  should  sated  be ; 
Still  would  I  kiss  and  cling  to  thee : 
Nought  shoukl  my  kiss  from  thine  dissever* 
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 !  neyer  -*  never* 


TRANSLATION  FROM  HORACE. « 

ODS  3;  UB.  dL 

Ths  man  of  firm  and  noble  soul 
No  factious  clamours  can  control ; 

*  Only  pont«d  kk  the  private  volnin*. 


898  HOURS   OF   IDLENESS. 

No  threatening  tyrant's  darkling  brow 
Can  swenre  him  from  his  just  intent : 

Grales  the  warring  waves  which  plough, 
By  Auster  on  the  bUlows  spent, 

To  curb  the  Adriatic  main, 

Would  awe  his  fix'd  determined  mind  in  Tain. 

Ay,  and  the  red  right  arm  of  Jove, 
Hurtling  his  lightnings  from  above, ' 
With  all  his  terrors  there  unfurlM, 

He  would,  unmov'd,  unawed  behold : 
The  flames  of  an  expiring  world, 

Again  in  crashing  chaos  roUM, 
In  vast  promiscuous  ruin  hurl'd. 
Might  light  his  glorious  funeral  pile : 
StiU  dauntless  'midst  the  wreck  of  earth  he  'd  smile. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  ANAGREON.* 

TO  HI8  LTRB. 

I  WISH  to  tune  my  quivering  lyre 
To  deeds  of  fame  and  notes  of  fire ; 
To  echo;  from  its  risins  swell, 
How  heroes  fought  and  nations  feD, 
When  Atreus'  sons  advanced  to  war 
Or  Tyrian  Cadmus  roved  afar ; 
But  still  to  martial  strains  uDknowDf 
My  l3rre  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  CTeat  son  I  raise  again ; 
Alcides  and  his  glorious  deeds. 
Beneath  whose  arm  the  Hydro  bleeds 
All,  all  in  vain ;  my  wayward  lyre 
Wakes  silver  notes  of  soft  desire. 
Adieu,  ye  chiefs  renown'd  in  arms ! 
Adieu  the  clang  of  war's  alarms ! 

*  Fint  pnUiBlied  Iq  Honn  of  IdteneM. 


HOVS8  OF  ZDtSirSM.  S09 

To  other  deeds  my  soul  is  strung, 
▲nd  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. 


ODE  III.* 


T  WAS  now  the  hour  when  Night  had  driven 

Her  car  half  round  yon  sable  heaven ; 

Bootes,  only,  seem'd  to  roll 

His  arctic  charge  around  the  pole ; 

While  mortals,  lost  in  gentle  sleep, 

Forgot  to  smile,  or  ceiled  to  weep  : 

At  this  lone  hour,  the  Paphian  boy. 

Descending  from  the  realms  of  joy. 

Quick  to  my  gate  directs  his  course, 

And  knocks  with  all  his  little  force. 

My  visions  fled,  alarmM  I  rose,  «— 

**  What  stranger  breaks  my  blest  repose  7  " 

^  Alas  ! ''  replies  the  wily  child 

In  faltering  accents  sweetly  mild, 

^  A  hapless  infant  here  I  roam. 

Far  from  my  dear  maternal  home. 

Oh !  shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast ! 

The  nightly  storm  is  pouring  fast. 

No  prowling  robber  lingers  here. 

A  wandering  baby  who  can  fear  t  '* 

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 

Toung  Love,  the  infant,  met  my  sight ; 

His  bow  across  his  shoulders  flung, 

And  thence  his  fatal  quiver  hung, 

(Ah !  little  did  I  think  the  dart 

Woold  rankle  soon  within  my  heart.) 

With  care  I  tend  my  weary  guest. 

His  little  fingers  chUl  my  breast ; 

*  Fint  printed  ia  Hbiin  of  Idleneai. 


300  H0UB8   OF  IDLBNB88. 

His  glossy  curls,  his  azure  wing, 
Which  droop  with  nitfiitly  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  slend^  bow  :  — - 
**  I  fain  would  know,  my  gentle  host," 
He  cried,  '<  if  this  its  strength  has  lost ; 
I  fear,  relax'd  with  midnight  dews. 
The  strings  their  former  aid  refuse*" 
With  poison  tipt,  his  arrow  flies. 
Deep  in  my  tortured  heart  it  lies ; 
Then  loud  the  joyous  urchin  laugh'd  :  — 
^  My  bow  can  still  impel  the  shaft  : 
T  is  firmly  fix'd,  thy  sighs  reveal  it ; 
Say,  courteous  host^  canst  thou  not  feel  itf  ** 


FRAGMENTS  OF  SCHOOL  £XERC1S£9. 

FltOM  THK  nOMETHZUS  VINOTUB  OT  MBiJBfhVm 

Gbeat  Jove,  to  whose  almighty  throne 

Both  gods  and. mortals  homage  pay, 
Ne'er  may  my  soul  thy  power  disown. 

Thy  dread  behests  ne'er  disobey. 
Oft  shall  the  sacred  victim  fall 
In  sea-girt  Ocean'is  mossy  hall ; 
My  voice  shall  raise  no  impious  strain 
'Gainst  him  who  rules  the  sky  and  azure  main. 

*  «  *  *  air  « 

How  different  now  the  joyless  fate, 

Since  first  Hesidne  thy  bride, 
When  placed  aToft  in  godlike  state. 
The  blushing  beauty  by  thy  side, 
Thou  sat'st,  while  reverend  Ocean  smiled, 
And  mirthful  strains  the  hours  beguiled. 
The  N3rmphs  and  Tritons  danced  around. 
Nor  yet  thy  doom  was  fix'd,  nor  Jove  relentless  frown'd* 

Hutow.  Dec.  1,1804. 


H0UX8  OF   IDLBNBSS.  801 

THE  EPISODE  OF  NISUS  AND  EURYALUS. 

A  FARArHRAai  FllOM  THX  JKNCtD,  LIB.  IX. 

NisiTs,  the  guardian  of  the  portal,  stood, 

Eager  to  ^ild  his  arms  with  hostile  blood ; 

Weil  skillM  in  fight  the  quivering  lance  to  wield, 

Or  pour  his  arrows  through  th'  embattled  field  : 

From  Ida  torn,  he  left  his  sylvan  cave,* 

And  souffht  a  foreign  home,  a  distant  grave. 

To  watch  the  movements  of  the  Daunian  host, 

With  him  Euryalas  sustains  the  post ; 

No  lovelier  mien  adom'd  the  ranks  of  Troy, 

And  beardless  bloom  yet  graced  the  gallant  boy ; 

Though  few  the  seasons  of  his  youthful  life. 

As  yet  a  novice  in  the  martial  strife, 

T  was  his,  with  beauty,  valour's  gifts  to  shave  ■«- 

A  soul  heroic,  as  his  form  was  fair : 

These  bum  with  one  puire  flame  of  generous  love ; 

In  peace,  in  war,  united  still  they  move ; 

Friendship  and  glory  form  their  joint  reward  ; 

And  now  combined  they  hold  their  nightly  guard* 

<"  What  god,"  exclaim'd  the  first,  «<  instils  this  fire  ? 
Or,  in  itself  a  god,  what  great  desire  ? 
My  labouring  soul,  with  anxious  thought  oppressed. 
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. 
Seest  thou  yon  4^amp,  with  torches  twinkling  dim, 
Where  drunken  slumbers  wrap  each  lazy  limb? 
Where  confidence  and  ease  the  wateh  disdain* 
And  drowsy  Silence  holds  her  sable  reign  ? 
Then  hear  my  thought.:  —  In  deep  and  sullen  grief 
Our  troops  and  leaders  mourn  their  absent  chia  ; 

*    Him  Id»  tent,  a  hunter  now  no  mor*, 
To  oombat  foes  upon  a  foreign  shore. 
Near  }am.  the  lovelieet  of  the  Trojan  band 
Did  &ir  Curyalns,  his  oomrade,  atand : 
Few  are  the  teatonf  of  hie  youthful  life, 
Aa  yet  a  novice  in  the  martial  itrife : 
Tlie  goda  to  him  unwonted  giftaimpa^, 
A  iemale't  beauty,  with  a  herpes  heart 
Theee  bum  with  one  pure  flame  of  generous  love ; 
In  peace,  in  war,  united  atill  thdy  move ; 
friendship  and  f^lory  form  their  joint  reward, 
And  now  combined,  the  massy  gate  they  guaM. 
Snoh  waa  the  original  version  of  this  passage,  as  riven  in  the  privlte  .volume, 
wbero  no  ipore  than  the .  above  fragment  waa  frintsiq. 


BOmW   OP  IDLKNB88. 

Now  could  the  gifts  and  promised  prize  be  thine, 
(The  deed,  the  danger,  and  the  fame  be  mine,) 
Were  this  decreed,  beneath  yon  rising  mound, 
Methinks,  an  easy  path  perchance  were  found ; 
Which  past,  I  speed  my  way  to  Pallas'  walls, 
And  lead  iEneas  from  Evander's  halls." 

With  equal  ardour  fired,  and  warlike  joy, 
His  glowing  friend  address'd  the  Dardan  boy :  — 
^  These  deeds,  my  Nisus,  shalt  thou  dare  alone  ? 
Must  all  the  fame,  the  peril,  be  thine  own  1 
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  thus  my  sire  in  Argiye  combats  fought ; 
Not  thus,  when  Ilion  fell  by  heavenly  hate, 
I  track'd  ^neas  through  the  wa!k^  of  &te : 
Thou  know'st  my  deeds,  my  brea^i  devoid  of  fear» 
And  hostile  Ufe-drops  dim  my  gory  spear. 
Here  is  a  soul  with  hope  immortal  bums. 
And  Zt/e,  ignoble  Ufe^  for  glory  spurns. 
Fame,  fkme  is  cheaply  earned  by  fleeting  breath : 
The  price  of  honour  is  the  sleep  of  death.'* 

Then  Nisus,  —  **  Calm  thy  bosom's  fond  alarms : 
Thy  heart  beats  fiercely  to  the  din  of  arms. 
More  dear  thy  worth  and  valour  than  my  own, 
I  swear  by  him  who  fills  Olympus'  throne  ! 
So  may  I  triumph,  as  I  speak  the  truth, 
And  clasp  again  the  comrade  of  my  youth  ! 
But  should  I  fall,  —  and  he  who  dares  advance 
Through  hostile  legions  must  abide  by  chance,  — 
If  some  Rutulian  arm,  with  adverse  blow, 
Should  lay  the  friend  who  ever  loved  thee  low. 
Live  thou,  such  beauties  I  would  fain  preserve. 
Thy  budding  years  a  lengthen'd  term  deserve. 
When  humbled  in  the  dust,  let  some  one  be, 
Whose  gentle  eyes  will  abed  one  tear  for  me ; 
Whose  manly  arm  may  snatch  me  back  by  force. 
Or  wealth  redeem  from  foes  my  captive  corse ; 
Off  if  my  destiny  these  last  deny, 
If  in  the  spoiler's  power  my  ashes  lie. 
Thy  pious  care  may  raise  a  simple  tomb, 
To  mark  thy  love,  and  signalize  my  doom. 
Wky  should  thy  doting  wretched  mother  weep 
Her  only  boy,  reclined  in  endless  sleep  ? 


KOVMM  OF  n>LB!IE88.  809 

Who,  for  thy  sake,  the  tempest's  fury  dared. 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  war's  deadly  perU  shared  ; 
Who  braved  what  woman  never  braved  before, 
And  left  her  native  for  the  Latian  shore." 
**  In  vain  you  damp  the  ardour  of  my  soul," 
Replied  Euryalus ;  ^  it  scorns  control ! 
Hence,  let  us  haste  !  "  —  their  brother  guards  arose» 
Roused  by  their  call,  nor  court  again  repose ; 
The  pair,  buoy'd  up  on  Hope's  e^nilting  wing, 
Their  stations  leave,  and  speed  to  seek  the  lung* 

Now  o'er  the  earth  a  solemn  stillness  ran. 
And  lull'd  alike  the  cares  of  brute  and  man ; 
Save  where  the  Dardan  leaders  nightly  hold 
Alternate  converse^  and  their  plans  unfold. 
On  one  great  point  the  council  are  agreed. 
An  instant  message  to  their  prince  decreed ; 
Each  lean'd  upon  the  lance  he  well  could  wield, 
And  poised  with  easy  arm  his  ancient  shield ; 
When  Nisus  and  his  friend  their  leave  request 
To  offer  something  to  their  high  behest. 
With  anxious  tremors,  yet  unawed  by  fear, 
The  faithful  pair  before  the  throne  appear : 
lulus  greets  them  ;  at  his  kind  command, 
The  elder  first  address'd  the  hoary  band. 

**  With  patience  "  (thus  Hyrtacides  besan^ 
"*  Attend,  nor  judge  from  youth  our  humbfe  puui. 
Where  yonder  beacons  half  expiring  beam. 
Our  slumbering  foes  of  future  conquest  dream. 
Nor  heed  that  we  a  secret  path  have  traced. 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  portal  placed. 
Beneath  the  covert  of  the  blackening  smoke, 
Whose  shade  securely  our  design  will  cloak ! 
If  you,  ye  chiefs,  and  fortune  will  allow, 
We  11  bend  our  course  to  yonder  mountain's  brow* 
Where  Pallas'  walls  at  distance  meet  the  sight, 
8een  o'er  the  glade,  when  not  obscured  by  night : 
Then  shall  ^neas  in  his  pride  return, 
While  hostile  matrons  raise  their  ofispring's  urn  ; 
And  Latin  spoils  and  purpled  heaps  of  dead 
Shall  mark  the  havoc  of  our  hero  s  tread. 
Such  is  our  purpose,  not  unknown  the  way  ; 
Where  yonder  torrent's  devious  waters  stray. 
Oft  have  we  seen,  when  hunting  by  the  stream. 
The  distant  spires  above  the  vidleys  gleam." 


S04  H0VB8   OF  IBLEZnSSS. 

Mature  m  years,  for  sober  wisdom  famed, 
Moved  by  the  speech,  Alethes  here  exdaim'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  bedew'd. 
And,  sobbing,  thus  his  first  discourse  renewM  : 
'<  What  gift,  my  countrymen,  what  martial  prize 
Can  we  bestow,  which  you  may  not  despise? 
Our  deities  the  first  best  boon  have  given  — 
Internal  virtues  are  the  gift  of  Heaven. 
What  .poor  rewards  can  bless  your  deeds  on  earth, 
Doubtless  await  such  young,  exalted  worth, 
^neas  and  Ascanius  shall  combine 
To  yield  applause  far,  far  surpassing  mine." 
lulus  then  :  —  *«  By  all  the  powcra  above ! 
By  those  Penate^  who  my  country  love ! 
By  hoary  Vestals  sacred  fane,  1  swear, 
My  hopes  are  all  in  you,  ye  generous  pair ! 
Restore  my  father  to  my  grateful  sight. 
And  all  my  sorrows  yield  to  one  delight. 
Nisus  !  two  silver  gobletM  are  thine  own, 
Saved  firom  Arisba's  stately  domes  o'erthrown ! 
My  sire  secured  them  on  that  fatal  day. 
Nor  left  such  bowls  an  Argive  robber's  prey  : 
Two  massy  tripods,  also,  shall  be  thine  ; 
Two  talents  polish'd  from  the  glittering  mine ; 
An  ancient  cup,  which  Tyrian  Dido  gave, 
While  yet  our  vessels  press*d  the  Punic  wave : 
But  when  the  hostile  chiefs  at  length  bow  down. 
When  great  iEneas  wears  Hesperia's  crown. 
The  ccusque,  the  buckler,  and  the  fiery  steed 
Which  Tumus  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, 
To  soothe  thy  softer  hours  with  amorous  flames, 
And  all  the  realms  which  now  the  Latins  sway. 
The  labours  of  to-night  shall  well  repay. 

*  HoiiMh(dd  gods 


H0VB8  OF  TDhVtmu.  M5 

Bat  thou,  my  generous  youth,  whose  tender  yean 
Are  near  my  own,  whose  worth  my  heart  reveresy 
Henoeforth  affection,  sweetly  thus  hegun, 
Shall  join  our  bosoms  and  our  soub  in  one ; 
Without  thy  aid,  no  glory  shall  be  mine  ; 
Without  thy  dear  advice,  no  great  design ; 
Alike  through  life  esteemM,  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  favcmr,  or  the  skies  may  frown, 
But  valour,  spite  of  fate,  obtains  renown. 
Yet,  ere  from  hence  our  eager  steps  depart. 
One  boon  I  beg,  the  nearest  to  my  heart : 
My  mother,  sprung  from  Priam's  royal  line, 
Like  thine  ennobled,  hardly  less  divine. 
Nor  Troy  nor  king  Acestes'  realms  restrain 
Her  feeble  age  from  dangers  of  the  main : 
Alone  she  came,*  all  selfish  fears  above, 
A  bright  example  of  maternal  love. 
Unknown  the  secret  enterprise  I  brave, 
Lest  grief  should  bend  my  parent  to  the  grave  ; 
From  this  alone  no  fond  adieus  I  seek. 
No  fainting  mother's  lips  have  press'd  my  cheek ; 
By  gloomy  night  and  thy  right  hand  I  vow 
Her  parting  tears  would  shake  my  purpose  now : 
Do  thou,  my  prince,  her  failing  age  sustain. 
In  thee  her  much-loved  child  may  live  again ; 
Her  dying  hours  with  pious  conduct  bless, 
Assist  her  wants,  relieve  her  fond  distress : 
So  dear  a  hope  must  all  my  soul  inflame. 
To  rise  in  glory,  or  to  fall  in  fame." 
Struck  with  a  filial  care  so  deeply  felt. 
In  tears  at  once  the  Trojan  warriors  melt : 
Faster  than  all,  lulus'  eyes  o'erflow ; 
Such  love  was  his,  and  such  had  been  his  woe. 
"  All  thou  hast  ask'd^  receive,"  the  prince  replied 
'<  Nor  this  alone,  but  many  a  gift  beside. 
To  cheer  thy  mother's  years  shall  be  my  aim, 
Creusa's  f  style  but  wanting  to  the  dame. 
Fortune  an  adverse  wayward  course  may  run. 
But  bless'd  thy  mother  in  so  dear  a  son. 

*  **  Ahme  the  came:'    In  the  first  edition,  **  Hither  she  came:* 
t  The  mother  of  Inlns,  lott  on  the  night  when  Troy  wm  taken. 
VOL.  v. X 


Si6  H0VB8  OF  WJMKMSB. 

Now,  by  my  life !  —  my  sire's  most  sacred  oath  — 

To  thee  I  [dedge  my  full,  my  firmest  troth, 

AU  the  rewards  which  once  to  thee  were  vow'd. 

If  thou  shouldst  fall,  on  her  shall  be  bestow'd." 

Thus  spoke  the  weeping  prince,  then  forth  to  view 

A  gleaming  falchion  from  the  sheath  he  drew ; 

Lycaon's  utmost  skill  had  graced  the  steel, 

For  friends  to  envy  and  for  foes  to  feel : 

A  tawny  hide,  the  Moorish  lion's  spoil, 

Slain  ^mid  the  forest,  in  the  hunter's  toil, 

Mnestheas  to  ^uard  the. elder  youth  bestows, 

And  okl  Alethes'  casque  defends  his  brows. 

Arm'd,  thence  they  go,  while  all  th'  assembled  train. 

To  aid  their  cause,  implore  the  gods  in  vain. 

More  tiian  a. boy,  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 

lulus  holds  amidst  the  chiefs  his  place : 

His  prayer  he  sends ;  but  what  can  prayers  avail. 

Lost  in  the  murmurs  of  the  sighing  gale  J 

The  trench  is  pass'd,  and,  favour'd  by  the  ni^ht, 
Through  sleeping  foes  they  wheel  their  wary  flight. 
When  shall  the  sleep  of  many  a  foe  be  o'er  ? 
Alas !  seme  slumber  who  shall  wake  no  more ! 
Chariots  and  bridles,  mix'd  with  arms,  are  seen  ; 
And  flowing  flasks,  and  scatter'd  troops  between  : 
Bacchms  and  Mars  to  rule  the  camp  combine  ; 
A  mingled  chaos  this  of  war  and  wine« 
"  Now,"  cries  the  first,  "  for  deeds  of  blood  prepare, 
With  me  the  conquest  and  the  labour  share : 
Here  lies  our  path  4  lest  any  hand  arise. 
Watch  thou,  while  many  a  dreaming  chieftain  dies : 
I'll  carve  our  passage  through  the  heedless  foe, 
And  clear  thy  road  with  many  a  deadly  blow," 
His  whispering  accents  then  the  youth  repress'd, 
And  pierced  proud  Rhamnes  through  his  panting  breast 
Stretch'd  at  his  ease,  th'  incautious  king  reposed  ; 
Debauch,  and  not  fatigue,  his  eyes  had  closed : 
To  Tumus  dear,  a  prophet  and  a  prince, 
His  omens  more  than  augur's  skill  evince  ; 
But  he,  who  thus  foretold  the  fate  of  all. 
Could  not  avert  his  own  untimely  fall. 
Next  Remus'  armour-bearer,  hapless,  fell, 
And  three  unhappy  slaves  the  carna^  swell ; 
The  charioteer  along  his  courser's  sides 
Expires,  the  steed  his  sever'd  neck  divides ; 


HOUS8   OF  IDLBNSM.  S07 

And,  l&st,  his  lord  is  number'd  with  the  dead : 

Bounding  convulsive,  flies  the  gasping  head ; 

From  the  swoll'n  veins  the  hlackeniag  torrents  pour ; 

Stain'd  is  the  couch  and  earth  with  clotting*  gore. 

Young  LamTTUs  and  Lamus  next  expire, 

And  gay  Serranus,  fill'd  with  youthful  fire  ; 

Half  the  long  night  in  childish  games  was  pass'd ; 

LuU'd  by  the  potent  grape,  he  slept  at  last  t 

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

And  till  Aurora's  dawn  his  skill  display'd* 

In  slaughter'd  folds,  the  keepers  lost  in  sleep, 
His  hungry  fangs  a  lion  thus  may  steep ; 
'Mid  the  sad  flock,  at  dead  of  night  he  prowls, 
"With  murder  glutted,  and  in  carnage  rolls : 
Insatiate  still,  through  teeming  herds  he  roams ; 
In  seas  of  gere  the  lordly  tyrant  foams. 

Nor  less  the  other''s  deadly  vengeance  came, 
But  falls  on  feeble  crowds  without  a  name  ; 
His  wound  unconscious  Fadus  scarce  can  feel, 
Yet  wakeful  Rhsesus  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  searched  his  veins, 
The  reeking  weapon  bears  alternate  stains  ; 
Through  wine  and  blood,  commingling  as  they  flow. 
One  feeble  spirit  seeks  the  shades  below* 
Now  where  Messapus  dwelt  they  bend  their  way 
Whose  fires  emit  a,  fainlt  and  trembling  tAy  ; 
There,  unconfined,  behold  each  grazing  steed, 
Unwatch'd,  unheeded,  on  the  herbage  feed  : 
Brave  Nisus  here  arrests  his  comrade^s  arm, 
Too  flush'd  with  carnage,  and  with  conquest  warm  : 
**  Hence  let  us  haste,  the  dangerous  path  is  pass'd ; 
Full  foes  enough  to-night  have  breathM  their  last : 
Soon  will  the  day  those  eastern  clouds  adorn  ; 
Now  let  us  speed,  nor  tempt  the  rising  morn." 

What  silver  arms,  with  various  art  emboss'd, 
What  bowls  and  mantles  in  confusion  toss'd. 
They  leave  regardless !  yet  one  glittering  prize 
Attracts  the  younger  hero's  wandering  eyes  ; 
The  gilded  harness  Rhamnes'  coursers  felt,   . 
The  gems  which  stud  the. monarch's  golden  belt; 


H0UB8   OF  IDLC1TE88* 

This  from  the  pallid  corse  was  quickly  torn, 
Once  by  a  line  of  former  chieftains  worn. 
Th'  exulting  boy  the  studded  girdle  wears, 
Messapus'  helm  his  head  in  triumph  bears ; 
Then  from  the  tents  their  cautious  steps  they  bend. 
To  seek  the  vale  where  saf6r  paths  extend. 

Just  at  this  hour,  a  band  of  Latian  horse 
To  Turnus'  camp  pursue  their  destined  course : 
While  the  slow  foot  their  tardy  march  delay, 
The  knights,  impatient,  spur  along  the  way  : 
Three  hundred  mail-clad  men,  by  Volscens  led, 
To  Turnus  with  their  master's  promise  sped  : 
Now  they  approach  the  trench,  and  view  the  wails. 
When,  on  the  left,  a  light  reflection  falls ; 
The  plundered  helmet,  through  the  waning  night. 
Sheds  forth  a  silver  radiance,  glancing  bright. 
Volscens  with  question  loud  the  pair  alarms  :  — 
<<  Stand,  stragglers !  stand !  why  eariy  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  woqd  the  hostile  squadron  spread. 

With  brakes  entangled,  scarce  a  path  between. 
Dreary  and  dark  appears  the  sylvan  scene : 
Euryalus  his  heavy  spoils  impede, 
The  boughs  and  winding  turns  his  steps  mislead ; 
But  Nisus  scours  ialong  the  forest's  maze 
To  where  Latinus'  steeds  in  safety  graze. 
Then  backward  o'er  the  plain  his  eyes  extend, 
On  every  side  they  seek  his  absent  friend. 
"  O  God  !  my  boy,"  he  cries;  "  of  me  bereft, 
In  what  impending  perils  art  thou  left !  " 
Listening  he  runs  —  above  the  waving  trees, 
Tumultuous  voices  swell  the  passing  breeze ; 
The  war-cry  rises,  thundering  hoofs  around 
Wake  the  dark  echoes  of  the  trembling  ground. 
Again  he  turns,  of  footsteps  hears  the  noise  ; 
The  sound  elates,  the  sight  bis  hope  destroys : 
The  hapless  boy  a  ruflian  train  surround. 
While  lengthening  shades  his  weary  way  confound ; 
Him  with  loud  shouts  the  furious  knights  pursue. 
Struggling  in  vain,  a  captive  to  the  crew. 
What  can  his  friend  'gainst  thronging  numbers  dare  7 
Ah!  fnust  he  rush,  his  comrade^s  fate  to  shared 


HOVB8   OF  IDLBNKM.  809 

What  force,  what  aid,  what  stratagem  essay, 
Back  to  redeem  the  Latian  spoiler's  prey  ? 
His  life  a  votive  ransom  nobly  give, 
Or  die  with  him  for  whom  he  wish'd  to  live  ? 
Poising  with  strength  his  lifted  lance  on  high. 
On  Luna's  orb  he  cast  his  frenzied  eye :  -^ 
**  Goddess  serene,  transcending  every  star ! 
Queen  of  the  sky,  whose  beams  are  seen  afar ! 
By  night  heaven  owns  thy  sway,  by  day  the  grove, 
When,  as  chaste  Dian,  here  thou  deign'st  to  rove ; 
If  e'er  myself,  or  sire,  have  sought  to  grace 
Thine  altars  with  the  produce  of  the  chase. 
Speed,  speed  my  dart  to  pierce  yon  vaunting  crowd. 
To  free  my  friend,  and  scatter  far  the  proud." 
Thus  having  said,  the  hissing  dart  he  flung ; 
Through  parted  shades  the  hurtling  weapon  sung; 
The  thirsty  point  in  Sulmo's  entrails  lay, 
Transiix'd  his  heart,  and  stretch'd  him  on  the  clay : 
He  sobs,  he  dies,  —  the  troop  in  wild  amaze. 
Unconscious  whence  the  death,  with  horror  gaze. 
While  pale  they  stare,  through  Tagus'  temples  riven, 
A  second  shaft  with  equal  force  is  driven  : 
Fierce  Volscens  rolls  around  his  lowering  eyes ; 
Veil'd  by  the  night,  secure  the  Trojan  lies. 
Burning  with  wrath,  he  view'd  his  soldiers  fall. 
**  Thou  youth  accurst,  thy  life  shall  pay  for  all ! " 
Quick  from  the  sheath  his  flaming  glaive  he  drew, 
And,  raging,  on  the  boy  defenceless  flew. 
Nisus  no  more  the  blackening  shade  conceals. 
Forth,  forth  he  starts,  and  all  his  love  reveals  ; 
Aghast,  confused,  his  fears  to  madness  rise. 
And  pour  these  accents,  shrieking  as  he  flies : 
**  Me,  me,  —  your  vengeance  hurl  on  me  alone  ; 
Here  sheathe  the  steel,  my  blood  is  all  your  own. 
Ye  starry  spheres  1  thou  conscious  Heaven !  attest ! 
He  could  not  —  durst  not  —  lo  !  the  guile  confest ! 
All,  all  was  mine, — his  early  fate  suspend  ; 
He  only  loved  too  well  his  hapless  friend  : 
Spare,  spare,  ye  chiefs  !  from  him  your  rage  remove ; 
His  fault  was  friendship,  all  his  crime  was  love." 
He  pray'd  in  vain ;  the  dark  assassin's  sword 
Pierced  the  fair  side,  the  snowy  bosom  gored ; 
Lowly  to  earth  inclines  his  plume-clad  crest. 
And  sanguine  torrents  mantle  o'er  his  breast : 
As  some  young  rose,  whose  blossom  scents  the  aiir. 
Languid  in  death,  expires  beneath  the  share ; 


SIO  ROmur  OF  IBLS1VB0B.. 

Or  crimson  poppy,  sinking  with  the  shower^ 
Declining  gently,  fklls  a  fading  flower ; 
Thus,  sweetly  drooping,  bends  his  lorely  head» 
And  lingering  beauty  hoveis  roand  the  dewl« 

But  fiery  Nisus  stems  the  battle's  tide, 
Revenge  his  leader,  and  despair  his  gaide; 
Volscens  he  seeks  amidst  the  gathering  host, 
Volscens  must  soon  appease  his  comrade's  ghost ; 
Steely  flashing,  pours  on  steel,  foe  cn>wds  on  foe ; 
Rage  nerves  his  arm,  fate  gleams  in  every  blow ; 
in  vain  beneath  unnumberM  wounds  he  bleeds, 
Nor. wounds,  nor  death,  distracted  Nisus  heeds ; 
In  viewless  circles  wheePdr  his  falchioo  flies, 
Nor  quits  the  hero's  grasp  till  Volscens  dies ; 
Deep  in  his  throat  its  end  the  weapon  found. 
The  tyrant's  soul  fled  groaning  through  the  wound. 
Thus  Nisus  all  his  fond  aflection  proved — 
Dying,  revenged  the  fate  of  him  he  loved ; 
Then  on  his  bosom  sought  his  wonted  place, 
And  death  was  heavenly  in  his  friend's  embrace ! 

Celestial  pair !  if  aqght  my  verse  can  claim, 
Wafited  on  Time's  broad  pinion,  yours  is  fame ! 
Ages  on  ages  shall  your  fate  admire,^ 
No  future  day  shall  see  your  names  expire, 
While  stands  the  Capitol,  immortal  dome  ! 
And  vanquish'd  millions  hail  their  empress,  Romet 


TKANSLATION  PROM  THE  MEDEA  OP  EURIPIDES.* 

When  fierce  conflicting  passions  urge 

The  breast  where  love  is  wont  to  glow. 
What  mind  can  stem  the  stormy  surge 

Which  rolls  the  tide  of  human  woe  ? 
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. 

*  FSnt  printed  in  H«u»«£IdltiiMtu 


Hoeifl  OF  iDunoss.  Hi 

Bat  if  affection  gently  thrills 

The  800I  by  purer  dreams  possest, 
The  pleasuig  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  all-consuming  fire : 
Ye  racking  doubts !  ye  jei£>us  fears  I 

With  others  wage  internal  war ; 
Repentance,  source  of  future  tears, 

From  me  be  ever  distant  fkr ! 

May  no  distracting  thoughts  destroy 

The  holy  calm  of  sacred  love ! 
May  all  the  hours  be  winged  with  joy. 

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

May  I  with  some  fond  lover  sigh. 
Whose  heart  may  mingle  pure  with  mine— 

With  me  to  live,  with  me  to  die  f 

My  native  soil !  beloved  before^ 

Now  dearer  as  my  peaceful  home, 
Ne'er  may  I  quit  thy  rocky  shore^ 

A  hapless  lNini8h*d  wretch  to  roam ! 
This  very  day,  this  very  hour. 

May  I  resign  this  fleeting  breath ! 
Nor  quit  my  silent  humble  bower ; 

A  doom  to  me  far  worse  than  death. 

Have  I  not  heard  the  exile's  sigl>, 

And  seen  the  exile's  silent  tear 
Through  distant  climes  condemn'd  to  fly, 

A  pensive  weary  wanderer  here  ? 
Ah !  hapless  dame  !  f  no  sire  bewails, 

No  friend  thy  wretched  fate  deplores, 
No  kindred  voice  with  rapture  hails 

Thy  steps  within  a  stranger^s  doors. 

*  Coflieff  m  dUguUe.    Ib  the  first  editioBs.  eom*$t  in  genUe  gmte. 
t  Medea,  wbo  acoompanied  Jason  to  Cerinth,  was  deserted  by  him  ibrtfae- 
teller  of  Craon,  king  of  thai  dty.    The  chonu,  fkom  which  this  ia  taken 


81d  HOUBS  OF  IDLBITBM. 


Perish  the  fiend  whose  iron  heart. 

To  fair  affection's  truth  unknown. 
Bids  her  he  fondly  loved  depart, 

Unpitied,  helpless,  and  alone  ; 
Who  ne'er  unlocks  with  silver  key  * 

The  milder  treasures  of  his  soul,  -— 
May  such  a  friend  be  far  from  me. 

And  ocean's  storms  between  us  roll ! 


here  tddraaei  Medea ;  though  a  oonsideraUe  liberty  is  taken  with  the  original* 
by  eipgaading  the  idea,  aa  also  in  some  other  parts  of  the  trandation. 

*  The  original  is  **  KaBapiit  drol^avrt  xAg^a  (pp€vu¥ ; "  literally,  ^^diBcloaii^  the 
bright  key  of  the  mind.*' 


FUGITIVE    PIECES. 


R0US8  OF  IDLBlfSH.  815 

THOUGHTS 

■UOOBSTXD  IT  A  COLLEOK  KXAXINATION.^ 

High  in  the  midst,  surrounded  by  his  peers, 
Maonits  his  ample  front  sublime  uprears  : 
Placed  on  his  chair  of  state,  he  seems  a  ^od, 
While  Sophs  and  Freshmen  tremble  at  hts  nod 
As  all  around  sit  wrapt  in  speechless  gloom, 
His  voice  in  thunder  sbakes  the  sounding  dome ; 
Denouncing  dire  reproach  to  luckless  fools, 
UnskillM  to  plod  in  mathematic  rules. 

Happy  the  youth  in  Euclid's  axioms  tried, 
Though  little  versed  in  any  art  beside ; 
Who,  scarcely  skill'd  an  English  line  to  pen» 
Scans  Attic  metres  with  a  critic's  ken. 
What,  though  he  knows  not  how  his  fathers  bled, 
When  civil  discord  piled  the  fields  with  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 ; 
Can  tell  what  edicts  sage  Lycurgus  made. 
While  Blackstone  's  on  the  shelf  neglected  laid ; 
Of  Grecian  dramas  vaunts  the  deathless  fame, 
Of  Avon's  bard  remembering  scarce  the  name. 

Such  is  the  youth  whose  scientific  pate 
Class-honoutSy  medals,  fellowships,  await ; 
Or  even,  perhaps,  the  declamation  prize, 
If  to  such  glorious  height  he  lifts  his  eyes. 
But  lo !  no  common  orator  can  hope 
The  envied  silver  cup  within  his  scope. 
Not  that  our  heads  much  eloquence  require, 
Th'  Athbniaiv's  glowing  style,  or  Tully's  fire. 
A  manner  clear  or  warm  is  usele^,  since 
We  do  not  try  by  speaking  to  convince. 

*  No  reflection  ii  here  intended  againet  the  person  mentioned  under  the  name 
of  Magnus.  He  ia  merely  repreaented  aa  performing  an  unavoidable  flmcliDn  of 
hia  omce.  Indeed,  auch  an  attempt  oould  onl^  recoil  upon  myself;  as  that 
gentleman  is  now  aa  much  distinguished  by  hia  eloouence,  and  the*  dignified 
propriety  with  which  he  fills  his  situation,  as  be  waa  in  nis  younger  days  lor  wit 
anaconviviality. 

The  above  note  waa  added  in  the  first  edition  of  the  Hours  ofldieness. 


816  BOimS   OF  IDLBNBSa. 

Be  other  orators  of  pleasing  proud : 
We  speak  to  please  oarselves,  not  move  the  crowd 
Our  gravity  prefers  the  muttering  tone, 
A  proper  mixture  of  the  squeak  and  groan : 
No  borrowed  grace  of  action  must  be  seen, 
The  slightest  motion  would  displease  the  Dean ; 
Whilst  every  staring  graduate  would  prate 
Against  what  he  could  never  imitate. 

The  man  who  hopes  t'  obtain  the  promised  cup 
Must  in  one  posture  stand,  and  ne'er  look  up : 
Nor  stop,  but  rattle  over  every  word  — 
No  matter  what,  so  it  can  not  be  heard. 
Thus  let  him  hurry  on,  nor  think  to  rest : 
Who  speaks  the  fastest 's  sure  to  speak  the  best ; 
Who  utters  most  within  the  shortest  space 
May  safely  hope  to  win  the  wordy  race. 

The  sons  of  science  these,  who,«thu8  repaid, 
Linger  in  ease  in  Granta's  sluggish  shade ; 
Where  on  Cam's  sedgy  banks  supine  they  lie 
Unknown,  unhonour'd  live,  unwept- for  die  : 
Dull  as  the  pictures  which  adorn  their  halls. 
They  think  all  learning  fix'd  within  their  walls 
In  manners  rude,  in  foolish  forms  precise, 
All  modem  arts  affecting  to  despise ; 
Yet  prizing  Bbiitlet's,  *  Bsunck's,  or  Pobsoiv's  *  note. 
More  than  tlie  verse  on  which  the  critic  wrote : 
Vain  as  their  honours,  heavy  as  their  ale,  % 
Sad  as  their  wit,  and  tedious  as  their  tale ; 
To  friendship  dead,  though  not  untaught  to  feel 
When  Self  and  Church  demand  a  bigot  zeal. 
With  eager  haste  they  court  the  lord  of  power, 
Whether  't  is  Pitt  or  Pbttt  rules  the  hour ;  § 
To  him,  with  suppliant  smiles,  they  bend  the  head, 
While  distant  mitres  to  their  eyes  are  spread.  || 

*  Celebrated  orities. 

t  The  present  Greek  professor  at  Trinitjr  CoHegef  Cambridge ;  a  man  whose 
powers  or  mind  and  writings  maj^  perhaps,  justify  their  preferenoe. 

The  concloding  clause  of  the  foregoing  note  was  added  in  the  first  edition  of 
Hburs  of  Idleness. 

X  Vm  09  their  Aonourv,  dec. — The  (bur  ensuing  lines  were  inserted  in  the 
saoond  edition  of  Hours  of  idleness. 

%  Since  this  was  written.  Lord  H.  Petty  has  lost  his  place,  and  subeequenUy 
(I  had  almost  said  cmtequmdy)  the  honour  of  representing  the  Univeinty.  A 
fact  so  glaring  requires  no  comment. 

n  WkHe  diatant  mtres^  &e.  In  the  private  volume,  WhUe  mitrttf  prebendif  (o 
tkoT  eyet  one  tpread. 


H01TB8  OP  IDLSlfSSS. 

But  should  a  stonn  o'erwhelm  him  with  disgrace, 
They  'd  fly  to  seek  the  next  who  fill'd  his  ^ace. 
Such  are  the  men  who  learning's  treasures  guard 
Such  is  their  practice,  such  is  their  reward  ! 
This  much,  at  least,  we  may  presume  to  say. — 
The  premium  can't  exceed  the  price  they  pay. 


817 


1806. 


TO  THE  EARL  OP- 


**Ta  semper  amoris 
8ii  memor,  et  can  comitiB  ne  absoedat  imago.'* 

Vaierhu  Flaccui. 

FuEin)  of  my  youth  !  when  young  we  roved. 
Like  striplings  mutually  beloved 

With  friendship's  purest  glow. 
The  bliss  which  wing'd  those  rosy  hours 
Was  such  as  pleasure  seldom  showers 

On  mortals  here  below. 

The  recollection  seems  alone 
Dearer  than  all  the  joys  I  've  known 

When  distant  far  from  you  : 
Though  pain,  't  is  still  a  pleasing  pam. 
To  trace  those  days  and  hours  again. 

And  sigh  again  adieu  ! 

My  pensive  memory  lingers  o  er 
Those  scenes  to  be  enjoy'd  no  more. 

Those  scenes  regretted  ever  i 
The  measure  of  our  youth  is  full. 
Life's  evening  dream  is  dark  and  dull, 

And  we  may  meet  —  ah !  never  !• 

As  when  one  parent  spring  supplies 

Two  streams  which  from  one  fountain  rise. 

Together  join'd  in  vain ; 
How  soon,  diverging  from  their  source. 
Each,  murmuring,  seeks  another  course. 

Till  mingled  in  the  main ! 

*  These  stanzas  were  first  published  in  the  second  edition  of  Hbuis  of  Idl» 


818'  HOUXS  OP  iPLSHSiS. 

Our  vital  streams  of  weal  or  woe. 
Though  near,  alas !  distinotly  flow, 

Nor  mingle  as  before : 
Now  swift  or  slow,  now  black  or  clear, 
Till  death's  unfathom'd  gulf  appear, 

And  both  shall  quit  the  shore. 

Our  souls,  my  friend  !  which  once  supplied 
One  wish,  nor  breathed  a  thought  beside, 

Now  flow  in  different  channels : 
Disdaining  humbler  rural  sports, 
T  is  yours  to  mix  in  polish'd  courts. 

And  shine  in  fashion's  annals  ; 

'T  is  mine  to  waste  on  love  my  timet 
Or  vent  my  reveries  in  rhyme,  • 

Without  the  aid  of  reason  ; 
For  sense  and  reason  (critics  know  it) 
Have  quitted  every  amorous  poet. 

Nor  lefl  a  thought  to  seize  on. 

Poor  LiTTLB !  sweet,  melodious  bard ! 
Of  late  esteem'd  it  monstrous  hard 
.  That  he,  who  sang  before  all,  — 
He  who  the  lore  of  love  expanded,— 
fiy  dire  reviewers  should  be  branded 
As  void  of  wit  and  moral.  * 

And  yet,  while  Beauty's  praise  is  thine, 
Harmonious  favourite  of  the  Nine ! 
'  Repine  not  at  thy  lot. 
Thy  soothing  lays  may  still  be  read, 
When  Persecution's  arm  is  dead. 
And  critics  are  forgot. 

43till  I  must  yield  those  worthies  merit. 
Who  chasten,  vrith  unsparing  spirit. 

Bad  rhymes,  and  those  who  write  them  ; 
And  though  myself  may  be  the  next 
By  critic  sarcasm  to  be  vext, 

I  really  will  not  fight  them,  f 

*  These  •taniaa  were  written  aoon  after  the  apoearaDce  of  a  severe  critique, 
*ia  a  northern  review,  on  a  new  publication  of  the  Britiah  Anacreon. 

t  A  bard  (horresco  referens)  defied  his  reviewer  to  rabrtal  combat  If  this 
•example  becomes  prevalent,  our  periodical  censors  must  be  dipped  in  the  hvrr 
Styx ;  lor  what  else  can  secure  tnem  from  the  numerous  host  of  their  em^gcd 


I 


aOVMB  OF  IDLniMS. 

Perhaps  they  would  do  quite  as  well 
To  break  the  rudely  sounding  shell 

Of  such  a  young  beginner. 
He  who  offends  at  pert  nineteen, 
Ere  thirty  may  become,  I  ween, 

A  very  harden'd  sinner. 

Now, >  I  must  return  to  you ; 

And,  sure,  apologies  are  due : 

Accept,,  then,  my  concession. 

In  truth,  dear ,  in  fancy's  flight 

I  soar  along  from  lef^  to  right ; 

My  muse  admires  digression. 

1  think  I  said  't  would  be  your  fate 
To  add  one  star  to  royal  state  ; — 

May  regal  smiles  attend  you ! 
And  should  a  noble  monarch  reign. 
You  will  not  seek  his  smiles  in  vain, 

If  worth  can  recommend  you. 

Yet  since  in  danger  courts  abound, 
Where  specious  rivals  glitter  round, 

From  snares  may  saints  preserve  you^ 
And  grant  your  love  or  firiendship  ne'er 
From  any  claim  a  kindred  care, 

But  those  who  best  deserve  you ! 

Not  for  a  moment  may^you  stray 
From  truth's  secure,  unerring  way ! 

May  no  delights  decoy ! 
O'er  roses  may  your  footsteps  move, 
Your  qpiiles  be  ever  smiles  of  love, 

Your  tears  be  tears  of  joy  *! 

Oh !  if  you  wish  that  happiness 

Your  coming  days  and  years  may  bless, 

And  virtues  crown  your  brow ; 
Be  still  as  you  were  wont  to  be. 
Spotless  as  you  've  been  known  to  mo,  — 

Be  still  as  you  are  now« 

And  though  some  trifling  share  of  praise« 
To  cheer  my  last  declining  days, 

To  mo  were  doubly  dear ; 
Whilst  blessing  your  beloved  name, 
I  'd  wave  at  once  a  poet^s  fame. 

To  prove  a  prophet  here^ 


319 


820  HOTO   or  IDUHBSB. 


ANSWER  TO  SOME  ELEGANT  VERSES  SKNT  BY  A  FRIEND 
TO  THE  AUTHOR,  COMPLAINING  THAT  ONE  OP  HIS 
DESCRIPTIONS  WAS  RATHER  TOO  WARMLY  DRAWN.* 

**  Bat  if  any  old  lady,  knight,  prieit,  or  physician, 
Should  condemn  me  for  printing  a  secodid  edition; 
If  good  Madam  Sqnintum  my  work  should  abnie, 
May  I  venture  to  give  her  a  smack  of  my  muse  ?  " 

Aiurtey's  New  BaA  Guide,  p.  169. 

Caxdoits  compels  me,  Bbcher  !  to  commend 
The  verse  which  blends  the  censor  with  the  friend. 
Your  strong  yet  just  reproof  extorts  applause 
From  me,  the  heedless  and  imprudent  f  cause. 
From  this  wild  :J:  error  which  pervades  my  strain, 
I  sue  for  pardon,  —  must  I  sue  in  vain  ? 
The  wise  sometimes  from  Wisdom's  ways  depart : 
Can  youth  then  hush  the  dictates  of  the  heart  ? 
Precepts  of  prudence  curb,  but  can't  control, 
The  fierce  emotions  of  the  flowing  soul. 
When  Love's  delirium  haunts  the  glowing  mind. 
Limping  Decorum  lingers  far  behind : 
Vainly  the  dotard  mends  her  prudish  pace, 
Outstript  and  vanquish'd  in  the  mental  chase. 
The  young,  the  old,  have  worn  the  chains  of  love  : 
Let  those  they  ne'er  confined  my  lay  reprove : 
Let  those  whose  souls  contemn  the  pleasing  power 
Their  censures  on  the  hapless  victim  shower. 
Oh  !  how  I  hate  the  nerveless,  frigid  song, 
The  ceaseless  echo  of  the  rhyming  throng, 
Whose  labour 'd  lines  in  chilling  numbers  flow, 
To  paint  a  pang  the  author  ne'er  can  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  breast  is  void  of  guile. 
Whose  wishes  dimple  in  a  modest  smile. 
Whose  downcast  eye  disdains  the  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. 

*  These  lines  were  printed  in  the  private  volume,  and  in  the  first  edition  of 
Hours  of  Idleness,  hut  afterwards  omitted, 
t  ImprudenL    In  the  private  volume,  unworthy. 
X  WUd.    Private  volume,  sole. 


ROTO   OF  IDLBUBM.  821 

But  for  the  nymph  whose  premature  desires 
Torment  her  bosom  with  unholy  fires, 
No  net  to  snare  her  willing  heart  is  spread ; 
She  would  have  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  the  childish  verse,  and  not  destroy 
The  light  efRisions  of  a  heedless  boy. 
I  seek  not  glory  from  the  senseless  crowd  ; 
Of  fancied  laurels  I  shall  ne'er  be  proud  : 
Their  warmest  plaudits  I  would  scarcely  prize. 
Their  sneers  or  censures  I  alike  despise. 

NaTemfa«rS6,180& 


GRANT  A. 


A  MKDLKT. 
"  Ap^^ais  \6yxatet  ndx^v  koI  iripra  Kfiarlicats  ;**  * 

Oh  !  could  Lb  Sage's  f  demon's  gifl 

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

To  place  it  on  St.  Mary's  spire. 

Then  would,  unroofd,  old  Granta's  halls 

Pedantic  inmates  full  display  ; 
Fellows  who  dream  on  lawn  or  stalls^ 

The  price  of  venal  votes  to  pay. 

Then  would  I  view  each  rival  wight, 

Petty  and  Palmerston  survey  ; 
Who  canvass  there  with  all  their  might, 

Against  the  next  elective  day. 

Lo !  candidates  and  voters  lie  i 
All  luU'd  in  sleep,  a  goodly  number  : 

A  race  renown'd  for  piety. 

Whose  conscience  won't  disturb  their  slumber. 

*  The  motto  was  Dot  given  in  the  private  volume. 

t  The  Diable  Boitenx  of  Le  Sage,  where  Aimodena,  the  demon,  places  Don 
Cleofiu  on  an  elevated  situation,  and  unrooia  the  houses  for  mspection. 

X  Lo!  candidatet  and  voten  lie,  Ac.    The  fourth  and  fifth  stanzas,  which  are 
given  here  as  they  were  printed  in  the  Hours  of  Idleness,  ran  as  foDows  in  the 
private  volume :  — 
VOL.  V. Y 


SS8  BouBi  OF  mMSfmm* 

Lord  H ,  indeed,  may  not  demnr; 

Fellows  are  sage  reflecting  men : 
They  know  preferment  can  occur 

Bat  very  seldom,  —  now  and  then. 

They  know  the  Chancellor  has  got 

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

And  therefore  smiles  on  his  proposaL 

Now  from  the  soporific  scene  * 
1 11  turn  my  eye,  as  night  grows  later, 

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

There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp. 

The  candidate  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp  ; 

Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 

He  surely  well  deserves  to  gain  them, 

With  all  the  honours  of  his  college, 
Who,  striving  hardly  to  obtain  them. 

Thus  seeks  unprofitable  knowledge : 

Who  sacrifices  hours  of  rest 

To  scan  precisely  metres  attic ; 
Or  agitates  his  anidous  breast 

In  solving  problems  mathematic : 

Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Seale,t 

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

In  barbarous  Latin  X  doom'd  to  wrangle : 

**  One  on  hit  power  and  place  depends. 
The  other  on  —  the  Lord  knows  wnat ! 
Each  to  Bome  eloquence  pretends, 

Thooffh  neither  will  conyince  by  that 
"  The  mvt,  indeed,  may  not  demur." 

*  Brom  ike  Moperifie  scene.    In  the  private  volume,  Erom  compHm't  ttkmulett 


t  Sealers  pfuhfication  on  Greek  ^Metres  displays  considerable  talent  and  ix)genii« 
ity,  but,  as  might  be  expected  in  so  difficult  a  work,  is  not  remarkable  for  accu- 
racy. 

In  the  private  volume,  **  Seale's  publication  on  Greek  Metres  ia  not  remarkable 
for  its  accuracy." 

LThe  Latin  of  the  schools  is  of  the  canine  speeiet,  and  not  very  intelligible, 
k  the  private  volume,  "Every  Cambridge  man  vritt  assent  to  this ^ The 
Latin  of  the  schools  is  aliiMM  unintelligible.'* 


BOVKS   OF  IBLSlfSSf.  888 

Renouncing  every  pleamng  page 

From  aathors  of  historic  use ; 
PreferriDg  to  the  letter'd  sage, 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse.'^ 

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

Compared  with  other  recreations, 
Which  bring  together  the  imprudent ; 

Whose  daring  revels  shocks  the  ^ight, 

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

As  every  sense  is  steep'd  in  wine. 

Not  so  the  methodistic  crew. 

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

And  for  the  sins  of  others  pray  : 

Forgetting  that  their  pride  of  spirit, 

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

Of  all  their  boasted  self-denial. 

T  is  mom :  —  horn  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.f 

Loud  rings  in  air  the  chapel  bell ; 

'T  is  hush'd  :  —  what  sounds  are  these  I  hear  7 
The  organ's  soil  celestial  swell 

Rolls  deeply  on  the  listening  ear. 

To  this  is  join'd  the  sacred  song. 
The  royal  minstrel's  hallow'd  strain  ; 

Though  he  who  hears  the  music  long 
Win  never  wish  to  hear  again. 

Oor  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused, 

Even  as  a  band  of  raw  beginners ; 
All  mercy  now  must  be  refused 

To  such  a  set  of  croaking  sinners. 

Tlie  diacoTery  of  Pythagoras,  that  the  square  of  the  hypothenuse  is  equal  to 
cl»a  sqnares  of  the  other  two  sides  of  a  right-angled  triangle. 
-f  On  a  aaint*s  day,  the  stude^s  wear  surplices  in  chapel 


S94  HOUBS  OF  IDLBITBM* 

If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended» 

Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  hiiUy 

To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  descended, — 
In  furious  mood  he  would  have  tore  'em. 

The  luckless  Israelites,  when  taken 

By  some  inhuman  tyrant's  order, 
Were  ask'd  to  sing,  by  joy  forsaken. 

On  Babylonian  river's  border. 

Oh  !  had  they  sung  in  notes  like  these. 

Inspired  by  stratagem  or  fear, 
They  might  have  set  their  hearts  at  ease, 

Tiae  devil  a  soul  had  stay'd  to  hear. 

But  if  I  scribble  longer  *  now. 
The  deuce  a  soul  will  stay  to  read : 

My  pen  is  blunt,  my  ink  is  low ; 
'T  is  almost  time  to  stop,  indeed* 

Therefore,  farewell,  old  Granta's  spires  I 

No  more,  like  Cleofas,  I  fly  ; 
No  more  thy  theme  my  muse  inspires : 

The  reader  's  tired,  and  so  am  I. 

1806 


LACHIN  Y  GAIR.t 


JjikMn  y  Oak,  or,  as  it  s  prononneed  in  the  ESne,  Iiodk  na  Gartf  towen  proudlf 
pre-emiiifint  in  the  Northern  Highlands,  near  Invercauld  One  of  our  modem 
toarista  nientionfl  it  aa  the  highest  mountain,  perhaps,  in  Great  Britain.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  it  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  sublime  and  picturesque  among 
our  **  Caledonian  Alps."  Its  appearance  is  of  a  dusky  hue,  but  the  summit  is 
the  seat  of  eternal  snows.  Near  Lachin  y  Gair  I  spent  some  of  the  eaiiy 
part  of  my  life,  the  recollection  of  which  has  given  birth  lo  the  following 
stanzas. 

AwAT,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses ! 

In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove  ; 
Restore  me  the  rocks,  where  the  snow-flake  reposes. 

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

Round  their  white  summits  though  elements  war ; 
Though  cataracts  foam  'stead  of  smootl|-flowing  fountains, 

I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

*  Jf  IserJUIelof^r^.    In  the  private  Tohane,  {f  J  write  anidk  longer, 
t  Tint  pnfafiahsd  in  Boon  of  Uknen. 


HOVS8   OF   IDLBXE88.  S25 

Ah  !  there  my  young  footsteps  in  infancy  wander'd ; 

My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the  plaid ;  * 
On  chieflains  long  perish'd  my  memory  ponder'd, 

As  daily  I  strode  through  the  pine-cover'd  glade  i 
I  sought  not  my  home  till  the  day's  dying  glory 

Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar  star ; 
For  fancy  was  cheer'd  by  traditional  story, 

Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

^  Shades  of  the  dead !  have  I  not  heard  your  voices 

Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the  gale  ?  " 
Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 

And  rides  on  the  wind,  o'er  his  own  Highland  vale. 
Round  Loch  na  Garr  while  the  stormy  mist  gathers. 

Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car : 
Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my  fathers  ; 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

^  111  starr'dyf  though  brave,  did  no  visions  foreboding 

Tell  you  that  fate  had  forsaken  your  cause  ?  " 
Ah  !  were  you  destined  to  die  at  €ulloden,:|: 

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

You  rest  with  your  clan  in  the  caves  of  Braemar  ;  § 
The  pibroch  ||  resounds,  to  the  piper's  loud  number, 

Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

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

Years  must  elapse  ere  I  tread  you  again  : 
Nature  of  verdure  and  flow'rs  has  bereft  you, 

Ifet  still  are  you  dearer  than  Albion's  plain. 
£ngland !  thy  beauties  are  tame  and  domestic 

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

The  steep  frowning  glories  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr  ! 

"*  This  word  is  erroneously  pronounced  plod ;  the  proper  pronmicialion  (ac- 
eording  to  the  Scotch)  is  shown  by  the  orthography. 

t  I  allude  here  to  my  maternal  ancestors,  " the  GordonSy*  many  of  whom* 
fought  for  the  unfortunate  Prince  Charles,  better  known  by  the  name  of  the  Pre- 
tender. This  branch  was  nearly  allied  by  blood,  as  well  as  attachment,  to  the 
8tuart8.  George,  the  second  Earl  of  Huntley,  married  the  Princess  Annabel  in 
Stuart,  daughter  of  James  the  First  of  Scotland.  By  her  he  left  four  sons  :  the 
third,  Sir  Williara  Gordon,  I  have  the  honour  to  clainr  as  one  of  my  progenitors. , 

t  Whether  any  perished  in  the  battle  of  Culloden,  I  am  not  certain  ;  but,  m 
many  fell  in  the  msurrection,  I  have  used  the  name  of  the  principal  action,  '^  pani 
pro  toto." 

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

11  The  bagpipe. 


326  H0VB8   OF  I1>LBl«a88. 


TO  ROMANCE.* 

Pasbjit  of  golden  dreams,  lUmiaiice ! 

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  br^  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. 

Whose  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  Pylades  f  in  every  friend  ? 
But  leave  at  once  thy  realms  of  air 

To  mingling  bands  of  fairy  elves  ; 
Confess  that  woman  's  false  as  fair. 

And  friends  have  feeling  for  —  themselves? 

With  shame  I  own  I  've  felt  thy  sway  ; 

Repentant,  now  thy  reign  is  o*er : 
No  more  thy  precepts  I  obey. 

No  more  on  fancied  pinions  soar. 
Fond  fool !  to  love  a  sparkling  eye. 

And  think  that  eye  to  truth  was  dear ; 
To  trust  a  passing  wanton's  sigh, 

And  melt  beneath  a  wanton's  tear ! 

*  First  published  in  the  Hoots  of  Idleness. 

t  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add,  that  Pylades  was  the  companion  of  Orestes, 
and  a  partner  in  one  of  those  friendships  which,  with  those  of  Achilles  and 
Patroclus,  Nisns  and  Euryalus,  Damon  and  Pythias,  have  been  handed  down  to 
posterity  as  remarkable  instances  of  attachmento,  wliich  in  all  probability  never 
existed  beyond  the  imagination  of  the  poet,  or  the  page  of  an  historian  or  modem 
novelist. 


HOUBi   OF   IDLKNSM.  997 

Romance !  disgusted  with  deceit, 

Far  from  thy  motley  court  I  fly 
Where  Affectation  holds  her  seat. 

And  sickly  Sensibility ; 
Whose  silly  tears  can  never  flow 

For  any  pangs  excepting  thine ; 
Who  tunv  aside  from  real  woe. 

To  steep  in  dew  thy  gaudy  shrine 

Now  join  with  sable  Sympathy, 

With  cypress  crown'd,  array'd  in  weeos, 
Who  heaves  with  thee  her  simple  sigh, 

Whose  breast  for  every  bosom  bleeds ; 
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 

On  all  occasions  swiAly  flow  ; 
Whose  bosoms  heave  with  fancied  fears. 

With  fancied  flames  and  phrensy  glow , 
Say,  will  you  mourn  my  absent  name. 

Apostate  from  your  gentle  train? 
An  infant  bard  at  least  may  claim 

From  you  a  sympathetic  strain. 

Adieu,  fond  race !  a  long  adieu  ! 

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

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

Convulsed  by  gales  you  cannot  weather ; 
Where  you,  and  eke  your  gentle  queen, 

Alas  !  must  perish  altogether. 


tS8  H0VB8   OF  IDI.I1IB8S. 


ELEGY  ON  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY.  • 

*'It  ia  the  ^oice  of  yeen  that  tre  gone !  they  loQ  before  me  with  tD 
deedi."t  — Omiow. 

Newstead  !  fast- falling,  once-resplendent  dome ! 

Religion's  shrine !  repentant  Henby's  :]:  pride ! 
Of  warriors,  monks,  and  dames  the  cloister'd  tomb, 

Whose  pensive  shades  around  thy  ruins  glide. 

Hail  to  thy  pile !  more  honour'd  in  thy  fall 
Than  modem  mansions  in  their  pillar'd  state ; 

Proudly  majestic  frowns  thy  vaulted  hall, 
Scowling  defiance  on  the  blasts  of  fate. 

No  mail-clad  serfs,  §  obedient  to  their  lord, 
•  In  grim  array  the  crimson  cross  ||  demand ; 
Or  gay  assemble  round  the  festive  board 
Their  chiePs  retainers,  an  immortal  band  : 

Else  might  inspiring  Fancy's  magic  eye 

Retrace  their  progress  through  the  lapse  of  time, 

Marking  each  ardent  youth,  ordain'd  to  die, 
A  votive  pilgrim  in  Judea's  clime. 

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

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

Retiring  from  the  garish  blaze  of  day. 

Yes  !  in  thy  gloomy  cells  and  shades  profound 
The  monk  abjured  a  world  he  ne'er  could  view ; 

Or  blood-stain'd  guilt  repenting  solace  found. 
Or  innocence  from  stem  Oppression  flew. 

*  As  one  poem  on  this  subject  is  printed  in  the  beginning,  the  author  had, 
originally^  no  intention  of  inserting  the  following.  It  is  now  added  at  the  pei^ 
ticular  request  of  some  friends.    See  page  245. 

t  The  motto  was  not  given  in  the  private  volume. 

X  Henry  IL  founded  Newstead  soon  after  the  murder  of  Thomas  a  Becket. 

^  This  word  is  used  by  Walter  Scott,  in  his  poem,  "  The  Wild  Huntamaa:** 
synonymous  with  vassal. 

II  The  red  oross  was  the  badge  of  the  crusaders. 


HOUSS   OF  It>LBIfB88. 


329 


A  monarch  bade  thee  from  that  wild  arise, 

Where  Sherwood's  outlaws  once  were  wont  to  browl ; 

And  Superstition's  crimes,  of  various  dyes, 
Sought  shelter  in  the  priest's  protecting  cowl. 

Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew. 
The  humid  pall  of  life-extinguish'd  clay. 

In  sainted  fame  the  sacred  fathers  grew, 
Nor  raised  their  pious  voices  but  to  pray. 

Where  now  the  bats  their  wavering  wings  extend 
Soon  as  the  gloaming  *  spreads  her  waning  shade,  *( 

The  choir  did  oft  their  mingling  vespers  blend. 
Or  matin  orisons  to  Mary  X  paid. 

Years  roll  on  years  ,  to  ages,  ages  yield  ; 

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

Till  royal  sacrilege  their  doom  decreed. 

One  holy  Henr\  reared  the  Gothic  walls. 
And  bade  the  pious  inmates  rest  in  peace ; 

Another  Henry  §  the  kind  gifl  recalls, 
And  bids  devotion's  hallow'd  echoes  cease. 

Vain  is  each  threat  or  supplicating  prayer ; 

He  drives  them  exiles  from  their  blest  abode, 
To  roam  a  dreary  world  hi  deep  despair  — 

No  friend,  no  home,  no  refuge,  but  their  God 

Hark  how  the  hall,  resounding  to  the  strain. 
Shakes  with  the  martial  music's  novel  din  * 

The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign, 
High  crested  banners  wave  thy  walls  within. 

Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum, 

The  mirth  of  feasts,  the  clang  of  burnish'd  arms. 

The  braying  trumpet  and  the  hoarser  drum, 
Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms. 


"  As  **  gloaming/*  the  Scottish  word  for  twilight,  is  far  more  poetical,  and  hat 
been  recommended  by  many  eminent  literary  men,  particularly  by  Dr.  Moore 
in  his  Letters  to  Bums,  I  have  ventured  to  use  it  on  account  of  its  harmony. 

t  Gloaming  tpreadg  htrvsaning  shade.    In  the  private  volume,  TwQigkt  wind$ 

t  The  priory  was  dedicated  to  the  Virgin. 

^  At  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries  Henry  Vm.  bestowed  Newsteod 
Abbey  on  Sir  John  Byron. 


no  HOims  OF  XPUHfSM. 

An  abbey  ODce»  a  regal  fortress  *  now. 

Encircled  by  insulting  rebel  powers. 
War's  dread  macbines  o'erbang  thy  threateniiig  hfow, 

And  dart  destruction  in  sulphureous  showers. 

Ah  vain  defence !  the  hostile  traitor's  nege. 
Though  oft  repulsed,  by  guile  o'ercomes  the  brave ;   # 

His  thronging  foes  oppress  the  faithful  liege, 

Rebellion's  reeking  standards  o'er  him  wave.  • 

Not  unavenged  the  raging  baron  yields  ; 

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

And  days  of  glory  yet  for  him  remain. 

Still  in  that  hour  the  warrior  wish'd  to  strew 
Self-gather'd  laureb  on  a  self-sought  grave ; 

But  Charles'  protecting  genius  hither  flew, 

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

Trembling,  she  snatched  him  f  from  th'  unequal  strife. 

In  other  fields  the  torrent  to  repel ; 
For  nobler  combats,  here,  reserved  his  life, 

To  lead  the  band  where  godlike  Falkland  1^  fell. 

From  thee,  poor  pile !  to  lawless  plunder  given, 
Where  dying  groans  their  painful  requiem  sound. 

Far  different  incense  now  ascends  to  heaven. 
Such  victims  wallow  on  the  gory  ground. 

There  many  a  pale  and  ruthless  robber's  corse. 
Noisome  and  ghast,  defiles  thy  sacred  sod  ; 

O'er  mingling  man,  and  horse  commix'd  with  horse^ 
Corruption's  heap,  the  savage  spoilers  trod. 

Graves,  long  with  rank  and  sighing  weeds  o'erspread, 
Ransack'd,  resign  perforce  their  mortal  mould  : 

From  rufiian  fangs  escape  not  e'en  the  dead, 
Raked  from  repose  in  search  for  buried  ^old. 

*  Newstead  sastained  a  considerable  siege  in  the  war  between  Charies  I.  and 
his  parliament. 

t  Lord  Byron,  and  his  brother  Sir  Wniiam,held  high  commmd  in  the  royal 
army :  the  n>rmer  was  general  in  chief  in  Ireland,  lieutenant  of  die  Tower,  and 

Kvemor  to  James,  Duke  of  York,  afterwards  the  unhappy  James  H. ;  the  latter 
d  a  principal  share  in  many  actions. — Vide  Clarendon,  Hume,  Ac 
I  Lucius  Gary,  Lord  Viscount  Falkland,  the  most  acoompfished  man  of  hie 
age,  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Newbury,  chaiging  in  the  imnu  of  Lord  ByroD'a 
regiment  of  cavalry. 


HOUBfl   OV   IDLSNS88.  381 

HushM  is  the  harp,  unstrung  the  warlike  lyre, 
The  minstrel's  palsied  hand  reclines  in  death  ; 

No  more  he  strikes  the  quivering  chords  with  fire. 
Or  sings  the  glories  of  the  martial  *  wreath. 

At  length  the  sated  murderers,  gorged  with  prey. 

Retire  ;  the  clamour  of  the  ^ht  is  o'er  ; 
Silence  again  resumes  her  awful  sway. 

And  sable  Horror  f  guards  the  massy  door. 

Here  Desolation  holds  her  dreary  coi^t : 
What  satellites  declare  her  dismal  reign  ! 

Shrieking  their  dirge,  ill-omened  birds  resort. 
To  flit  their  vigils  in  the  hoary  fane. 

Soon  a  new  mom's  restoring  beams  dispel 
The  clouds  of  anarchy  from  Britain's  skies  ; 

The  fierce  usurper  seeks  his  native  heU, 
And  Nature  triumphs  as  the  tyrant  dies. 

With  storms  she  welcomes  his  expiring  groans ; 

Whirlwinds,  responsive,  greet  his  labouring  breath ; 
Earth  shudders  as  her  caves  receive  his  bones, 

Loathing  X  the  offering  of  so  dark  a  death. 

The  legal  ruler  §  now  resumes  the  helm, 

He  guides  through  gentle  seas  the  prow  of  state ; 

Hope  cheers,  with  wonted  smiles,  the  peaceful  reahn, 
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. 

*  Martial.    The  private  Tolnme  reads  laureffd, 

t  StMe  Horror.    In  the  private  volume,  Horror  ttaOdng. 

I  This  is  an  historical  fact  A  violent  tempest  occurred  immediately  subse- 
quent to  the  death  or  interment  of  Cromwell,  whica  occasioned  many  disputes 
between  his  partisans  and  the  cavaliers :  both  interpreted  the  circumstance  into 
divine  interposition;  but  whether  as  approbation  or  condemnation,  we  leave  to 
the  casuisto  of  that  age  to  decide.'  I  have  made  such  use  of  the  occurrence  as 
suited  the  subject  of  my  ] 

^  Chariesa 


t83  HOUBS   OF  IDUUfSM* 

A  thousand  songs  on  tuneful  echo  float. 
Unwonted  foliage  mantles  o'er  the  trees  ; 

And  hark  !  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,  attend  the  chase ! 
The  dying  stag  seeks  refuge  in  the  Lake  ; 

Exulting  shouts  announce  the  finished  race. 

Ah  happy  days  !  too  happy  to  endure ! 

Such  simple  sports  our  plain  forefathers  knew : 
No  splendid  vices  glittered  to  allure ; 

Their  jojrs  were  many,  as  their  cares  were  few. 

From  these  descending,  sons  to  sires  succeed ; 

Time  steals  along,  and  Death  uproars  his  dart , 
Another  chief  impels  the  foaming  steed. 

Another  crowd  pursue  the  panting  hart. 

Newstead  !  what  saddening  change  of  scene  is  thine !     • 
Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  slow  decay ; 

The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line 

Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  in  his  sway. 

Deserted  now,  he  scans  thy  gray  worn  towers 
Thy  vaults,  where  dead  of  feudal  ages  sleep ; 

Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry,  showers ; 
These,  these  he  views,  and  views  them  but  to  weep. 

Yet  are  his  tears  no  emblem  of  regret : 
Cherish'd  affection  only  bids  them  flow. 

Pride,  hope,  and  love,  forbid  him  to  forget, 
But  warm  his  bosom  with  impassion'd  glow. 

Yet  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes 

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

Nor  breathes  a  murmur  'gainst  the  will  of  fate. 

Haply  thy  sun,  emerging,  yet  may  shine, 

Thee  to  irradiate  with  meridian  ray  ; 
Hours  splendid  as  the  past  may  still  be  thine,'*' 

And  bless  thy  future  as  thy  former  day. 

*  flours  iplendid^  &c.    In  the  private  volume  and  the  first  editbn  of  Hoon  of 
"         ,  the  stanza  ended  with  the  following  lines : 

**  Fortune  may  smile  upon  a  future  line, 
And  Heaven  restore  an  ever-cloudless  day." 


i 


HpUSS   OF   IDLBNS88, 


888 


ON  A  CHANGE  OP  MASTERS  AT  A  GREAT  PUBUC 
SCHOOL.  ♦ 

Where  are  those  honours,  Ida  ?  once  your  own, 
When  Probus  f  fill'd  your  magisterial  throne  ? 
As  ancient  Rome,  fast  falling  to  dis^ace 
Hail'd  a  barbarian  in  her  Caesar's  place. 
So  you,  degenerate,  share  as  hard  a  fate. 
And  seat  Pomposus  X  where  your  Probus  sate, 
Of  narrow  brain,  yet  of  a  narrower  soul, 
Pomposus  holds  you  in  his  harsh  control ; 
Pomposus,  by  no  social  virtue  sway'd. 
With  florid  jargon,  and  with  vain  parade ; 
With  noisy  nonsense,  and  new-fangled  rules, 
Sach  as  were  ne'er  before  enforced  in  schools. 
Mistaking  pedantry  for  learning's  laws. 
He  governs,  sanction'd  but  by  self-applause, 
With  him  the  same  dire  fate  attending  Rome, 
ni-fated  Ida !  soon  must  stamp  your  doom  : 
Like  her  o'erthrown,  for  ever  lost  to  fame. 
No  trace  of  science  left  you,  but  the  name. 

July,  1806 


CHILDISH  RECOLLECTIONS* 

**  I  cannot  but  remember  rach  thingi  were. 
And  were  mott  dear  to  me.*' 

When  slow  Disease,  with  all  her  host  of  pain8,|| 
Chills  the  warm  tide  which  flows  along  the  veins ; 

*  Theae  linei  were  only  pointed  in  the  private  volnme.  Lord  Byron  moit 
■ncerely  regretted  havinff  written  this  and  the  eubtequent  attack  on  Dr.  Butler 
contained  in  the  poem  caUed  Childish  Recollectiona.  A  reconciliation  took  place 
between  them  before  Lord  Byron's  first  departure  for  Greece ;  and  Mr.  Moore 
informs  us  that,  ^  not  content  with  this  private  atonement  to  Dr.  Butler,  it  was 
Lord  Byron's  intention,  had  he  published  another  edition  of  the  Hours  of  Idle- 
ness, to  fulMtitute  for  the  oflTensive  versus  against  that  gentleman,  a  frank  avowal 
of  the  wrong  he  had  been  guilty  of  in  giving  vent  to  themV  --I.i^e  of  Byron, 
ToL  1.  p.  188. 

t  Ptobus,  Dr.  Drury. 

X  Pompoaus,  Dr.  Butler. 

%  This  poem  was  published  in  the  private  volume ;  and  with  many  additions 
and  oorrectioni  in  the  first  edition  of  Hours  of  Idleness ;  but  was  afterwards  sup- 

weed. 
Ib  the  private  vohmie  the  poem  opened  with  the  foUowing  finea : 


884  HOUS8   OF  IDLBNBaS. 

WhBn  Health  affrighted,  spreads  her  rosy  wing, 
And  flies  with  every  changing  gale  of  spring ; 
Not  to  the  aching  frame  alone  confined. 
Unyielding  pangs  assail  the  drooping  mind : 
What  grisly  forms,  the  spectre-train  of  woe, 
Bid  shuddering  Nature  shrink  beneath  the  blow, 
With  Resignation  wage  relentless  strife. 
While  Hope  retires  appall'd,  and  clings  to  life. 
Sfet  less  the  pang  when,  through  the  tedious  hour, 
Remembrance  sheds  around  her  genial  power, 
Calls  back  the  vanish'd  days  to  rapture  given, 
When  love  was  bliss,  and  Beauty  forra'd  our  heaven ; 
Or,  dear  to  youth,  portrays  each  childish  scene, 
Those  fairy  bowers,  where  all  in  turn  have  been. 
As  when  through  clouds  that  pour  the  summer  storm 
The  orb  of  day  unveils  his  distant  form, 
^   Gilds  with  faint  beams  the  crystal  dews  of  rain. 
And  dimly  twinkles  o'er  the  watery  plain ; 
Thus,  while  the  future  dark  and  cheerless  gleams, 
The  sun  of  memory,  glowing  through  my  dreams, 


**  Hence !  thou  mivaryinjr  song  of  varied  loves, 
Which  youth  commenai,  matorer  age  reproves ; 


Which  every  rhyming  bard  repeats  by  rote, 
By  thousands  ecno'd  to  the  self-same  note ! 
T&ed  of  the  duU,  unceasing,  copious  strain, 
My  soul  is  panting  to  be  free  again. 
Farewell !  ye  nymphs  propitious  to  my  verse, 
Some  other  Damon  will  your  charms  rehearse ; 
Some  other  paint  lus  pangs,  in  hope  of  bliss, 
Or  dwell  in  rapture  on  vour  nectar'd  kiss. 
Those  beauties,  grateful  to  my  ardent  sight, 
No  more  entrance  my  senses  m  delight ; 
Those  bosoms,  form'd  of  animated  snow, 
Alike  are  tasteless,  and  unfeeling  now. 
These  to  some  happier  lover  I  resign  — 
The  memory  of  those  joys  alone  is  mine. 
Censure  no  more  shall  brand  my  humble  name. 
The  child  of  passion  and  the  fool  of  fame. 
Weary  of  love,of  Ufe,  devour'd  with  spleen, 
I  rest  a  perfect  Timon,  not  nineteen. 
World !  I  renounce  thee !  all  my  hope 's  overcast ; 
One  sigh  I  give  thee,  but  that  sigh  *s  the  last 
Friends,  foes,  and  females,  now  alike  adieu ! 
Would  I  could  add,  remembrance  of  you  too ! 
Yet  though  the  future  dark  and  cheeness  gleams. 
The  curse  of  memory,  hovering  in  my  dreams, 
DefMCts  with  glowing  ^ncil  all  those  years, 
£re  yet  my  cup,  empoison'd,  fiow'd  with  tears; 
StiU  rules  my  senses  with  tyrannic  sway, 
l^e  past  confounding  with  the  present  day. 

**  Alas !  in  vain  I  check  the  maddening  thon^t ; 
It  still  recurs,  unlook'd  for  and  unsought : 
My  aonl  to  Fancy's,**  Sec  &c,  as  at  Ime  89. 


* 


HOURS   OF  IDLBNBIS. 

Though  sunk  the  radiance  of  his  fomier  blazey 
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,  developed,  crowd  to  view, 
To  which  I  long  have  bade  a  last  adieu  ! 
Seats  of  delight,  inspiring  youthful  themes  ; 
Friends  lost  to  me  for  aye,  except  in  dreams ; 
Some  who  in  marble  prematurely  sleep. 
Whose  forms  I  now  remember  but  to  weep ; 
Some  who  yet  urge  the  same  scholastic  course 
Of  early  science,  future  fame  the  source ; 
Who,  still  contending  in  the  studious  race, 
In  quick  rotation  fill  the  senior  place.  * 

Theae  with  a  thousand  visions  now  unite,  * 
To  dazzle,  though  they  please,  my  aching  sight.  * 

Ida  !  blest  spot,  where  Science  holds  her  reign. 
How  joyous  once  I  join'd  thy  youthful  train  ! 
Bright  in  idea  gleams  thy  lofty  spire. 
Again  I  minde  with  thy  playful  quire  ; 
Our  tricks  of  mischief,  every  childish  game. 
Unchanged  by  time  or  distance,  seem  the  same ; 
Through  winding  paths  along  the  glade,  I  trace 
The  social  smile  of  every  welcome  face ; 
My  wonted  haunts,  my  scenes  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  ; 
Untaught  by  worldly  wisdom  how  ^o  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 ; 

*  Tbe  next  fifty-nz  lioei,  to 

**  Here  fint  remember'd  be  the  joyouf  band," 
were  tdded  in  the  fint  edition  of  Houn  of  Idleneaa. 


886 


836  Hoinn  of  idlehsss. 

No  varnish'd  tales  the  lips  of  youth  repeat. 

No  dear-bought  knowledge  purchased  by  deceit. 

Hypocrisy,  the  gift  of  lengthen'd  years. 

Matured  by  age,  the  garb  of  prudence  wears. 

When  now  the  boy  is  ripen'd  into  man, 

His  careful  sire  chalks  forth  some  wary  plan ; 

Instructs  his  son  from  candour's  path  to  shrink. 

Smoothly  to  speak,  and  cautiously  to  think ; 

Still  to  assent,  and  never  to  deny  — 

A  patron's  praise  can  well  reward  the  lie  : 

And  who,  when  Fortune's  warning  voice  is  heard. 

Would  lose  his  opening  prospects  for  a  word  ? 

Although  against  that  word  his  heart  rebel. 

And  truth,  indignant,  all  his  bosom  swell. 

Away  with  themes  like  this  \  not  mine  the  task 
From  flattering  fiends  to  tear  the  hateful  mask ; 
Let  keener  bards  delight  in  satire's  sting ; 
My  fancy  soars  not  on  Detraction's  wing : 
Once,  and  but  once,  she  aim'd  a  deadly  blow. 
To  hurl  defiance  on  a  secret  foe  ; 
■    But  when  that  foe,  from  feeling  or  from  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,* 
Pomposus'  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, 
'T  is  past,  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  flrst  remember'd  be  the  joyous  band 
Who  hail'd  me  chief,  obedient  to  command  ; 

•  OrifmyfmueapedanfsportraUdrew, 

Pomposua'  virtuea^  ^c. 
Mr.  Moore  informs  us,  that  instead  of  this  passage,  Lord  Byron  moant  to  innrt 
"  If  once  my  muse  »  harsher  portrait  drew. 
Warm  with  her  wrongs,  and  deem'd  the  likeness  true, 
By  cooler  judgment  taught,  her  fault  she  owns,  — 
With  noble  minds  a  fault  confessed,  atones." 

L^e  of  Byron^  vol.  i.  p.  18b. 


H017B8  OF  IDLBiniai.  817 

Who  join'd  with  me  in  every  boyish  sport  — 

Their  first  adviser,  and  their  last  resort , 

Nor  shrunk'  beneath  the  upstart  pedant's  frow 

Or  all  the  sable  glories  of  his  gown  ; 

Who,  thus  transplanted  from  his  father's  school  — 

Unfit  to  govern,  ignorant  of  rule  — 

Succeeded  him,  whom  all  unite  to  praise, 

The  dear  preceptor  of  my  early  days ; 

Probus,  f  the  pride  of  science,  and  the  boast, 

To  Ida  now,  alas  !  for  ever  lost. 

With  him,  for  years,  we  searched  the  classic  page, 

\nd  fear'd  the  master,  though  we  loved  the  sage  : 

Retired  at  last,  his  small  yet  peaceful  seat 

From  learning's  labour  is  the  blest  retreat. 

Pomposus  fills  hifi  magisterial  chair  ;i 

Pomposus  governs,  —  but,  my  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  tribute  is  already  paid.  || 

*  Instead  of  the  present  couplet,  the  private  volaroe  has  the  following  four 
Tines :  — 

"  Careless  to  soothe  the  pednnt's  Airioiis  fVown, 
Scarcely  respecting  his  majestic  gown ; 
By  which,  in  vain,  ne  sain*d  a  borrowed  grace, 
Adding  new  terror  to  his  sneering  face." 
t  This  roost  able  and  excellent  man  retired  from  his  situation  in  March,  1805, 
nfter  having  resided  thirty-five  years  at  Harrow ;  the  last  twenty  as  head-mas- 
ter ;  an  office  he  held  with  equal  honour  to  himself  and  advantage  to  the  very 
extensive  school  over  which  he  presided.  Panegyric  would  here  be  superfluous : 
it  would  be  useless  to  enumerate  qualifications  which  were  never  doubted.    A 
considerable  contest  took  place  between  three  rival  candidates  for  his  vacant 
chair:  of  this  I  can  only  say, 

Si  mea  cum  vestris  valuissent  vota,  Pelasgi ! 
Non  foret  ainbiguus  tanti  certaminis  hsres. 
I  Pomposus  fOls  his  maf(isierial  chair ; 

Pomposus  governs^  &c. 
Had  Lord  Byron  published  another  edition  of  Hours  of  Idleness,  it  was  his  in- 
tention to  give  the  following  turn  to  this  passage : 
**  Another  fills  his  magisterial  chair; 
Reluctant  Ida  owns  a  stranger's  care ; 
Oh  !  may  like  honours  crown  his  future  name, — 
If  such  his  virtues,  such  shall  be  his  fame.*' 

Moore's  Life  ofByron^  vol.  i.  p.  189. 

%  His  namsy  &c.    Instead  of  this  line,  the  private'  volume  reads, 
*'Soon  shall  his  shallow  precepts  be  forgot." 

ii  Hub  alhides  to  a  character  printed  in  a  former  private  edition  for  the  perusal 
of  some  friends,  which,  with  many  other  pieces,  is  withneld  from  the  present 
Tohmie.(*)    To  draw  the  attention  of  the  pubUc  to  insignificance  would  be  de- 

r^  Tlioee  pieces  are  reprinted  in  the  present  edition.    The  character  alladea 
lo  IS  contained  in  the  preceding  poem. 
VOL.  V. — Z 


388  HOUBfl   OF   IDLBNBSft. 

High,  through  those  elms  with  hoary  branches  crownU* 
Fair  Ida's  bower  adorns  the  landscape  roand ; 
There  Science,  from  her  favoured  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  favour'd  haunt  pursue ; 
Repeat  old  pastimes,  and  discover  new ; 
Flush'd  with  his  rays,  beneath  the  noontide  sun 
In  rival  bands,  between  the  wickets  run. 
Drive  o'er  the  sward  the  ball  with  active  force, 
Or  chase  with  nimble  feet  its  rapid  course. 
But  these  with  slower  steps  direct  their  way. 
Where  Brent's  cool  waves  in  limpid  currents  stray ; 
While  yonder  few  search  out  some  gpeen  retreat 
The  arbours  shade  them  from  the  summer  heat : 
Others,  again,  a  pert  and  lively  crew, 
Some  rough  and  thoughtless  stranger  placed  in  view, 
With  frolic  quaint  their  antic  jests  expose. 
And  tease  the  grumbling  rustic  as  he  goes ; 
Nor  rest  with  this,  but  many  a  passing  fray 
Tradition  treasures  for  a  future  day  : 
*'  '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  soub  with  early  passions  swell. 
In  lingering  tones  resounds  the  distant  bell ; 
Th'  aUotted  hour  of  daily  sport  is  o'er, 
And  Learning  beckons  from  her  temple's  door. 
No  splendid  tablets  grace  her  simple  hall, 
But  ruder  records  fill  the  dusky  wall ; 
There,  deeply  carved,  behold  !  each  tyro's  name 
Secures  its  owner's  academic  fame ; 
Here  mingling  view  the  names  of  sire  and  son  — 
The  one  long  graved,  the  other  just  begun  : 


servedly  reprobated ;  and  another  reason,  though  not  of  equal  conneqnencet  mny 
be  given  in  the  following  couplet: 

"  Satire  or  sense,  alas !  can  Sposus  feel  ? 
Who  breaks  a  butterfly  upon  the  wheel  ?  * 

Pops.  —  Prologue  to  Iht  Satira, 

*  The  ensuing  hundred  and  twenty-two  lines,  to 

"  Alonzo,  best  and  dearest  of  my  friends,* 
are  not  found  ui  the  private  volume,  but  were  introduced  in  th^  fint  edition  oi 
Hours  of  Idleness. 


HOURS   or   IDLEITESS* 

These  shall  sunrive  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  lengthened  line  extends. 
Though  still  our  deeds  amuse  the  youthful  race, 
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  pass  the  dreary  winter's  eve  away  — 
'*  And  thus  our  former  rulers  stemm'd  the  tide. 
And  thus  they  dealt  the  combat  side  by  side  ; 
Just  in  this  place  the  mouldering  walls  they  scaled, 
Nor  bolts  nor  bars  against  their  strength  avail'd ; 
Here  Probus  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  Pomposus  bravely,  staid  at  home ;  "— 
While  thus  they  speak,  the  hour  must  soon  arrive, 
Wlien  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  more, 
One  last  long  look  on  what  we  were  before  — 
Our  first  kind  greetings,  and  our  last  adieu  — 
Drew  tears  from  eyes  unused  to  weep  with  you. 
Through  splendid  circles,  fashion's  gaudy  world. 
Where  folly's  glaring  standard  waves  unfurl'd, 
I  plunged  to  drown  in  noise  my  fond  regret, 
And  all  I  sought  or  hoped  was  to  forget. 
Vain  wish !  if  chance  some  well-remembcr'd  face, 
Some  old  companion  of  my  early  race, 
Advanced  to  claim  his  friend  with  honest  joy, 
My  eyes,  my  heart,  proclaim'd  me  still  a  boy  ; 
The  glittering  scene,  the  fluttering  groups  around 
Were  quite  forgotten  when  my  friend  was  found ; 
The  smiles  of  beauty  —  (for,  alas  !  I  've  known 
What 't  is  to  bend  before  Love's  mighty  throne)  — 


33d 


140  HOVBS   OF  IBLBNBB8. 

The  smiles  of  beauty,  though  those  smiles  were  dear 
Could  hardly  charm  me,  when  that  friend  was  near : 
My  thoughts  bewilder'd  in  the  fond  surprise. 
The  woods  of  Ida  danced  before  my  eyes ; 
I  saw  the  sprightly  wand'rers  pour  along, 
I  saw  and  join'd  again  the  joyous  throng 
Panting,  again  I  traced  her  lofty  grove. 
And  friendship's  feelings  triumph'd  over  love. 

Yet,  why  should  I  alone  with  such  delight. 
Retrace  the  circuit  of  my  former  flight  ? 
Is  there  no  cause  beyond  the  common  claim 
Endear'd  to  all  in  childhood's  very  name  ? 
Ah !  sure  some  stronger  impulse  vibrates  here. 
Which  whispers  friendship  will  be  doubly  dear 
To  one  who  thus  for  kindred  hearts  must  roam, 
And  seek  abroad  the  love  denied  at  home. 
Those  hearts,  dear  Ida,  have  I  found  in  thee — 
A  home,  a  world,  a  paradise  to  me. 
Stern  Death  forbade  my  orphan  youth  to  share 
The  tender  guidance  of  a  father's  care. 
Can  rank,  or  e'en  a  guardian's  name,  supply 
The  love  which  glistens  in  a  father's  eye  ? 
For  this  can  wealth  or  title's  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  ties ! 
Ofl  in  the  progress  of  some  fleeting  dream 
Fraternal  smiles  collected  round  me  seem ; 
While  still  the  visions  to  my  heart  are  prest, 
The  voice  of  love  will  murmur  in  my  rest : 
[  hear  —  I  wake  —  and  in  the  sound  rejoice ; 
I  he&r  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  entwine^ 
I  cannot  call  one  single  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. 


HOI7B8   or  IDLBITBM. 


Ml 


Alonso !  *  best  and  dearest  of  my  frieDds, 
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  bard  shall  siiig  thy  glorious  name, 
To  build  his  own  upon  thy  deathless  fame.f 
Friend  of  my  heart,  and  foremost  of  the  list 
Of  those  with  whom  I  lived  supremely  blest, 
Oft  have  we  drain'd  the  font  of  ancient  lore ; 
Though  drinking  deeply,  thirsting  still  the  more. 
Yet,  when  confinement's  lingering  hour  was  done, 
Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souls  were  one ; 
Together  we  impelled  the  flying  ball ; 
Together  waited  in  our  tutor's  hall ; 
Together  join'd  in  cricket's  manly  toil. 
Or  shared  the  produce  of  the  river's  spoil ; 
Or  plunging  from  the  green  declining  shore, 
Our  pliant  |  limbs  the  buoyant  billows  bore ; 
In  every  element,  unchanged,  the  same, 
All,  all  that  brothers  should  be,  but  the  name* 

Nor  yet  are  you  forgot,  my  jocund  boy ; 
•  Davus,  the  harbinger  of  childish  joy  ; 
For  ever  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  fun, 
The  laughing  herald  of  the  harmless  pun : 
Yet  with  a  breast  of  such  materials  made  - 
Anxious  to  please,  of  pleasing  half  afraid  ; 
Candid  and  liberal,  with  a  heart  of  steel 
III  danger's  path,  though  not  untaught  to  feel. 
Still  I  remember,  in  the  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,  arrested  his  career  — 
Forward  you  sprung,  insensible  to  fear ; 

*  Ahmzo.    In  the  private  Toliune,  Johannes 

t  The  foDowing  (bur  lines  of  the  private  volume  were  omitted  in  the  Hoim 
of  Idleness  : 

**  Could  aught  inspirtf  me  with  poetic  fire, 
For  thee  alone  1  'd  strike  the  hallow'd  lyre ; 
But  to  some  abler  hand  the  task  I  wave, 
Whose  strains  immortal  may  outhve  the  grave." 
t  PUant.    Private  volume,  httty. 


342  BOUSB   OF  n>XJS.t«86. 

Disarm'd  and  baffled  by  your  conquering  haiMi^ 
The  grovelling  savage  roU'd  upon  the  sand : 
An  act  like  this,  can  simple  thanks  repay  ?  * 
Or  all  the  labours  of  a  grateful  lay  ? 
Oh  no !  whene'er  my  breast  forgets  the  deed. 
That  instant,  Davus,  it  deserves  to  bleed. 

•     Lycus  !  on  me  thy  claims  are  justly  great : 
.    Thy  milder  virtues  could  my  muse  relate, 
To  thee  alone,  unrivall'd,  would  belong 
The  feeble  efforts  of  my  lengthen'd  song.f 
Well  canst  thou  boast  to  lead  in  senates  fit, 
A  Spartan  firmness  with  Athenian  wit : 
Though  yet  in  embryo  these  perfections  shine, 
Lrcus  !  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  growing  years< 
Hpw  wilt  thou  tower  above  thy  fellow  peers ! 
Prudence  and  sense,  a  spirit  bold  and  free, 
With  honour's  soul,  united  beam  in  thee. 

*  An  art  like  tMsy  &c.  .la  the  private  volume  the  last  four  Bnes  of  this  cha- 
racter were  as  follows : 

*'  Thus  did  you  save  that,  life  I  scarcely  prize — 
A  life  unworthy  such  a  sacrifice : 
Oh .'  when  my  breast  forgets  the  generous  deed, 
That  instant,  Davus,  it  deserves  to  bleed.'* 

t  In  the  private  volume,  we  find  the  following  lines  concluding  the  chanictei 
of  Lycus ;  and  the  remainder  of  the  passage  relating  to  him,  was  originally  given 
as  descriptive  of  a  friend  entitled  Cflarus,  of  whom  no  mention  is  made  in  the 
last  pubhshed  copy  of  the  poem  : 

"  For  ever  to  possess  a  friend  in  thee, 
Was  bUss  unhoped,  though  not  unsought  by  me 
Thy  softer  soul  was  form  d  for  love  alone, 
To  ruder  passions  and  to  hate  unknown ; 
Thy  mind,  in  union  with  thy  beauteous  form, 
Was  gentle,  but  unfit  to  stem  the  storm ; 
That  face,  an  index  of  celestial  worth, 
Proclaim'd  a  heart  abstracted  from  the  earth. 
Oft,  when  depressed  with  sad  foreboding  gloom, 
I  sat  recUned  upon  our  favourite  tomb, 
I  've  seen  those  sympathetic  eyes  o'erflow 
With  kind  compassion  for  thy  comrade's  wt)e ;    . 
Or  when  less  mournful  subjects  form'd  our  themes* 
We  tried  a  thousand  fond  romantic  schemes, 
Oft  hast  thou  sworn,  in  friendship's  soothing  tone, 
WTiatever  wish  was  mine  must  be  thine  own. 
**  The  next  can  boast  to  lead  in  senates  fit  — 
A  Spartan  firmness  with  Athenian  wit : 
Though  yet  in  embryo  these  perfections  shine, 
ClaruB !  thy  father's  fame  will  soon  be  thine. 
When  learning,"  &c.  &c. 


HOVBS   OF   IDUmSSS. 


848 


Shall  fair  Eustalvs  pass  by  unsung  t 
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,  responsiye  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  nature's  partial  mould, 
A  heart  untainted,  we  in  thee  behold  : 
Yet  not  the  senate's  thunder  thou  shalt  wield. 
Nor  seek  for  glory  in  the  tented  field  ; 
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  bum, 
And  all  the  glittering  snares  to  tempt  thee  spurn. 
Domestic  happiness  will  stamp  thy  fate ; 
Sacred  to  love,  unclouded  e'er  by  hate ; 
The  world  admire  thee,  and  thy  friends  adore  ;— 
Ambition's  slave  alone  would  toil  for  more.* 


Now  last,  but  nearest,  of  the  social  band. 
See  honest,  open,  generous  Cleon  stand ; 
With  scarce  one  speck  to  cloud  the  pleasing  scenes 
No  vice  degrades  that  purest  soul  serene. 
On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  begun. 
On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  was  run ; 
Thus  side  by  side  we  pass'd  our  first  career. 
Thus  side  by  side  we  strove  for  many  a  year ; 
At  last  concluded  our  scholastic  life. 
We  neither  conquer'd  in  the  classic  strife : 
As  speakers  f  eacl^  supports  an  equal  name. 
And  crowds  allow  to  both  a  partial  fame : 
To  soothe  a  youthful  rival's  early  pride. 
Though  Cleon's  candour  would  the  palm  divide, 
Yet  candour's  self  compels  me  now  to  own 
Justice  awards  it  to  my  friend  alone.t 

•  "Where  ii  the  restleM  fool  would  wiih  for  more  ?"— Prrwite  volume 
t  This  aUudes  to  the  public  ipeeches  delivered  at  the  ichool  where  the  author 
was  educated. 

t  The  six  concluding  lines  of  this  passage  were  given  as  follows  in  the  pri- 
vate volume : 


344  BOUBS^OF   IDLBlfBSS. 

Oh  !  friends  regretted,  scenes  for  ever  dear. 
Remembrance  hails  you  with  her  warmest  tear ! 
Drooping,  she  bends  o'er  pensive  Fancy's  um^ 
To  tnice  the  hours  which  never  can  return ; 
Yet  with  the  retrospection  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  my  lyric  song. 
Or  placed  me  higher  in  the  studious  throng ; 
Or  when  my  first  harangue  received  applause. 
His  sage  instruction  the  primeval  cause, 
What  gratitude  to  him  my  soul  possest. 
While  hope  of  dawning  honours  fill'd  my  breast ! 
For  aU  my  humble  fame,  to  him  alone 
The  praise  is  due,  who  made  that  fame  my  own.f 
Oh  !  could  I  soar  above  these  feeble  Ia3r8, 
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  grateful  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  dream. 
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. 


"  As  speakers  each  suppoita  a  rival  name. 
Though  neither  seeks  to  damn  the  other*8  fiime. 
Pomposus  sits,  unequal  to  decide : 
With  youthful  candour  we  the  pahn  divide ; 
Yet  candou/s  self  compels  me  now  to  own 
Justice  awards  it  to  my  friend  alone/' 

*  "  Yet  in  the  retrospection  finds  relief, 

And  revels  in  the  luxury  of  grief."  —  Pniwte  vobane, 

t  From  this  place  to  the  end,  the  copy  of  the  poem,  as  printed  in  the  Hootb  o| 
Idleness,  differs  entirely  from  that  in  the  private  volume,  which  contains  uv 
concludes  thus : 


HOVBS   OF  IDLBICBSS. 


846 


While  future  hope  and  fear  alike  unknown, 
[  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 , 


^  When,  yet  a  novice  in  the  mimic  art, 
I  feigned  the  transports  of  a  venffeful  heart— 
When  a*  this  Royal  Slave  I  trod  the  stage ; 
To  vent  in  Zanga  more  than  mortal  rage — 
The  praise  of  rabus  made  me  fee)  more  proud 
Than  all  the  plaudits  of  the  Ust*ning  crowa. 

"  Ah !  vain  endeavour  in  this  chOdish  strain 
To  soothe  the  woes  of  which  I  thus  complain ! 
What  can  avail  the  fruitless  loss  of  time, 
To  measure  sorrow  in  a  jingling  rhyme ! 
No  social  solace  from  a  friend  is  near, 
And  heartless  strangers  drop  no  feeling  tear. 
I  seek  not  joy  in  woman's  sparkling  eye : 
The  smiles  of  beauty  cannot  check  the  sigh. 
Adieu,  thou  world  !  thy  pleasure  's  still  a  dream, 
Thy  virtue  but  a  visionary  theme ; 
Thy  years  of  vice  on  years  of  folly  roll. 
Till  grinning  death  assigns  the  destined  goal, 
Where  all  are  hastening  to  the  dread  abode, 
To  meet  the  judgment  of  a  righteous  God ; 
Hix'd  in  Uie  concourse  of  the  thoughdesa  throngi 
A  mourner  midst  of  mirth,  I  glide  along ; 
A  wretched,  isolated,  gkiomy  thing. 
Curst  by  reflection's  deep  corroding  stin^ ; 
But  not  that  mental  sting  which  stabs  within, 
The  dark  avenger  of  unpunish'd  sin ; 
The  silent  shaft  which  goads  the  guilty  wretch 
Extended  on  a  rack's  untiring  stretch : 
Conscience  that  sting,  that  shaft  to  him  supplies 
His  mind  the  rack  from  which  he  ne'er  can  riae. 
For  me,  whate'er  my  folly,  or  my  fear, 
One  cheerful  comfort  still  is  cherish'd  here : 
No  dread  internal  haunts  my  hours  of  rest, 
No  dreams  of  injured  innocence  infest ; 
Of  hope,  of  peace,  of  almost  all  bereft, 
Conscience,  my  last  but  welcome  guest  ii  left 
Slander's  empoison'd  breath  may  blast  my  name ; 
Envy  delights  to  blight  the  buds  of  fame; 
Deceit  may  chill  the  current  of  my  blood, 
And  freeze  affection's  warm  impaission'd  flood ; 
Presaging  horror  darken  every  sense ;  — 
Even  iiere  will  conscience  be  my  best  defence. 
My  bosom  feeds  no  *  worm  which  ne'er  can  diei* 
Not  crimes  I  mourn,  but  happiness  ^one  by. 
Thus  crawling  on  with  many  a  reptile  vile, 
My  heart  is  bitter,  though  my  cheek  may  smile 
No  more  with  former  buss  my  heart  is  glad ; 
Hope  yields  to  anguish,  and  my  soul  is  sad : 
From  fond  regret  no  future  ioy  can  save ; 
Remembrance  dumbert  only  in  the  grave." 


346  HOUM  OF  iBLKasas. 

Still  may  thy  blooming  aons  thy  name  leverei 

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  some  former  throng. 

Whose  friends,  like  antumn  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  s^i'eet  a  balm  to  soothe  your  hours  of  woe  ? 

Can  treasures,  hoarded  for  some  thankless  son, 

Can  royal  smiles,  or  wreaths  by  slaughter  won 

Can  stars  or  ermine,  man's  maturer  toys, 

(For  glittering  baubles  are  not  led  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 

You  turn  with  faltering  hand  life's  varied  page ; 

Peruse  the  record  of  your  days  on  earth, 

Unsullied  only  where  it  marks  your  birth  ; 

Still  lingering  pause  above  each  chequer'd  leaf, 

And  blot  with  tears  the  sable  lines  of  grief; 

Where  Passion  o'er  the  theme  her  mantle  threw. 

Or  weeping  Virtue  sigh'd  a  faint  adieu ; 

But  bless  the  scroll  which  fairer  words  adorn. 

Traced  by  the  rosy  finger  of  the  mom ; 

When  Friendship  bow'd  before  the  shrine  of  truth, 

4nd  Love,*  without  his  pinion,  smiled  on  youth 


ANSWER  TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  POEM,  WRITTEN  BY  MONT- 
GOMERY,  AUTHOR  OP  "  THE  WANDERER  IN  SWITZER- 
LAND," &c.  &c.  ENTITLED  "  THE  COMMON  LOT."t 

MoNTGOHEKT  !  true,  the  common  lot 

Of  mortals  lies  in  Lethe's  wave ; 
Yet  some  shall  never  be  forgot  — 

Some  shall  exist  beyond  the  grave. 

*  **  L  Amiti^  est  1*  Amour  ttni  afles,*'  is  a  French  proverti. 
t  Only  primed  in  the  private  vohime. 


ROVBS   OF   IDLBlTESft.  '  947 

**  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  weal  or  woe, 

Perchance  may  'scape  the  page  of  fame ; 

Yet  nations  now  unborn  will  know 
The  record  of  his  deathless  name. 

The  patriot's  and  the  poet's  frame 
Must  share  the  common  tomb  of  all : 

Their  glory  will  not  sleep  the  same  ; 
T?uU  will  arise,  though  empires  fall. 

The  histre  of  a  beauty  s  eye, 

Assumes  the  ghastly  stare  of  death  ; 

The  fair,  the  brave,  the  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,  untiring,  waves  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  alike  in  shrouds,. consume. 

The  mouldering  marble  lasts  its  day, 

Yet  falls  at  length  a  useless  fane  ,- 
To  ruin's  ruthless  fangs  a  prey. 

The  wrecks  of  pillar'd  pride  remain. 

*  No  particular  hero  is  here  alluded  to.  The  exploits  of  Ba3rar(l,  Netnours* 
Edward  the  Black  Prince,  and,  in  more  modern  times,  the  fame  of  Marlborough, 
Frederick  the  Great,  Count  Saxe,  Charles  of  Sweden,  &c.  are  familiar  to  everv 
historical  reader,  but  the  exact  places  of  their,  birth  are  known  to  a  Y«ry  small 
proportion  of  their  admirers. 


846  HOUSB  OF  iPUuniM. 

What,  though  the  sculpture  be  destroy'd. 
From  dark  oblivion  meant  to  guard ; 

A  bright  renown  shall  be  enjoy'd 

By  those  whose  virtues  claiin  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. 


1806. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CALMAR  AND  ORLA.* 

AN  IMITATION  OF  MACrHKRBON'S  OSSIAN.t 

Deak  are  the  days  of  youth  !  Age  dwells  on  their  remembrance 
through  the  mist  of  time.  In  the  twilight  he  recalls  the  sunny 
hours  of  morn.  He  lifts  his  spear  with  trembling  hand.  **  Not 
thus  feebly  did  I  raise  the  steel  before  my  fathers !  *'  Past  is 
the  race  of  heroes !  But  their  fame  rises  on  the  harp ;  their 
souls  ride  on  the  wings  of  the  wind ;  they  hear  the  sound 
through  the  sighs  of  the  storm,  and  rejoice  in  their  hall  of 
clouds !  Such  is  Calmar.  The  gray  stone  marks  his  narrow 
house.  He  looks  down  from  eddying  tempests :  he  rolls  his 
form'  in  the  whirlwind,  and  hovers  on  the  blcist  of  the  mountain. 

In  Morven  dwelt  the  chief;  a  beam  of  war  to  Fingal.  His 
steps  in  the  field  were  marked  in  blood.  Lochlin's  sons  had 
fled  before  his  angry  spear ;  but  mild  was  the  eye  of  Calmar ; 
sofl  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 
sons  fell  beneath  his  might.  Fingal  roused  his  chiefs  to  com. 
bat.  Their  ships  cover  the  ocean.  Their  hosts  throng  on  the 
green  hills.     They  come  to  the  aid  of  Erin. 

Night  rose  in   clouds.     Darkness  veils  the  armies :  but  the 

*  Fint  pobliflhed  m  Honn  of  I^neea. 

t  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  tbat  the  story,  thongh  consideTably  vuied 
in  the  catastrophe,  is  taken  from  **  Nisus  and  EoryaiiUi"  of  which  episode  a 
traiulation  is  given  in  the  present  volume. 


HOVBS   or  IDLBNBW.  840 

blaziiig  oakfl  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  poet  of  Orla.  Calmar  stood  by  his  side.  Their 
spears  were  in  their  hands.  Fingal  called  his  chiefs :  they 
stood  around.  The  king  was  in  the  midst.  Gray  were  his 
locks,  but  strong  was  the  arm  of  the  king.  Age  withered  not 
his  powers.  ^  Sons  of  Morven,"  said  the  hero,  ^  to-morrow 
we  meet  the  foe.  But  where  is  Cuthullin,  the  shield  of  Erin  ? 
He  rests  in  the  halls  of  Tura  ;  he  knows  not  of  our  coming. 
Who  will  speed  through  Lochlin  to  the  hero,  and  call  the  chief 
to  arms  ?  The  path  is  by  the  swords  of  foes,  but  many  are  my 
heroes.  They  are  thunderbolts  of  war.  Speak,  ye  chiefs  * 
Who  wUl  arise?" 

**  Son  of  Trenmor !  mine  be  the  deed,"  said  dark-haired  Orla, 
^  and  mine  alone.  What  is  death  to  me  ?  I  love  the  sleep  of 
the  mighty,  but  little  is  the  danger.  The  sons  of  Lochlin 
dream.  I  will  seek  car-borne  Cuthullin.  If  I  fall,  raise  the 
song  of  bards;  and  lay  me  by  the  stream  of  Lubar."  —  ^  And 
shalt  thou  fall  alone  ?  "  said  fair-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 !  OUTS  has  been  the  chase  of  the  roebuck,  and  the  feast  of 
shells  ;  ours  be  the  path  of  danger  :  ours  has  been  the  cave  of 
Oithona  ;  ours  be  the  narrow  dwelling  on  the  banks  of  Lubar." 
•*  Calmar,"  said  the  chief  of  Oithona,  **  why  should  thy  yellow 
locks  be  darkened  in  the  dust  of  Erin  ?  Let  me  fall  alone.  My 
father  dwells  in  his  hall  of  air  :  he  will  rejoice  in  his  boy ;  but 
the  blue-eyed  Mora  spreads  the  feast  for  her  son  in  Morven. 
She  listens  to  the  steps  of  the  hunter  on  the  heath,  and  thinks 
it  ill  the  tread  of  Calmar.  Let  her  not  say,  *  Calmar  has  fallen 
by  the  steel  of  Lochlin  :  he  died  with  gloomy  Orla,  the  chief  of 
the  dark  brow.'  Why  should  tears  dim  the  azure  eye  of  Mora  ? 
Why  should  her  voice  curse  Orla,  the  destroyer  of  Calmar  ? 
Live,  Calmar.  Live  to  raise  my  stone  of  moss  ;  live  to  revenge 
me  in  the  blood  of  Lochlin.  Join  the  song  of  bards  above  my 
grave.  Sweet  will  be  the  song  of  death  to  Orla,  from  the  voice 
of  Calmar.  My  ghost  shall  smile  on  the  notes  of  praise." 
^  Oria,"  said  the  son  of  Mora,  ^  could  I  raise  the  song  of  death 
to  my  friend  ?  Could  I  give  hid  fame  to  the  winds  ?  No,  my 
heart  would  speak  in  sighs  :  faint  and  broken  are  the  sounds 
of  sorrow.  Orla !  our  souls  shall  hear  the  song  together.  One 
cloud  shall  be  ours  on  high  :  the  bards  will  mingle  the  names 
of  Orla  and  Calmar." 

They  quit  the  circle  of  the  chiefs.  Their  steps  are  to  the 
host  of  Lochlin.     The  dying  blaze  of  oak  dim  twinkles  through 


860  HOUBS   OF  XDIiBKS8.S. 

the  night.  The  northera  star  points  the  path  to  Tura.  Swaran, 
the  king,  rests  on  his  lonely  hill.  Here  the  troops  are  mixed  : 
they  frown  in  sleep  ;  their  shields  beneath  their  heads.  Their 
swords  gleam  at  distance  in  heaps.  The  fires  are  faint ;  their 
embers  fail  in  smoke.  All  is  hushed  ;  but  the  gale  sighs  on  the 
rocks  above.  Lightly  wheel  the  heroes  through  the  slumbering 
band.  Half  the  journey  is  past,  when  Mathon,  resting  on  his 
shield,  meets  the  eye  of  Orla.  It  rolls-  in  flame,  and  glistens 
through  the  shade.  His  spear  is  raised  .on  high.  ^*  Why  dost 
thou  bend  thy  brow^  chief  of  Oithona  ? "  said  fair-haired  Cal- 
mar :  "  we  are  in  the  midst  of  foes.  Is  this  a  time  for  delay  ?  " 
'<  It  is  a  time  for  vengeance,"  said  Orla  of  the  gloomy  brow. 
''  Mathon  of  Lochlin  sleeps :  seest  thou  his  spear  ?  Its  point  is 
dim  with  the  gore  of  my  father.  The  blood  of  Mathon  shall 
reek  on  mine  ;  but  shall  I  slay  him  sleeping,  son  of  Mora  ?  No  ! 
lie  shall  feel  his  wound :  my  fame  shsdl  not  soar  on  the  blood 
of  slumber.  Rise,  Mathon,  rise !  the  son  of  Connal  calls ; 
thy  life  is  his  ;  rise  to  combat."  Mathon  starts  from  sleep ;  but 
did  he  rise  alone  ?  No :  the  gathering  chiefs  bound  on  the 
plain.  "  Fly !  Calmar,  fly  !  "  said  dark-haired  Orla.  «  Ma- 
thon  is  mine.  I  shall  die  in  joy :  but  Lochlin  crowds  around. 
Fly  through  the  shade  of  night."  Orla  turns.  The  helm  of 
Mathon  is  cleft ;  his  shield  falls  from  his  arm :  he  shudders  in 
his  blood.  He  rolls  by  the  side  of  the  blazing  oak.  Strumon 
sees  him  fall :  his  wrath  rises :  his  weapon  glitters  on  the  head 
of  Orla ;  but  a  spear  pierced  his  eye.  His  brain  gushes  through 
the  wound,  and  foams  on  the  s[)ear  of  Calmar.  As  roll  the 
waves  of  the  ocean  on  two  mighty  barks  of  the  north,  so  pour 
the  men  of  Lochlin  on  the  chiefs.  As,  breaking  the  surge  in 
foam,  proudly  steer  the  barks  of  the  north,  so  rise  the  chiefs  of 
Morven  on  the  scattered  crests  of  Lochlin.  The  din  of  arms 
came  to  the  ear  of  Fingal.  He  strikes  his  shield ;  his  sons 
tiirong  around ;  the  people  pour  along  the  heath.  Ryno 
bounds  in  joy.  Ossian  stalks  in  his  arms.  Oscar  shakes  the 
spear.  The  eagle  wing  of  Fillan  floats  on  the  ^ind.  Dreadful 
is  the  clang  of  death !  many  are  the  widows  of  Lochlin.  Mor- 
ven prevails  in  its  strength. 

Mom  glimmers  on  the  hilb  :  no  living  foe  is  seen ;  but  the 
sleepers  are  many ;  grim  they  lie  on  Erin.  The  breeze  of 
ocean  lifts  their  locks  ;  yet  they  do  not  awake.  The  hawks 
scream  above  their  prey. 

Whose  yellow  locks  wave  o'er  the  breast  of  a  chief?  Bright 
as  the  gold  of  the  stranger,  they  mingle  with  the  dark  hair  of 
his  friend.  'T  is  Calmar :  he  lies  on  the  bosom  of  Orla. 
Theirs  is  one  stream  of  blood*  Fierce  is  the  lopk  of  the  gloomy 
Orla*     He    breathes   not;   but  his  eye  is  still  a  flame.     It 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS.  351 

glares  in  death  unclosed.  His  hand  is  grasped  in  Calmar's ; 
but  Calmar  lives !  he  lives,  though  low.  **  Rise,"  said  the  king, 
**  rise,  son  of  Mora  :  't  is  mine  to  heal  the  wounds  of  heroes. 
Calmar  may  yet  bound  on  the  hills  of  Morven." 

"  Never  more  shall  Calmar  chase  the  deer  of  Morven  with 
Orla,"  said  the  hero.  "  What  were  the  chase  to  me  alone  ? 
Who  would  share  the  spoils  of  battle  with  Calmar  ?  Orla  is  at 
rest !  Rough  was  thy  soul,  Orla !  yet  soft  to  me  as  the  dew  of 
morn.  It  glared  on  others  in  lightning  :  to  me  a  silver  beam 
of  night.  Bear  my  sword  to  blue-eyed  Mora ;  let  it  hang  in 
my  empty  hall.  It  is  not  pure  from  blood :  but  it  could  not 
save  Orla.  Lay  me  with  my  friend.  Raise  the  song  when  I 
am  dark ! " 

They  are  laid  by  the  stream  of  Lubar.  Fouf  gray  stones 
mark  the  dwelling  of  Orla  and  Calmar. 

When  Swaran  was  bound,  our  sails  rose  on  the  blue  waves. 
The  wind  gave  our  barks  to  Morven  :  —  the  bards  raised  the 
song. 

"  What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of  clouds  ?  Whose  dark  ghost 
gleams  on  the  red  streams  of  tempests  7  His  voice  rolls  on  the 
thunder.  'T  is  Orla,  the  brown  chief  of  Oithona.  He  was 
unmatched  in  war.  Peace  to  thy  soul,  Orla !  thy  fame  will 
not  perish.  Nor  thine,  Calmar!  Lovely  wast  thou,  son  of 
blue-eyed  Mora  •;  but  not  harmless  was  thy  sword.  It  hangs 
in  thy  cave.  The  ghosts  of  Lochlln  shriek  around  its  steel. 
Hear  thy  praise,  Calmar !  It  dwells  on  the  voice  of  the  mighty. 
Thy  name  shakes  on  the  echoes  of  Morven.  Then  raise  thy 
fair  locks,  son  of  Mora.  Spread  them  on  the  arch  of  the  rain- 
bow ;  and  smile  through  the  tears  of  the  storm.  "^ 


TO  E.  N.  L.  ESCtt 
**  Nil  ego  contulerim  jocundo  aaiiiu  amioo  "  —  Har.  E, 

Dear  L ,  in  this  sequesterM  scene, 

While  all  around  in  slumber  lie. 
The  joyous  days  which  ours  have  been 

Come  rolling  fresh  on  Fancy's  eye ; 

*  I  fear  Laing's  late  edition  has  completely  overthrown  every  hope  that  Mac- 
pherson's  Ossian  mi^ht  prove  the  translation  of  a  series  of  poems  complete  in 
themselves ;  but,  while  the  imposture  is  discovered,  the  merit  of  the  work  re< 
mains  undisputed,  though  not  without  faults — particularly,  in  some  puts,  turffid 
and  bombastic  diction. — The  present  humble  imitation  will  be  pardoned  by  the 
admirers  of  the  original  as  an  attempt,  however  inferior,  wliich  evinces  an  at- 
tachment to  their  favourite  author. 

t  First  published  in  Hours  of  Idleness. 


852  HOUBS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Thus  if  amidst  the  gathering  storm. 
While  clouds  the  darkened  noon  deform. 
Yon  heaven  assumes  a  varied  glow, 
I  hail  the  sky's  celestial  bow, 
Which  spreads  the  sign  of  future  peace, 
And  bids  the  war  of  tempests  cease. 
Ah  !  though  the  present  brings  but  pain, 
I  think  those  days  may  come  again ; 
Or  if,  in  melancholy  mood, 
Some  luridng  envious  fear  intrude, 
To  check  my  bosom's  fondest  thought. 

And  interrupt  the  golden  dream, 
'  I  crush  the  fiend  with  malice  fraught. 

And  still  indulge  my  wonted  theme. 
Although  we  ne'er  again  can  trace, 

In  Granta's  vale,  the  pedant's  lore ;   . 
Nor  through  the  groves  of  Ida  chase 

Our  raptured  visions  as  before. 
Though  Youth  has  flown  on  rosy  pinion. 
And  manhood  claims  his  stern  dominion ; 
Age  will  not  every  hope  destroy, 
But  yield  some  hours  of  sober  joy. 

Yes,  I  will  hope  that  Time's  broad  wing 
Will  shed  around  seme  dews  of  spring  : 
But  if  his  scythe  must,  sweep  the  flowers 
Which  bloom  among  the  fairy  bowers. 
Where  smiling  Youth  delights  to  dwell. 
And  hearts  with  early  rapture  swell ; 
If  frowning  Age,  with  cold  control. 
Confines  the  current  of  the  soul, 
Ck>ngeals  the  tear  of  Pity's  eye. 
Or  checks  the  sympathetic  sigh. 
Or  hears  unmoved  misfortune^  groan. 
And  bids  me  feel  for  self  alone ; 
Oh  !  may  my  bosom  never  learn 

To  soothe  its  wonted  heedless  flow  ; 
Still,  still  despise  the  censor  stern. 

But  ne'er  forget  another's  woe. 
Yes,  as  you  knew  me  in  the  days 
O'er  which  Remembrance  yet  delays, 
Still  may  I  rove,  untutor'd,  wild. 
And  even  in  age  at  heart  a  child. 

Though  now  on  airy  visions  borne. 
To  you  my  soul  is  still  the  same. 


HOUBS    OF   IDLENESS.  359 

Oil  has  it  been  my  fate  to  mourn, 

And  all  my  former  joys  are  tame. 
But,  hence  !  ye  hours  of  sable  hue ! 

Your  frowns  are  gone,  my  sorrows  o'er  : 
fiy  every  bliss  my  childhood  knew, 

I  '11  think  upon  your  shade  no  more. 
Thus,  when  the  whirlwind's  rage  is  past, 

And  caves  their  sullen  roar  enclose. 
We  need  no  more  the  wintry  blast, 

When  luU'd  by  zephyr  to  repose. 

Full  often  has  my  infant  Muse 

Attuned  to  love  her  languid  lyre ; 
But  now,  without  a  theme  to  choose. 

The  strains  in  stolen  sighs  expire. 
My  youthful  nymphs,  alas  !  are  flown  ; 

E is  a  wife,  and  C a  mother, 

And  Carolina  sighs  alone. 

And  Mary  's  given  to  another ; 
And  Cora's  eye,  which  roll'd  on  me, 

Can  now  no  more  my  love  recall : 
In  truth,  dear  L ,  't  was  time  to  flee  ; 

For  Cora's  eye  will  shine  on  all. 
And  though  the  sun,  with  genial  rays. 
His  beams  alike  to  all  displays. 
And  every  lady's  eye  's  a  nitty 
These  last  should  be  confined  to  one. 
The  soul's  meridian  do  n't  become  her. 
Whose  sun  displays  a  general  summer  ! 
Thus  faint  is  every  former  flame. 
And  passion's  self  is  now  a  name. 
As,  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low. 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light, 
And  bade  them  bum  with  fiercer  glow. 

Now  quenches  all  their  sparks  in  night ; 
Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires. 

As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers. 
While  all  the  force  of  love  expires, 

Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

But  nOw,  dear  L ,  't  is  midnight's  noon, 

And  clouds  obscure  the  watery  moon. 
Whose  beauties  I  shall  not  rehearse. 
Described  in  every  stripling's  verse  ; 
For  why  should  I  the  path  go  o'er, 
Which  every  bard  has  trod  before  ? 
VOL.  V. — ^A  a 


854  HOUBS   OF   IDLENESS. 

Yet  ere  yon  silver  lamp  of  Dight 

Has  thrice  perform'd  her  stated  round, 
Has  thrice  retraced  her  path  of  light, 

And  chased  away  the  gloom  profound, 
I  trust  that  we,  my  gentle  friend. 
Shall  see  her  rolling  orbit  wend 
Above  the  dear-loved  peaceful  seat 
Which  once  contain'd  our  youth's  retreat ; 
And  then  with  those  our  childhood  knew. 
We  '11  mingle  with  the  festive  crew ; 
While  many  a  tale  of  former  day 
Shall  wing  the  laughing  hours  away  ; 
And  all  the  flow  of  souls  shall  pour 
The  sacred  intellectual  shower, 
Nor  cease  till  Luna's  waning  horn 
Scarce  glimmers  through  the  mist  of  morn. 


TO  A  LADY.  ♦ 


Oh  !  had  my  fate  been  join'd  with  thine, 
As  once  this  pledge  appear'd  a  token. 

These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine, 
For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken. 

To  thee  these  early  faults  I  owe, 
To  thee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving : 

They  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know 

'T  was  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving. 

For  once  my  soul,  like  thine,  was  pure, 
And  all  its  rising  fires  could  smother : 

But  now  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 
Bestow'd  by  thee  upon  another. 

Perhaps  his  peace  I  could  destroy. 
And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  him ; 

Yet  let  my  rival  smile  in  joy, 

For  thy  dear  sake  I  cannot  hate  him. 

Ah !  since  thy  angel  form  is  gone, 
My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any ; 

But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone. 
Attempts,  alas  !  to  find  in  many. 

*  MiM  Chaworth.    First  published  in  the  first  edition  of  Hours  of  Idlenew. 


H0UB8  OF  iDLsmu.  365 

Then  fare  thee  well,  deceitful  maid  ! 

T  were  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee ; 
Nor  Hope,  nor  Memory,  yield  their  aid, 

But  Pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thee. 

Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years, 
This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasures ; 

These  varied  loves,  these  matron's  fears. 

These  thoughtless  strains  to  passion's  measures  — 

If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  been  hush'd :  — 

This  cheek,  now  pale  from  early  riot, 
With  passion's  hectic  ne'er  had  flush'd. 

But  bloom'd  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 

Yes,  once  the  rural  scene  was  sweet. 
For  Nature  seem'd  to  smile  before  thee  ; 

And  once  my  breast  abhorrM  deceit,  — 
For  then  it  beat  but  to  adore  thee. 

But  now  I  seek  for  other  joys : 

To  think  would  drive  my  soul  to  madness ; 
In  thoughtless  throngs  and  empty  noise, 

I  conquer  half  my  bosom's  sadness. 

Yet,  even  in  these  a  thought  will  steal 

In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavour,  — 
And  fiends  might  pity  what  1  feel, — 

To  know  tlmt  thou  art  lost  for  ever. 


STANZAS.* 


I  wouLB  I  were  a  careless  child, 

Still  dwelling  in  my  Highland  cave, 
Or  roaming  through  the  dusky  wild. 

Or  bounding  o'er  the  dark  blue  wave ; 
The  cumbrous  pomp  of  Saxon  f  pride 

Accords  not  with  the  freebom  soul, 
Which  loves  the  mountain's  craggy  side. 

And  seeks  the  rocks  where  billows  roU. 

*  FInt  pabliahed  in  tfa«  Moond  edition  of  Hbmi  of  Idlenen. 

t  S««6Dach,  or  Saxon,  a  Gaelic  word,  ngnifying  either  Lowland  or  Engliih. 


8116  HOUBtf   OP  IDLENESS. 

Fortune  !  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  along  the  rocks  I  love, 

Which  sound  to  Ocean's  wildest  roar ; 
I  ask  but  this  —  again  to  rove 

Through  scenes  my  youth  hath  known  before. 

Few  are  my  years,  and  yet  I  feel 

The  world  was  ne'er  design'd  for  me  : 
Ah !  why  do  dark'ning  shades  conceal 

The  hour  when  man  must  cease  to  be  ? 
Once  I  beheld  a  splendid  dream, 

A  visionary  scene  of  bliss : 
Truth  !  —  wherefore  did  thy  hated  beam 

Awake  me  to  a  world  like  this  ? 


I  loved  —  but  those  I  loved  are  gone ; 

Had  friends  —  my  early  friends  are  fled  : 
How  cheerless  feels  the  heart  alone 

When  all  its  former  hopes  are  dead  ! 
Though  gay  compcmions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill ; 
Though  pleasure  stirs  the  maddening  soul. 

The  heart  —  the  heart  —  is  lonely  still. 

How  dull !  to  hear  the  voice  of  those 

Whom  rank  or  chance,  whom  wealth  or  po 
Have  made,  though  neither  friends  nor  foes. 

Associates  of  the  festive  hour. 
Give  me  again  a  faithful  few, 

In  years  and  feelings  still  the  same. 
And  I  will  fly  the  midnight  crew, 

Where  boist'rous  joy  is  but  a  name. 

And  woman,  lovely  woman  !  tthou. 

My  hope,  my  comforter,  my  all ! 
How  cold  must  be  my  bosom  now, 

When  e'en  thy  smiles  begin  to  pall ! 
Without  a  sigh  would  I  resign 

This  busy  scene  of  splendid  woe. 
To  make  that  calm  contentment  mine. 

Which  virtue  knows,  or  seems  to  know. 


HOURS   OF   IDLENESS.  867 

Fain  would  I  fly  the  haunts  of  men ! 

I  seek  to  shun,  not  hate  mankind ; 
My  breast  requires  the  sullen  glen, 

Whose  gloom  may  suit  a  darken'd  mind. 
Oh !  that  to  me  the  wings  were  given 

Which  bear  the  turtle  to  her  nest ! 
Then  would  I  cleave  the  vault  of  heaven^ 

To  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest.  * 


LINES  1 

WRITTEN  BINEATH  AN  KLM  IN  TRK  CHURCHYARD  or  HARROW  ON  THE  HILL, 
■EPTEMBIR  2,   1807. 

Spot  of  my  youth !  whose  hoary  branches  sigh. 
Swept  by  the  breeze  that  fans  thy  cloudless  sky ; 
Where  now  alone  I  muse,  who  oft  have  trod, 
With  those  I  loved,  thy  soft  and  verdant  sod  ; 
With  those  who,  scatter'd  far,  perchance  deplore. 
Like  me,  the  happy  scenes  they  knew  before  : 
Oh !  as  I  trace  again  thy  winding  hill. 
Mine  eyes  admire,  my  heart  adores  thee  still. 
Thou  drooping  Elm  !  beneath  whose  boughs  I  lay. 
And  frequent  mused  the  twilight  hours  away  ; 
Where,  as  they  once  were  wont,  my  limbs  recline. 
But,  ah  !  without  the  thoughts  which  then  were  mine : 
How  do  thy  branches,  moaning  to  the  blast, 
Invite  the  bosom  to  recall  the  past. 
And  seem  to  whisper,  as  they  gently  swell, 
'*  Take,  while  thou  canst,  a  lingering,  last  farewell !  ' 
When  fate  shall  chill,  at  length,  this  fever'd  breast. 
And  calm  its  cares  and  passions  into  rest, 
Oft  have  I  thought,  't  would  soothe  my  dying  hour,  — 
If  aught  may  soothe  when  life  resigns  her  power,  — 
To  know  some  humbler  grave,  some  narrow  cell, 
Would  hide  my  bosom  where  it  loved  to  dwell ; 
With  this  fond  dream,  methinks,  't  were  sweet  to  die  — 
And  here  it  lingered,  here  my  heart  might  lie ; 
Here  might  I  sleep  where  all  my  hopes  arose. 
Scene  of  my  youth,  and  couch  of  my  repose  ; 

*  Ftalm  Iv.  Ter.  6.  —  **Axid  I  nid.  Oh !  that  I  had  wingi  like  a  dove ;  for 
then  would  I  fly  away,  and  be  at  rest."  This  verse  also  constitutes  a  part  of 
the  most  beantiAil  anthem  in  oar  language. 

t  First  published  in  the  second  edition  of  the  Hours  of  Idleness. 


358  HOUBS   OF   IDI.E2<TESS. 

For  ever  stretcb'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, 
M ix'd  with  the  earth  o'er  which  my  footsteps  moved ; 
Blest  by  the  tongues  that  charm'd  my  youthful  ear, 
Mourn'd  by  the  few  my  soul  acknowledged  here ; 
Deplored  by  those  in  early  days  allied, 
And  unremember'd  by  the  world  beside. 

September  2. 1807. 


CRITiaUE 


TTTRACTED  FROM  THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEW,  No.  22.  FOR 
JANUARY,  180a 

Hours  of  Idleness :  a  Series  of  Poems,  original  and  translated. 
By  George  Gordon^  Lord  Byron,  a  Minor,  8vo.  pp.  200.  — 
Nevxsrky  1807. 

Tm  poesy  of  this  yomiff  lord  belongs  to  the  class  which  neither  gods  nor  men 
are  said  to  permit,  mdeea,  we  do  not  recollect  to  have  seen  a  quantity  of  verse 
with  so  few  deviations  in  either  direction  from  thai  exact  standard.  His  effusions 
are  spread  over  a  dead  flat,  and  can  no  more  get  above  or  below  the  level,  than 
if  they  were  so  much  stagnant  water.  As  an  extenuation  of  this  offence,  the 
noble  author  is  peculiarly  forward  in  pleading  minority.  We  have  it  in  the  title- 
page,  and  on  the  very  back  of  the  volume  ;  it  follows  his  name  like  a  favourite 
part  of  his  sfyfe.  Much  stress  is  laid  upon  it  in  the  preface ;  and  the  poems  are 
connected  with  this  general  statement  of  his  case,  by  particular  dates,  substan- 
tiating[  the  age  at  which  each  was  written.  Now,  the  law  upon  the  point  of 
minority  we  nold  to  be  perfectly  clear.  It  is  a  plea  available  only  to  the  defen- 
dant ;  no  plantiff  can  offer  it  as  a  supplementary  ground  of  action.  Thus,  if 
any  suit  could  be  brought  against  Lord  Byron,  for  the  purpose  of  compelling  him 
to  put  into  court  a  certain  Quantity  of  poetry,  and  if  iuogment  were  given  against 
him,  it  is  highly  probable  Itiat  an  exception  would  be  taken  were  ne  to  deUver 
for  poetry  the  contents  of  this  volume.  To  this  he  migixt  plead  minority  ;  but, 
as  be  now  makes  voluntary  tender  of  the  article,  he  hath  no  right  to  sue,  on  that 
KTOund,  for  the  price  in  good  current  praise,  should  the  goods  be  unmarketable, 
l^is  is  our  view  of  the  law  on  the  point ;  and,  we  dare  to  say,  so  will  it  be  ruled. 
Perhaps,  however,  in  reality,  all  that  he  tells  us  about  his  youth  is  rather  with  a 
view  to  increase  our  wonder  than  to  soften  our  censures.  He  possibly  means  to 
say,  "  See  how  a  minor  can  write !  This  poem  wns  actually  composed  by  a 
young  man  of  eighteen,  and  this  by  one  of  only  sixteen !  "  —  But,  alas !  we  all 
remember  the  poetry  of  Cowley  at  ten,  and  Pope  at  twelve ;  and  so  far  from 
hearing,  with  any  degree  of  surprise,  that  very  poor  verses  were  written  by  a 
youth  from  his  leaving  school  to  his  leaving  college,  inclusive,  we  really  behevo 
this  to  be  the  most  common  of  all  occurrences ;  that  it  happens  in  the  life  of 
nine  men  in  ten  who  are  educated  in  England ;  and  that  the  tenth  man  writes 
better  verse  than  Lord  Byron. 

His  other  plea  of  privilege  our  author  rather  brings  forward  in  order  to  wave 
it.  He  certainly,  however,  does  allude  frequently  to  his  family  and  ancestors  — 
sometimes  in  poetry,  sometimes  in  notes ;  and,  while  giving  up  his  claim  on  the 
score  of  rank,  he  takes  care  tA  remember  us  of  Dr.  Johnson's  saying,  that  when 
a  nobleman  appears  as  an  author,  his  merit  should  be  h-indsomely  acknowledged. 
In  truth,  it  is  this  consideration  only  that  induces  us  to  give  liord  Byron's  poems 
a  i^ace  in  ouv  review,  beside  our  desire  to  counsel  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  senously  to  assure  him,  that  the  mere 
rhyming  of  the  final  syllable,  even  when  accompanied  by  the  presence  of  a  cer- 
tain number  of  feet, — nay,  although  (which  does  not  always  happen)  those  feet 
should  scan  regularly,  and  have  been  all  counted  accurately  upon  the  fingers, — 
is  not  the  whole  art  of  poetrv.  We  would  entreat  him  to  believe,  that  a  certain 
portion  of  liveliness,  somewhat  of  fancyt  is  necessary  to  constitute  a  poem,  and 
that  a  poem  in  the  present  day,  to  be  read,  must  contain  at  least  one  thought, 
cither  in  a  little  degree  different  from  the  ideas  of  former  writers,  or  differently 


SOO  EDINBUSOH  BBVnCW   ON 

expressed.  We  put  it  to  bis  candour,  whether  there  is  any  thing  ao  deaenr« 
inff  the  name  of  poetry  in  verses  like  the  following,  written  in  1806;  and 
wnether,  if  a  youth  of  eighteen  could  say  any  thing  so  uninteresting  to  his  an- 
cestors, a  youth  of  nineteen  should  pubUsh  it :  — 

**  Shades  of  heroes,  farewell !  your  descendant,  departing 

From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu ! 
Abroad  or  at  home,  vour  remembrance  imparting 

New  courage,  he  11  think  upon  glory  ana  you. 

**  Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 

*T  is  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret : 
Far  distant  he  soes,  with  the  same  emulation ; 

The  fame  of  nis  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  Uke  you  will  he  perish ; 

When  decay'd,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  your  own.'* 

Now  we  positively  do  assert,  that  there  is  nothing  better  than  these  stanzas  in 
the  whole  compass  of  the  noble  minor's  volume. 

Lord  Byrun  should  also  have  a  care  of  attempting  what  the  greatest  poets  have 
done  before  hira,  for  comjfarisons  (as  he  must  have  had  occasion  to  see  at  his 
wriling-master'K)  are  odious.  (Jray's  Ode  on  Eton  College  should  really  have 
kept  out  the  ten  hobbling  stanzas  ''  On  a  distant  View  of  ue  Village  and  School 
of  Harrow." 

"  Where  fancy  yet  joys  to  retrace  the  resemblance 
Of  comrades,  in  friendship  and  mischief  allied ; 
How  welcome  to  me  your  ne*or-fading  remembrance, 
Wliich  rests  in  the  boeom,  though  hope  is  denied." 

In  like  manner,  the  exquisite  lines  of  Mr.  Rogers,  "On  a  Tear"  might  have 
warned  the  noble  author  off  those  premises,  and  spared  us  a  whole  dozen  such 
itanzaa  as  the  foHowing :  — 

"  Mild  Charity's  glow, 

To  us  mortals  below. 
Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  clear 

Compassion  will  melt 

Where  this  virtue  is  felt. 
And  ita  dew  is  diffused  in  a  Tear. 

**  The  man  doomed  to  sail 

With  the  blast  of  the  gale. 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer 

Aa  he  bends  o'er  the  wave. 

Which  may  soon  be  his  grave. 
The  green  Kparklea  bright  with  a  Tear.'* 

And  so  of  instances  in  which  former  poets  had  failed.  Thus,  we  do  not  think 
Lord  Byron  was  made  for  translating,  during  his  nonage,  "  Adrian's  Address  to 
his  Soul,"  when  Pope  succeeded  so  mdifferentiy  in  the  attempt.  If  our  readen 
however,  are  of  another  opinion,  they  may  look  at  it.  ' 

**  Ah  !  gentle,  fleeting,  wavering  sprite. 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay ! 
To  what  unknown  region  borne 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight  ? 
No  more  with  wonted  humour  gay. 
But  paUid,  cheerless,  and  fortom." 


THE   HOURS   OF   IDLENESS  861 

However,  be  tliis  as  it  may,  wc  fear  his  translaiioiiB  and  imitadona  are  great 
layoarites  with  Lord  Bvron.  We  hnve  them  of  all  kinds,  from  Anacreon  to 
Ossian ;  and.  viewing  them  as  school  cxer^cibes,  they  may  pass.  Only,  why 
print  them  after  they  Iiave  had  their  day  and  ser\'ed  their  turn  ?  And  why  call 
the  thing  in  p.  79,*  a  translation,  where  two  words  (^cXcu  Xcveiv)  of  the  original  are 
expandM  into  four  lines,  and  the  other  thing  in  p.  81.t  where  fitao¥VKTiai(  vo&* 
ctoaif  is  rendered  by  means  of  six  hobbling  verses  ?  As  to  his  Ossianic  poesy,  we 
are  not  very  good  judges,  being,  in  truth,  so  moderately  skilled  in  that  species  of 
eompoaition,  that  we  8noold,*in  all  probabihty,  be  criticising  some  bit  of  the  ge- 
nrnne  Macphenon  itself,  were  we  to  express  our  opinion  of  Lord  Byron's  rhap- 
sodies. l(t  then,  the  following  beginning  of  a  "  Song  of  Bards  "  is  by  his  lora- 
ship,  we  venture  to  object  to  it,  as  far  as  we  can  comprehend  it.  **  What  form 
rises  on  the  roar  of  clouds,  whose  dark  ghost  deams  on  the  red  stream  of  lera- 
peais  ?  His  voice  rolls  on  the  thunder ;  *t  is  Orin,  the  brown  chief  of  Oithona. 
He  was,"  ^c.  After  detaining  this  "  brown  chief"  some  time,  the  bards  con- 
clude by  Kivins  him  their  advice  to  "  raise  his  fair  locks ; "  then  to  **  spread  them 
on  the  area  of  the  rainbow ; "  and  "  to  smile  through  the  tears  of  the  storm."  Of 
this  kind  oi  thmg  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  tircnome. 

It  is  a  sort  of  privilege  of  poets  to  be  ef^oti^ts  ;  but  they  should  **  use  it  as  not 
abusing  it; "  and  particularly  one  who  piques  himself  (though  indeed  at  the  ripe 
age  of  nineteen)  on  being  "  an  infant  bard,"  — (*'  The  artless  Helicon  I  boast  is 
youth  ")  — should  either  not  know,  or  nhould  seem  not  to  know,  so  much  about 
his  own  ancestry.  Besides  a  poem  al>ove  cited,  on  the  family  seat  of  the  Hy- 
rons,  we  have  another  of  eleven  pages,  on  the  (^e'f-same  subject^  introduced  \\i;ft 
an  apology,  "he  certainly  had  no  intention  of  inserting  it."  but  really  "the  par- 
ticular requeia  of  some  friends,"  &c.  &c.  It  concludes  with  five  stanzas  on  him- 
self, **the  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line."  There  is  a  good  deal  also  about 
his  maternal  ancestors,  m  a  poem  on  I^chin  y  (>uir,  a  mountain  where  he  spent 
part  of  his  youth,  and  might  have  learnt  that  pibroch  is  not  a  bagpipe,  any  more 
than  duet  means  a  fiddle. 

As  the  author  has  dedicated  fo  large  a  part  of  his  volume  to  immortalize  his 
employments  at  school  and  college,  we  cannot  possibly  dismiss  it  without  pre- 
senting the  reader  with  a  specimen  of  these  ingenious  elfusiona.  In  an  ode 
With  a  Greek  motto,  called  Granta,  we  have  the  following  magnificent  stanzas  :  — 

**  There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp, 
The  candidate  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp. 
Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rites. 

"  Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Sele, 
Or  puzzles  o'er  the  deep  triangle. 
Deprived  of  many  a  wholesome  meal, 
m  barbarous  Latin  doom'd  to  wrangle : 

**  Renouncing  every  pleasing  page, 
From  authors  of  nistoric  use. 
Preferring  to  the  letter' d  sage 
The  square  of  the  hypothenuae. 

**  Still  harmless  are  these  occupationi. 
That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  student, 
Compared  with  other  recreations, 
Which  bring  together  the  imprudent." 

We  are  tony  to  hear  so  bad  an  account  of  the  college  psalmody  as  ia  con* 
tained  in  the  foUowing  Attic  stanzas : — 

*'  Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused 
Even  as  a  band  of  raw  beginners ; 

•See  page  398.  t  P*ge299. 


362  EDINBURGH   REVIEW.   ETC. 

All  mercy  now  must  be  refiued 
To  •uch  a  set  of  croaking  siniiers. 

"  If  David,  when  bis  toils  were  ended, 

Had  beard  these  blockheads  sins  before  him. 
To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  desceiMed : 
In  furious  mood  he  would  have  tore  'em !  * 

But,  whatever  judgment  may  be  passed  on  the  poems  of  this  noble  minor,  it 
seems  we  must  take  them  as  we  find  them,  and  be  content ;  for  they  are  the 
last  we  shall  ever  have  from  him.  He  is,  at  best,  he  says,  but  an  intruder  into 
the  groves  of  Parnassus ;  he  never  Uved  in  a  garret,  like  thorouffh-bred  poetn ; 
and  '*  though  he  once  roved  a  careless  mountaineer  in  the  Higmands  of  Scot- 
land,*' he  has  not  of  late  enjoyed  this  advantage.  Moreover,  he  expects  no  profit 
from  his  publication ;  and,  whether  it  succeeas  or  not,  **it  is  highly  improbable, 
from  his  situation  andpursuits  hereafter,"  thar  he  should  agam  condescend  to 
become  an  author.  Tnerefbre  let  us  take  what  we  get,  and  bis  thankful.  What 
right  have  we  poor  devils  to  be  nice  ?  We  are  well  off  to  have  goi  so  much 
from  a  man  of  this  lord's  station,  who  does  not  Uve  in  a  garret,  but  "  has  the 
sway  "  of  Newstead  Abbey.  Again,  we  say,  let  us  be  thankful ;  and,  with 
honest  Sancho,  bid  God  bless  the  giver,  nor  look  the  gift  horse  in  the  mouth 


ENGLISH    BARDS 

▲NO 

SCOTCH   REVIEWERS* 

A  SATIRE. 


**I  had  nther  he  a  kitten,  and  cry  mew ! 
Than  one  of  thcM  aame  metre  baUad-moogen." 

Srakspkare. 

"  Such  thameleti  bards  we  haye ;  and  yet 't .ia  true, 
There  are  as  mad,  abandon*d  critics  too." 

Pops* 


•  In  the  oEtafaMl  Maanscript,  die  title  was  **THE  BRITISH  BARDS,  A 
SATIRE."^ 


A  FIFTH  edition  of  the  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Review- 
ers,"  in  which  Lord  Byron  introduced  several  alterations  and 
corrections,  was  prepared  in  1812,  but  was,  at  his  desire,  de- 
stroyed  on  the  eve  of  publication.  One  copy  of  this  edition 
alone  escaped,  from  which  the  satire  has  been  printed  in  the 
present  volume.  The  Author  re-perused  the  poem  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  summer  of  1816,afler  bis  final  departure  from  Eng- 
land.  He  at  that  time  also  corrected  the  text  in  several  places, 
and  added  a  few  notes  and  observations  in  the  margin,  which 
the  reader  will  find  inserted.  On  the  blank  leaf  preceding  the 
title-page  of  the  copy  from  which  he  read.  Lord  B3nron  has 
written  — "  The  binding  of  this  volume  is  considerably  too 
valuable  for  the  contents ;  and  nothing  but  the  consideration 
of  its  being  the  property  of  another  prevents  me  from  consign- 
ing  this  miserable  record  of  misplaced  anger  and  indiscriminate 
acrimony  to  the  flames."  — 


PREFACE. • 


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  safely  say  that  I  have  attacked 
none  personally,  who  did  not  commence  on  the  offensive.  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  commemorate  may  do  by  me  as  I  have 
done  by  them.  I  dare  say  they  will  succeed  better  in  condemn- 
ing my  scribblings,  than  in  mending  their  own.  But  my  ob. 
ject  is  not  to  prove  that  I  can  write  well,  but,  if  possible,  to 
make  others  write  better. 

As  the  poem  has  met  with  far  more  success  than  I  expected, 
I  have  endeavoured  in  this  edition  to  make  some  iadditions  and 
alterations,  to  render  it  more  worthy  of  public  perusal. 

In  the  first  edition  of  this  satire,  published  anonymously, 
fourteen  lines  on  the  subject  of  Bowles's  Pope  were  written  by, 
and  inserted  at  the  request  of,  an  ingenious  friend  of  mine,  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  con- 
ceive  would  operate  with  any  other  person  in  the  same  manner, 
—  a  determination  not  to  publish  with  my  name  any  production 
which  was  not  entirely  and  exclusively  my  own  composition. 

With  t  regard  to  the  real  talents  of  many  of  the  poetical 
persons  whose  performances  are  mentioned  or  alluded  to  in  the 

*  lUt  preface  was  written  for  the  eecond  edition,  and  printed  with  it.  The 
noUe  author  had  left  this  country  previoos  to  the  publication  of  that  edition, 
and  ia  not  yet  returned.  — Note  to  the  fourth  edition,  181 1. 

He  is,  and  gone  again.  —  MS.  note  hy  Lord  Byron. 

t  The  preface  to  the  first  edition  began  here. 


866  FBEFACE. 

following  pages,  it  is  presumed  by  the  author  that  there  can  be 
little  difference  of  opinion  in  the  public  at  large  ;  though,  like 
other  sectaries,  each  has  his  separate  tabernacle  of  proselytes, 
by  whom  his  abilities  are  overrated,  his  faults  overlooked,  and 
his  metrical  canons  received  without  scruple  and  without  con- 
sideration! But  the  unquestionable  possession  of  considerable 
genius  by  several  of  the  writers  here  censured  renders  their 
mental  prostitution  more  to  be  regretted.  Imbecility  may  be 
pitied,  or,  at  worst,  laughed  at  and  forgotten  ;  perverted  powers 
demand  the  most  decided  reprehension.  No  one  can  wish  more 
than  the  author  that  some  known  and  able  writer  had  jinder- 
taken  their  exposure  ;  but  Mr.  Gifibrd  has  devoted  himself  to 
Massinger,  andf  in  the  absence  of  the  regular  physician,  a  coun- 
try  practitioner  may,  in  cases  of  absolute  necessity,  be  allowed 
to  prescribe  his  nostrum  to  prevent  the  extension  of  so  deplor- 
able an  epidemic,  provided  there  be  no  quackery  in  his  treat- 
ment of  the  malady.  A  caustic  is  here  offered,  as  it  is  to  be 
feared  nothing  short  of  actual  cautery  can  recover  the  nume- 
rous patients  afflicted  with  the  present  prevalent  and  distressing 
rabies  for  rhyming.  —  As  to  the  Edinburgh  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,"  though  his  own  hand  should  suffer  in  the  encoun- 
ter, he  will  be  amply  satisfied. 


ENGLISH   BARDS 


SCOTCH   REVIEWERS, 


Still*  must  I  hear  ?  —  shall  hoarse  Fitzgeraldf  bawl 
His  creaking  couplets  in  a  tavern  hall,  f 
And  I  not  sing,  lest,  haply,  Scotch  reviews 
Should  dub  me  scribbler,  and  denounce  my  muse 
Prepare  for  rhyme  —  I  '11  publish,  right  or  wrong  : 
Fools  are  my  theme,  let  satire  be  my  song. 

Oh  !  nature's  noblest  gift  —  my  gray  goose-quill ! 
Slave  of  my  thoughts,  obedient  to  my  will. 
Torn  from  thy  parent  bird  to  form  a  pen, 
That  mighty  instrument  of  little  men ! 
The  pen  !  foredoom'd  to  cud  the  mental  throes 
Of  brains  that  labour,  big  with  verse  or  prose, 
Though  nymphs  forsake,  and  critics  may  deride 
The  lover's  solace,  and  the  author's  pride. 
What  wits  !  what  poets  dost  thou  daily  raise  ! 
How  frequent  is  thy  use,  how  small  thy  praise ! 
Condemn'd  at  length  to  be  forgotten  quite. 
With  all  the  pages  which  't  was  thine  to  write. 
But  thou,  at  least,  mine  own  especial  pen  ! 
Once  laid  aside,  but  now  assumed  again, 

*  The  first  ninety-nx  lines  were  prefixed  to  the  eeoond  edition :  the  original 
opened  with 

Time  was,  ere  yet  in  theee  degenerate  days, 
Ignoble  themes,  d^c.  —  line  VJ. 
f  Hoane  Fitzgerald.  —  Right  enough;  but  why  notice  such  a  mountebank? 
MS.  noU  by  Lc^  Bynn. 

X  IMITATION. 
**  Semper  ego  auditor  tantum  7  nunquamne  reponam 
Vexatus  toties  rauci  Theseide  Codri  ?  '* 
Juvenal^  Satire  I. 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  flftcetiouBly  termed  by  Cobbett  the  "  Small  Beer  Poet,"  inflicts 
his  anmul  tribute  of  yerse  on  the  ** Literary  Fund: "  not  content  with  writing, 
he  spouts  in  person  after  the  company  have  imbibed  a  reasonable  quantity  </ 
bad  port,  to  enable  them  to  sustain  the  operation. 


368  ENGLISH    BARDS   AND 

Our  task  complete,  like  Hamet's  *  shall  be  free ; 
Though  spurn'd  by  others,  yet  beloved  by  me  : 
Then  let  us  soar  to-day ;  no  common  theme, 
No  eastern  vision,  no  distemper'd  dream  f 
Inspires  —  our  path,  though  full  of  thorns,  is  plain ; 
Smooth  be  the  verse,  and  easy  be  the  strain. 

When  Vice  triumphant  holds  her  sov'reign  sway, 
Obey'd  by  all  who  nought  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  justice  in  a  golden  scale  ; 
E'en  then  the  boldest  start  from  public  sneers, 
Afraid  of  shame,  unknown  to  other  fears. 
More  darkly  sin,  by  satire  kept  in  awe, 
And  shrink  from  ridicule,  though  not  from  law. 

Such  is  the  force  of  wit !  but  not  belong 
To  me  the  arrows  of  satiric  song ; 
The  royal  vices  of  our  age  demand 
A  keener  weapon,  and  a  mightier  hand. 
Still  there  are  follies,  e'en  for  me  to  chase. 
And  yield  at  least  amusement  in  the  race  ; 
Laugh  when  I  laugh,  I  seek  no  other  fame ; 
The  cry  is  up,  and  scribblers  are  my  game. 
Speed,  Pegasus !  —  ye  strains  of  great  and  small, 
Ode,  epic,  elegy,  have  at  you  all ! 
I  too  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a  time 
I  pour'd  along  the  town  a  flood  of  rhyme, 
A  schoolboy  freak,  unworthy  praise  or  blame ; 
I  printed  —  older  children  do  the  same. 
*T  is  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  name  in  print ; 
A  book  's  a  book,  although  there  's  nothing  in  't. 
Not  that  a  title's  sounding  charm  can  save 
Or  scrawl  or  scribbler  from  an  equal  grave  : 
This  Lambe  must  own,  J  since  his  patrician  name 
Fail'd  to  preserve  the  spurious  farce  from  shame.  § 

*  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli  promises  repose  to  his  pen  in  the  lost  chapter  of  Don 
Quixote.  Oh !  that  our  voluminous  gentry  would  follow  the  example  of  Cid 
Hamet  Benengeli. 

t  No  eastern  vision^  no  distemper'd  dream. — This  must  have  been  written  in 
the  spirit  of  prophecy.  —  MS.  note  by  Lord  Byron,  ' 

X  This  Lambe  must  oum. — He's  a  very  good  feUow,  and  except  his  mother  and 
sister,  the  best  of  the  set,  to  my  mind.  —  MS.  note  of  Lord  Byron. 

^  This  ingenuous  youth  is  mentioned  more  particularly,  with  his  production, 
in  another  place. 


SCOTCH   REVIEWERS.  309' 

No  matter,  George  continues  still  to  write,  * 
Though  now  the  name  is  veil'd  from  public  sight. 
Moved  by  the  great  example,  I  pursue 
The  self-same  road,  but  make  my  own  review  : 
Not  seek  great  Jeffrey's,  yet,  like  him,  will  be 
Self-constituted  judge  of  poesy. 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  ev'ry  trade 
Save  censure  —  critics  all  are  ready  made. 
Take  hackney'd  jokes  from  Miller,  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misquote  ; 
A  mind  well  skill'd  to  find  or  forge  a  fault ; 
A  turn  for  punning,  call  it  Attic  salt ; 
To  Jeffrey  go,  be  silent  and  discreet. 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet : 
Fear  not  to  lie,  't  will  seem  a  sharper  hit ; 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  't  will  pass  for  wit ; 
Care  not  for  feeling  —  pass  your  proper  jest, 
And  stand  a  critic,  hated  yet  caress'd. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment  ?  no  —  as  soon 
Seek  roses  in  December  —  ice  in  June ; 
Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  chaff; 
Believe  a  woman  or  an  epitaph. 
Or  any  other  thing  that  's  false,  before 
You  trust  in  critics,  who  themselves  arc  sore ; 
Or  yield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled 
By  Jeffrey's  heart,  or  Lambe's  Boeotian  head,  f 
To  these  young  tyrants,  %  by  themselves  misplaced, 
Combined  usurpers  on  the  throne  of  taste ; 
To  these,  when  authors  bend  in  humble  awe. 
And  hail  their  voice  as  truth,  their  word  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  ; 

*  In  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

+  By  Jeffrey's  hearty  or  Lambe'8  JBceoHan  %«ad.— This  was  not  ju8t.  Neither 
the  heart  nor  the  head  of  theie  gentlemen  are  at  all  what  they  are  here  repre- 
sented. At  the  time  thia  was  written  (1808)  I  was  perwnally  unacquainted  with 
either.  IS\6.— MS.  noU  by  Lord  Byron, 

Mesers.  Jeflfrey  and  trfimbe  are  the  alpha  and  the  omega,  the  first  and  the 
last  of  the  Edinburgh  Review ;  the  others  are  mentioned  hereafter. 

(  "Stulta  est  dementia,  cum  tot  ubiqne 

occqiras  periture  paroere  charts." 

Javenalt  Satire  1. 
VOL.  V. — B  b 


870  ENGLISH    BAXD8  AND 

Nor  know  we  when  to  spare,  or  where  to  strike. 
Our  bards  and  censors  are  so  much  alike. 

Then  should  you  ask  me,  why  I  venture  o'er* 
The  path  which  Pope  and  Gifibrd  trod  before ; 
If  not  yet  sicken'd  you  can  still  proceed  : 
Go  on  ;  my  rhyme  will  tell  you  as  you  read. 
But  hold !  f  exclaims  a  friend,  —  here  's  some  neglect : 
This  —  that  —  and  't  other  line  seem  incorrect. 
What  then  ?  the  self-same  blunder  Pope  has  got. 
And  careless  Dryden  —  ay  -—  but  Pye  has  not,  — 
Indeed !  —  't  is  granted,  faith !  —  but  what  care  I  ? 
Better  to  err  with  Pope,  than  shine  with  Pye. 

Time  was,  ere  yet  in  these  d^enerate  days; 
Ignoble  themes  obtained  mistaken  praise. 
When  sense  and  wit  with  poesy  allied, 
No  fabled  graces,  flourish'd  side  by  side, 
From  the  same  fount  their  inspiration  drew. 
And,  rear'd  by  taste,  bloom'd  fairer  as  they  grew. 
Then,  in  this  happy  isle,  a  Pope's  pure  strain 
Sought  the  rapt  soul  to  charm,  nor  sought  in  vain  ; 
A  polish'd  nation's  praise  aspired  to  claim. 
And  raised  the  people's,  as  the  poet's  fame. 
Like  him  great  Dryden  pour'd  the  tide  of  song. 
In  stream  less  smooth,  indeed,  yet  doubly  strong. 
Then  Congreve's  scenes  could  cheer,  or  Otway  s  melt  — 
For  nature  then  an  English  audience  felt. 
But  why  these  names,  or  greater  still,  retrace, 
When  all4o  feebler  bards  resign  their  place  ? 
Yet  to  such  times  our  lingering  looks  are  cast, 
When  taste  and  reason  with  those  times  are  past 
Now  look  around,  and  turn  each  trifling  page. 
Survey  the  precious  works  that  please  the  age. 
This  truth  at  least  let  satire's  self  allow, 
No  dearth  of  bards  can  be  complain'd  of  now : 
The  loaded  press  beneath  her  labour  groans, 
And  printers'  devils  shake  their  weary  bones ; 
While  Southey's  epics  cram  the  creaking  shelves. 
And  Little's  lyrics  shine  in  hot-press'd  twelves. 

♦  IMITATION. 

**Cur  tamen  hoc  libeat  potius  decurrere  campo 
Per  quern  maffnus  equos  Auranca  flezit  alamnna 
Si  vacat,  et  pladdi  rationem  admitddB,  edam.** 

Juvetudy  Satire  I. 
t  But  hold!  excUtinu  afnend^  &c.— The  fottowing  nx  lines  were  iaaeited  in 
the  fifth  edition. 


SCOTCH   BBTIBWEHS.  371 

Thus  saith  the  preacher :  *  **  Nought  beneath  the  sun  f 

Is  new  ;"  yet  still  from  change  to  change  we  run  : 

What  varied  wonders  tempt  us  as  they  pass ! 

The  cow.poxy  tractors,  galvanism,  and  gas, 

In  turns  appear,  to  make  the  vulgar  stare. 

Till  the  swoln  hubble  bursts  —  and  all  is  air ! 

Nor  less  new  schools  of  Poetry  arise, 

Where  dull  pretenders  grapple  for  the  prize  : 

O'er  taste  awhile  these  pseudo-bards  prevail  ; 

Each  country  book-club  bows  the  knee  to  Baal, 

And,  hurling  lawful  genius  from  the  throne, 

Erects  a  shrine  and  idol  of  its  own  ; 

Some  leaden  calf —  but  whom  it  matters  not. 

From  soaring  Southey  down  to  grovelUng  Stott4 

Behold !  in  various  throngs  the  scribbling  crew. 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review  : 
Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace, 
And  rhyme  and  blank  maintain  an  equal  race; 
Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode ; 
And  tales  of  terror  jostle  on  the  road  ; 
Immeasurable  measures  move  along ; 
For  simpering  folly  loves  a  varied  song, 
To  strange  mysterious  dulness  still  the  friend. 
Admires  the  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 
Thus  Lays  of  Minstrels^  —  may  they  be  the  last !  — 
On  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  the  blast. 

*  Thtu  tailh  the  pnachert  4&e.— The  following  ibarteen  lines  were  inierted  in 
the  second  edition. 

t  Elcdenastei,  chap.  i. 

%.  Stott,  better  known  in  the  **  Mominr  Post'*  by  the  name  of  Hafiz.  This 
personage  is  atpresent4he  most  profoona  explorer  of  the  bathos.  I  remember, 
when  the  reigmng  ^mily  1^^  Fortogal,  a  special  ode  of  Master  Stott's,  begin- 
ning thus : 

(Rtott  loquitur  (juoad  Hibemia.) 
"  Princely  oflfspriiig  of  Braganza, 
Erin  greets  tnee  with  a  stanza,**  &c.  &c 

Also  a  sonnet  to  Rata,  well  worthy  of  the  subject,  and  a  most  thundering  ode, 
cummencing  as  follows : 

**  Oh  !  for  a  Lay  !  loud  as  the  surge 
That  lashes  Lap]and*s  sounding  shore." 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us !  the  **  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel "  was  nothing  to  this. 

%  See  the  **  Lay  of  the  Last  Mmstrel,**  pasnm.  Never  was  any  plan  so  in* 
congruous  and  absurd  as  the  ground- work  of  this  production.  The  entrance  of 
Thunder  and  U^hming proloeuising  to  Baye.s*  tragedy  unfortunately  takes  away 
the  merit  of  originahty  m>m  the  dialogue  between  Messieurs  the  Spirits  of  Flood 
and  Fell  in  the  first  canto.  Then  we  have  the  amiable  William  of  Deloraine, 
**  a  stark  moss-trooper,**  videUcet,  a  happy  compound  of  poacher,  sheep-steoler, 
and  highwayman.    The  propriety  of  ms  magical  lady's  injunction  not  to  read, 


$72  ENGLISH   BAKD8   AND 

While  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites, 
That  dames  maj  listen  to  the  sound  at  nights  ; 
And  goblin  brats,  of  Gilpin  Horner's  brood, 
Decoy  young  border-nobles  through  the  wood, 
And  skip  at  every  step,  Lord  knows  how  high, 
And  frighten  foolish  babes,  the  Lord  knows  why ; 
While  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  cell. 
Forbidding  knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell. 
Despatch  a  courier  to  a  wizard's  grave, 
And  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 

Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his  roan, 
The  goIden*crested  haughty  Marmian, 
Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight, 
Not  quite  a  felon,  yet  but  half  a  knight, 
The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace ; 
A  mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 
And  think'st  thou,  Scott !  by  vain  conceit  perchance, 
On  public  taste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance, 
Though  Murray  with  his  Miller  may  combine 
To  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line  ? 
No !  when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade. 
Their  bays  are  sear,  their  former  laurels  fade. 
Let  such  forego  the  poet's  sacred  name, 
Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,  not  for  fame : 
Still  for  stem  Mammon  may  they  toil  in  vain ; 
And  sadly  gaze  on  gold  they  cannot  gain  ! 
Such  be  their  meed,  such  still  the  just  reward 
Of  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard ! 
For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son. 
And  bid  a  long  *<  good  night  to  Marmion."  * 


can  only  be  equalled  by  his  candid  acknowledgment  of  his  independence  of 
the  tmmmels  of  spelling,  although,  to  use  his  own  elegant  phrase,  '*  't  was  his 
neck-Terse  at  Harribee,    i.  e.  the  gallows. 

The  biography  of  Gilpin  Homer,  and  the  marvellous  pedestrian  page,  who 
traveUed  twice  as  fast  as  his  master's  horse,  without  the  aid  of  seven-leagued 
boots,  are  the  chefdoButres  in  the  improvement  of  taste.  For  incident  we  have 
the  invisible,  but  by  no  means  sparing  box  on  the  ear,  bestowed  on  the  page, 
and  the  entrance  or  a  knight  and  charger  into  the  castle,  under  the  very  natural 
disguise  of  a  wain  of  hay.  Marmion,  the  hero  of  the  latter  romance,  is  exactly 
what  William  of  Deloraine  would  have  been,  had  he  been  able  to  read  and  write. 
The  poem  was  manufactured  for  Messrs.  Constable,  Murrcnrt  and  Miller,  wor- 
shipful booksellers,  in  consideration  of  the  receipt  of  a  sum  of'^money,  and  truly, 
considering  the  inspiration,  it  is  a  very  creditable  production.  If  Mr.  Soott  \\ill 
write  for  hire,  let  him  do  his  best  for  his  paymasters,  but  not  disffrace  his  geniiH, 
which  is  undoubtedly  great,  by  a  repetiuon  of  black  letter  ballad  imitatbos. 

*  "Good  night  to  Marmion" — the  pathetic  and  alao  prophetic  ezdamatioii  of 
Henry  Bloimt,  Esquire,  on  the  death  of  honeat  Mansion. 


SCOTCH   SEVIEWEBS.  373 

These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plaudits  now ; 
These  are  the  hards  to  whom  the  muse  must  how ; 
While  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  alike  forgot, 
Resign  their  hallowM  bays  to  Walter  Scott. 

The  time  has  been,  when  yet  the  muse  was  young, 
When  Homer  swept  the  lyre,  and  Maro  sung, 
An  epic  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim. 
While  awe-struck  nations  hail'd  the  magic  name : 
The  work  of  each  immortal  bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years.* 
Empires  have  moulder'd  from  the  face  of  earth, 
Tongues  have  expired  with  those  who  gave  them  birth, 
Without  the  glory  such  a  strain  can  give, 
As  even  in  ruin  bids  the  language  live. 
Not  so  with  us,  though  minor  bards  content, 
On  one  great  work  a  life  of  labour  spent : 
With  eagle  pinion  soaring  to  the  skies. 
Behold  the  ballad-monger  Southey  rise  !  . 
To  him  let  Camoens,  Milton,  Tasso  yield. 
Whose  annual  strains,  like  armies,  take  the  field. 
Fimt  in  the  ranks  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance. 
The  scourge  of  England  and  the  boast  of  France ! 
Though  burnt  by  wicked  Bedford  for  a  witch. 
Behold  her  statue  placed  in  glory's  niche  ; 
Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 
A  virgin  phcenix  from  her  ashes  risen. 
Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on,t 
Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wond'rous  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  r«val  of  Tom  Thumb ! 
Since  startled  metre  fled  before  thy  face. 
Well  wert  thou  doom'd  the  last  of  all  thy  race  ! 
Well  might  triumphant  genii  bear  thee  hence> 
Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  sense  ! 

*  Ab  the  Odyssey  ia  80  closely  connected  with  the  story  of  the  Iliad,  they  may 
ahnott  be  classed  as  one  grand  historical  poem.  In  alluding  to  Milton  and  Tasso, 
we  consider  the  '*  Paradise  Lost,"  and  ^  Gierusalemme  Liberato,"  as  their  stand- 
ard efforts,  since  neither  the  "  Jerusalem  Conquered  "  of  the  Italian,  nor  the 
Tiaradise  Regained"  of  the  English  bard,  obtamed  a  proportionate  celebrity  to 
their  former  poems.    Query  :  Which  of  Mr.  Southey's  wul  survive  ? 

t  Thalaba,  Mr.  Southey's  second  poem,  is  written  in  open  defiance  of  prece* 
dent  and  poetry.  Mr.  8.  wished  to  produce  something  novel,  and  succeeded  to 
a  miracle.  Joan  of  Arc  was  marvellous  enough,  but  Thalaba  was  one  of  those 
poems  "  which,'*  in  the  words  of  Poraon,  **  wul  be  read  when  Homer  and  Virgil 
'  aro  forgotten,  but  ^  not  tiU  then." 


874  BNOLI8H   BABD8   AND 

Now,  last  and  greatest,  M adoc  spreads  his  sails, 
Cacique  in  Mexico,  and  prince  in  Wales ; 
Tells  us  strange  tales,  as  other  travellers  do. 
More  old  than  Mandeville's,  and  not  so  true. 
Oh,  Southey  !  Southey !  *  cease  thy  varied  song  ! 
A  bard  may  chant  too  often  and  too  long : 
As  thou  art  strong  in  verse,  in  mercy,  spare ! 
A  fourth,  alas  !  were  more  than  we  could  bean 
But  if,  in  spite  of  all  the  world  can  say 
Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  thy  weary  way ; 
If  still  in  Berkley  ballads  most  uncivil, 
Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil,f 
The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue : 
*'  God  help  thee,"  Southey,  and  thy  readers  too.:^ 

Next  comes  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school,§ 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule, 
'  The  simple  Wordsworth,  framer  of  a  lay 
As  soft  as  evening  in  his  favourite  May, 
Who  warns  his  friend  "  to  shake  off  toil  and  trouble^ 
And  quit  his  books,  for  fear  of  growing  double ;  "|| 
Who,  both  by  precept  and  example,  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose ; 
Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain. 
Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane  ; 
And  Christmas  stories  tortured  into  rhyme 
Contain  the  essence  of  the  true  sublime. 
Thus,  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Foy, 
The  idiot  mother  of  "  an  idiot  boy ;" 

*  We  beg  Mr.  Southey*B  pardon :  "  Madoc  disdaina  the  deflnrading  title  of  epic." 
See  his  preface.  Why  is  epic  degraded?  and  by  whom?  Certainly  the  late 
romauntf  of  Masters  Cottle,  Laureat  Pye,  Ogilvj,  Hole,  and  gende  Mistreis 
Cowley,  have  not  exulted  the  epic  muse ;  bat  as  Mr.  Sonthey's  poem  **  Hj^i^yiifMi 
the  appdlation,"  allow  us  to  ask — has  he  substituted  any  thing  better  in  its 
stead  ?  or  must  he  be  content  to  rival  Sir  Richard  Blackmore  in  the  quantity  as 
well  as  quahty  of  his  verse  ? 

t  See  *  The  Old  Woman  of  Berkley,"  a  ballad,  by  Mr.  Southey ,  wherein  an 
aged  gentlewoman  is  carried  away  by  Beelzebub,  on  a  **  high-trotting  hx>ne.*' 

t  The  last  line,  "  God  help  thee,"  is  an  evident  plagiarism  from  tiie  Anti-jaco- 
bin to  Mr.  Southey,  on  his  Dactylics : 

"  God  help  thee,  siUy  one !" 

Poetry  qfthe  Anti-jacobin,  p.  25. 

^  Against  this  passage  on  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  Lord  Byron  has  written, 
"  unjust." 

II  Lyrical  Ballads,  p.  4.— "The  Tables  Turned."  Stanza  1. 
"  Up,  up,  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 
Up,  up,  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books. 
Or  surely  you  '11  grow  double." 


SCOTCH   RSVIEWEBS.  875 

A  moon-struck,  silly  lad,  who  lost  his  way, 
And,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day  ;* 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells, 
And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells, 
That  all  who  view  the  **  idiot  in  his  glory," 
Conceive  the  bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

Shall  gentle  Coleridge  pass  unnoticed  here, 
To  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear  ? 
Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best. 
Yet  still  obscurity  's  a  welcome  guest. 
If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a  pixy  for  a  muse,t 
Tet  none  in  lofly  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegize  an  ass. 
So  well  the  subject  suits  his  noble  mind, 
He  brays,  the  laureat  of  the  long-ear'd  kind.:^ 

Oh  !  wonder-working  Lewis  !  monk,  or  bard, 
Who  fain  wouldst  make  Parnassus  a  church-yard ! 
Lo !  wreaths  of  yew,  not  laurel,  bind  thy  brow. 
Thy  muse  a  sprite,  Apollo's  sexton  thou ! 
Whether  on  ancient  tombs  thou  takest  thy  stand 
By  gibb'ring  spectres  haii'd,  thy  kindred  band ; 
Or  tracest  chaste  descriptions  on  thy  page, 
To  please  the  females  of  our  modest  age  ; 
An  hail,  M.  P. !  §  from  whose  infernal  brain 
Thin  sheeted  phantoms  glide,  a  grisly  train  ; 
At  whose  command  **  grim  women  "  throng  in  crowds. 
And  kings  of  fire,  of  water,  and  of  clouds, 
With  **  small  gray  men,**  **  wild  yagers,"  and  what-not, 
To  crown  with  honour  thee  and  Walter  Scott ; 
Again  all  hail !  if  tales  like  thine  may  please, 
St.  Luke  alone  can  vanquish  the  disease ; 

*  Mr.  W.  in  his  prelace  labours  hard  to  prove  that  prose  and  verse  are  much 
the  same ;  and  certainly  his  precepts  and  practice  are  strictly  conformable. 
"  And  thus  to  Betty's  questions  he 
Made  answer,  like  a  traveller  bold. 
The  cock  did  crow,  to-whoo,  to-whoo. 
And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold,"  &c.  &c. 

Lyrical  BaUadt,  p.  129. 
t  Coleridge's  Poems,  p.  11,  Songs  of  the  Fixies,  i.  e.  Devonshire  fairies ;  p.  42, 
we  have  ^  Ones  to  a  Young  Lady ;"  and  p.  52, ''  Lines  to  a  young  Ass." 

t  He  6ray«,  ihe  laurwt  of  the  long-ear' d  kind. — Altered  by  Lord  Byron  in  his  last 
revision  of  the  satire.    In  all  former  editions  the  line  stood, 

**  A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wond'rous  kind.'* 
I  **For  every  one  knows  little  Matt  's  an  M.  P.** — See  a  poem  to  Mr.  Lewis, 
in  The  Statesman,  supposed  to  be  written  by  Mr.  Jekyll. 


376  ENGLISH    BABIW    AND 

Even  Satan's  self  with  thee  might  dread  to  dwell. 
And  in  thy  skull  discern  a  deeper  hell. 

Who  in  soft  guise,  surrounded  by  a  choir 
Of  virgins  melting,  not  to  Veata's  fire. 
With  sparkling  eyes  and  cheek  by  passion  flushM, 
Strikes  his  wild  lyre,  whilst  listening  dames  are  hush'd  ? 
T  is  Little !  young  Catullus  of  his  day. 
As  sweet,  but  as  immoral,  in  his  lay  ! 
Grieved  to  condemn,  the  muse  must  still  be  just. 
Nor  spare  melodious  advocates  of  lust. 
Pure  is  the  flame  which  o'er  her  altar  bums ; 
From  grosser  incense  with  disgust  she  turns : 
Yet  kind  to  youth,  this  expiation  o'er. 
She  bids  thee  <<  mend  thy  line,*  and  sin  no  more." 

For  thee,  translator  of  the  tinsel  song. 
To  whom  such  glittering  ornaments  belong, 
Hibernian  Strangford  !  with  thine  eyes  of  blue,f 
And  boasted  locl^  of  red  or  auburn  hue. 
Whose  plaintive  strain  each  lovesick  miss  admires. 
And  o'er  harmonious  fustian  j:  half  expires,       > 
Learn,  if  thou  canst,  to  yield  thine  author's  sense, 
Nor  vend  thy  sonnets  on  a  false  pretence^ 
Think'st  thou  to  gain  thy  verse  a  higher  place, 
By  dressing  Camoens  §  in  a  suit  of  lace  ? 
Mend,  Strangford !  mend  thy  morals  and  thy  taste ; 
Be  wai^m,  but  pure  ;  be  amorous,  but  chaste 
Cease  to  deceive  ;  thy  pilfcr'd  harp  restore, 
Nor  teach  the  Lusian  bard  to  copy  Moore. 

Behold !  —  ye  tarts !  one  moment  spare  the  text  — 
Hay  ley's  last  work,  and  worst — until  his  next; 
Whether  he  spin  poor  couplets  into  plays, 
Or  damn  the  dead  with  purgatorial  praise,  || 

*  In  the  original  monuBcript,  "  Mend  thy  life." 

t  The  reader,  who  may  wish  for  an  explanation  of  this,  may  refer  to  "  Strane- 
ford's  Camoens/*  page  127,  note  to  page  56,  or  to  the  last  page  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review  of  Stranglord's  Camoens. 
X  Futtian ;  in  the  first  edition,  iionsense. 

^  It  is  alsQ  to  be  remarked,  that  the  things  given  to  the  public  as  poems  of 
Camoens  are  no  more  to  be  found  in  the  original  Portuguese,  than  in  tne  Songs 
of  Solomon. 
II  M  Behold ! — ^ye  tarts !  one  moment  spare  his  text— 

Hayley*s  last  work,  and  worst — ^until  his  next; 
Whether  he  spins  noor  couplets  into  plajrs, 
Or  damns  the  deaa  with  purgatorial  praise." 


SCOTCH   REVIBWES9.  377 

His  style  in  youth  or  age  is  still  the  same, 

For  ever  feeble  and  for  ever  tame. 

Triumphant  first  see  '^  Temper's  Trium[^  "  shine  ! 

At  least  I'm  sure  they  triumph'd  over  mine. 

Of  **  Music's  Triumphs,"  all  who  read  may  swear 

That  luckless  music  never  triumph'd  there.* 

*    Moravians,  rise  !  bestow  some  meet  reward 
On  dull  devotion  —  lo  !  the  Sabbath  bard. 
Sepulchral  Grahame,  pours  his  notes  sublime 
In  mangled  prose,  nor  e'en  aspires  to  rhyme ; 
Breaks  into  blank  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke,t 
And  boldly  pilfers  from  the  Pentateuch  ; 
And,  undisturb'd  by  conscientious  qualms, 
Perverts  the  Prophets,  and  purloins  the  Psalms.^ 

Hail,  Sympathy !  thy  soft  idea  brings 
A  thousand  visions  of  a  thousand  things, 
And  shows,  still  whimpering  through  threescore  of  years,§ 
The  maudlin  prince  of  mournful  sonneteers. 
And  art  thou  not  their  prince,  harmonious  Bowles  ! 
The  first,  great  oracle  of  tender  souls  ? 
Whether  thou  sing'st  with  equal  ease,  and  grief,|| 
The  fall  of  empires,  or  a  yellow  leaf; 


So  emended  by  Lord  Byron  in  the  fifth  edition  of  this  satire.  The  tinei  were 
origindly  printed : 

*•  In  many  marWo-cover'd  volames  view 
Hayiey,  in  vain  attempting  comething  new ; 
Whether  he  spinn  his  comedies  in  rhyme, 
Or  scrawl,  as  Wood  and  Barclay  walk,  'gainst  time."| 

*  Haley's  two  most  notorious  verse  productions  are,  "  Triumphs  of  Temper,'* 
and  ** Triumphs  of  Music."  He  has  also  written  much  comedy  in  rhyme,  epis- 
liea,  &c.,  dtc.  As  he  is  rather  an  elegant  writer  uf  notes  and  biography,  let  us 
recommend  Poi>e>  advice  to  Wycherley  to  Mr.  H.'s  consideration,  viz.  "  to  con- 
vert his  poetry  into  prose/'  which  may  be  easily  done  by  taking  away  the  final 
syllable  of  eich  couplet. 

t  "*  Breaks  into  blank  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke.** 

In  the  first  edition, 

"  Breaks  into  mawkish  Hnes  each  holy  book." 
t  Mr.  Grahame  has  poured  forth  two  volumes  of  cant,  under  the  name  of 
*«  Sabbath  Walks,"  and  "  Biblical  Pictures." 

%  sua  whimpering  through  threescore  of  years.— Thus  altered  in  the  fifth  edi- 
tion.   The  original  reading  was, 

**  Dissolved  in  thine  own  melting  tears." 
il  Whe^er  thou  tmg'st,  &c.  This  couplet,  in  all  the  editions  before  the  fifth,  was 
printed 

**  Whether  in  sighing  winds  thou  seek*st  relief, 
Or  consolation  in  a  yellow  leaf." 


378  N6U8H   BABD8  AND 

Whether  thy  muse  most  lamentably  tells 
What  merry  sounds  proceed  from  Oxford  beOs»* 
Or,  still  in  bells  delighting,  finds  a  friend 
In  every  chime  that  jingled  from  Ostend ; 
Ah !  how  much  juster  were  thy  muse's  hap. 
If  to  thy  bells  thou  wouldst  but  add  a  cap  ! 
Delightful  Bowles  !  still  blessing  and  still  blest, 
All  love  thy  strain,  but  children  like  it  best. 
T  is  thine,  with  gentle  Little's  moral  song, 
To  soothe  the  mania  of  the  amorous  throng ! 
With  thee  our  nursery  damsels  shed  their  tears, 
Ere  miss  as  yet  completes  her  infant  years : 
But  in  her  teens  thy  whining  powers  are  vain ; 
She  quits  poor  Bowles  for  Little's  purer  strain. 
Now  to  soft  themes  thou  scornest  to  confine 
The  lofly  numbers  of  a  harp  like  thine  ; 
*<  Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain,"  f 
Such  as  none  heard  before,  or  will  again  ! 
Where  all  Discoveries  jumbled  from  the  flood. 
Since  first  the  leaky  ark  reposed  in  mud, 
By  more  or  less,  are  sung  in  every  book. 
From  Captain  Noah  down  to  Captain  Cook. 
Nor  this  alone ;  but,  pausing  on  the  road. 
The  bard  sighs  forth  a  gentle  episode  ;f 

*  See  Bowles's  Sonnets,  &c.  "  Sonnet  to  Oxford  "  and  "  Stanzas  on  hea^ 
ing  the  bells  of  Ostend." 

t  "Awake  a  louder,"  &c.,  Ac,  is  the  first  line  in  Bowles's  **  Spirit  of  Discove- 
ry;"  a  very  splendid  and  pretty  dwarf  epic.  Among  other  exquisite  lines  we 
have  the  following : 

"A  kiss 
Stole  on  the  listening  silence,  never  yet 
Here  heard  ;  they  trembled  even  as  if  the  power/*  &c.,  &c. 
That  is,  the  woods  of  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss,  very  much  astomihed, 
as  well  they  might  be,  at  such  a  phenomenon.* 

X  The  episode  above  alluded  to  is  the  story  of  **  Robert  a  Machin"  and 
**  Anna  d'Arfet,"  a  pair  of  consiant  lovers,  who  performed  the  kiss  above  men 
tioned,  that  startled  the  woods  of  Madeira. 

"  Slick  to  thy  sonnets,  man ! — at  least  they  selL 
Or  take  the  only  path  that  open  lies 
For  modem  worthies  who  would  hope  to  rise : 
Fix  on  Eome  well-known  name,  and,  bit  by  bit, 
Pare  off  the  merits  of  his  worth  and  wit; 
On  each  alike  employ  the  critic's  knife. 
And  when  a  comment  fails,  prefix  a  life , 
Hint  certain  faiUngs,  faults  before  unknown, 
Review  forgotten  Ues,  and  add  your  own ; 


*  Misquoted  and  misunderstood  by  me  ;  but  not  intentionally.  It  was  not 
the  "  woods,"  but  the  people  in  them  who  trembled— why.  Heaven  only  knows 
—unless  they  were  overheard  making  the  prodigious  ima<^  MS,  note  hvLcrd 
Bynm,    1816. 


SCOTCH   SBVIBWBRS.  879 

And  gravely  tells — attend,  each  beauteous  miss !  — 

When  first  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss. 

Bowles  !  in  thy  memory  let  this  precept  dwell. 

Stick  to  thy  sonnets,  man  !  —  at  least  they  sell* 

But  if  some  new-born  whim,  or  larger  bribe, 

Prompt  thy  crude  brain,  and  claim  thee  for  a  scribe  ; 

If  chance  some  bard,  though  once  by  dunces  fear'd, 

Now,  prone  in  dust,  can  only  be  revered  ; 

If  Pope,  whose  fame  and  genius,  from  the  first, 

Have  foil'd  the  best  of  critics,  needs  the  worst. 

Do  thou  essay ;  each  fault,  each  failing  scan  ; 

The  first  of  poets  was,  alas  !  but  man. 

Rake  from  each  ancient  dunghill  ev'ry  pearl. 

Consult  Lord  Fanny,  and  confide  in  Curll ;  * 

Let  all  the  scandals  of  a  former  age 

Perch  on  thy  pen,  and  flutter  o'er  thy  page  ; 

Affect  a  candour  which  thou  canst  not  feel. 

Clothe  envy  in  the  garb  of  honest  zeal ; 

Write,  as  if  St.  John's  soul  could  still  inspire. 

And  do  from  hate  what  f  Mallet  did  for  hire. 

Oh  !  hadst  thou  lived  in  that  congenial  time. 

To  rave  with  Dennis,  and  with  Ralph  to  rhyme ;  X 

Throng'd  with  the  rest  around  his  living  head, 

Not  raised  thy  hoof  against  the  lion  dead  ; 


Let  no  diieMe,  let  no  mitfoitune  'scape, 
And  print,  if  luckily  defonnM,  his  shape : 
Thus  shall  the  world,  quite  undeceived  at  last. 
Cleave  to  their  present  wits,  and  quit  their  past ; 
Boids  once  revered  no  more  with  favour  view, 
But  give  the  modem  sonneteers  their  due  : 
Thus  with  the  dead  may  living  merit  cope, 
Thus  Bowles  may  triumph  o'er  the  shade  of  Pope/* 

In  the  first  edition,  the  observations  on  Bowles  ended  with  these  lines,  which 
were  written  by  a  friend  of  Lord  Byron,*  and  omitted  when  the  satire  was  pub- 
lished with  the  author's  name.  The  follovi-ing  fifty-five  verses,  containing  the 
conclusion  of  the  passage  on  Bowles,  and  the  notices  of  Cottle  and  Maurice, 
were  then  printed  nir  the  first  time. 

*  Curil  is  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Dnnciad,  and  was  a  bookseller.  Lord  Fanny 
i«  the  poetical  name  of  Lord  Hervey,  author  of  **  lines  to  the  Imitator  of  llo- 
mce." 

t  I^rd  Bolingbroke  hired  Mallet  to  traduce  Pope  after  his  decease,  because 
the  poet  had  retained  some  copies  of  a  work  by  Lord  Bolingbroke,  (the  Patriot 
King,)  which  that  splendid,  but  malignant  genius,  had  ordered  to  be  destroyed. 

t  Dennis  the  critic,  end  Ralph  the  rhymester. 

**  Silence,  ye  wolves  !  while  Ralph  to  Cynthia  howls, 
Making  night  hideous ;  answer  him,  ye  owls  !'* 

Dunciad. 

^Hobhome. 


380  SNOUSH   BAR]>8   AND 

A.  meet  reward  had  crown'd  thy  glorious  gains, 
And  *  link'd  thee  to  the  Dunciad  for  thy  pains,  f 

Another  epic !  Who  inflicts  again  i 
More  books  of  blank  upon  the  sons  of  men  ? 
Boeotian  Cottle,  rich  Bristowa's  boast, 
Imports  old  stories  from  the  Cambrian  coast, 
And  sends  his  goods  to  market —  all  alive  ! 
Lines  forty  thousand,  cantos  twenty  .five ! 
Fresh  fish  from  Helicon !  §  who  '11  buy  !  who  '11  buy  ? 
The  precious  bargain  's  cheap  —  in  faith,  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, 
And  Amos  Cottle  strikes  the  lyre  in  vain. 
In  him  an  author's  luckless  lot  behold, 
Condemn'd  to  make  the  books  which  once  he  sold. 
Oh,  Amos  Cottle  !  —  Phoebus !  what  a  name 
To  fill  the  speaking  trump  of  future  fame  !  — 
Oh,  Amos  Cottle !  for  a  moment  think 
What  meagre  profits  spring  from  pen  and  ink ! 
When  thus  devoted  to  poetic  dreams, 
Who  will  peruse  thy  prostituted  reams  ? 
Oh  pen  perverted !  paper  misapplied ! 
Had  IT  Cottle  still  adorn'd  the  counter's  side. 
Bent  o'er  the  desk,  or,  born  to  useful  toils. 
Been  taught  to  make  the  paper  which  he  soils, 
Plough'd,  delved,  or  plied  the  oar  with  lusty  limb. 
He  had  not  sUng  of  Wales,  nor  I  of  him.  ** 

*  A7^d  Unk*d  thee  to  the  Dunciad  for  thypaxM. — ^Too  savage  aH  this  on  Bowles 
MS.  noU  by  Lord  Byron.    1816. 

t  See  Bowles's  late  edition  of  Pope's  works,  for  which  he  received  three  hun- 
dred pounds :  thus  Mr.  B.  has  expenenced  how  much  easier  it  is  to  profit  by  the 
reputation  of  another  than  to  elevate  his  own. 

t  Another  epic !  —  Opposite  this  passage  on  Joseph  and  Amos  Cottle,  Lord 
Byron  has  written,  "  All  right." 

^  FreshJUhfrom  Helicon  ! — "  Helicon  "  is  a  mountain,  and  not  a  fish-pond.  It 
should  have  been  "  Hippocrene.^* — MS.  note  by  Lord  Byron,    1816. 

II  ^  Ymtr  turtle-feeder'' 8  verse,  dtc. — ^This  couplet  was  altered  in  the  fifth  edition. 
It  originally  stood : 

*'  Too  much  in  turtle  Bristol's  sons  delight. 
Too  much  o'er  bowls  of  sack  prolong  the  night." 

T  Mr.  Cottle,  Amos,  Joseph,  I  don't  know  which,  but  one  or  both,  once  sel- 
lers of  books  they  did  not  write,  and  now  writers  of  books  they  do  not  sell,  have 
pubUshed  a  pair  of  epics.  "  Alfred,"  (poor  Alfred !  Pye  has  been  at  him  too !) 
»*  Alfred,"  and  the  "Fall  of  Cambria." 

•*  He  had  not  sung  of  Wtdeg,  nor  I  of  him. — I  saw  some  letters  of  this  fellow  (Jo- 
seph Cottle)  to  an  unfortunate  poetess,  whose  productions,  which  the  poor  wo> 
man  by  no  means  thought  vainly  of,  he  attacked  so  roughly  and  bitteily,  that  1 


SCOTCH   BXVISWEB8.  381 

As  Sisyphus  against  the  infernal  steep 
Rolls  the  huge  rock  whose  motions  ne'er  may  sleep. 
So  up  the  hill,  ambrosial  Richmond,  heaves 
Dull  Maurice*  all  his  granite  weight  of  leaves  : 
Smooth,  solid  monuments  of  mental  pain ! 
The  petrifactions  of  a  plodding  brain, 
That,  ere  they  reach  the  top,  ^1  lumbering  back  again. 

With  broken  lyre,  and  cheek  serenely  pale, 
Lo !  sad  Alcseus  wanders  down  the  vale  ; 
Though  fair  they  rose,  and  might  have  bloom'd  at  last. 
His  hopes  have  perish'd  by  the  northern  blast : 
NippM  in  the  bud  by  Caledonian  gales, 
His  blossoms  wither  as  the  blast  prevails  ! 
O'er  his  lost  works  let  classic  Sheffield  weep : 
May  no  rude  hand  disturb  their  early  sleep !  f 

Yet  say  !  why  should  the  bard  at  once  resign 
His  claim  to  favour  from  the  sacred  nine  7 
For  ever  startled  by  the  mingled  howl 
Of  northern  wolves,  that  still  in  darkness  prowl ; 
A  coward  brood,  which  mangle  as  they  prey. 
By  hellish  instinct,  all  that  cross  their  way  ;  j: 
Aged  or  young,  the  living  or  the  dead. 
No  mercy  find  —  these  harpies  must  be  fed 
Why  do  the  injured  unresisting  yield 
The  calm  possession  of  their  native  field  ? 
Why  tamely  thus  before  their  fangs  retreat. 
Nor  hunt  the  bloodhounds  back  to  Arthur's  Seat  ?  § 

Health  to  immortal  Jeffrey  !  once,  in  name, 
England  could  boast  a  judge  almost  the  same ; 
In  soul  so  like,  so  merciful,  yet  just, 
Some  think  that  Satan  has  resign'd  his  trust. 


could  hardly  resist  assoilioff  him,  even  were  it  uz^jast,  which  it  is  notr— for  verily 
he  is  an  ass.    MS.  note  by  Lord  Byron,     1816. 

*  Mr.  Maurice  hath  manafactured  the  component  parts  of  a  ponderous  quarto, 
upon  the  beauties  of  "  Richmond  Hill,"  and  the  like : — it  also  takes  in  a  charm- 
ing view  of  Tumham  Green,  Hammersmith,  Brentford,  Old  and  New,  and  the 
parts  adjacent. 

t  Poor  Montfforaery !  though  praised  by  every  English  Review,  has  been 
bitterlv  reviled  by  the  Edinburgh.  Alter  all,  the  bard  of  Sheffield  is  a  man  of 
considerable  genius :  his  "  Wanderer  of  Switzeriand,**   is  worth  a  thousand 

Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  at  least  fifty  "  degrraded  epics." 

t  See  Lord  Byron*s  letter  to  Mr.  Murray,  June  13,  1813,  volume  1,  page  317 

%  Arthur's  Seat :  the  hill  which  overliangs  Exlinbuigh. 


382  ENGLISH   BAKD8   AND 

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  wilUng  to  decree  the  rack ; 
Bred  in  the  courts  betimes,  though  all  that  law 
As  yet  hath  taught  him  is  to  find  a  flaw  ; 
Since  well  instructed  in  the  patriot  school 
To  rail  at  party,  though  a  party  tool. 
Who  knows,  if  chance  his  patrons  should  restore 
Back  to  the  sway  they  forfeited  before, 
His  scribbling  toils  some  recompense  may  meet, 
And  raise  this  Daniel  to  the  judgment-seat  ]  * 
Let  Jeffries'  shade  indulge  the  pious  hope, 
And  greeting  thus,  present  him  with  a  rope : 
"  Heir  to  my  virtues  !  man  of  equal  mind ! 
Skill'd  to  condemn  as  to  traduce  mankind, 
This  cord  receive,  for  thee  reserved  with  care. 
To  wield  in  judgment,  and  at  length  to  wear," 

Health  to  great  Jeffrey  !  Heaven  preserve  his  life. 
To  flourish  on  the  fertile  shores  of  Fife, 
And  guard  it  sacred  in  its  future  wars. 
Since  authors  sometimes  seek  the  field  of  Mars 
Can  none  remember  that  eventful  day,  f 
That  ever  glorious,  ahnost  fatal  fray. 
When  Little's  leadless  pistol  met  his  eye, 
And  Bow-street  myrmidons  stood  laughing  by  ?  J 
Oh,  day  disastrous !  On  her  firm-set  rock, 
•    Dunedin's  castle  felt  a  secret  shock ; 

Dark  roll'd  the  sympathetic  waves  of  Forth, 
Low  groan'd  the  startled  whirlwinds  of  the  north  ; 
Tweed  ruffled  half  his  waves  to  form  a  tear. 
The  other  half  pursued  its  calm  career  ;  § 

*  And  raise  this  Danid  to  Ihe  judgwiiOU'Seat. — Too  ferocious  —  Uiii  u  mere 
insanity.—  MS.  note  by  Lord  Byron.    1816. 

t  Can  none  remember,  Ac— All  this  is  bad,  because  peraonal.— JIf  5.  note  bjf 
Lord  Byron.    1816. 

X  In  1806  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Moore  met  at  Chalk-Form.  The  duel  Ti-a^ 
prevented  by  the  interference  of  the  magistracy  ;  and,  on  examination,  ih:» 
balls  of  the  pistols  were  found  to  have  evaporated.  This  incident  gave  occasion 
to  much  waggery  in  the  daily  printt. 

I  am  informed  that  Mr.  Moore  published  at  the  time  a  disavowal  of  the  state- 
ments in  the  newspapers,  as  far  as  regarded  himself;  and  in  justice  to  him  I 
mention  this  circumstance.  As  I  never  heard  of  it  before,  1  cannot  state  t!ip 
particulars,  and  was  only  made  acquainted  with  the  feet  very  lately .— Novem- 
ber 4,  1811. 

^  The  Tweed  here  behaved  wiCh  proper  decorum ;  it  would  have  been  highly 
reprehensible  in  the  Eng^h  half  of  the  river  to  have  shown  the  smallest  symp- 
tom of  apprehension. 


SCOTCH   SSVIBWKB8.  883 

Arthur's  steep  summit  nodded  to  its  base. 

The  surly  Tolbooth  scarcely  kept  her  place* 

The  Tolbooth  felt  —  for  marble  sometimes  can, 

On  such  occasions,  feel  as  much  as  man  — 

The  Tolbooth  felt  defrauded  of  his  charms, 

If  Jeffrey  died,  except  within  her  arms  :  * 

Nay  last,  not  least,  on  that  portentous  mom, 

The  sixteenth  story,  where  himself  was  bom, 

His  patrimonial  garret,  fell  to  eround, 

And  pale  Edina  shudder'd  at  the  sound  : 

Strew'd  were  the  streets  around  with  milk-white  reams, 

Flow'd  all  the  Canongate  with  inky  streams ; 

This  of  his  candour  seem'd  the  sable  dew, 

That  of  his  valour  show'd  the  bloodless  hue  ; 

And  all  with  justice  deem'd  the  two  combined 

The  mingled  emblems  of  his  mighty  mind. 

But  Caledonia's  goddess  hover'd  o  er 

The  field,  and  saved  him  from  the  wrath  of  Moore  ; 

From  either  pistol  snatch'd  the  vengeful  lead. 

And  straight  restored  it  to  her  favourite's  head ; 

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  agaiui 

Resign  the  pistol,  and  resume  the  pen ; 

O'er  politics  and  poesy  preside, 

Boast  of  thy  country,  and  Britannia's  guide ! 

For  long  as  Albion's  heedless  sons  submit. 

Or  Scottish  taste  decides  on  English  wit, 

So  long  shall  last  thine  unmolested  reign. 

Nor  any  dare  to  take  thy  name  in  vain. 

Behold,  a  chosen  band  shall  aid  thy  plan, 

And  own  thee  chieftain  of  the  critic  clan. 

First  in  the  oat-fed  phalanx  f  shall  be  seen 

The  travell'd  thane,  Athenian  Aberdeen,  j: 


*  ThiB  dimlay  of  •ympathy  on  the  part  of  the  Tolbooth,  (the  principol  prison 
in  Edinburgn,)  whidi  truly  seems  to  Mve  been  moat  affected  on  this  occasion, 
is  mnch  to  be  commended.  It  was  to  be  apprehended  that  the  many  unhappy 
criminola  eiecuted  in  the  front  might  have  rendered  the  edifice  more  callous. 
She  is  said  to  be  of  the  sofler  sex,  i>ecause  her  deUcacy  of  feeling  on  this  day 
wwt  truly  feminine,  though,  like  most  feminine  impulses,  perhaps  a  little  selfish.' 

t  —  Oatrfed  phalanx. —  So  altered  in  the  fifth  edition.  The  original  reading 
was,  **  ranks  illustrioiis.** 

t  Hia  lotdship  has  been  much  abroad,  is  a  member  of  the  Athenian  Society, 
and  reviewer  of  *«  Cell's  Topography  of  Troy." 


384  BNGLISH  BARDS   AND 

Herbert  shall  wield  Thor's  hammer,  *  and  sometimes. 
Id  gratitude,  thoa  'It  praise  his  rugged  rhymes. 
Smug  Sydney  -I*  too  thy  bitter  page  shall  seek, 
And  classic  Hallam,  i  much  renown'd  for  Greek  ; 
Scott  may  perchance  his  name  and  influence  lend. 
And  paltry  Pillans  §  shall  traduce  his  friend  ; 
While  gay  Thalia's  luckless  votary,  Lambe,  || 
Damn'd  like  the  devil,  devil-like  will  damn.  4 
Known  be  thy  name,  unbounded  be  thy  sway ! 
Thy  Holland's  banquets  shall  each  toil  repay  ; 
While  grateful  Britain  yields  the  praise  she  owes 
To  Holland's  hirelings  and  to  learning's  foes. 
Yet  mark  one  caution  ere  thy  next  Review 
Spread  its  light  wings  of  saffron  and  of  blue, 
Beware  lest  blundering  Brougham  **  destroy  the  sale. 
Turn  beef  to  bannocks,  cauliflowers  to  kail." 

•  Mr.  Herbert  i«  a  translator  of  Icelandic  and  other  poetry.  One  of  the  pnn- 
cipal  pieces  is  a  "  Song  on  the  Recovery  of  Thor's  Hammer :".  the  translation, 
is  a  pleasant  chant  in  me  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," 

t  The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  the  reputed  author  of  Peter  PljTnley's  Letters, 
and  sundry  criticisms. 

X  Mr.  Hallam  reviewed  Payne  Knight's  "Taste,"  and  was  exceedingly  severe 
on  some  Greek  verses  therein  :  it  was  not  discovered  that  the  lines  were  PindarV 
till  the  press  rendered  it  impossible  to  cancel  the  critique,  which  RtiD  stands  an 
everlasting  monument  of  HaUam's  ingenuity.* 

The  said  Ilallom  is  incensed  because  he  is  falsely  accused,  seeing  that  he 
never  dineth  at  Holland  House.  If  this  be  true,  I  am  sorrj'  —  not  for  haWng 
said  so,  but  on  his  account,  as  I  understand  his  lordship's  feasts  are  preferable  to 
his  compositions. —  If  he  did  not  review  Lord  Holland  s  performance,  I  am  glad, 
because  it  must  have  been  painful  to  read,  and  irksome  to  praise  it.  If  Mr.  ilal- 
1am  will  tell  me  who  did  review  it,  the  real  name  shall  find  a  place  in  the  text, 
provided,  nevertheless,  the  said  name  be  of  two  orthodox  musical  syllables,  and 
will  come  into  the  verse :  till  then,  Hallam  must  stand  for  want  of  a  better. 

^  Pillans  is  a  tutor  at  Eaton. 

II  The  Hon.  G.  Lambe  reviewed  **  Beresfbrd's  Miseries,"  and  is  moreover 
author  of  a  farce  enacted  with  much  applause  at  the  Phory,  SCanmore ;  and 
damned  with  great  expedition  at  ihe  late  theatre,  Covent  Garden.  It  was  en- 
titled,  "  Whistle  for  It.' ' 

IT  Damn'd  like  the  devil^  deviJrWce  wiU  damn. — The  line  stood,  in  all  editioiis 
before  the  fifth, 

"  As  he  himself  was  damn'd  shall  try  to  damn." 

♦•  Mr.  Brougham,  in  No.  XXV  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  throughout  the 
article  concernmg  Don  Pedro  de  Cctirilos,  has  displayed  more  pohtics  than 
policy  ;  many  of  the  worthy  burgesses  of  Edinburgh  being  so  incensed  at  the  in- 
famous principles  it  evinces,  as  to  liave  withdrawn  their  subsdKptions.t 

It  seems  that  Mr.  Brougham  is  not  a  Pict,  as  I  supposed,  but  a  Borderer,  end 
his  name  is  pronounced  Broom,  from  Trent  to  Tay  : — So  be  it 

*  HaUam's  ingenuity. —  The  note  ended  here  in  the  first  edition. 

t  Their  ntbscriptions. —  Here  followed,  in  the  fifth  edition,  "The  name  of  this 
personage  is  pronounced  Broom  in  the  south,  but  the  truly  northeni  and  mmiad 
pronunciation  is  Brougk-am,  in  two  syllables 


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SCOTCH   BEVIEWBaS.  d85 

Hius  having  said,  the  kilted  goddess  kist 
Her  SOD,  an^  vanish'd  in  a  Scottish  mist.  * 

Then  prosper,  Jeffrey !  pertest  of  the  train  f 
Whom  Scotland  pampers  with  her  fiery  grain ! 
Whatever  blessing  waits  a  genuine  Scot, 
In  double  portion  swells  thy  glorious  lot , 
For  thee  Edina  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.  X 
Lo !  blushing  Itch,  coy  nymph,  enamour'd  grown, 
Forsakes  the  rest,  and  cleaves  to  thee  alone  ; 
And,  too  unjust  to  other  Pictish  men, 
Enjoys  thy  person,  and  inspires  thy  pen ! 

Illustrious  Holland !  hard  would  be  his  lot,  § 
His  hirelings  mentioned,  and  himself  forgot ! 
Holland,  with  Henry  Petty  at  his  back. 
The  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  the  pack. 
Blest  be  the  banquets  spread  at  Holland  House, 
Where  Scotchmen  feed,  and  critics  may  carouse  ! 
Long,  long  beneath  that  hospitable  roof 
Shall  Grub-street  dine,  while  duns  are  kept  aloof. 
See  honest  Hallam  lay  aside  his  fork. 
Resume  his  pen,  review  his  Lordship's  work, 
And,  grateful  for  the  dainties  on  his  plate,  {| 


The  conclusion  of  the  note  wm  rabttitnted  for  the  above  in  the  wfxmd  edition. 

*  I  ought  to  splogize  to  the  worthy  deities  for  introducing  a  new  goddess  i;i'ith 
short  pottieoata  to  their  notice  :  but  alas !  what  was  to  be  done  ?  I  could  not 
«ay  Caledonia's  genius,  it  being  well  known  there  is  no  such  geniud  to  be  found 
fmm  Clackmanan  to  Caithness;  yet  without  supernatural  agency,  how  was 
Jeffrey  to  be  saved?  The  national  "kelpies"  are  too  unpoeticul,  nnd  the 
** brownies,"  and  "gude  neighbours,'*  (spirits  of  a  good  disposition,)  refuKcd  to 
extricate  him.  A  goddess,  therefore,  has  been  called  for  the  purpose  ;  and  great 
ouffht  to  be  the  gratitude  of  Jeffrey,  seeing  it  is  the  only  communication  he  ever 
held,  or  is  likely  to  hold,  with  any  thing  heavenly. 

t  Then  prosper,  Jeffrey!  Ac— This  paragraph  wai  introduced  in  the  fifth 
edition. 

t  See  the  colour  of  the  back  binding  of  the  E^nbuiigh  Review. 

^  IBustriouii  HcOand  !  hard  wmld  be  his  lot, 

if»  hireiinge  mention' df  and  himtelf forgot ! 

Bad  enough,  and  on  mistaken  grounds  too. — MS.  note  by  Lord  Byron  181^ 

(I  Asid,  grateful  for  (he  daintiee,  &c. —  In  aQ  editions  before  the  fiAh  this  couplet 
was  printed, 

**  And  grateftil  to  the  founder  of  the  feast, 
Decliure  his  landlord  can  tranalate  at  least." 
VOL.  v.— C  C 


886  ENGLISH   BABD8   AND 

Declare  his  landlord  can  at  least  translate !  * 
Dunedin  !  view  thy  children  with  delight, 
They  write  for  food  — and  feed  because  they  write : 
And  lest,  when  heated  with  the  unusual  grape. 
Some  glowing  thoughts  should  to  the  press  escape, 
And  tinge  with  red  the  female  reader's  cheek, 
My  lady  skims  the  cream  of  each  critique  ; 
Breathes  o'er  the  page  her  purity  of  soul. 
Reforms  each  error,  and  refines  the  whole*  f 

Now  to  the  Drama  turn-— Oh !  motley  sight ! 
What  precious  scenes  the  wondering  eyes  invite ! 
Puns,  and  a  prince  within  a  barrel  pent,  ^ 
And  Dibdin's  nonsense  yield  complete  content. 
Though  now,  thank  Heaven !  the  Rosciomania's  o'er, 
And  full-grown  actors  are  endured  once  more ; 
Tet  what  avail  their  vain  attempts  to  please, 
While  British  critics  suffer  scenes  like  these  ; 
While    Reynolds  vents   his  "dammes!"  "poohs!"  and 

«  zounds !  "  § 
And  common.place  and  common  sense  confounds? 
While    Kennv's    "World"  — ah!     where    is    Kenny's 

wit?  — 
Tires  the  sad  gallery,  lulls  the  listless  pit ;  || 
And  Beaumont's  pilfer'd  Caratach  affords 
A  tragedy  complete  in  all  but  words  ?  IT 
Who  but  must  mourn,  while  these  are  all  the  rage. 
The  degradation  of  our  vaunted  stage ! 
Heavens  !  is  ^11  sense  of  shailie  and  talent  gone  ? 
Have  we  no  living  bard  of  merit  ?  —  none ! 
Awake,  George  Colman  !  Cumberland,  awake ! 
Ring  th'  alarum  bell !  let  folly  quake ! 

*  Lord  Holland  has  translated  some  specimens  of  Lope  de  Vega,  inserted  in 
his  life  of  the  author.    Both  are  bepraised  by  his  disinitrtsted  guesu. 

t  Certain  it  is,  her  ladyship  is  suspected  of  havmg  displayed  her  matchless  wit 
in  the  E^dinburgh  Review.  However  that  may  be,  we  know,  from  good  autliorityi 
that  the  manuscripts  are  submitted  to  her  perusal — no  doubt,  for  correction. 

t  In  the  melo-drama  of  Tekeli,  that  heroic  prince  is  clapt  into  a  barrel  on  the 
stage ;  a  new  asylum  for  distressed  heroes. 

^  All  these  are  favourite  expressions  of  Mr.  Reynolds,  and  prominent  in  his 
comedies,  living  and  defonct. 

II  "  While  Kenny*s  •  World,'— ah !  where  is  Kenny's  wit  ?  — 

Tires  the  saa  ffellery,  lulls  the  listless  pit." 

ll&us  corrected  in  the  fifth  edition.    The  lines  were  originally  printed, 
"While  Kenny's  *  Worid,'  just  sufTer'd  to  proceed. 
Proclaims  the  audience  very  kind  indeed." 

T  Mr.  T.  Sheridan,  the  new  manager  of  Drury-lane  theatre,  snipped  ths 
tragedy  of  Bondoca  of  the  dialogue,  and  exhibited  the  scenes  as  the  spectacle  of 
Caractacus. — Was  this  worthy  of  his  sire  or  of  himself  7 


SCOTCH  RBVIBWBBB.  S87 

Oh,  Sheridan !  if  aug^t  can  move  thy  pen, 
Let  Comedy  aMume  her  throne  again ; 
Abjure  the  mummery  of  the  German  schools ; 
Leave  new  Pizarros  to  translating  fools ; 
Give,  as  thy  last  memorial  to  the  age, 
One  classic  drama,  and  reform  the  stage. 
Gods !  o'er  those  boards  shall  Folly  rear  her  head, 
Where  Garrick  trod,  and  Siddons  lives  to  tread  ?  * 
On  those  shall  Farce  display  Bufibon'ry's  mask, 
And  Hook  conceal  his  heroes  in  a  cask  ? 
Shall  sapient  managers  new  scenes  produce 
From  Cherry,  Skeffington,  and  Mother  Goose  ? 
While  Shakspeare,  Otway,  Massinger,  forgot. 
On  stalls  must  moulder,  or  in  closets  rot  7 
Lo  !  with  what  pomp  the  daily  prints  proclaim 
The  rival  candidates  for  Attic  fame ! 
In  grim  array  though  Lewis'  spectres  rise, 
Still  Skeffington  and  Goose  divide  the  prize. 
And  sure  great  Skeffington  must  claim  our  praise, 
For  skirtless  coats  and  skeletons  of  plays 
Renown'd  alike  ;  whose  genius  ne'er  confines 
Her  flight  to  garnish  Greenwood's  gay  designs ;  f 
Nor  sleeps  with  ^  Sleeping  Beauties,"  but  anon 
In  five  facetious  acts  comes  thundering  on,  X 
While  poor  John  BuU,  bewilder'd  with  the  scene, 
Stares,  §  wondering  what  the  devil  it  can  mean  ; 
But  as  some  bauds  applaud,  a  venal  few  \ 
Rather  than  sleep,  why  John  applauds  it  too. 

Such  are  we  now.     Ah !  wherefore  should  we  turn 
To  what  our  fathers  were,  unless  to  mourn  ? 
Degen'rate  Britons  !  are  ye  dead  to  shame, 
Or,  kind  to  dulness,  do  you  fear  to  blame  T 
Well  may  the  nobles  of  our  present  race 
Watch  each  distortion  of  a  Naldi's  face ; 
Well  may  they  smile  on  Italy's  buffoons, 
And  worship  Cataiani's  pantaloons.  || 

SiddoTU  lives  to  tread. — ^In  aU  editions  previoaa  to  the  fifth,  "  Kemble  livei  to 
tread/* 

t  Mr.  Greenwood  is,  we  betieve,  scene-painter  to  Drury-lane  theatre — as  such, 
Mr.  Skeffington  is  much  indebted  to  him. 

t  Mr.  Skeffington  is  the  illustrions  aathor  of  the  "  Sleeping  Beauty ;  **  and 
some  comedies,  particularly  **■  Maids  and  Bachelors : "  Baccalaurii  baculo  magis 
qoam  Uiuo  digin. 

^  *«5ter«f ;"  first  edition,  "Aaseps." 

'II  Naldi  and  Catalani  require  little  notice — for  the  visage  of  the  one,  and  the 
salary  of  the  other,  will  enable  us  long  to  recollect  these  amusing  vngibon'f^. 


S06  ENOU8H   BAEDS   AND 

Since  their  own  drama  yields  no  fairer  trace 
Of  wit  than  puns,  of  humour  than  grimace. 

Then  let  Ausonia,  skill'd  in  every  art 
To  soflen  manners,  but  corrupt  the  heart, 
Pour  her  exotic  follies  o'er  the  town, 
To  sanction  Vice,  and  hunt  Decorum  down : 
Let  wedded  strumpets  languish  o'er  Deshayes, 
And  bless  the  promise  which  his  form  displays  ; 
While  Gayton  bounds  before  th'  enraptured  looks 
Of  hoary  marquises  and  stripling  dukes : 
Let  high-born  lechers  eye  the  lively  Pr^sle 
Twirl  her  light  limbs,  that  spurn  the  needless  veil ; 
Let  Angiolini  bare  her  breast  of  snow, 
Wave  the  white  arm,  and  point  the  pliant  toe ; 
Collini  trill  her  love-inspiring  song, 
Strain  her  fair  neck,  and  charm  the  listening  throng ! 
Whet  *  not  your  scythe,  suppressors  of  our  vice ! 
Reforming  saints  !  too  delicately  nice  ! 
*By  whose  decrees,  our  sinful  souls  to  save. 
No  Sunday  tankards  foam,  no  barbers  shave  ; 
And  beer  undrawn,  and  beards  unmown,  display 
Your  holy  reverence  for  the  Sabbath-day. 

'  Or  hail  at  once  the  patron  and  the  pile  f 
Of  vice  and  folly,  Greville  and  Argyle  !  j: 
Where  yon  proud  palace.  Fashion's  hallow'd  fane. 
Spreads  wide  her  portals  for  the  motley  train, 

Besides,  we  are  still  black  and  blae  from  the  squeeze  on  the  first  night  of  the 
lady*8  appearance  in  trousers. 

*  Whet  not  your  scythe. —  From  Lord  Byron's  correction  in  1816.  In  the 
former  editions,  "  Raise  not  your  scythe."  Aninst  the  six  concluding  lines  of 
tiiis  paragraph  the  author  has  written — **  Good." 

t  Or  hail  at  once  Ae  patron  and  the  pile. —  The  following  seventy  lines,  to  "  ai 
for  the  smaUer  fry,"  &c.,  wero  first  inserted  in  the  second  edition. 

t  To  prevent  any  blunder,  such  as  mistaking  a  street  for  a  man,  I  beg  leave 
to  state,  that  it  is  the  institution,  and  not  tt^  duke  of  that  name,  which  is  here 
alluded  to.  A  gentleman,  with  whom  I  am  slighUy  acquainted,  lost  in  the  Argyle 
Rooms  sever^  thousand  pounds  at  backgammon.*  It  is  but  justice  to  ih<* 
managers  in  this  instance  to  say,  that  some  aegree  of  disapprobation  was  mani- 
fested :  but  why  are  the  implements  of  g^aming  allowed  m  a  place  devoted  t4i 
the  society  of  both  sexes  7  A  pleasant  thmg  for  the  wives  or  daughters  of  tho^e 
who  are  blest  or  cursed  with  such  connections  to  hear  the  billiard-tables  rattling 
in  one  room  and  the  dice  in  another !  That  this  is  the  case  I  myself  can  tefeiify. 
as  a  late  unworthy  member  of  an  institution  which  materially  affects  the  morals  of 
the  higher  orders,  while  the  lower  may  not  even  move  to  the  sound  of  a  tabor 
and  fiddle  without  a  chance  of  indictment  for  riotous  behavioar. 

*  True.    It  was  Billy  W y  who  loftlhe  money.    I  knew  him,  and  yn»  a 

snbacriber  to  the  Aigyle  at  tho  lime  of  the  events- Af5.  note  by  Lord  Byrm. 
1816. 


SCOTCH  RBTnWBBS.  989 

Behold  the  new  Petronius  *  of  the  day, 

Our  arbiter  of  pleasure  and  of  play ! 

There  the  hired  eunuch,  the  Hesperian  choir, 

The  melting  lute,  the  soil  lascivious  lyre, 

The  song  from  Italy,  the  step  from  France, 

The  midnight  orgy,  and  the  mazy  dance, 

The  smile  of  beauty  and  the  flush  of  wine. 

For  fops,  fools,  gamesters,  knaves,  and  lords  combine : 

Each  to  his  humour  —  Comus  all  allows ; 

Champaign,  dice,  music,  or  your  neighbour's  spouse. 

Talk  not  to  us,  ye  starving  sons  of  tra^e  ! 

Of  piteous  ruin,  which  ourselves  have  made  ; 

In  Plenty's  sunshine  Fortune's  minions  bask. 

Nor  think  of  poverty,  except  "  en  masque,"    . 

When  for  the  night  some  lately  titled  ass 

Appears  the  beggar  which  his  grandsire  was. 

The  curtain  dropp'd,  the  gay  burletta  o'er. 

The  audience  take  their  turn  upon  the  floor  ; 

Now  round  the  room  the  circling  dow'gers  sweep,   . 

Now  in  loose  waltz  the  thin-clad  daughters  leap ; 

The  first  in  lengthen'd  line  majestic  swim. 

The  last  display  the  free  linfetter'd  limb ! 

Those  for  Hibernia's  lusty  sons  repair 

With  art  the  charms  which  nature  could  not  spare  ; 

These  after  husbands  wing  their  eager  flight. 

Nor  leave  much  mystery  for  the  nuptial  night. 

Oh !  blest  retreats  of  infamy  and  ease. 
Where,  all  forgotten  but  the  power  to  please, 
Each  maid  may  give  a  loose  to  genial  thought, 
Each  swain  may  teach  new  systems,  or  be  taught : 
There  the  blithe  youngster,  just  return'd  from  Spain* 
Cuts  the  light  pack,  or  calls  the  rattling  main  ; 
The  jovial  caster  's  set,  and  seven  's  the  nick. 
Or  —  done  !  — a  thousand  on  the  coming  trick ! 
If,  mad  with  loss,  existence  'gins  to  tire, 
And  all  your  hope  or  wish  is  to  expire. 
Here  's  Powell's  pistol  ready  for  your  life. 
And,  kinder  still,  two  Pagets  for  your  wife ;  f 
Fit  consummation  of  an  earthly  race 
Begun  in  folly,  ended  in  disgrace  { 

Petroniui  "Arbiter  elegantaaram'*  to  Nero,  "and  a  very  pretty  fellow  in 
blfl  day,"  aa  Mr.  Congreve's  "  Old  Bachelor  "  saith  of  Hannibal. 

t  Ttoo  PagetMfor  your  wife.  — Thus  altered  in  the  fifth  edition.    The  original 
reading  was,  "  a' Paget  for  your  wife." 


390  SNOLISH   BABD8   AND 

While  none  but  menials  o'er  the  bed  of  death. 

Wash  thy  red  woands,  or  watch  thy  wavering  breath ; 

Traduced  by  liars,  and  forgot  by  all, 

The  mangled  victim  of  a  drunken  brawl, 

To  live  like  Clodius,  *  and  like  Falkland  f  fall.    • 

« 
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, 
iust  skill 'd  to  know  the  right  and  choose  the  wrong, 
Freed  at  that^ge  when  reason's  shield  is  lost, 
To  fight  my  course  through  passion's  countless  host, :( 
Whom  every  path  of  pleasure's  flow'ry  way 
Has  lured  in  turn,  and  all  have  led  astray — 
E'en  I  must  raise  my  voice,  e'en  I  must  feel 
Such  scenes,  such  men,  destroy  the  public  weal ; 
Although  some  kind,  censorious  friehd  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  b^rd  in  virtue  strong, 
Gifibrd  perchance,  shall  raise  the  chastening  song, 
Then  sleep  my  pen  for  ever '  and  my  voice 
Be  only  heard  to  hail  him,  and  rejoice ; 
Rejoice,  and  yield  my  feeble  praise,  though  I 
May  feel  the  lash  that  Virtue  must  apply. 

As  for  the  smaller  fry,  who  swarm  in  shoals 
From  silly  Hafxz  ||  up  to  simple  Bowles, 

*  Mutato  xfomene  de  te 

,  Fabula  narrator. 

t  I  knew  the  late  Lord  Falkland  welL  On  Sunday  night  I  beheld  him  pire> 
riding  at  his  own  table,  in  all  the  honest  pride  of  hospitality ;  on  Wednesday 
rooming,  at  three  o'clock,  I  saw  stretched  before  me  all  that  remained  of  conraffe, 
feeling,  and  a  host  of  passions.  He  was  a  gallant  and  successful  officer :  Dis 
faults  were  the  faults  of  a  sailor — as  such,  Britons  will  forgive  liim.  He  died 
like  a  brave  man  in  a  better  cause ;  for  had  he  fallen  in  like  manner  on  the  deck 
of  the  frigate  to  which  he  was  just  appointed,  his  last  moments  would  have  been 
held  up  by  his  countrymen  as  an  example  to  succeeding  heroes. 

X  To  fight  my  course  through  pa»9imC»  comUkgg  host, — Yes;  and  a  precious 
chase  they  led  me. — MS,  note  ^  Lord  Byron.    1816. 

What  art  thou  better,  meddHntt  fool  ? —Foci  enough,  certainly,  then,  and  no 
wiser  since. —  MS.  note  by  Lord  Byron,    1816. 

'  II  What  would  be  the  sentiments  of  the  Persian  Anacreon,  Hafiz,  could  he 
rise  from  his  splendid  sepulchre  at  Sheeraz,  where  he  reposes  widi  Ferdonsi 
and  Sadi,  the  oriental  Homer  and  Catullus,  and  behold  his  name  aMomed 
by  one  Stott^of  Dromore,  the  most  impudent  and  execrable  of  literary  poachers 
for  the  doily  prints. 


SCOTCH   BSVIEWEKS  991 

Why  shoald  we  call  them  from  their  dark  abode, 

In  broad  St.  Giles's  or  in  Tottenham-road  7 

Or  (since  some  men  of  fashion  nobly  dare 

To  scrawl  in  verse)  from  Bond-street  or  the  Square  t 

If  things  of  ton  their  harmless  lays  indite, 

Most  wisely  doom'd  to  shun  the  public  sight,  * 

What  harm  ?  In  spite  of  every  critic  elf, 

Sir  T.  may  read  his  stanzas  to  himself;    *  ' 

Miles  Andrews  still  his  strength  in  couplets  try. 

And  live  in  prologues,  though  his  dramas  die. 

Lords  too  are  ba^,  such  things  at  tiniest  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,  f 

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  T 

What  heterogeneous  honours  deck  the  peer ! 

Lord,  rhymester,  petit-maitre,  pamphleteer  !  X 

So  dull  in  youth,  so  drivelling  in  his  age, 

His  scenes  alone  had  damn'd  our  sinking  stage ; 

*  Here  IbUowid  in  the  original  manuscript, 

On  one  alone  Apollo  deigns  to  smile, 
And  crowns  anew  Roscommon  in  Carlisle 
The  provocation  alluded  to  in  Lord  Byron's  note,  page  262,  took  place 
while  the  satire  was  inpress.  These  lines  were  erasea  in  consequence,  and 
an  thoM  down  to,  "With  you,  ye  Druids,"  &c.,  substituted  in  their  place. 
The  following  additional  lines  were  written,  but  suppressed  before  publica- 
tion' 

In  these  our  times,  with  daily  wonders  big, 
A  lettered  peer  is  like  a  lettered  pig ; 
Both  know  their  alphabet,  but  wno,  from  thence,  * 

Infers  that  peers  or  pigs  have  manly  sense  ? 
Still  less  that  such  snould  woo  the  graceful  nine : 
Parnassus  was  not  made  for  lords  and  swine, 
t  No  mute  vnU  ckeer^  vnth  renovating  smtfe, 

The  paralytic  puling  of  CarUale. 
Tliis  couplet  stood  in  the  first  edition, 

**  Nor  e'en  a  hackney 'd  muse  will  deiffn  to  smile 
On  minor  Byron,  or  mature  Carlisle. 
Opposite  tliese  lines  on  Lord  Carlisle,  Lord  Byron  has  written,  in  the  copy 
which  he  perused  in  1816,  **  Wrong  also  —  the  provocation  was  not  sufficient  to 
justify  the  acerbity/' 

t  The  Earl  of  Carlisle  has  lately  published  an  eighteen-penny  pamphlet  on 
the  state  of  the  stage,  and  offers  his  plan  of  building  a  new  theatre.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  his  lordship  will  be  permitted  to  bring  forward  any  thing  for  the  stage  — 
eicept  his  own  tragedies. 


392  ENGLISH   BARDS   AND 

But  managers  for  once  cried,  <<  Hold,  enough !  " 
Nor  drugg'd  their  audience  with  the  tragic  stuff. 
Yet  at  their  judgment  let  his  lordship  laugh. 
And  case  his  volumes  in  congenial  calf; 
Yes !  doff  that  covering,  where  morocco  shines^ 
ADd  hang  a  calf-skin  *  on  those  recreant  lines. 

With  you,  ye  Dnlids !  rich  in  native  lead, 
Who  daily  scribble  for  your  daily  bread ; 
With  you  I  war  not :  Gifford's  heavy  hand 
Has  crush'dy  without  remorse,  your  numerous  band. 
On  "  all  the  talents  "  vent  your  venal  spleen ; 
Want  is  your  plea,  let  pity  be  your  screen.     • 
Let  monodies  on  Fox  regale  your  crew. 
And  Melville's  Mantle  f  prove  a  blanket  too ! 
One  common  Lethe  waits  each  hapless  bard. 
And,  peace  be  with  you !  't  is  your  best  reward. 
Such  damning  fame  as  Dunciads  only  give 
Could  bid  your  lines  beyond  a  morning  live  ; 
But  now  at  once  your  fleeting  labours  close,        4 
With  names  of  greater  note  in  blest  repose. 
Far  be  't  from  me  unkindly  to  upbraid 
The  lovely  Rosa's  prose  in  masquerade. 
Whose  strains,  the  faithful  echoes  of  her  mind. 
Leave  wondering  comprehension  far  behind,  i 
Though  Crusca's  bards  no  more  our  journals  fill, 
Some  stragglers  skirmish  round  the  columns  still ; 
Last  of  the  howling  host  which  once  was  Ball's,  § 
Matilda  snivels  yet,  and  Hafiz  yells  ; 


•  "Doffthat  lion's  hide, 

And  hang  a  calf-«kin  on  those  recreant  limbs." 

Shak.  King  John, 
Lord  Carlisle's  works,  most  resplendently  bound,  form  a  conspicuous  oma- 
me«t  to  his  book-shelves : 

"The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  prunella." 
t  "  Melville's  Mantle,"  a  parody  on  •*  Elijah's  Mantle,"  a  poem. 

t  This  lovely  little  Jessica,  the  daughter  of  the  noted  Jew  K ,  seems  to 

be  a  follower  of  the  Delia  Cnisca  school,  and  has  published  two  volumes  of  very 
respectable  absurdities  in  rhyme,  as  times  go  ;  besides  sundry  novels  in  the  style 
of  the  first  edition  of  the  Monk. 

To  the  above,  Lord  Byron  added,  in  1816 :  "  She  since  married  the  Morning 
Post  — an  exceeding  good  match  —  and  is  now  dead  —  which  is  better." 

^  From  this  line  the  passage  in  the  first  edition  stood  thus  : 
Thouffh  Bell  has  lost  his  nightingales  and  owls, 
Matiloa  snivels  still,  and  Htmz  howls, 
And  Crusca's  spirit,  rising  firom  the  dead. 
Revives  in  Laura,  Quiz,  and  X.  Y.  Z. 


iCOTCH  ssTiBwntt.  393 

And  Meny's  metaphors  appear  anew, 
Chain'd  to  the  signature  of  O.  P.  Q.  * 

When  some  brisk  youth,  the  tenant  of  a  stall,  f 
Employs  a  pen  less  pointed  than  his  awl, 
Leaves  his  snug  shop,  forsakes  his  store  of  shoes, 
St.  Crispin  quits,  and  cobbles  for  the  muse. 
Heavens  !  how  the  vulgar  stare  !  how  crowds  applaud  ! 
How  ladies  read,  and  literati  laud  ! 
If  chance  some  wicked  wag  should  pass  his  jest, 
T  is  sheer  ill-nature  —  do  n't  the  world  know  best ! 
Genius  must  guide  when  wits  admire  the  rhyme 
And  Capel  Lofil  ^  declares  't  is  quite  sublime. 
Hear,  then,  ye  happy  sons  of  needless  trade  ! 
Swains  !  quit  the  plough,  resign  the  useless  spade  ! 
Lo  !  Burns  and  Bloomfield,  nay,  a  greater  far, 
GifTord  was  born  beneath  an  adverse  star. 
Forsook  the  labours  of  a  servile  state, 
Stemm'd  the  rude  storm,  and  triumph'd  over  fate  : 
Then  why  no  more  ?  if  Phcebus  smiled  on  you, 
Bloomfield  !  why  not  on  brother  Nathan  too  ?  § 
Him  too  the  mania,  not  the  muse,  has  seized  ; 
Not  inspiration,  but  a  mind  diseased  : 
And  now  no  boor  can  seek  his  last  abode, 
No  common  be  enclosed  without  an  ode. 
Oh  !  since  increased  refinement  deigns  to  smile 
On  Britain's  sons,  and  bless  our.  genial  isle, 
Let  poesy  go  forth,  pervade  the  whole. 
Alike  the  rustic,  and  mechanic  soul ! 
Ye  tuneful  cobblers  I  still  your  notes  prolong. 
Compose  at  once  a  slipper  and  a  sopg  ; 
So  shall  the  fair  your  handy  work  peruse. 
Your  sonnets  sure  shall  please  —  perhaps  your  shoes. 
May  Moorland  ||  weavers  boast  Pindaric  skill, 
And  tailors'  lays  be  longer  than  their  bill ! 

*  These  are  the  ngnatoret  of  ▼arioiu  woithiei  who  figure  in  the  poeticai  de- 
pertinents  of  the  newspepers. 

t  WhenBome  &riaiyo«tA,  &c. — The  following  paragraph  was  inserted  in  the 
second  edition. 

This  was  meant  for  poor  Blackett,  who  was  then  patronized  by  A.  J.  6.,  but 
that  I  did  not  know,  or  thii  would  not  have  been  written,  at  least  I  think  not.  — 
MS.  note  by  Lord  Byron.     1816. 

t  Capel  Lofll,  Esq.  the  Mncenas  of  shoemakers,  and  pre  (ace- writer  general 
to  distressed  versemen ;  a  kind  of  gratis  accoucheur  to  those  who  wish  to  be 
delivered  of  rhyme,  bat  do  not  know  how  to  bring  forth. 

%  See  Nathaniel  Bloomfield's  ode,  elegy,  or  whatever  he  or  any  one  else 
chooses  to  call  it,  on  the  enclosure  of  "  Honington  Green." 

II  Vide  '*  RecoUeccions  of  a  Weaver  in  the  Moorlands  of  Staffordshire." 


S04  BlfGLIBH   BAUDS   AND 

While  punctual  beaux  reward  the  grateful  notes. 
And  pay  for  poems  —  when  they  pay  for  coats. 

To  the  famed  throng  now  paid  the  tribute  due, 
Neglected  genius !  let  me  turn  to  you. 
Come  forth,  oh  Campbell !  *  giye  thy  talents  scope ; 
Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope  ? 
And  thou,  melodious  Rogers  !  f  rise  at  last. 
Recall  the  pleasing  memory  of  the  past ; 
Arise  !  let  blest  remembrance  still  inspire, 
And  strike  to  wonted  tones  thy  hallowM  lyre 
Restore  Apollo  to  his  vacant  throne. 
Assert  thy  country's  honour  and  thine  own. 
What  ?  must  deserted  Poesy  still  weep 
Where  her  last  hopes  with  pious  Cowper  sleep  ! 
Unless,  perchance,  from  his  cold  bier  she  turns. 
To  deck  the  turf  that  wraps  her  minstrel,  Bums  ! 
No  !  though  contempt  hath  mark'd  the  spurious  brood. 
The  race  who  rhyme  from  folljr,  or  for  food, 
Yet  still  some  genuine  sons  't  is  hers  to  boast. 
Who,  least  affecting,  still  affect  the  most : 
Feel  as  they  write,  and  write  but  as  they  feel  — 
Bear  witness  Gifford,  Sotheby,  Macneil.  ^ 

"  Why  slumbers  Gifford  ?  "  once  was  ask'd  in  vain  ;  § 
Why  slumbers  Gifford  ?  let  us  ask  again. 

*  It  would  be  superfluous  to  recall  to  the  mind  of  the  reader  the  amhon  of 
"  The  Pleasures  of  Memory  "  and  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  the  most  beauti- 
ful didactic  poems  in  our  language,  if  we  except  Pbpe's  "Essay  on  Man : *'  but 
80  many  poetasters  have  started  up,  that  even  the  names  of  Campbell  and 
Roeers  are  become  strange. 

Beneath  this  note  Lord  Byron  has  written,  in  the  copy  of  this  satire  which  he 
read  m  1816, 

*'  Pretty  Miss  Jacqueline 
Had  a  nose  aquiline, 
And  would  assert  rude 
Things  of  Miss  Gertrude, 
While  Mr.  Marmion 
Led  a  great  army  on, 
Making  Kehama  look 
Like  a  fierce  Mameluke." 
t  Mdodiout  Rogers. — Rogers  haa  not  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  first  poems, 
but  has  still  very*  great  merit. —  MS.  note  by  Lord  Byron.    1816. 

t  Giflford,  author  of  the  Baviad  and  Maviad,  the  first  satires  of  the  day,  and 
translator  of  Juvenal. 

Sotheby,  translator  of  Wiebnd  s  Oberon  and  Vu^'s  Geoipos,  and  author  of 
**  Saul,"  an  epic  poem. 

Macneil,  whose  poems  are  deservedly  popular,  particularly  **  Scotland's 
Scaith,"  and  the  "  Waes  of  War,"  of  which  ten  thousand  copies  were  sold  in  one 
month. 

^  Mr.  Gifford  promised  publicly  that  the  Baviad  and  Meviad  should  not  be  his 
last  original  works :  let  him  remember,  "•  Mox  in  reluctanles  draoonea." 


SCOTCH   BCVIBWBX8.  395 

Are  there  no  follies  for  his  pen  to  purge  1 
Are  there  no  fools  whose  hacks  demand  the  scourge  ? 
Are  there  no  sins  for  satire's  bard  to  greet  ? 
Stalks  not  gigantic  Vice  in  every  street  ? 
Shall  peers  or  princes  tread  pollution's  path. 
And  'scape  alike  the  law's  and  muse's  wrath  ? 
Nor  Maze  with  guilty  glare  through  future  time, 
Eternal  beacons  of  consummate  crime  ? 
Arouse  thee,  GifTord  !  be  thy  promise  claim'd, 
Make  bad  men  better,  or  at  least  ashamed. 

Unhappy  White !  *  while  life  was  in  its  spring. 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  swept  that  soaring  lyre  away,  f 
Which  else  had  sounded  an  immortal  lay. 
Oh  !  what  a  noble  heart  w^  here  undone, 
When  Science'  self  destroy'd  her  favourite  son  ! 
Yes,  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit. 
She  sow'd  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reap'd  the  fruit. 
'T  was  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
And  help'd  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low : 
So  the  struck  eagle,  stretch'd  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
View'd  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
And  wing'd  the  shafl  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  nest ; 
Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast. 

There  be,  who  say,  in  these  enlighten'd  days, 
That  splendid  lies  are  all  the  poet's  praise  ; 
That  strain'd  invention,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Alone  impels  the  modern  bard  to  sing  : 
'T  is  true,  that  all  who  rhyme  —  nay,  all  who  write. 
Shrink  from  that  fatal  word  to  genius  —  trite  ; 

'  *  Ueory  Ktrke  White  died  at  Cambnd^,  in  October,  1806,  in  oontequence 
of  TOO  much  exertion  in  the  pursuit  of  ttudiee  that  would  have  matured  a  mind 
which  disease  and  poverty  could  not  impair,  and  which  death  itself  destroyed 
miher  than  subdued.  His  poems  abound  in  such  beauties  as  must  imprefs'the 
reader  Hith  the  liveliest  regret  that  so  short  a  period  was  allotted  to  talents  whicli 
wooid  have  dignified  even  the  sacred  functions  he  was  destined  to  assume, 
t  The  noSer  noepi  that  aoarinj^  lyre  away. 

Which  d$e  had  bounded  an  immortal  lay. 
So  altered  by  Lord  Byron  on  reperusing  the  satire  in  1816.    In  former  editions 
the  lines  stood, 

**  The  spoiler  came :  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
Haa  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  for  ever  ther«." 


306  BNOUSH   BilSDB   AND 

Yet  Truth  sometimes  will  lend  her  noblest  fires. 
And  decorate  the  verse  herself  inspires : 
This  fact  in  Virtue's  name  let  Crabbe  *  attest ; 
Though  nature's  sternest  painter,  yet  the  best. 

And  f  here  let  Shee  j:  and  Genius  find  a  place« 
Whose  pen  and  pencil  yield  an  equal  grace ; 
To  guide  whose  hand  the  sister  arts  combine. 
And  trace  the  poet's  or  the  painter's  Une ; 
Whose  magic  touch  can  bid  the  canvass  glow. 
Or  pour  the  easy  rhyme's  harmonious  flow  : 
While  honours,  doubly  merited,  attend 
The  poet's  rival,  but  the  painter's  friend. 

.   Blest  is  the  man  who  dares  approach  the  bower 
MThere  dwelt  the  muses  at  their  natal  hour  ; 
Whose  steps  have  press'd,  whose  eye  has  mark'd  afar. 
The  clime  that  nursed  the  sons  of  song  and  war, 
The  scenes  which  glory  still  must  hover  o'er, 
Her  place  of  birth,  her  own  Achaian  shore. 
But  doubly  blest  is  he  whose  heart  expands 
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 !  §  't  was  thy  happy  lot  at  once  to  view 
Those  shores  of  glory,  and  to  sing  them  too  ; 
And  sure  no  common  muse  inspired  thy  pen 
To  hail  the  land  of  gods  and  godlike  men. 

■And  you,  associate  bards !  ||  who  snatch'd  to  light 
Those  gems  too  long  withheld  from  modern  sight ; 
Whose  jningiing  taste  combined  to  cull  the  wreath 
Where  Attic  flowers  Aonian  odours  breathe, 
And  all  their  renovated  fragrance  flung. 
To  grace  the  beauties  of  your  native  tongue  ; 
Npw  let  those  minds,  that  nobly  could  transfuse 
The  glorious  spirit  of  the  Grecian  muse, 

Creibbe.  — I  consider  Crabbe  and  Coleridge  ai  the  first  of  these  times  in  puint 
of  power  and  genius. —  MS.  note  by  Lord  Byron.    1816. 

t  And  here  let  Shee^  Sec. — The  ensuing  twenty-two  lines  were  inserted  in  the 
second  edition. 

t  Mr.  Shee,  author  of  "  Rhymes  on  Art,"  and  "  Elements  of  Art." 

^  Mr.  Wright,  late  consul-general  for  the  Seven  Islands,  is  author  of  a  ver\' 
beaudful  poem  just  published  :  it  is  entitled  **  Hors  lonicc,"  and  is  descriptive 
of  the  isles  and  the  adjacent  coast  of  Greece. 

II  Tlie  translators  of  the  Anthology,  Bland  and  Men  vale,  hnve  since  published 
separate  poems,  which  evince  genius  that  only  requires  opportunitv  to  atiaui 
eminence.  « 


aeoTOB  MMviMwmMB0  897 

Hiough  soft  the  echo,  scorn  a  borrow'd  tone : 
Resign  Achaia's  lyre,  and  strike  your  own. 

Let  these,  or  such  as  these,  with  just  applause^ 
Restore  the  muse's  violated  laws  ; 
But  not  in  flimsy  Darwin's  pompous  chime. 
That  mighty  master  of  unmeaning  rhyme. 
Whose  gilded  cymbals,  more  adorn'd  than  clear 
The  eye  delighted,  but  fatigued  the  ear  ; 
In  show  the  simple  lyre  could  once  surpass. 
But  now,  worn  down,  appear  in  native  brass ; 
While  all  his  train  of  hovering  sylphs  around 
Evaporate  in  similes  and  sound  : 
Him  let  them  shun,  with  him  let  timsel  die  : 
False  glare  attracts,  but  more  offends  the  eye.  * 

Yet  let  them  not  to  vulgar  Wordsworth  stoop 
The  meanest  object  of  the  lowly  group, 
Whose  verse,  of  all  but  childish  prattle  void. 
Seems  blessed  harmony  to  Lambe  and  Lloyd  :  j 
Let  them  —  but  hold,  my  muse,  nor  dare  to  teach 
A  strain  far,  far  beyond  thy  humble  reach  : 
The  native  genius  with  their  being  given 
Will  point  the  path,  and  peal  their  notes  to  heaven. 

And  thou,  too,  Scott !  X  resign  to  minstrels  rude 
The  wilder  slogan  of  a  border  ^ud  : 
Let  others  spin  the  meagre  lines  for  hire  ; 
Enough  for  genius  if  itself  inspire !  ^ 

Let  Southey  sing,  although  his  teeming  muse. 
Prolific  every  spring,  be  too  profuse ; 
Let  simple  Wordsworth  chime  his  childish  ferse,  § 
And  brother  Coleridge  lull  the  babe  at  nurse 
Let  spectrc-mongering  Lewis  aim,  at  most. 
To  rouse  the  galleries,  or  to  raise  a  ghost ; 
Let  Moore  still  sigh ;  let  Strangford  steal  from  Moore, 
And  swear  that  Camoens  sang  such  notes  q£  yore  ; 

*  The  neglect  of  the  "  Botanic  Garden  "  if  lome  proof  of  retaining  taste :  the 
scenery  is  its  sole  recommendation. 

t  Metsn.  Lambe  and  Uoyd,  the  most  ignoble  followers  of  Southey  and  Co. 

t  By  the  by,  I  hope  that  in  Mr.  Scott's  next  poem,  his  hero  or  heroine  wiO  be 
less  addicted  to  "Gramarye,"  and  more  to  grammar,  than  the  Lady  of  the  Lay 
and  her  bravo,  William  of  Deloraine. 

%  Against  this  passage  on  Wordsworth,  and  the  following  line  on  Coleridge, 
Lord  Byron  has  written,  **  Unjust." 

il  Let  Moore  itiU  9i^k.r^  Fifth  edition.  The  original  reading  was,  '*  Let  Moore 
be  lewd." 


398  BirousH  baxdb  and 

Let  Hayley  hobble  on,  Montgomery  rave. 
And  godly  Grahame  chant  a  stupid  stave  ; 
Let  sonnetteering  Bowles  his  strains  refine, 
And  whine  and  whimper  to  the  fourteenth  line ; 
Let  Stott,  Carlisle,  *  Matilda,  and  the  rest 
Of  Grub-street,  and  of  Grosvenor-place  the  best, 
Scrawl  on,  'till  death  release  us  from  the  strain, 
Or  Common  Sense  assert  her  rights  again. 
But  thou,  with  powers  that  mock  the  aid  of  praise^ 
Shouldst  leave  to  humbler  bards  ignoble  lays : 
Thy  country's  voice,  the  voice  of  all  the  nine, 
Demand  a  hallow'd  harp  —  that  harp  is  thine. 
Say  !  will  not  Caledonia's  annals  yield 
The  glorious  record  of  some  nobler  field 
Than  the  vile  foray  of  a  plundering  clan, 
Whose  proudest  deeds  disgrace  the  name  of  man  ? 
Or  Marmion's  acts  of  darkness,  fitter  food 
For  Sherwood's  outlaw  tales  of  Robin  Hood  ? 
Scotland  !  still  proudly  claim  thy  native  bard, 
And  be  thy  praise  his  first,  his  best  reward  ! 
Yet  not  with  thee  alone  his  name  should  live. 
But  own  the  vast  renown  a  world  can  give ; 
Be  known,  perchance,  when  Albion  is  no  more. 
And  tell  the  tale  of  What  she  was  before ; 

*  It  may  be  aaked  why  I  have  cenaurad  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  my  guardian  and 
relative,  to  whom  I  dedicated  a  volume  of  puerile  poemt  a  few  years  ago?— 
The  guardianahip  was  nominal,  at  least  as  far  as  1  have  been  able  to  discover; 
the  relationship  1  cannot  help,  and  ami  very  sorry  for  it ;  but  as  his  lordship 
seemed  to  forget  it  on  a  very  essential  occasion  to  me,  I  shall  not  boiden  my 
memory  %ith  the  recollection.  I  do  not  think  that  personal  difierences  sanction 
the  unjust  condemnation  of  a  brother  scribbler;  bat  I  see  no  reason  why  they 
should  act  as  a  preventive,  when  the  author,  noble  or  i^pnoble,  has,  for  a  aeriea 
of  years,  beguilj^  a  "  discerning  public  "  (as  the  advertisements  have  ir)  with 
divers  reams  of  most  orthodoi,  imperial  nonsense.  Besides,  I  do  not  step  and(> 
to  vituperate  the  earl :  no  —  his  works  come  fairly  in  review  with  those  of  other 
patrician  literati.  If,  before  I  escaped  from  my  teems,  I  said  any  thing  in  favour 
of  his  brdship*s  paper  books,  it  was  in  the  way  of  dutifhl  dedication,  and  more 
from  the  advice  of  others  than  my  own  judgment,  and  I  seize  the  fint  oppor- 
tunity of  pronoun^pg  my  sincere  recantation.  I  have  heard  that  some  persons 
conceive  me  to  be  under  obligations  to  Lord  Carlisle :  if  so,  I  shall  be  most  par- 
ticularly happy  tq  learn  what  they  are,  and  when  conferred,  that  they  may  be 
duly  appreciated  and  publicly  acknowledged.  What  I  have  humbly  advanced 
as  an  opinion  on  his  printed  things,  I  am  prepared  to  support,  if  necessary',  by 
quotations  from  eleg[ies,  eulogies,  odes,  episodes,  and  certain  &cetiou9  and 
dainty  tragedies  beanng  his  name  and  mark :  — 

**  What  can  ennoble  knaves,  or/oob,  or  cowards  7 
Alas !  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards." 
So  says  Pope.    Amen  ! 

Bfuch  too  savage,  whatever  the  foundation  might  be. —  MS.  ncie  hf  Lord 
Jyron.    1816. 

This  note  first  appeared  in  the  second  edition. 

t  In  the  first  edition,  '*  OatlawM  Sherwood's." 


SCOTCH  XXVUWSB8.  390 

To  future  times  her  faded  fame  recall. 
And  save  her  glory,  though  his  coaatry  fall. 

Yet  what  avails  the  sanguine  poet's  hope,*^ 
To  conquer  ages,  and  with  time  to  cope  7 
New  eras  spread  their  wings,  new  nations  rise, 
And  other  victors  f  fill  the  applauding  skies  ; 
A  few  brief  generations  fleet  along, 
Whose  sons  forget  the  poet  and  his  song : 
E'en  now,  what  once-loved  minstrels  scarce  may  claim 
The  transient  mention  of  a  dubious  name  ! 
When  fame's  loud  trump  hath  blown  its  noblest  blast. 
Though  long  the  sound,  the  echo  sleeps  at  last ; 
And  glory,  like  the  phoenix  X  'midst  her  fires, 
Exhdes  her  odours,  blazes,  and  expires. 

Shall  hoary  Granta  call  her  sable  sons, 
Expert  in  science,  more  expert  at  puns  ? 
Shall  these  approach  the  muse  ?  ah,  no !  she  flies. 
Even  from  the  tempting  ore  of  Seaton's  prize ;  § 
Though  printers  condescend  the  press  to  soil 
With  rhyme  by  Hoare,  and  epic  blank  by  Hoyle  :|| 
Not  him  whose  page,  if  still  upheld  by  whist. 
Requires  no  sacred  theme  to  bid  us  list.lT 
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  please,"  '"* 
Forgetting  doggrel  leads  not  to  degrees, 

*  Yd  tohai  aoaS*,  d^c.  —  The  following  twelve  linei  were  introduced  in  the 
■econd  edition. 

t  **  Tolleie  homo,  victorque  vimm  volitare  per  on" 

VirgU 

X  lake  Ike  vhemix  ^midtt  her  fret, — The  devil  take  that  phoBHix !  How  came 
it  there  ?  —  MS.  note  by  Lord  Byron.    1816. 

^  Even  from  the  tempting  ore  of  SeaUnCe  prixe» — Thiu  corrected,  in  1816,  by 
Lord  Byron.    In  former  editions : 

**  And  even  ■pome  the  great  Seatonian  prise.*' 
II  Thua  in  the  original  manoscript : 

With  odes  by  Smyth,  and  epic  wnn  by  Hoyle ; 
Hoyle  whoee  leam'dpage  it  still  upheld  by  whist, 
Required  no  sacred  theme  to  bid  us  list. 

T  The ''Games  of  HoyW  weU  known  to  the  votaries  of  whist,  chess,  &c.  are 
not  to  be  superseded  by  the  vagaries  of  his  poetical  namesake,  whose  poem 
comprised,  as  expressly  stated  in  Uie  advertisement,  all  the  **  plagues  of  Egypt." 

*^  Tkere  GarhB,  tHU  ttrimng,  *e.— Theeo  eight  lines  were  added  in  the  se- 
cond edition. 


400  EN6U8H   BAftDS   AND 

A  would-be  satirist,  a  hired  buffoon, 
A  monthly  scribbler  of  some  low  lampoon, 
Condemn'd  to  drudge,  the  meanest  of  the  mean, 
And  furbish  falsehoods  for  a  magazine, 
Devotes  to  scandal  his  congenial  mind  ; 
Himself  a  living  libel  on  mankind.* 

Oh !  dark  asylum  of  a  Vandal  race !  f 
At  once  the  boast  of  learning,  and  disgrace ! 
So  lost  to  Phoebus,  ^  that  nor  Hodgson's  §  verse 
Can  make  thee  better,  nor  poor  Hewson's  ||  worse. 
But  where  fair  Isis  rolls  her  purer  wave, 
The  partial  muse  delighted  loves  to  lave ; 
On  her  green  banks  a  greener  wreath  shelT  wove, 
To  crown  the  bards  that  haunt  her  classic  grove ; 
Where  Richards  wakes  a  genuine  poet's  fires. 
And  modern  Britons  glory  in  their  sires."^* 

For  me»  who,  thus  unask'd,f  f  have  dared  to  tell 
My  country,  what  her  sons  should  know  too  well. 


Bjght  enouffh,  this  was  well  deserved,  and  well  laid  on.  —  MS.  note  hy  Lord 
Byron.    1816. 

*  This  person,  who  has  lately  betrayed  the  moat  rabid  symptoms  of  confirmed 
authorship,  is  writer  of  a  poem  denommated  the  "  Art  of  Pleasing/*  as  "lacus  a 
non  lucendo/'  containing  little  pleasantry  and  less  poetiy.  He  also  acts  si 
monthly  stipendiary  and  collector  of  calumnies  for  the  "  Satirist**  If  this  nn* 
fortunate  young  man  would  exchange  the  magazines  for  the  mathematics,  and 
endeavour  to  tiuce  a  decent  degree  in  his  university,  it  might  eventually  prove 
more  serviceable  than  his  present  salary. 

t  "  Into  Cambridgeshire  the  Emperor  Probus  tTansi>orted  a  considerable  body 
of  Yandals."  —  Gibbons  Decline  and  Fall,  p.  83.  vol.  ii.    There  is  no  reason  to 
doubt  the  truth  of  this  assertion ;  the  breed  is  still  in  high  perfection.* 
These  four  lines  were  substituted  for  the  following  in  the  original  manuscript : 
Yet  hold  —  as  when  by  Heaven's  supreme  behest, 
If  found,  ten  righteous  had  preserved  the  rest, 
In  Sodom's  fated  town,  for  Granta's  name 
Let  Hodgson's  genius  plead,  and  save  her  feme. 
X  So  lost  to  PkabuSf  t?utt,  &c. — This  couplet,  thus  altered  in  the  fifth  edition, 
was  originally  printed, 

**  So  sunk  in  dulness,  and  so  lost  in  shame. 
That  Smyth  and  Hodgson  scarce  redeem  thy  feme." 
^  This  gentleman's  name  requires  no  praise ;  the  man  who  in  txandation  dis- 
plays unquestioittble  genius  may  well  be  expected  to  excel  in  original  composi- 
tion, of  wnich  it  is  to  be  hoped  we  shall  soon  sed  a  splendid  specimen. 
II  Hewson  Clarke,  Esq.,  as  it  is  written. 
T  '*  Is*'  in  the  first  edition. 

«*  The  "Aboriginal  Britons,'*  an  excellent  poem,  by  Richards. 
ft  UnasVd ;  in  the  first  edition  unknown. 

*  Thehreed  is  xetS  in  high  perfection. -^la  the  first  edition  :  —  **  There  is  do 
reason  to  donbt  the  troth  uf  this  aMeriioii,  as  a  luge  stock  of  the  same  breed  is 
to  be  found  there  at  this  day." 


8C0TCB  BSVIXWXSS.  401 

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  appear'd  in  her  meridian  hour, 
'T  is  thine  at  once,  fair  Albion  !  to  have  been  — 
Earth's  chief  die  tatress,  ocean's  lovely  queen: 
But  Rome  decay'd,  and  Athens  strew'd  the  plain. 
And  Tyre's  proud  piers  lie  shatter'd  in  the  main  ^ 
Like  these,  thy  strength  may  sink,  in  ruin  hurl'd, 
And  Britain  fall,  the  bulwark  of  the  world. 
But  let  me  cease,  and  dread  Cassandra's  fate, 
With  warning  ever  scofTd  at,  till  too  late ; 
To  themes  less  lofty  still  my  lay  confine. 
And  urge  thy  bards  to  gain  a  name  like  thine."! 

Then,  hapless  Britain !  be  thy  rulers  blest. 
The  senate's  oracles,  the  people's  jest ! 
Still  hear  thy  motley  orators  dispense 
The  flowers  of  rhetoric,  though  not  of  sense, 
While  Canning's  colleagues  hate  him  for  his  wit. 
And  old  dame  Portland^  fills  the  place  of  Pitt. 

Tet  once  again,  adieu  !  ere  this  the  sail 
That  wafU  me  hence  is  shivering  in  the  gale ; 
And  Afric's  §  coast,  and  Calpe's  t|  adverse  height. 
And  Stamboul's  IT  minarets,  must  greet  my  sight : 
Thence  shall  I  stray  through  beauty's  native  clime,** 
Where  Kaffff  is  clad  in  rocks,  and  crown'd  with  snows 
sublime. 

*  Zeal  for  her  Aoiuwr,  &c. — In  the  fint  edition  this  couplet  ran, 
'*  Zeal  for  her  honour,  no  malignant  rage, 
flas  bade  me  spurn  the  follies  of  her  age." 

t  And  urge  thf  horde  to  gam  a  name  Wee  <Ame.  —  With  this  verse  the  satire 
ended  in  the  origmal  edition. 

t  A  friend  of  mine  being  asked  why  his  grace  of  Pordond  was  likened  to  an 
old  woman  7  replied,  **  he  supposed  it  was  because  he  was  past  bearing."  —  His 
pace  is  now  eatbered  to  his  grandmothers,  where  he  sleeps  as  sound  as  ever ; 
out  even  his  sleep  was  better  than  his  colleagues*  waking.    1811. 

%  Afiie's  coast.    Saw  it,  August,  1809.  —  MS.  noU  by  Lord  Byron.    18 16. 

II  Gibraltar.    Saw  it,  August,  1809. — MS.  note  hy  Lord  Byrm.    1816. 

T  StambouL  Was  there  the  summer  of  1810.— itfS.  note  hy  Lord  Byron 
1816.  "^  ' 

**  Georgia. 

ttMonnt  Caucasus.  Saw  the  distant  ridge  of,  1810, 1811.  —  MS.  nole  hy  Loti 
Byron.    1816. 

VOL,  V. — D  d  * 


403  BHOU9H  BAXIM  AHD 

But  should  I  back  retain,  no  temptiiig  presB^ 
ShaU  drag  my  journal  firom  the  desk's  recess  : 
Let  coxcombs,  printing  as  they  come  from  for. 
Snatch  his  own  wreath  of  ridicule  firom  Carr ; 
Let  Aberdeen  and  Elgin  f  still  pursue 
The  shade  of  fame  through  regions  of  virtik ; 
Waste  useless  thousands  on  their  Phidian  fireaks. 
Misshapen  monuments  and  maim'd  antiques ; 
And  make  their  grand  saloons  a  general  mart 
For  all  the  mutilated  blocks  of  art : 
Of  Dardan  tours  let  dilettanti  tell, 
I  leave  topography  to  rapid  i  Gell ;  § 
And,  quite  content,  no  more  shall  interpose 
To  stun  the  public  ear — at  least  with  prose. 

Thus  far  I  \e  held  my  undisturb'd  career, 
Prepared  for  rancour,  steel'd  'gainst  selfish  fear : 
This  thing  of  rhyme  I  ne'er  dadained  to  own  — 
Though  not  obtrusive,  yet  not  quite  unknown : 
My  voice  was  heard  again,  though  not  so  loud. 
My  page,  though  nameless,  never  disavow'd ; 
And  now  at  once  I  tear  the  veil  away :  — 
Cheer  on  the  pack  !  the  quarry  stands  at  bay, 

*  BvtAould  I  badtreinrntfto  tempting  preȤ 
^SftoS  drag,  Ao. 

Theie  four  lines  were  altered  in  the  fifth  edition.    They  onginally  itood, 
**  Bat  ■ho'uld  I  back  return,  no  lettered  stage 
Shall  draff  my  common-place  book  on  the  stage 
Let  vain  Valencia*  rival  luckless  Carr, 
And  equal  him  whose  work  he  sought  to  mar.*' 
t  Lord  Elgin  would  fiun  persuade  us  that  all  the  figures,  with  and  widioat 
noses,  in  his  stone-shop,  are  the  work  of  Piudias !    "•  Cradat  Judasus ! " 
t  Rapid.    Thus  altered  in  the  fifth  edition.    In  aU  previous  editbns,  "  daatic." 
*'  Rapid,*'  indeed !    He  topographized  and  typogrsphixed  King  Priam'i  do- 
minions  in  three  days !  — I  called  nim  **  dasaic     Mfore  I  saw  the  Troad,  hot 
since  have  learned  better  than  to  tack  to  his  name  what  don't  bek»ng  to  it.— 
Note  to  the  fifth  edition, 

^  Mr,  GeD's  Topography  of  Troy  t  and  Ithaca  |  cannot  ftfl  to  ensure  the  ap- 
mobation  of  every  man  possessed  of  classical  taste,  as  well  for  the  infbrmatioD 
Mr.  Gell  conveys  to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  as  for  the  ability  and  leaeaxch  the 
respective  works  display. — Note  toaUthe  earfy  etStume 

Since  seeing  the  plain  of  Troy,  my  opinions  are  somewhat  changed  as  to  the 
above  note.  Gell's  survey  was  hasty  and  superficial.  —  MS,  tutte  6y  Lord  Bynm. 
1816. 

*  Lord  Valencia  (whose  tremendous  travels  are  forthcoming  with  doe  deco- 
rations, graphical,  topographical,  typographicaD  deposed,  on  Sir  John  Carr'a 
mduoky  suit,  that  Dubois's  satire  prevented  his  purchase  of  the  '*  Stiaitfer  in 
Ireland."  —  Oh,  fie,  my  lord !  has  your  lordship  no  more  feeling  for  a  fellow- 
tourist?  but  **  two  of  a  trade,"  they  say,  dtc. 

t  TVvy.    Tisited  both  in  1810  and  ISn.  —  ilfiS.fioteeyZonlJ^yron.    1816 
X  IthoM,    Passed  first  in  1809.  -^MS.noUbjf  Lord  Byron,    1816 


SCOTCH   KBVIBWEBS.  408 

Unscared  by  all  the  din  of  Melbourne  house,  * 
By  Lambe's  resentment,  or  by  Holland's  spouse, 
By  Jeffrey's  harmless  pistol,  Hallam's  rage, 
Edina's  brawny  sons  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  word  would  fall 
From  lips  that  now  may  seem  imbued  with  gall ; 
Nor  fools  nor  follies  tempt  me  to  despise 
The  meanest  thing  that  crawlM  beneath  my  eyes  : 
But  now,  so  callous  grown,  so  changed  since  youth, 
I  Ve  leam'd  to  think,  and  sternly  speak  the  truth ; 
LearnM  to  deride  the  critic's  starch  decree, 
And  break  him  on  the  wheel  he  meant  for  me  ; 
To  spurn  the  rod  a  scribbler  bids  me  kiss. 
Nor  care  if  courts  and  crowds  applaud  or  hiss  : 
Nay  more,  though  all  my  rival  rhymesters  frown, 
I  too  can  hunt  a  poetaster  down ; 
And,  armM  in  proof,  the  gauntlet  cast  at  once 
To  Scotch  marauder,  and  to  southern  dunce. 
Thus  much  I  've  dared  ;  if  ray  incondite  lay  f 
Hath  wrong'd  these  righteous  times,  let  others  say : 
This,  let  the  world,  which  knows  not  how  to  spare. 
Yet  rarely  blames  unjustly,  now  declare. :{: 

*  — »  Din  of  Melboune  A«itfe.-*- Singular  enough,  and  dm  enough,  God 
knowa.  —  MS,  note  by  Lord  Bynm,    1816. 

t  Tku9  mudi  I  'w  dartd ;  if  my  incondiU  lay. 

The  reading  of  the  fifth  edition :  orisinally  printed, 

**  Tkmji  much  1  've  dared  to  do ;  how  far  my  lay.'* 

X  The  greater  part  of  this  satire  I  most  nncerelv  wish  had  never  been  writ- 
ten—  not  only  on  account  ef  the  injustice  of  rauch  of  tlie  critical,  and  some  of 
the  personal  part  of  it— but  the  tone  and  temper  are  such  as  1  cannot  approve.  — 
Byrom.    July  14, 1816. 

DMiU^Gtnaa, 


THE  FOLLOWING  ARGUMENT  INTENDED  FOR  THE  SATIRE 
WAS  IN  THE  ORIGINAL  MANUSCRIPT,  BUT  NOT  PUB- 
LISHED  • 

The  ]M>et  conndereth  timea  poet  and  their  poesy — maketh  a  nidden  transi- 
tion to  times  present  —  is  incensed  against  book-makers  —  revileth  W.  Scott  for 
copiditv  and  baliad-mongerinff,  with  notable  remarks  on  Master  Southey — com- 
piaineth  that  Master  Sonthey  nath  inflicted  three  poems,  epic  and  otherwise,  on 
the  public — inveigheth  against  Wm.  Wordsworth ;  but  lauaeUi  Mr.  Coleridge  and 
his  elegv  on  a  youn^  ass — is  disposed  to  vituperate  Mr.  Lewis — and  greatly- 
rebnketh  Thomas  Little  (the  late,)  and  the  Lord  Stranglbrd  —  recommendeth 
Mr.  Hayley  to  turn  his  attention  to  prose  —  and  exhorte  >  the  Moravians  to 
glorify  Mr.  Grahame  —  sympathizeth  with  the  Rev.  —  Boi\ies — and  deploreth 
the  melancholy  fate  of  Montgomery — breaketh  out  into  invective  against  the 
Edinburgh  Reviewers  —  ealleth  them  hard  names,  harpies,  and  the  like  —  apos- 
crophisetn  Jeffrey  and  prophesieth  —  Episode  of  Jeffrey  and  Moore,  their  jeo- 
pardy and  deUverance  ;  portents  on  the  mom  of  combat ;  the  Tweed,  Tolbooth, 
Frith  of  Forth,  severally  »hockcd ;  descent  of  a  jj^oddess  to  save  Jeffrey  ;  incor- 
poration of  the  bullets  with  his  sinciput  and  occiput —  Edinburgh  Reviewers  en 
auuse — Lord  Aberdeen,  Herbert,  Scott,  Ilallara,  Pfllans,  Lambe,  Sydney  Smith, 
Brougham,  &c.  —  The  Lord  Holland  applauded  for  dinners  and  translations. — 
The  Drama;  Skeflfington,  Hook,  Re3molds,  Kenney,  Cherry,  &c. — Sheridan, 
Colman,and  Cumberuind  called  upon  to  write. —  Return  to  poesy  —  scribblers  of 
all  sorts — Lords  sometimes  rhyme;  much  better  not  —  Hafiz,  Rosa  Matilda, 
and  X.  Y.  Z.  —  Rogers,  Campbell,  Gifford,  &c.  true  poets — translators  of  the 
Greek  Anthologv — Crabbe  —  Darwin*s  style — Camoridge  —  Seatonion  Prize 

Smyth  —  H<^gson  —  Oxford  —  Richards  —  Poeta  loquitur — conclusion. 


POSTSCRIPT 


I  have  been  infonned,  since  the  present  edition  went  to  the  pren,  that  my 
tniaty  and  well-beloved  couiunB,  tne  Edinburgh  Reviewers,  are  prepariiig  a 
most  vehement  critioue  on  my  poor,  gentle,  unneisting  Muse,  whom  they  have 
already  so  be-devilea  with  their  ungodly  ribaldry  : 

**  Tantaene  animis  coBlesdbus  ine !  *' 

I  suppose  I  must  say  of  JeflTrey  as  Sir  Anthony  Aguecheek  saith,  "  an  I  had 
known  he  was  so  cunning  of  fence,  I  had  seen  him  damned  ere  I  had  fought 
him.*'  What  a  pity  it  is  that  I  shaH  be  beyond  the  Bosphorus  before  the  next 
number  has  passed  the  Tweed !  But  I  yet  hope  to  light  my  pipe  with  it  in 
Persia.  # 

My  northern  friends  have  accused  me,  with  justice,  of  personality  towards 
their  great  literary  anthropophagus,  Jeffrey ;  but  what  else  was  to  be  done  with 
him  and  his  dirty  pack,  who  feed  by  "lyin^and  slandering,"  and  shike  their 
thirst  by  "  evil  speaking  7 "  I  have  adducea  facts  already  well  known,  and  of 
JeflTrey  8  mind  I  nave  stated  my  free  opinion,  nor  has  he  thence  sustained  any 
injury ;  —  what  scavenger  was  ever  soiled  by  being  pelted  with  mud  ?  It  may 
be  said  that  1  quit  England  because  1  have  censured  there  "  persons  of  bonomr 
and  wit  about  town ; '  but  I  am  coming  back  again,  and  their  vengeance  will 
keep  hot  till  my  return.  Those  who  know  me  can  testify  that  mv  motives  for 
leaving  England  are  very  diflTerent  from  fears,  literary  or  personal :  those  who 
do  not,  may  one  day  be  convinced.  Since  tlie  publication  of  this  thing,  my 
name  has  not  been  concealed ;  I  have  been  mostly  in  London,  ready  to  answer 
for  my  transgressions,  and  in  daily  expectation  of  sundry  cartels ;  but,  alas !  ^  die 
age  of  chivalry  is  over,"  or,  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  there  is  no  spirit  now-a-days. 

There  is  a  youth  ycleped  Hevvson  Clarke  (subaudi  eaquire^)  a  sixer  of  Ema- 
nuel College,  and,  I  believe,  a  denizen  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed,  whom  I  have 
introduced  in  these  pages  to  much  belter  company  than  he  has  been  accustomed 
to  meet ;  he  is,  notwithstanding,  a  very  sad  dog,  and  for  no  reason  that  I  can 
discover,  except  a  personal  auarrel  with  a  bear,  kept  by  me  at  Cambridge  to  sit 
for  a  fellowship,  and  whom  tne  jealousy  of  his  Trimty  contemporaries  prevented 
from  success,  has  been  abusing  roe,  and,  what  is  worse,  the  defenceless  innocent 
above  mentioned,  in  "  The  Satirist, "  for  one  year  and  some  months.  I  am  ut* 
terly  unconscious  of  havinj3[  given  him  any  provocation;  indeed,  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  Fretful  Plagiary,  he  is  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise.  I  have  now  mentioned  all  who  have  done  me  the  ho- 
nour to  notice  me  and  mine,  that  is.  my  bear  and  my  book,  except  the  editor  of 
"  The  Satirist,"  who,  it  seems,  is  a  gentleman — Goid  wot !  I  wish  he  could  im- 
part a  little  of  his  genliUty  to  his  subordinate  scribblers.  I  hear  that  Mr.  Jer- 
ningham  is  about  to  take  up  the  cudgels  for  his  Msecenas,  Lord  Carlisle :  I  hope 
not :  he  was  one  of  the  few,  who,  in  the  very  short  intercourse  I  had  with  him, 
treated  me  with  kindness  when  a  boy,  and  whatever  he  may  say  or  do,  "  pour 
on,  I  will  endure."  1  have  nothing  further  to  add,  save  a  general  note  of  thanks- 
giving to  readers,  purchasers,  and  publishers,  and,  in  the  words  of  Scott,  I  with. 

"  To  all  and  each  a  fair  good  night. 
And  rosy  dreams  and  uumbers  light.** 

*  Added  to  the  second  edition. 


HINTS   FROM   HORACE: 

BSmO  AN  ALLUSION  IN  ENGLISH  YEBSB  TO  THB  BPI8TLB  <'AD 
PI8ONB89  I>E  ABTB  POKTICA,"  and  INTENDBD  as  a  SBaVBL 
TO   <<BN6LI8H   BABD8   AND   SCOTCH   REVIBWBBS." 


— —  '*  Exgo  fangw  Tiee  ootis,  aeatmn 
Redden  qom  femim  velet,  exion  ipsa  secandt." 

HoA.  De  Arte  PmL 

*  Bhymee  are  difficult  thingi  ^-they  are  itabborn  things,  sir." 

Fielding's  Axuha 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


AflMM.    Giipaehin  CoDTent,  March  IStli,  1811. 
Who  would  not  laugh,  if  Lawrence,  hired  to  grace 
His  costly  canvass  with  each  flatter'd  face, 
Abused  his  art,  tUl  Nature,  with  a  blush. 
Saw  cits  ffrow  centaurs  underneath  his  brush  Y 
Or,  should  some  limner  join,  for  show  or  sale, 
A  maid  of  honour  to  a  mermaid's  tail  f 
Or  low  *  Dubost  (as  once  the  world  has  seen) 
Degrade  God's  creatures  in  his  graphic  spleen  Y 
Not  all  that  forced  politeness,  which  defends 
Fools  in  their  faults,  could  gag  his  grinning  friends. 
Believe  me,  Moschus,  like  that  picture  seems 
The  book  which,  sillier  than  a  sick  man's  dreams, 
Displays  a  crowd  of  figures  incomplete, 
Poetic  nightmares,  without  head  or  (eeU 

Poets  and  painters,  as  all  artists  know, 
May  shoot  a  little  with  a  lengtlien'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. 

Huroano  ctpiti  cervicem  pictor  equinam 

Jungere  si  velit,  «t  varia«  inducere  plumas. 

Unique  collatia  membria,  ut  turpiter  atrum 

Desunt  in  piscem  mulier  formosa  superne ;    - 

Spectatum  admisai  risum  teneatis,  aiiiici  7 

Credite,  Pisones,  iati  tabule  fore  Iibrum 

Penimileni,  cujus,  velut  legri  lomnia,  vans 

Finffentur  apecies,  ut  nee  pes,  nee  caput  uni 

Beddator  fbnne.    Pictoribus  atque  poetis 

Qoidlibot  audendi  semper  fuit  lequa  potestaa, 

Scimus,  et  banc  veniam  petimusqae  damusque  viciMiini 

Sed  non  ut  plaeidis  coeant  iramitia ;  non  ut 

Beipentes  avibua  geminentur,  tigribus  agni. 

*  In  an  Enfflish  newspaper,  which  finds  ita  way  abroad  wherever  there  ar* 

Erulishmen,  I  read  an  account  of  this  dirty  dauber's  caricatore  of  Mr.  H , 

and  the  consequent  action,  &c.  The  circumstance  is,  probably  too  well  known 
to  require  further  comment. 


410  HIlfTS   FROM    HORACS. 

A  labour'd,  long  ezordiuniy  sometimes  tends 
(Like  patriot  speeches)  but  to  paltry  ends  ; 
And  nonsense  in  a  lofty  note  goes  down, 
As  pertness  passes  with  a  legal  gown : 
Thus  many  a  bard  describes  in  pompoim  strain 
The  clear  brook  babbling  through  the  goodly  plain  : 
The  groves  of  Granta,  and  her  gothic  haUs, 
King's  Coll.,  Cam's  stream,  stain'd  windows,  and  old  walls 
Or,  in  advent'rous  numbers,  neatly  aims 
To  paint  a  rainbow,  or  -—  the  river  Thames.* 

You  sketch  a  tree,  and  so  perhaps  may  shine  — 
But  daub  a  shipwreck  like  an  alehouse  sign  ; 
You  plan  a  vase  —  it  dwindles  to  a  pot ; 
Then  slide  down  Grub-street  —  fasting  and  forgot ; 
Laugh  d  into  Lethe  by  some  quaint  Review, 
Whose  wit  is  never  troublesome  till  —  true. 

In  fine,  to  whatsoever  you  aspire. 
Let  it  at  least  be  simple  and  entire. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  rhyming  tribe 
(Give  ear,  my  friend,  for  thou  hast  been  a  scribe) 
Are  led  astray  by  some  peculiar  lure. 
I  labour  to  be  brief —  become  obscure  ; 
One  falls  while  following  elegance  too  fast ; 
Another  soars,  inflated  with  bombast ; 
Too  low  a  third  crawls  on,  afraid  to  fly. 
He  spins  his  subject  to  satiety  ; 
Absurdly  varying,  he  at  last  engraves 
Fish  in  the  woods,  and  boars  beneath  the  waves ! 

Incoeptis  gravibus  plermnqne  et  ma^a  profetab 
PorpureuB,  late  qui  splendeat,  irnus  et  alter 
Atauitur  pannus ;  cum  lucus  et  ara  Dians, 
£t  properantis  aquc  per  amcenoa  ambitus  agroa, 
Aut  flumen  Rhenum,  aut  pluvius  describitur  arcu. 
Sed  nunc  non  erat  his  locus :  et  fortasse  cuprearam 
Scis  simulare  :  quid  hoc,  si  fractis  enatat  eupea 
NavibuB,  ere  date  qui  pingitur  7  amphora  ctepit 
Institui :  currente  rota  cur  urceus  exit? 
Denique  sit  quod  vis,  simplex  duntaxat  et  unum. 

Maxima  pan  Tatum,  pater,  et  juvenes  patre  digni, 
Decipimur  specie  recti.    Brevis  esse  laboro 
Obscurus  fio :  sectantem  levia,  nervi 
Deficiunt  animique :  profesaus  ^ndia,  taxfg&X : 
Serpit  humi,  tutus  niroium,  timidusque  proceDas  t 
Qm  Tariare  cupit  rem  prodigialiter  unam, 
Ddphinum  aylvis  appingit  fluctibua  aprum. 

•  M  Where  pore  description  held  the  place  of  aenae.**  — P^^ 


Bnm  SSOM  HOKACS.  411 

Unlen  your  care's  exact,  your  judgment  mce. 
The  flight  from  folly  leads  but  into  vice  ; 
None  are  complete,  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,  I  own,  seems  much  the  same 
\s  Vulcan's  feet  to  bear  ApoUo's  frame ; 
Or,  with  a  fair  complexion,  to  expose 
B]fLck  eyes,  black  ringlets,  but  —  a  bottle  nose ! 

Dear  authors !  suit  your  topics  to  your  strength, 
And  ponder  well  your  subject,  and  its  length  ;  ' 

Nor  lift  your  load,  before  you  're  quite  aware 
What  weight  your  shoulders  will,  or  will  not,  bear. 
•  But  lucid  Order,  and  Wit's  siren  voice, 
Await  the  poet,  skilful  in  his  choice ; 
With  native  eloquence  he  soars  along, 
Grace  in  his  thoughts,  and  music  in  his  song. 

Let  judgment  teach  him  wisely  to  combine 
With  future  parts  the  now  omitted  line : 
This  shall  the  author  choose,  or  that  reject, 
Precise  in  style,  and  cautious  to  select ; 
Nor  slight  applause  will  candid  pens  afford 
To  him  who  furnishes  a  wanting  word. 
Then  fear  not  if 't  is  needful  to  produce 
Some  term  unknown,  or  obsolete  in  use, 

In  vitium  ducit  culpas  fuga,  ri  caret  arte. 
jGmilium  circa  ludum  faber  unus  et  unsnea 
Expiiinet,  et  molles  imitabitur  ere  capiUos ; 
Inieliz  operis  summa,  quia  ponere  totum 
Nesciet.    Ilunc  ego  me,  si  quid  componera  enrem, 
NonmagiB  esse  velim,  auam  pravo  vivera  naao, 
Spectandum  nigris  ocufis  nigroqae  capillo. 

Sumite  materiem  vestris,  qui  scribitia,  equam 
Viribui ;  et  versate  diu  quid  ferre  recusent 
Quid  valeant  humeri.    Cui  lecia  potenter  erit  rai^ 
Nee  facundia  deseret  hunc  nee  lucidus  ordo. 

Ordinifl  h»c  virtua  erit  et  venua,  aut  ego  foUor, 
Ut  jam  nunc  dicat,  jam  nunc  debentia  dici 
Pleraque  ditferat,  et  pnesens  in  tempua  omittat ; 
Hoc  amet,  hoc  apomat  promissi  carminii  auctor. 

In  verbis  etiam  tenuis  cautusque  serendis . 
Dizeris  e^egie,  notum  si  callida  verbum 
Reddident  junctuni  novum.    Si  ibrte  necease  eat, 

u-n  Mere  common  mortda  were  commonly  content  with  one  tailor  and  with  one 
biB,  but  the  more  particular  gentlemen  found  it  impoaaible  to  confide  their  lower 
garments  to  the  makers  of  their  body  cloihea.  I  apeak  of  the  beginning  of  1609  s 
what  reform  may  have  smco  taken  place  I  neither  know,  nor  doaira  to  know 


412  KniTB   FBOX  HOBACB. 

(As  Pitt  *  has  furnishM  us  a  word  or  two. 

which  lexicographers  declined  to  do ;) 

So  you  indeed,  with  care,  —  (but  be  content 

To  take  this  license  rarely)  — may  invent* 

New  words  find  credit  in  these  latter  days, 

If  neatly  grafled  on  a  Gallic  phrase. 

What  Chaucer,  Spenser  did,  we  scarce  refuse 

To  Dryden's  or  to  Pope's  maturer  muse. 

If  you  can  add  a  little,  say  why  not, 

As  well  as  William  Pitt,  and  Walter  Scott  ?  ^ 

Since  they,  by  force  of  rhyme  and  force  of  lungs, 

Enrich'd  our  island's  ilUunited  tongues ; 

'T  is  then  —  and  shall  be  —  lawful  to  present 

Reform  in  writing,  as  in  parliament. 

As  forests  shed  their  foliage  by  degrees. 
So  fade  expressions  which  in  season  please ; 
And  we  and  ours,  alas  !  are  due  to  fate. 
And  works  and  words  but  dwindle  to  a  date. 
Though  as  a  monarch  nods,  and  commerce  calls. 
Impetuous  rivers  stagnate  in  canals ; 
Though  swamps  subdued,  and  marshes  drain'd,  sustain 
The  heavy  ploughshare  and  the  yellow  graii^. 
And  rising  ports  along  the  busy  shore 
Protect  the  vessel  from  old  Ocean's  roar. 
All,  all  must  perish ;  but,  surviving  last. 
The  love  of  letters  half  preserves  the  past. 
True,  some  decay,  yet  not  a  few  revive ;  f 
Though  those  shall  sink,  which  now  appear  to  thrive, 

Indiciis  monstrare  recentibus  abdita  rerum, 
Fingere  cinctutis  non  exaudita  Cethegis 
Conlinget ;  dabiturqne  licentia  sumpta  pudenter; 
Et  nova  factaque  uuper  babebunt  verba  fidem,  si 
Greco  fonte  cadant,  parce  detorta.    Quid  autem 
Cascilio  Plautoque  dabit  Roraanus,  ademptum 
Viigilio  Varioque  ?  ego  cor,  acquirere  pauca 
8i  possum,  invideor ;  cum  lingua  Catonis  et  Eanl 
Sermonem  palrium  ditaverit,  et  nova  rerum 
Nomina  protulerit?    Licuit,  seraperque  licebit, 
8i2natum  prssente  nota  producere  no  men. 
Ut  silv»  foliis  pronos  mutantur  in  annot ; 
PHma  cadunt :  ita  verborum  vetus  intent  etaa, 
Et  iuvenumritu  florent  modo  nata,  vigentque. 
Debemur  morti  nos  noBtraque :  sive  receptua 
Terra  Neptunus  claMea  aquilonibus  arcet, 
Re^  opus ;  sterilisve  diu  palua,  aptaque  remii 
Vicinas  urbes  aiit,  et  ^ve  eentit  aratram : 
Seu  cursum  mutavit  iniquum  frugibus  amnis, 
Doctus  iter  melius ;  mortalia  facta  peribunt : 

*  Mr.  Pitt  was  liberal  in  his  additions  to  our  parliamentary  tongue,  as  may  be 
seen  in  many  publications,  particularly  the  Edinburgh  Review. 
t  Old  ballads,  old  plays,  and  old  women*s  stories,  are  at  present  in  as  much 


unm  raoM  hobacb.  418 

As  dutom  arbitrates,  whose  shifting  sway       « 
Our  life  and  language  must  alike  obey. 

The  immortal  wars  which  gods  and  angels  wage» 
Are  they  not  shown  in  Milton's  sacred  page  ? 
His  strain  will  teach  what  numbers  best  belong 
To  themes  celestial  told  in  epic  song. 

The  slow,  sad  stanza,  will  correctly  paint 
The  lover's  anguish  or  the  friend's  complaint. 
But  which  deserves  the  laurel  —  rhyme  or  blank  ? 
Which  holds  on  Helicon  the  higher  rank  ? 
Let  squabbling  critics  by  themselves  dispute 
This  point,  as  puzzling  as  a  Chancery  suit. 

Satiric  rhyme  first  sprang  from  selfish  spleen. 
You  doubt  —  see  Dryden,  Pope,  St.  Patrick's  dean.* 

Blank  verse  is  now,  with  one  consent,  allied 
To  Tragedy,  and  rarely  quits  her  side. 
Though  mad  Almanzor  rhymed  in  Dryden's  days. 
No  sing-song  hero  rants  in  modem  plays ; 
While  modest  Comedy  her  verse  foregoes 
For  jest  and  pun  f  in  very  middling  prose. 

Nedam  sermoDQin  atet  honos,  et  mtia  vivax. 
Malta  rensscentnr.  que  jam  ceciaere ;  cadentque, 
QcuB  none  sunt  in  honore  vocabula,  ri  volet  usus; 
Quem  pene§  arbitrium  est,  et  jus,  et  norma  loaueodi. 

Ret  gestn  regumque  ducumque  et  tristia  bella. 
Quo  scribi  posnent  numero  monstravit  Ilomerus. 

Vereibtts  imporiter  junctis  querimonia  primom; 
Fbtt  etiam  inciuiia  est  voti  sententia  compos. 
Qnis  tamen  exiguos  elegos  emiserit  auctor, 
Grammatici  certant,  et  adhuc  sub  judice  lis  est. 

Archilocum  proprio  rabies  arraavit  iambo  ; 
Hunc  socci  cepere  pedein  grandewque  cothurni, 
Altemis  aplum  sermonibus,  et  populares 
Vincentem  strepitus,  et  natum  rebus  agendis, 

Musa  dedit  fidibus  divos,  puerosque  deorum, 
Et  pngilem  victorem,  et  equum  certamine  primnm, 
Et  lavenum  curas  et  libera  vina  referre. 

Descriptas  servara  vices  opertunque  colores, 


request  as  old  wine  or  new  speeches.  In  fact,  this  is  the  miDennhini  of  black 
letter :  thanks  to  oar  Hebers,  Webers,  and  Scotu ! 

*  Mac  Flecknoe,  the  Donciad,  and  all  Sivift's  lampooning  ballads.  Whatever 
their  other  works  may  be,  these  originated  in  personal  feelings,  and  anffry  re- 
tort on  unworthy  rivals ;  and  though  the  abihty  of  these  satires  elevates  the 
poetical,  their  poignancy  detracu  from  the  personal  character  of  the  writers. 

t  With  aD  the  vulgar  ^ipbnse  and  enseal  abborranee  of  pwu,  they  have 


414  Hnrrs  ntoM  hobacx. 

Not  that  our  Bens  or  Beaumonts  show  the  worse, 
Or  lose  one  point,  because  they  wrote  in  verse. 
But  so  Thalia  pleases  to  appear, 
Poor  virgin !  damn'd  some  twenty  times  a  year  ! 

Whate'er  the  scene,  let  this  advice  have  weight :  - 
Adapt  your  language  to  your  hero's  state* 
At  times  Melpomene  forgets  to  groan, 
And  brisk  Thalia  takes  a  serious  tone ; 
Nor  unregarded  will  the  act  pass  by 
Where  angry  Townly  lifts  his  voice  on  high. 
Again,  our  Shakspeare  limits  verse  to  kings, 
When  common  prose  will  serve  for  common  things ; 
And  lively  Hal  resigns  heroic  ire. 
To  ^  hollowing  Hotspur  "  *  and  the  sceptred  sire. 

T  is  not  enough,  ye  bards,  with  all  your  art, 
To  polish  poems ;  —  they  must  touch  the  heart : 
Where'er  the  scene  be  laid,  whate'er  the  song, 
Still  let  it  bear  the  hearer's  soul  along  ; 
Command  your  audience  or  to  smile  or  weep, 
Whiche'er  my  please  you  —  any  thing  but  sle^. 
The  poet  claims  our  tears  ;  but,  by  his  leave. 
Before  I  shed  them,  let  me  see  him  grieve. 

If  banish'd  Romeo  feignM  nor  sigh  nor  tear, 
Lull'd  by  his  languor,  I  should  sleeo  or  sneer. 

Cur  ego,  n  nequeo  ignoroque,  poeta  sahitor? 
Cur  nescire  pudens  prave,  quam  disoere  male  7 

Versibus  exponi  tra^cis  res  comica  non  vuh; 
Indicator  item  privatis,  ac  prope  socco 
IKgnis  carminibuK  narrari  ccena  Thyesto 
Singula  queqne  locum  teneant  sortita  deeenter. 
biterdum  tamen  at  vocem  comcedia  tolKt, 
IratuBque  Chremes  tumtdo  delitigat  ore : 
Et  trasicuB  plerumque  dolet  sermone  pedestri 
Telephus  et  Peleus,  cum  pauper  et  ezul,  uterquo 
Projicit  ampullas.  et  sesquipecuilia  verba ; 
8i  curat  cor  8pe«*tantiB  tetigiaee  querela. 

Non  satis  est  pulchra  esse  poemata ;  dulcia  tunto, 
Et  quocunque  volent,  animum  auditoris  agunto. 
Ut  ndentibus  arrident,  ita  flentibus  adflent 
Humani  vultua ;  si  vis  me  flere  dolendum  est 
Primum  ipsi  tibi ;  tune  tua  me  inibrtunia  ksdent. 
Telephe,  vel  Peleu,  male  si  mandata  loqndria, 


Aristotle  on  their  side ;  who  permits  them  to  orators,  and  gives  tiiem  eoBseqaeneo 
by  a  grave  disqmsitbn. 
*  »  And  in  lus  ear  I 'llhoUow,  Mortimer!  "IHesrv  IK. 


HIRTS    FROM  BORAOS.  415 

Sad  words,  no  doubt,  become  a  serious  face. 
And  men  look  angry  in  tbe  proper  place* 
At  double  meanings  folks  seem  wondrous  sly, 
And  sentiment  prescribes  a  pensive  eye  ; 
For  nature  form'd  at  first  the  inward  man, 
And  actors  copy  nature  —  when  they  can. 
She  bids  the  beating  heart  with  rapture  bound. 
Raised  to  the  stars,  or  levell'd  with,  the  ground  ; 
And  for  expression's  aid,  't  is  said,  or,  sung, 
She  gave  our  mind's  interpreter  —  the  tongue. 
Who,  worn  with  use,  of  late  would  fain  dii^»ense 
(At  least  in  theatres)  with  common  sense ; 
O'erwhelm  with  sound  the  boxes,  gallery,  pit, 
And  raise  a  laugh  with  any  thing  —  but  wit. 

To  skilful  writers  it  will  much  import. 
Whence  spring  their  scenes,  from  common  life  or  court , 
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  7 
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  your  scheme  are  plann'd, 
Macbeth's  fierce  dame  is  ready  to  your  hand, 

Aut  donnitebo,  nut  ridebo :  triatia  mfiBfltom 
Vuhum  verba  decent ;  iratum,  plena  minanim ; 
Lndentem,  laaciva ;  ■everum,  eeria  dictn. 
Format  enim  natora  prina  nos  intua  ad  omnem 
Fortnnarum  habitnm ;  jarat,  ant  impellet  ad  inun ; 
Aut  ad  hnmnm  moBrore  gravi  dedoeit,  et  angit; 
Poat  effert  animi  motna  interprete  lingua. 
Si  dicentia  emnt  fortunia  abaona  dicta, 
Romani  tollent  equitea,  pediteaque  cacbinnum. 

Intererit  multum,  Davuane  loquatur  an  beroa ; 
Matumane  aenex,  an  adbuc  florente  iuventa 
Fervidoa ;  an  matrona  potena,  an  aedola  nutriz ; 
Mercatome  vagua,  cultome  virentia  ageUi ; 
Colcbua  an  Aaeyrioa ;  Thebii  nutritua,  an  Ama. 

Aut  famam  aequere,  aut  aibi  convenientia  mige. 
Sciiptor  bonoratum  ai  forte  reponia  Achillem ; 
Impiger,  iraeundua,  nnexorabifia,  acer, 
Jura  neget  aibi  iiata,  nibil  non  aiTOget  annif .   ' 


416  Hnrre  nox  horacb* 

For  tears  and  treachery,  for  good  or  evil, 
Constance,  King  Richard,  Hamlet,  and  the  Devil ! 
But  if  a  new  design  you  dare  essay, 
And  freely  wander  from  the  beaten  way. 
True  to  your  characters,  till  all  be  past. 
Preserve  consistency  from  first  to  last. 

T  is  hard  to  venture  where  our  betters  fail. 
Or  lend  fresh  interest  to  a  twice-told  tale ; 
And  yet,  perchance,  *t  is  wiser  to  prefer 
A  hackney'd  plot,  than  choose  a  new,  and  err ; 
Yet  copy  not  too  closely,  but  record^ 
More  justly,  thought  for  thought  than  word  for  word ; 
Nor  trace  your  prototype  through  narrow  wavs. 
But  only  follow  where  he  merits  praise. 

For  you,  young  bard !  whom  luckless  fate  may  lead 
To  tremble  on  the  nod  of  all  who  read. 
Ere  your  first  score  of  cantos  time  unrolls, 
Beware  —  for  God's  sake,  do  n't  begin  like  Bowles !  * 

Sit  Medea  ferox  invictaque  ;  flebilit  Ino ; 
Perfidus  Ixion ;  lo  vaga ;  triBtis  Orestes ; 
Si  quid  inexpertum  scene  committis,  et  andea 
Personam  formare  novam  ;  servetnr  ad  imum 
Qualis  ab  incepto  proceraerit,  et  sibi  constet 

Difficile  est  pruprie  communia  dicere;  tuquo 
Rectius  Iliacum  carmen  deducis  in  actus, 
Quam  si  proferres  i^nota  indictaque  primus 
Pubiica  materies  privati  juris  erit^  si 
Nee  circa  vilem  patulumque  moraberis  orbem, 
Nee  verbum  verbo  curabis  reddere  fidus 
Interpres,  nee  desilies  imitator  in  arctum 
Unde  pedem  proferre  pudor  vetet,  aut  opens  lex. 

Nee  sic  incipieSf  ut  scriptor  Cyclicus  oUm  : 

*  About  two  years  ago,  a  young  man,  named  Townsend,  was  announced  by 
Mr.  Cumberland  (in  a  review  since  deceased)  as  being  engaged  in  an  epic  poem 
to  be  entitled  "Armaeeddon."  The  plan  and  specimen  promise  much;  but  I 
hope  neither  to  ofiena  Mr.  Townsend  nor  his  fnends,  by  recomm^ding  to  his 
attention  the  lines  of  Horace  to  which  these  rhymes  allcMe.  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  oefore  the  public !  But 
tin  that  eventful  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  aranunent,  raUier  incurred 
the  hazard  of  injuring  Mr.  Townsena's  future  pn^spects.  Mr.  Cumberiand  (whose 
talents  I  shall  not  depreciate  by  the  humble  tribute  of  my  praise)  and  Mr.  Town- 
send  must  not  suppose  me  actuated  by  unworthy  motives  in  this  suggestion.  I 
wish  the  author  all  the  success  he  can  wish  himself^  and  shall  be  tnuy  happy  to 
see  epic  poetry  weighed  up  fh>m  the  bathos  where  it  lies  sunken  with  Sontoey, 
Cottle,  Cowley  (Mrs.  or  Abraham),  O^vy,  Wilkie,  Pye,  and  all  the  **duD  of 
past  and  present  days.*'  Even  if  he  is  not  a  AfiZton,  he  may  be  better  than 
Mladtmore;  if  not  a  Hom«r,  an  Anftmocftiis.  Ishoulddeem  myself  presumptuous^ 
as  a  young  man,  in  offering  advice,  were  it  not  addresMd  to  one  still  younger 


HINTS   FROM   HORACE.  417 

"  Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain,"  — 

And  pray,  what  follows  from  his  broiling  brain  7  — 

He  sinks  to  Southey's  level  in  a  trice, 

Whose  epic  mountains  never  fail  in  mice ! 

Not  so  of  yore  awoke  your  mighty  sire 

The  temper'd  warblings  of  his  master-lyre ; 

Soft  as  the  gentler  breathing  of  the  lute, 

**  Of  man's  first  ^disobedience  and  the  fruit " 

He  speaks,  but  as  his  subject  swells  along, 

EUirth,  heaven,  and  Hades  echo  with  the  song. 

Still  to  the  midst  of  things  he  hastens  on, 

As  if  we  witness'd  all  already  done ; 

Leaves  on  his  path  whatever  seems  too  mean 

To  raise  the  subject,  or  adorn  the  scene ; 

Gives,  as  each  page  improves  upon  the  sight, 

Not  smoke  from  brightness,  but  from  darkness  —  light ; 

And  truth  and  fiction  with  such  art  compounds. 

We  know  not  where  to  fix  their  several  bounds. 

If  you  would  please  the  public,  deign  to  hear 

What  soothes  the  many-headed  monster's  ear ; 

If  your  heart  triumph  when  the  hands  of  all 

Applaud  in  thunder  at  the  curtain's  fall, 

"  Fortnnam  Priami  cantabo,  ot  nobtle  benum." 
Quid  dignum  tanto  feret  hie  promiBioi'  hiatu  ? 
Pftrtarinnt  montm :  naBcetar  ridiculus  mus. 
QuaDto  rectiiu  hie,  qni  nil  moUtur  inepte ! 
**  Die  mihi,  Miuai  virum  eaptn  poet  tAmpora  Troje, 
Qui  mores  bominum  nraltorum  vidit  et  urbes." 
Non  fumom  ex  fulgore,  ned  ex  iHimo  dare  lucem 
Cogitat,  ut  ■peciosa  dehinc  miracula  pro  mat, 
Antiphaten,  Scyllam<}uef  et  cum  Cyclope  Charybdim. 
Nee  reditum  Diomedu  ab  interitu  Meleagri, 
Nee  gemino  bellum  Trojanum  orditur  ab  ovo. 
Semper  ad  eventum  fettinat ;  et  in  mediaa  res 
Non  secus  ac  notas^  auditorem  rapit,  et  quae 
Desperat  tractata  nitescere  posse,  relinquit : 
At<iue  ita  mentitur,  sic  veris  falsa  remiscet, 
Ftimo  ne  mediamf  medio  ne  discreoet  imum. 

Tu,  quid  ego  et  populua  mecum  aesideret,  audi. 
Si  plauaoris  egea  auliea  manendi,  et  usque 


Mr.  Townsend  has  the  greatest  diffieidties  to  encounter :  but  in  conquering  them 
he  will  find  employment;  in  having  conquered  them,  his  reward.  I  know  too 
well  **the  scribDler*8  scoff,  the  critic*8  contumely  ;'*  and  I  am  afraid  time  will 
teach  Mr.  Townsend  to  know  them  better.  Those  who  succeed,  and  those 
who  do  not,  must  bear  this  alike,  and  it  is  hard  to  say  which  have  most  of  it.  I 
trust  that  Mr.  Townsend' s  share  will  be  from  envy ; — he  will  soon  know  man- 
kind well  enough  not  to  attribute  this  expression  to  malice. 

The  above  note  was  written  before  the  author  was  apprized  of  Mr.  Cumber- 
land's death. 
VOL.  V.  —  I'e 


418  HINTS   FROK   HORACE. 

Deserve  those  plaudits  —  study  nature's  page, 
And  sketch  the  striking  traits  of  every  age ; 
While  varying  man  and  varying  years  unfold 
Life's  little  tale,  so  oft,  so  vainly  told. 
Observe  his  simple  childhood's  dawning  days. 
His  pranks,  his  prate,  his  playmates,  and  his  plays ; 
Till  time  at  length  the  mannish  tyro  weans, 
And  prurient  vice  outstrips  his  tardy  teens ! 

Behold  him  Freshman !  forced  no  more  to  groan 
O'er  Virgil's  *  devilish  verses  and  —  his  own ; 
Prayers  are  too  tedious,  lectures  too  abstruse. 
He  flies  from  T  —  v  —  I's  frown  to  «  Fordham's  Mews  ;  " 
(Unlucky  T  —  v  — 1 !  doom'd  to  daily  cares 
By  pugilistic  pupils  and  by  bears,  f ) 
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  have  made  him  sore ; 
Unread  (unless,  since  books  beguile  disease. 
The  p  —  X  becomes  his  passage  to  degrees)  ; 
Fool'd,  pillaged,  dunn'd,  he  wastes  his  term  away. 
And,  unexpell'd  perhaps,  retires  M .  A. ; 
Master  of  arts  !  as  hdls  and  chba  %  proclaim, 
Where  scarce  a  blackleg  bears  a  brighter  name  ! 

Seasurif  donee  cantor,  Vos  plaudite,  dicat ; 
iEtatis  cujuBque  notandi  sunt  tibi  mores, 
Mobilibusqoe  decor  naturis  dandus  et  annis. 
Reddere  qni  voces  jam  scit  puer,  et  pede  certo 
Sisrnat  humum  ;  gestit  paribus  coUuaere^  et  iram 
Colligit  ac  ponit  temere,  et  mutatnr  in  boras. 
Imbeibis  jnvenis,  tandem  custode  remote, 
Gaudet  eqms  canibusqoe,  et  aprici  gramine  campi ; 
Cereus  in  vitium  flecti,  monitoribus  asper, 
Utilium  tardus  pro  visor,  prodigus  nris, 
Sublimis,  cupidusque,  et  amata  relihqnere  pemii. 

*  Harvey,  tbe  circulator  of  the  circuUttion  of  the  blood,  used  to  fling  away 
Yiivil  in  his  ecstasy  of  admiration,  and  sav,  *'  the  book  had  a  devil.'*  Now, 
sucn  a  character  as  I  am  copying  woula  probably  fling  it  away  also,  but 
rather  wish  that  the  devil  had  the  book  ;  not  from  any  dislike  to  tbe  poet, 
but  a  well-founded  horror  of  hexameters.  Indeed  the  pubhc  school  penance 
of  "  long  and  short  *'  is  enough  to  beget  an  antipathy  to  poetry  for  the  re- 
sidue ofa  man's  life,  and,  perhaps,  so  far  may  be  an  advantage. 

t  '*Infandum,  regina,  jubes  renovare  dolorem."  I  dare  say  Mr.  T — v — 1 
(to  whom  I  mean  no  affront)  will  understand  me ;  and  it  is  no  matter  whether 
any  one  else  does  or  no.  —  To  the  above  events,  "quieqne  ipse  miserrima 
vim,  et  quorum  pars  magna  iui,"  all  ernes  and  iermt  bear  testimony. 

X  "  Hell,"  a  gaming-house  so  called,  where  you  risk  little,  and  are  cheat- 
ed a  good  deal.  "Club,"  a  pleasant  purgatory,  where  you  lose  more,  and 
are  not  supposed  to  be  cheated  at  all. 


HZZVT8  TROM  HORAOS  410 

Launched  into  lifet  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  cfdl'd  to  cheer. 
His  son 's  so  sharp  «---  he  '11  see  the  dog  a  peer ! 

Manhood  declines  -^  age  palsies  every  limb ; 
He  quits  the  scene  —  or  else  the  scene  quits  him ; 
Scrapes  wealth,  o'er  each  departing  penny  grieves, 
And  avarice  seizes  all  ambition  leaves  ; 
Counts  cent  per  cent,  and  smiles,  or  vainly  frets. 
O'er  hoards  diminished  by  young  Hopeful's  debts ; 
Weighs  well  and  wisely  what  to  sell  or  buy, 
Complete  in  all  life's  lessons  —  but  to  die ; 
Peevish  and  spiteful,  doting,  hard  to  please. 
Commending  every  time,  save  times  like  these , 
Crazed,  querulous,  forsaken,  half  forgot. 
Expires  unwept— is  buried  —  let  him  rot ! 

But  from  the  Drama  let  me  not  digress, 
Nor  spare  my  precepts,  though  they  please  you  less. 
Though  woman  weep,  and  hardest  hearts  are  stirr'd. 
When  what  is  done  is  rather  seen  than  heard, 
Yet  many  deeds  preserved  in  history's  page 
Are  better  told  than  acted  on  the  stage ; 
The  ear  sustains  what  shocks  the  timid  eye, 
And  horror  thus  subsides  to  sympathy. 
True  Briton  all  beside,  I  here  am  French  — * 
Bloodshed  t  is  surely  better  to  retrench ; 
The  gladiatorial  gore  we  teach  to  flow 
In  tragic  scene  disgusts,  though  but  in  show ; 

Convenis  ttttdiis,  etas  animuftiue  virilit, 
Qoaerit  opei,  et  amicitias,  inservit  honori ; 
CoiDininsse  cavet  quod  mox  mutare  lahoret 

Multa  senem  conveniunt  incommoda ;  vel  <}aod 
Qttcrit,  et  inventifl  miser  abatinet,  ac  timet  nti ; 
Vel  quod  res  omnes  timide  gelideque  ministrat, 
I>ilator,  ipe  lonffua,  iners,  aviduaque  ftituri ; 
Difficilis,  qaenilus,  laudator  teropioria  acti 
Se  puero,  caatigaior  cenaorque  minorum. 
Multa  ferunt  anni  venientcs  commoda  secum, 
Muita  recedentes  adimunt.    Ne  forte  senilea 
Manden^ur  joveni  partes,  pueroque  virilea. 
Semper  in  adjuncus,  evoque  morabimuruptia. 

Aut  agitur  res  in  acenia,  aut  acta  refertur. 
Segnius  irritant  animoa  demiaaa  per  aurem 
Qoam  quae  aunt  oculis  subjecta  ndelibas,  et  qua 
Ipse  aibi  tiadit  spectator.    Non  tamen  intua 


420  HINTS   FBOM   HORACB. 

We  hate  the  carnage  while  we  see  the  trick, 
And  find  small  sympathy  in  being  sick* 
Not  on  the  stage  the  regicide  Macbeth 
Appals  an  audience  with  a  monarch's  death ; 
To  gaze  when  sable  Hubert  threats  to  sear 
Young  Arthur's  eyes,  can  ours  or  naiure  bear 
A  halter'd  heroine  *  Johnson  sought  to  slay  — 
We  saved  Irene,  but  half  damn'd  the  play, 
And  (Heaven  be  praised  !)  our  tolerating  times 
Stint  metamorphoses  to  pantomimes  ; 
And  Lewis'  self,  with  all  his  sprites,  would  quake 
To  change  Earl  Osmond's  negro  to  a  snake ! 
Because,  in  scenes  exciting  joy  or  grief, 
We  loathe  the  action  which  exceeds  belief: 
'    And  yet,  God  knows !  what  may  not  authors  do. 
Whose  postscripts  prate  of  dyeing  "  heroines  blue  ?  "  T 

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 ; 
Where  good  and  evil  persons,  right  or  wrong, 
Rage,  love,  and  aught  but  moralize,  in  song. 
HaS,  last  memorial  of  our  foreign  friends 
Which  Gaul  allows,  and  still  Hesperia  lends ! 
Napoleon's  edicts  no  embargo  lay 
On  whores,  spies,  singers  wisely  shipp'd  away. 
Our  giant  capital,  whose  squares  are  spread 
Where  rustics  earn'd,  and  now  may  beg,  their  bread, 

Digna  geri,  piomes  iaicenam ;  imiltaqae  toUcji 
Ex  ociutB,  que  mox  nairet  facundia  pnpeena. 
Ne  pueroB  coram  populo  Medea  trucidet ; 
Aut  humana  palam  coqaat  exta  nefarius  AcreTM ; 
Ant  in  avem  Progne  vertatur,  Cadmns  in  anffiiem. 
Quodcunque  ostendis  mihi  nc,  incredulas  ooi. 
Neve  minor,  neu  sit  quinto  producCior  actu 
Fabula,  qun  posci,  et  spectata  reponi. 
Nee  Deufl  intersit,  ni^i  digniis  vindice  nodus 
Incident  •  •  •  * 

•  "Irene  had  to  speak  two  lines  >%iih  the  bowstring  round  her  neck, 
but  the  audience  cned  out  *  Murder ! '  and  she  was  obliged  to  be  canied  off 
the  suge."—  BoswelTs  Life  ofJohiuon. 

t  In  the  postscript  to  the  "  Castle  Spectre/'  Mr.  Lewis  tells  us,  that  though 
blacks  were  unknown  in  England  at  the  period  of  his  action,  yet  he  has  made 
the  anachfonism  to  set  off  the  scene :  ana  if  he  could  have  produced  the  effect 
**by  making  his  heroine  bine*'  —  I  quote  him  —  "blue  he  would- have  made 
her ! " 


HINTS    FSOX   HORACE.  421 

In  all  iniquity  is  grown  so  nice^ 
It  scorns  amusements  which  are  not  of  price. 
Hence  the  pert  shopkeeper,  whose  throbbing  ear 
Aches  with  orchestras  which  he  pays  to  hear, 
Whom  shame,  not  sympathy,  forbicb  to  snore, 
His  anguish  doubling  by  his  own  **  encore ;  "  « 

Squeezed  in  **  Fop's  Alley,"  jostled  by  the  beaux, 
Teased  with  his  hat,  and  trembling  for  his  toes ; 
Scarce  wrestles  through  the  night,  nor  tastes  of  ease 
Till  the  dropp'd  curtain  gives  a  glad  release : 
Why  this,  and  more,  he  suffers — can  ye  guess  ? — 
Because  it  costs  him  dear,  and  makes  him  dress  ; 

So  prosper  eunuchs  from  Etruscan  schoob ; 
Give  us  but  fiddlers,  and  they  're  sure  of  fools  ! 
Ere  scenes  were  play'd  by  many  a  reverend  .clerk  * 
(What  harm,  if  David  danced  before  the  ark  ?  ) 
^  In  Christmas  revels,  simple  country  folks 
'  Were  pleas'd  with  morrice-miunm'ry  and  coarse  jckes^ 
Improving  years,  with  things  no  longer  known. 
Produced  blithe  Punch  and  merry  Madame  Joan, 
Who  still  frisk  on  with  feats  so  lewdly  low, 
T  is  strange  Benvolio  suffers  such  a  show ;  f 
Suppressing  peer  !  to  whom  each  vice  gives  place, 
Oaths,  boxing,  begging,  —  all,  save  rout  and  race. 

Farce  ibUow'd  Comedy,  and  reach'd  her  prime 
In  ever-laughing  Foote's  fantastic  time : 
Mad  wag  !  who  pardon'd  none,  nor  spared  the  best. 
And  turn'd  some  very  serious  things  to  jest. 

Ex  noto  fictum  carmen  seqnar,  m  libi  anivu 
Speret  idem :  ludet  multum,  fhistraqQe  laooret 
AuMUB  idem :  tanium  series  junctnraque  poUet  ; 
Tuitum  de  medio  mimtifl  aecedit  honoiii. 

Silvia  deduct!  caveant,  me  judice,  Fauni, 
Ne  velot  innad  triviis,  ac  pene  forenses, 
Am  nimiam  tenerit  juvenentur  versibus  unquam, 
Aot  iramnnda  erepent,  ignominiotaqne  dicta. 

^  ''The  first  theatrical  representationB,  entitled  'Mysteries  and  Moralities, 
were  generally  enacted  at  Christmas,  by  monks  (as  the  only  persons  who  could 
read),  and  latteriy  by  the  clerey  and  students  of  the  uniwrsities.  The  dramatis 
persons  were  usually  Adam,  rater  Coelestis,  Faith,  Vice,"  &.c.  &c. —  Vide  War- 
ttiris  HtMimy  of  English  Poetry. 

t  Benvolio  does  not  bet;  l)ut  every  man  who  maintains  race-horses  in  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 
]>rai8ed  for  chastity  because  Bhe  herself  ^d  not  commit  fornication. 


422  HINTS   FROK  HORACE. 

Nor  church  nor  state  escaped  his  public  sneers. 
Arms  nor  the  gown,  priests,  lawyers,  volunteers: 
**  Alas,  poor  Yorick !  "  now  for  ever  mute  ! 
Whoever  loves  a  laugh  must  si^  for  Foote. 


We  smile,  perforce,  when  histrionic  i 
Ape  the  swoln  dialogue  of  kings  and  queens, 
When  **  Chrononhotonthologos  must  die," 
And  Arthur  struts  in  mimic  majesty. 

Moschus !  with  whom  once  more  I  hope  to  sit 
And  smile  at  folly,  if  we  can't  at  wit ; 
Yes,  friend  !  for  thee  I  *11  quit  my  cynic  cell. 
And  bear  Swift's  motto,  **  Vive  la  bagatelle  !  *^ 
Which  charm'd  our  days  in  each  iSgean  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  eyes, 
Where  fetter'd  by  whig  Walpole  low  she  lies ; 
Corruption  foil'd  her,  &r  she  fear'd  her  glance; 
Decorum  left  her  for  an  opera  dance ! 
Yet  Chesterfield,  f  whose  poUsh'd  pen  inveighs 
Gaipst  laughter,  fought  for  freedom  to  our  plays ; 
Uncheck'd  by  megrims  of  patrician  brains, 
And  damning  dulness  of  lord  chamberlains. 
Repeal  that  act !  again  let  Humour  roam 
Wdd  o'er  the  stage  —  we  've  time  for  tears  at  home ; 

OfftindQntiir  enim,  (juibiu  est  equus,  et  pater,  et  tei : 
Nee,  ri  quid  fricti  ciceris  probat  et  naaa  emtor, 
iEquifl  acdpiunt  animia,  donantve  corona. 

SyUaba  u>nga  brevi  aubjecta,  vocatur  iambus, 
Pes  citus :  unde  etiam  trimetris  aecrescere  jossit 
Nomen  iambeis,  cum  senos  redderet  ictus, 
Primus  ad  extremum  similia  sibi :  non  ita  pridem, 
Tardior  ut  pauIo  graviorque  veniret  ad  aures, 
Spondees  stabiles  in  jura  patema  recepit 
Commodus  et  patiens;  non  ut  de  sede  secundA 
Cederet  aut  quarta  socialiter.    Hie  et  in  Acd 
Nobilibus  tjj^inetris  apparet  rarus,  et  Enni. 

*  Under  Plato's  pillow  a  Tolume  of  the  Mimes  of  Sophron  was  found  the 
day  he  died. —  Vide  BaTthtUmit  De  Pauw^  or  Dioaenes  LaMmSy  if  aerceablei 
De  Pauw  calls  it  a  jest  book. —  Cumberland,  in  bis  Observer,  terms  it  moral, 
like  the  sayings  of  "  Publius  Syrus." 

t  His  speech  on  the  Licensing  Act  is  one  of  his  most  eloquent  efforts. 


HINTS   FROH   HORACE.  423 

Let  "  Archer  '*  plant  the  horns  on  "  SuUen's  "  brows, 

And  **  Estifania  "  gull  her  **  Copper  "  *  spouse  ; 

The  moral 's  scant —  but  that  may  be  excused, 

Men  go  not  to  be  lectured,  but  amused. 

He  whom  our  plays  dispose  to  ffood  or  ill 

Must  wear  a  head  in  want  of  Willis'  skill ; 

Ay,  but  Macheath's  example — psha !  —  no  more ! 

It  form'd  no  thieves  —  the  thief  was  form'd  before ; 

And,  spite  of  puritans  and  CoUier's  curse,! 

Plays  make  mankind  no  better,  and  no  worse. 

Then  spare  our  stage,  ye  methodistic  men ! 

Nor  bum  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  fa^ot  let  them  hope ! 

Times  dear  alike  to  puritan  or  pope. 

As  pious  Calvin  saw  Servetus  blaze. 

So  would  new  sects  on  newer  victims  gaze. 

E'en  now  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  i  only  **  shoves." 

Whom  nature  guides,  so  writes,  that  every  dunce, 
Enraptured,  thinks  to  do  the  same  at  once ; 
But  after  inky  thumbs  and  bitten  nails. 
And  twenty  scatter'd  quires,  the  coxcomb  fails. 

Let  Pastoral  be  dumb ;  for  who  can  hope 
To  match  the  youthful  eclogues  of  our  Pope  7 
Yet  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. 

b  toenam  miaios  mai^  cum  pondere  vemu, 
Aat  opens  celeris  nimium,  curaque  carentu, 
Am  ignorato  premit  artis  crimine  turpi. 

Non  quiyia  videt  immodulata  poemata  judex ; 
£t  data  Komania  venia  est  indigna  poetis. 
Iddroone  Yager,  tcribamque  lieenter  ?  an  oomea 

*  Michael  Perez,  the  "  Copper  Captain,"  in  **  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife." 
t  Jeny  CoUier'a  controversy  with  Congreve,  Ac.  on  the  subject  of  tho 
drama,  is  too  well  known  to  require  further  comment. 

t  "  Baxter*s  Shove  to  heavy-a — d  Christians" — the  veritable  title  of  a 
book  once  in  sood  repute,  and  likely  enough  to  be  so  again.  —  3Ir.  Simeon 
is  the  very  buTlv  of  beliefs,  and  castig^ator  of  "good  works."  He  is  abl/ 
supported  by  John  Stickles,  a  labourer  m  the  same  vineyard: — but  I  say  no 
more,  for  according  to  Johnny  in  full  congregation,'  "iVo  hopes  for  them  om 
laughs.** 


424  HINTS  FROM   HOSACS. 

A  vulgar  scribbler,  certes,  stands  disgraced 
In  this  nice  age,  when  ail  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  evep  too  nasty  for  a  city  knight ! 

Peace  to  Swift's  faults  !  his  wit  hath  made  them  pass, 
Unmatch'd  by  all,  save  matchless  Hudibras  !     . 
Whose  author  is  perhaps  the  first  we  meet, 
Who  from  our  couplet  lopp'd  two  final  feet ; 
Nor  less  in  merit  than  the  longer  line, 
This  measure  moves  a  favourite  of  the  Nine. 
Though  at  first  view  eight  feet  may  seem  in  vain 
Form  d,  save  in  ode,  to  bear  a  serious  strain. 
Yet  Scott  has  shown  our  wondering  isle  of  late 
This  measure  shrinks  not  from  a  theme  of  weight. 
And,  varied  skilfully,  surpasses  far 
Heroic  rhyme,  but  most  in  love  and  war, 
Whose  fluctuations,  tender  or  sublime. 
Are  curb'd  too  much  by  long-recurring  rhyme. 

'    But  many  a  skilful  judge  abhors  tcvsee. 
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  confine. 
Lest  censure  hover  o'er  some  faulty  line  ? 
Remove  whate'er  a  critic  may  suspect, 
To  gain  the  paltry  suffrage  of  "  correct  ?  '* 
Or  prune  the  spirit  of  each  daring  phrase, 
To  fly  from  error,  not  to  merit  praise  ? 

Ye,  who  seek  finish'd  models,  never  cease, 
By  day  and  night,  to  read  the  works  of  Greece. 
But  our  good  fathers  never  bent  their  brains 
To  heathen  Greek,  content  with  native  strains. 
The  few  who  read  a  page,  or  used  a  pen, 
Were  satisfied  with  Chaucer  and  old  Ben  ; 


Visuros  peccata  patem  mea ;  tutus,  et  intra 
Spem  venia)  cautua  ?  vitavi  demque  culparn, 
Non  laudem  merui.    Vos  exemplaria  Graeca 
Kocturna  vertate  manu,  versate  diuma. 


onrrs  fbom  hobace.  426 

The  jofkes  and  numbers  suited  to  their  taste 
Were  quaint  and  careless,  any  thing  but  chaste ; 
Yet  whether  right  or  wrong  the  ancient  rules. 
It  will  not  do  to  call  our  fathers  fools ! 
Though  you  and  I,  who  eruditely  know 
To  separate  the  elegant  and,  low, 
Can  also,  when  a  hobbling  line  appears. 
Detect  with  fingers,  in  d^ault  of  ears. 

In  sooth  I  do  not  know  or  greatly  care 
To  learn,  who  our  first  English  strollers  were ; 
Or  if,  till  roofs  received  the  vagrant  art. 
Our  Muse,  like  that  of  Thespis,  kept  a  cart ; 
But  this  LB  certain,  since  our  Shakspeare's  days. 
There  's  pomp  enough,  if  little  else,  in  plays ; 
Nor  will  Melpomene  ascend  her  throne 
Without  high  heeb,. white  plume,  and  Bristol  stone- 
Old  comedies  still  meet  with  much  applause. 
Though  too  licentious  for  dramatic  laws : 
At  least,  we  moderns,  wisely,  't  is  confest, 
Curtail,  or  silence,  the  lascivious  jest. 

Whate'er  their  follies,  and  their  faults  beside. 
Our  enterprising  bards  pass  nought  untried ; 
Nor  do  they  merit  slight  applause  who  choose 
An  English  subject  for  an  English  muse. 
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  7 

At  vestri  pnmvi  Flautmoa  et  numerot  et 
LftQdavere  sales ;  nimium  patienter  ntrumque, 
Ne  dicam  stulte,  mirati ;  si  modo  ego  et  vos 
ScimtuB  inurbanum  lepido  seponere  dicto, 
Leffitimnmque  sonum  digitis  i^llemus  et  aura. 

^potum  tragic®  genua  invenisse  CamoonB 
Dicitur,  et  plaustris  vexisse  poemata  Tbespii, 
Que  canerent  agerentque  peruncti  fecibiu  onu 
Post  hunc  persona)  pallsque  repertor  honesta 
iCschylus,  et  modicis  instravit  pulpita  tignis, 
Et  docuit  magnumque  loqui,  nitique  comumo. 

Successit  vetuB  his  comcedia,  non  sine  multa 
Laude ;  sed  in  vitium  libertos  excidit,  et  vim 
Dignam  lese  re^i :  lex  est  accepta ;  cliorasque  • 
Turpiter  obticuit,  sublato  jure  nocendi. 

Nil  intentatuin  tiostri  Hquere  poetn  ; 
Nee  mimmum  meruere  decus,  vestigia  Graeca, 


426  HINTS    FROM   HOKACB. 

Lords  of  the  quill,  whose  critical  assaults   ' 
O'erthrow  whole  quartos  with  their  quires  of  faults. 
Who  soon  detect,  and  mark  where'er  we  fail, 
And  prove  our  marble  with  too  nice  a  naU  ! 
Democritus  himself  was  not  so  bad ; 
He  only  ihoughtf  but  you  would  make,  iis  mad ! 

But  truth  to  say,  most  rhymers  rarely  guard  • 
Against  that  ridicule  they  deem  so  hard  ; 
In  person  negligent,  they  wear,  from  sloth. 
Beards  of  a  week,  and  nails  of  annual  growth ; 
Reside  in  garrets,  fly  from  those  they  meet. 
And  walk  in  alleys,  rather  than  the  street. 

With  little  rhyme,  less  reason,  if  you  please^ 
The  name  of  poet  may  be  got  with  ease. 
So  that  not  tuns  of  helleboric  juice 
Shall  ever  turn  your  head  to  any  use ; 
Write  but  like  Wordsworth,  live  beside  a  Lake» 
And  keep  your  bushy  locks  a  year  from  Blake  ;*" 
Then  print  your  book,  once  more  return  to  town. 
And  boys  shall  hunt  your  hardship  up  and  down. 

Am  I  not  wise,  if  some  such  poets'  plight. 
To  purge  in  spring  (like  Bayes)  before  I  write  1 
If  this  precaution  soften'd  not  my  bile, 
I  know  no  scribbler  with  a  madder  style ; 
But  since  (perhaps  my  feelings  are  too  nice) 
I  cannot  purchase  fame  at  such  a  price, 

Autti  deserere,  et  celebrare  dometdca  facta ; 
Vel  qui  prftextaa,  vel  qui  docuere  togatas 
Nee  virtute  foret  clarisve  potentiua  armis, 
Quam  lingua,  Latinm,  ri  non  ofienderet  unam* 

fuemque  poetarum  liins  labor,  et  mora.     Vos,  6 
bmpiliuB  sanguis,  carmen  reprehendite,  quod  non 
Multa  dies  et  multa  litura  coercuit,  atque 
Prassectum  decies  non  castigavit  ad  unguem. 

Ingenium  misera  quia  fortunatius  arte 
Cremt,  et  excludit  Minos  Helicone  poctas 
Democritus;  bona  pars  non  ungues  ponere  curat, 
Non  barbam :  sccrela  petit  loca,  balnea  vital. 
Nanciscetur  enim  pretium  nomenque  poette, 
9i  tribus  Anticyris  caput  insanabile  nunquam 
Tonsori  Licino  commiserit.    O  ego  Isevus, 
Qui  purgor  bilem  sub  vemi  temporis  horam ! 
Non  alius  faceret  meliora  poeraata :  verum 
Nil  tanti  est :  ergo  fungar  vice  cotis,  acutum 

*  As  famous  a  tonaor  as  licinus  himself,  and  better  paid,  and  may,  like  him, 
be  one  day  a  senator,  having  a  better  quahfication  than  one  half  of  the  beads  he 
crops,  viz. —  independence. 


HIXT8   FROM   HORACE.  427 

1 11  labour  gratis  as  a  grindex's  wheel, 
And,  blunt  myself,  give  edge  to  otbcrs'  steel. 
Nor  write  at  all,  unless  to  teach  the  art 
To  those  rehearsing  for  the  poet's  part ; 
From  Horace  show  the  pleasing  paths  of  song, 
And  from  my  own  example  —  what  is  wrong. 

Though  modem  practice  sometimes  differs  quitOa 
'T  is  just  as  well  to  think  before  you  write ; 
Let  every  book  that  suits  your  theme  be  read, 
So  shall  you  trace  it  to  the  fountain-head. 

He  who  has  leam'd  the  duty  which  he  owes 
To  friend  and  country,  and  to  pardon  foes ; 
Who  models  his  deportment  as  may  best 
Accord  with  brother,  sire,  or  stranger  guest ; 
Who  takos  our  laws  and  worship  as  they  aie, 
Nor  roars  reform  for  senate,  churchy  and  bar , 
In  practice,  rather  than  loud  precept,  wise. 
Bids  not  his  tongue,  but  heart,  philosophise : 
Such  is  the  man  the  poet  should  rehearse, 
As  joint  ezamplar  of  his  life  and  verse. 

Sometimes  a  sprightly  wit,  and  tale  well  told. 
Without  much  grace,  or  weight,  or  art,  will  hold 
A  longer  empire  o'er  the  public  mind 
Than  sounding  trifles,  empty,  though  refined. 

Unhappy  Greece !  thy  sons  of  ancient  days 
The  muse  may  celebrate  with  perfect  praise, 

Reddere  qtue  ferram  valet,  extora  ipm  tecandi : 
Maxrai  et  offidnm,  nil  scribe  ns  ipse,  docebo ; 
Unde  parentar  opea ;  quid  alat  formetque  poetam  ; 
Quid  aeceat,  quid  non ;  quo  virtue,  quo  ferat  error. 

Scribendi  recte,  aapere  est  et  principium  et  foni. 
Rem  tibi  Socraticn  potenint  ostendere  charts : 
Verbaque  proviaam  rem  non  invita  seqnentur. 
Qui  diaidt  patriflo  quid  debeat,  et  quid  amicis ; 
Quo  cit  amore  j^areuB,  quo  frater  amaiidus,  et  hospea ; 
Quod  sit  conacnpu,  quod  judicis  ofBcium ;  que 
Piutes  in  bellum  misai  ducis ;  ille  profecto 
Reddere  peraonsB  scit  convenient ia  cuique. 
Respicere  exemplar  vite  morumque  juoebo 
Doctum  inUtatorem,  et  vivas  hinc  ducere  voces. 

Interdam  speciosa  locis,  morataque  recte 
Fabula,  nullius  veneris,  sine  pondere  et  arte,    - 
Valdius  oblectat  populum,  meliusqne  moratur, 
Quam  versus  inopes  rerum  nugseque  canors. 

Graiis  ingenium,  Groiis  dedit  ore  rotundo 
Muaa  loqui,  prseter  laudem  nuUios  avaris. 


428  HINTS   FKOM   HORACE. 

Whose  generous  children  nafrowM  not  their  hearts 
With  commerce,  given  alone  to  arms  and  arts. 
Our  boys  (save  those  whom  public  schools  compel 
To  ''long  and  short "  before  they  're  taught  to  spell) 
From  frugal  fathers  soon  imbibe  by  rote» 
**  A  penny  saved,  my  lad,  's  a  penny  got." 
Babe  of  a  city  birth  !  from  sixpence  take 
The  third,  how  much  will  the  remainder  make  ?  — 
^  A  groat."  —  <<  Ah,  bravo  i  Dick  hath  done  the  sum  ! 
He  '11  swell  my  fifly  thousand  to  a  plum." 

They  whose  young  souls  receive  this  rust  betimes, 
T  is  clear,  are  fit  for  any  thing  but  rhymes ; 
.  And  Locke  will  tell  you,  that  the  father  's  right 
Who  hides  all  verses  from  his  children's  sight ; 
For  poets  (says  this  sage,  and  many  more,  *) 
Make  sad  mechanics  with  their  lyric  lore ; 
And  Delphi  now,  however  rich  of  old. 
Discovers  little  silver  and  less  gold. 
Because  Parnassus,  though  a  mount  divine, 
Is  poor  as  /n»,  f  or  an  Irish  mine.  % 

Two  objects  always  should  the  poet  move, 
Or  one  or  both,  —  to  pl^^ise  or  to  improve. 
Whate'er  you  teach,  be  brief,  if  you  design 
For  our  remembrance  your  didactic  line ; 
Redundance  places  memory  on  the  rack, 
For  brains  may  be  overloaded,  like  the  back. 

Romani  pueri  longis  rationibiis  awem 
Discnnt  in  pNutes  centum  diducere  :  dicat 
Filius  Albini,  8i  de  quincunce  remota  est 
Uncia,  quid  superat  ?  poterat  dixisse  —  TrienB.    Ea ! 
Rem  poteris  servare  tuam.    Redit  uncia :  quid  fit? 
Semis.    An  heec  animoa  aerugo  et  cura  pecoli 
Cum  semel  imbuerit,  speramus  caimina  fingi 
Posse  linenda  cedro,  ei  levi  servanda  cupresso  ? 

Am  prodebse  volunt,  aut  delectare  poete ; 
Am  simul  el  jucnnda  et  idonea  dicere  vius, 
Quidquid  pnccipiet<,  esto  brevis :  ut  cito  dicta 
Percipiant  animi  dociles,  teneantque  fideles. 
Omne  supervacuum  pleno  de  pectore  maniat. 

*  I  hlive  not  the  original  by  me,  bat  the  Italian  translation  runs  as  fol- 
lows: —  *'  E  una  co»a  a  mio  credere  molto  stravagante,  che  un  padre  deeideri,  a 
perroetta,  che  suo  iigliuolo  coliivi  e  perfezioni  ouesto  talento."  A  little  further 
on :  "  Si  troyano  di  rado  nel  Parnaso le  miniere  a'  oro  e  d'aigento.*'  —  Ediuaxione 
da  FanciuUi  del  Signor  Locke.     Venetian  edition. 

t  "  Iro  pauperior : "  this  is  the  same  beggar  who  boxed  with  Vlysses  for  a 
pound  of  kid's  fry,  w  hich  he  lost,  and  half  a  dozen  teeth  besides. —  See  Odysseyt 
b.  18. 

t  The  Irish  gold  mine  of  Wicklow,  which  yields  just  ore  enough  to  6 wear  by, 
or  gild  a  bad  guinea. 


HINTS   FBOM   HOEACE.  499 

Fiction  does  best  when  taught  to  look  like  truth> 
And  fairy  fables  bubble  none  but  youth : 
Expect  no  credit  for  too  wondrous  tales, 
Since  Jonas  only  springs  alive  from  whales ! 

Young  men  with  aught  but  elegance  dispense 
Maturer  years  require  a  little  sense. 
To  end  at  once  :  — that  bard  for  all  is  fit 
Who  mingles  well  instruction  with  his  wit ; 
For  him  reviews  shall  smile,  for  him  o'erflow 
The  patronage  of  Paternoster-row  ; 
His  book,  with  Longman's  liberal  aid,  shall  pass 
(Who  ne'er  despises  books  that  bring  him  brass)  ,- 
Through  three  long  weeks  the  taste  of  London  lead,. 
And  cross  St.  George's  Channel  and  the  Tweed. 

But  every  thing  has  faults,  nor  is  't  unknown 
That  harps  and  fiddles  often  lose  their  tone, 
And  wayward  voices,  at  their  owner's  call, 
With  all  his  best  endeavours,  only  squall ; 
Dogs  blink  their  covey,  flints  withhold  the  spark, 
And  double4>arrels  (damn  them  ! )  miss  their  mark.  * 

Where  frequent  beauties  strike  the  reader's  view. 
We  must  not  quarrel  for  a  blot  or  two ; 
But  pardon  equally  to  books  or  men. 
The  slips  of  human  nature,  and  the  pen. 


Ficta  Tohiptatis  causa,  aint  proxima  veris : 
Nee,  qoodcunqae  volet,  poacac  aibi  fabula  credi 
Nea  pranns  LamuB  vivura  paeram  extrahat  alvo. 

Centorue  aeniorum  agitant  expertia  frugU : 
Celfii  pnetereunt  auatera  poemata  Rhamnea. 
Omne  tulit  pnnctum,  qui  rai'acuit  utile  dulci, 
Lectorem  delectando,  pariterque  monendo. 
Hie  meret  aora  liber  Sosiis ;  hic  et  mare  tranait, 
El  longunn  noto  acriptori  proro^at  aeyum. 

Sunt  delicta  tamen,  quibus  iffnovisae  veliraua; 
Nam  neque  chorda  aonum  reddit  quern  vuli  manua  et  mens 
Pdscentique  sravem  persepe  remittit  acutum ; 
Nee  aemper  feriet  quodcunquo  mtnabitur  arcus. 
Vemm  uoi  plura  nitent  in  carmine,  non  ego  paucis 
Ofiendar  maculia,  quas  aut  incoria  fudit, 
Aut  humatia  parum  cavit  natora.    Quid  ergo  7 


•  Ai  Mr.  Pope  took  the  liberty  of  damning  Homer,  to  whom  he  wi 

great  obligationa  —  "  And  Homer  (damn,  him  !)  calh"  — it  may  be  preaumed  that 
any  body  or  any  thing  may  be  damned  in  verae  by  poetical  license ;  and.  in 
case  of  accident,  I  beg  leave  to  plead  so  illoatnous  a  precedent 


480  HINTS   FROM   HORACE./ 

Yet  if  an  author,  spite  of  foe  or  friend,  .j  • 

Despises  all  advice  too  much  to  mend,  « 

But  ever  twangs  the  same  discordant  string, 
Give  him  no  quarter,  howsoe'er  he  sing. 
Let  Havard's*  fate  o'ertake  him,  who,  for  once, 
Produced  a  play  too  dashing  for  a  dunce : 
At  first  none  deem'd  it  his ;  but  when  his  name 
Announced  the  fact  —  what  then  ?  —  it  lost  its  fame. 
Though  all  deplore  when  Milton  deigns  to  doze, 
In  a  long  work  '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  the  sight ; 
This  seeks  the  shade,  but  that  demands  the  light. 
Nor  dreads  the  connoisseur^s  fastidious  view 
But,  ten  times  scrutinised,  is  ten  times  new. 

Parnassian  pilgrims  !  ye  whom  chance,  or  choice. 
Hath  led  to  listen  to  the  Muse's  voice. 
Receive  this  counsel,  and  be  tiqiely  wise ; 
Few  reach  the  summit  which  before  you  lies. 
Our  church  and  state,  our  courts  and  camps,  concede 
Reward  to  very  moderate  heads  indeed  ! 
In  these  plain  common  sense  will  travel  far ; 
All  are  not  Erskines  who  mislead  the  bar  : 
But  poesy  between  the  best  and  worst 
No  medium  knows ;  you  must  be  last  or  first ; 

Vt  icriptor  a  peccat  idem  librarius  usque, 
Quamvifl  est  monitus,  venia  caret ;  ut  citharoBdiu 
Ridetur,  chorda  qui  semper  oberrat  oadem : 
Sic  mihi,  qui  multum  cessat,  fit  Chcerilas  iDe, 
Quem  bis  terve  bonum  cum  risu  miror ;  et  idem 
Indignor,  qunndoque  bonus  dormitat  Homerus. 
Venim  operi  longo  fas  est  obrepere  somnum. 

Ut  pictura,  poesis :  erit  qus,  si  propius  stes, 
Te  capiat  magis ;  et  qua^dam,  si  longius  abstes : 
Hsdc  amat  obscunim ;  volet  hsec  sub  luce  videri, 
Judicis  argutum  quae  non  formidat  acumen  : 
Hbc  placuit  semei ;  hec  decies  repetita  placebit. 

O  major  juvenum,  quamvis  et  voce  patema 
plngeris  ad  rectum,  et  per  te  sapis ;  hoc  tibi  dictum 
ToUe  memor :  certis  medium  et  tolerabile  rebus 
Recte  concedi :  oonsultus  juris,  et  actor 
Causarum  mediocris  abest  virtute  diserti 
Messale,  nee  scit  quantum  Cassellius  Aulus : 

*  For  the  story  of  Billy  Havard^s  tragedy,  see  "  Davies's  life  of  Garrick.**  I 
believe  it  is  '*Regulus,"  or  "Charles  the  Firat."  The  moment  it  was  known 
to  be  his,  the  theatre  thinned,  and  the  bookseller  refused  to  give  the  cuatomary 
sum  for  the  copyright. 


BINTS   FHOK   HORACB.  431 

For  middling  poets'  miserable  volumes 

Are  damn'd  alike  by  gods,  and  men,  and  columns. 

Again,  my  Jeffrey  !  —  as  tbat  sound  inspires, 
How  wakes  my  bo&om  to  its  wonted  fires ! 
Fires,  such  as  gentle  Caledonians  feel 
When  Southrons  writhe  upon  their  critic  wheel, 
Or  mild  Eclectics,  *  when  some,  worse  than  Turks, 
Would  rob  poor  Faith  to  decorate  "  good  works.  ** 
Such  are  the  genial  feelings  thou  canst  claim  — 
My  falcon  flies  not  at  ignoble  game. 
Mightiest  o£  all  Dunedin's  beasts  of  chase  ! 
For  thee  my  Pegasus  would  mend  his  pace. 
Arise,  my  Jeffrey !  or  my  inkless  pen 
Shall  never  blunt  its  edge  on  meaner  men  ; 
Till  thee  or  thine  mine  evil  eye  discerns, 
Alas  !  I  cannot  ''strike  at  wretched  kernes." 
Inhuman  Saxon  !  wilt  thou  then  resign 
A  muse  and  heart  by  choice  so  wholly  thine  ? 
Dear,  d  —  d  contemner  of  my  schoolboy  songs. 
Hast  thou  no  vengeance  for  my  manhood's  wrongs  7 
If  unprovoked  thou  once  couldst  bid  me  bleed. 
Hast  thou  no  weapon  for  my  daring  deed  ? 

Sed  tamen  in  pretin  eft ;  medioeribot  ette  pootis 
Non  hominei,  non  di,  non  concauere  coIumiuB. 
Ut  gntM  inter  ni«maa  tymphonia  discora, 
Et  cnMum  ungtientum,  et  Sordo  cum  ntbUe  papaver 
Offendiint,  potent  duci  quia  cona  sine  iatis ; 

*  To  the  Eclectic  or  Chnttian  Reyiewen  I  have  to  return  thankt  for  the 
fervour  of  that  chanty  which  in  1809  induced  them  to  express  a  hope,  that  a 
thing  then  publiahed  by  me  might  lead  to  certain  consequences,  which,  although 
natural  enough,  surely  came  but  rashly  from  reverend  lips.  I  refer  them  to 
their  own  pages,  where  they  congratulated  themselves  on  the  prospect  of  a  tilt 
between  Mr.  Jeflfrev  and  myself,  from  which  some  ereat  good  was  to  accrue, 
provided  one  or  both  were  knocked  on  the  head.  Having  survived  two  years 
and  a  half  those  "  EHegies  "  which  they  were  kindly  prepairin^  to  review,  I 
have  no  peculiar  guato  to  give  them  "  bo  joyful  a  trouble,'*  except,  mdeed,  *'  upon 
compulsion,  Hal ; "  but  it,  as  David  says  in  the  **  Rivals,"  it  should  come  to 
"  bloody  sword  and  van  fighting,"  we  "  won*t  run,  will  we.  Sir  Lucioi  7  "  I  do 
not  know  what  I  had  done  to  these  Eclectic  gentlemen :  my  works  are  their 
lawful  perquisite,  to  be  hewn  in  pieces  like  Agag,  if  it  should  seem  meet  unto 
them;  out  why  they  should  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  kill  off  their  author,  I  am 
ignorant.  "  The  race  is  not  always  to  the  awift,  nor  the  battle  lo  the  strong : " 
and  now,  aa  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  re- 
peating them.  Had  any  other  set  of  men  expressed  such  senuments,  L  should 
have  smiled,  and  left  them  to  the  ''  recording  angel,"  but  from  the  pharisees  of 
Christianity  decency  might  be  expected.  I  can  assure  those  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 
Messrs.  Simeon  or  Ramsdon  should  be  engaged  in  such  a  oondict  as  tbat  in 
which  they  reouestcd  me  to  fall,  I  hope  they  miiy  escape  with  being  "  winged  " 
only,  and  that  Ueaviside  may  be  at  hand  to  eitract  tho  ball. 


432  Hurrs  fbom  hosace. 

What !  not  a  word !  —  and  am  I  then  so  low  ? 
Wilt  thou  forbear,  who  never  spared  a  foe  ? 
Hast  thou  no  wrath,  or  wish  to  give  it  vent  7 
.   No  wit  for  nobles,  dunces  by  descent  ? 
No  jest  on  ^*  minors,"  quibbles  on  a  name, 
Nor  one  facetious  paragraph  of  blame  T 
Is  it  for  this  on  Ilion  I  have  stood, 
And  thought  of  Homer  less  than  Holyrood  ^ 
On  shore  of  £u:fine  or  JBgean  sea. 
My  hate,  untravell'd,  fondly  turn'd  to  thee. 
Ah  !  let  me  cease ;  in  vain  my  bosom  bums, 
From  Corydon  unkind  Alexis  *  turns  : 
Thy  Thymes  are  vain ;  thy  Jeffrey  then  forego. 
Nor  woo  that  anger  which  he  will  not  show. 
What  then?-^£dina  starves  some  lanker  son. 
To  write  an  article  thou  canst  not  shun ; 
Some  less  fastidious  Scotchman  shall  be  found, 
As  bold  in  Billin^gate,  though  less  renown'd. 

As  if  at  table  some  discordant  dish 
Should  shock  our  optics,  such  as  frogs  for  fish ; 
As  oil  in  lieu  of  •butter  men  decry, 
And  poppies  please  not  in  a  modem  pie.; 
If  all  such  mixtures  then  be  half  a  crime, 
We  must  have  excellence  to  relish  rhyme. 
Mere  roast  and  boil'd  no  epicure  invites  ; 
Thus  poetry  disgusts,  or  else  delights. 

Who  shoot  not  flying  rarely  touch  a  gun  : 
Will  he  who  swims  not  to  the  river  run  T 
And  men  unpractised  in  exchanging  knocks 
Must  go  to  Jackson  ere  they  dare  to  box. 
Whate'er  the  weapon,  cudgel,  fist,  or  foil. 
None  reach  expertness  without  years  of  toil ; 
But  fifty  dunces  can,  with  perfect  ease. 
Tag  twenty  thousand  couplets,  when  they  please. 
Why  not  ?  —  shall  I,  thus  qualified  to  sit 
For  rotten  boroughs,  never  show  my  wit  ? 
Shall  I,  whose  fathers  with  the  quorum  sate, 
And  lived  in  freedom  on  a  fair  estate ; 

Sic  aniraia  natum  inventumqu6  poems  juvandis, 
Si  paulum  a  summo  deceasit,  vergit  ad  imum. 

Ludere  qui  nescit,  campeitribuB  abstinet  amuB, 
Indoctiuque  pilsB,  discive,  trochive,  quiescit, 
Ne  Bpistta  zisum  tollant  impune  coroiie : 
Qui  nesdt,  veraua  tamen  audet  fingere ! — Quid  ni  7 

*  Invenies  atium,  ri  te  liic'fastidit,  Alean. 


fllTTTS   PROX    BOSACB.  493 

Who  left  me  heir,  with  stables,  kennels,  paclu» 
To  aU  their  incom^  and  to  —  titice  its  tax ; 
Whose  form  and  pedigree  have  scarce  a  fault, 
Shall  I,  I  say,  suppress  my  attic  sa)t  ? 

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  years. 
And  hark'ye,  Southey !  ♦  pray  —  but  don't  be  vex'd  — 
Burn  all  your  last  three  works  —  and  half  the  next. 

liber  et  ingeiratu  prvMrtim  censas  cqueatrem 
Summam  nummoniin,  vitioque  remotm  ab  omni. 
Tu  nihil  in  vita  dices  iaciesve  Minerva: 
Id  tibi  judicium  est,  ea  mens ;  si  9aid  tamen  olim 
Scripseris,  in  Metii  descendat  jadicis  aures, 
£t  paths,  et  nostras,  nonuiqque  prematur  in  i 


*  >fr.  Southey  has  lately  tied  another  canister  to  his  tail  in  the  "Curse  oi 
Kehama,"  maugre  die  neglect  of  Madoc,  &c.,  and  has  in  one  instance  had  a 
wonderful  effect.  A  literary  friend  of  mine,  walking  out  one  lovely  evening 
lQj»t  summer,  on  the  eleventh  bridge  of  the  Paddington  canal,  was  alarmed  by  iho 
cry  of  "  one  in  jeopardy :  '*  he  rushed  along,  collected  a  body  of  Irish  hay- 
makers (supping  on  buttermilk  in  an  adiacent  paddock),  procured  three  rake!<. 
one  eel-spear,  and  a  ianding-net,  and  at  last  (horresco  referens)  pulled  out  —  hi« 
own  publisher.  The  unfonunata  man  was  gone  for  ever,  and  so  was  a  laige 
quarto  wherewith  he  had  taken  the  leap,  which  proved,  on  inquiry,  to  have 
been  Mr.  Southey's  last  wofk.  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  Aldonnan  Birch's  pastry  premises,  ComhiU.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the 
coroner's  inquest  brought  in  a  verdict  of  "  Felo  de  bibliopole '*  againnt  a  *'  cinarto 
unknown ; "  and  circumstantial  evidence  being  since  strong  a^inst  the  ^'Tiirf^e 
ofKehama"  (of  which  the  above  words  are  an  exact  descnption),  it  will  bu 
tried  by  i|s  peers  next  session,  in  Grub>ttreet.  —  Arthur,  Alfred,  Davideis,  Rich- 
ard CcBur  de  Lion,  Exodus,  Exodia,  Episoniad,  Calvary,  Fall  of  Cambria,  Siege 
of  Acre,  Don  Roderick,  and  Tom  Thumb  the  Great,  are  the  names  of  the  twelve 
jurors.  The  judges  are  Fye,  Bowlos,  and  the  bellman  of  St.  Sepulchred.  The 
itame  advocates,  pro  and  con,  will  be  employed,  as  are  now  engaged  in  Sir  F. 
Burdett's  celebrated  cause  in  the  Scotch  courts.  The  public  anxiously  await 
the  result,  and  all  live  publishers  will  be  subpoenaed  as  witnesses. 

But  Mr.  Southey  has  published  the  *' Curse  of  Kehama," — an  inviting  title  to 
i|uibblers.  By  the  by,  it  is  a  good  deal  beneath  Scott  and  Campbell,  and  not 
much  above  Southey,  to  allow  the  booby  Ballantyne  to  entitle  them,  in  the 
IMinburgh  Annual  Register,  (of  which,  by  the  by,  Southey  is  editor,)  '*the 
grand  poetical  triumvirate  of  the  day."  But,  on  second  thoughts,  it  can  be  no 
great  ciogroe  of  praiHe  to  be  the  one-eyed  leaders  of  the  blind,  though  they  might 
as  well  keep  to  themselves  "  Scott's  thirty  thousand  copies  sold,'  which  must 
Madly  discomfit  pour  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  thmgs,  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare, 
But  wonder  how  the  devil  he  came  there." 

Tlie  trio  are  weU  defined  in  the  sixth  proposition  of  Euclid :  **  Because,  in  the 
triangles  DBC,  ACB,  DB  is  equal  lo  AC,  and  BC,  oommon  to  both:  the  two 
VUL.  V. F  f 


434  HINTS    FBOM    HORACB. 

But  why  this  vain  advice  ?  once  published,  books 
Can  never  be  recall'd  —  from  pasti^-cooks ! 
Though  "Madoc,"  with  "Pucelle,**  instead  of  punk. 
May  travel  back  to  Quito  —  on  a  trunk !  f 

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  io  the  Tower  ; 
And  old  Amphion,  such  were  minstrels  then, 
Had  built  St.  Paul's  without  the  aid  of  Wren. 
Verse  too  was  justice,  and  the  bards  of  Greece 
Did  more  than  constables  to  keep  the  peace ; 
Abolished  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  ; 
And  hence,  throughout  all  Hellas  and  the  East, 
Each  poet  was  a  prophet  and  a  priest, 

Membranis  intus  positis,  delere  licebit 
Quod  non  edidens ;  nescit  vox  missa  reverti. 

SylvestreB  homines  racer  Interpresque  deoram 
CediboB  et  victu  foedo  deterrait  Orpheus  : 
«  DictUB  ob  hoc  lenire  tieres,  rabidoeque  leones : 
Dictiis  et  Amphion,  Thebame  conditor  arcis, 
Saxa  movere  sono  testudinisi  etproce  blanda 
Ducere  quo  vellet :  fuit  h«c  sapientia  quondam, 
Pubtica  privatifi  secemere ;  eacra  profanis ; 
Concubitu  prohibere  vago  ;  dare  jura  maritis ; 
Oppida  mobri ;  leges  inddere  ligno. 


fides  DB,  BC,  are  equal  to  the  two  AC,  GB,  each  to  each,  and  the  angle  DBC 
is  equal  to  the  angle  ACB :  therefore,  the  base  DC  is  eaual  to  the  bast  ABrand 
the  triangle  DBC  (Mr.  Southey)  is  equal  to  the  triangle  ACB,  the  2en  to  the 
greater,  which  is  absurd,'*  &c. — The  editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Register  will  find 
the  rest  of  the  theorem  hard  by  his  stabling :  he  has  only  to  cross  the  river ; 
*t  is  the  first  turnpike  't  other  side  **  Pons  Asmorom."* 

*  Voltaire's  **  PuceUe"  is  not  quite  so  immaculate  as  Mr.  Soutl)ev*s  "Joan  of 
Arc,"  and  yet  I  am  afraid  the  Frenchman  has  both  more  truth  ana  poetry  too 
on  his  side  —  (they  rarely  go  together) — than  our  patriotic  diinsirel,  whose  first 
essay  was  in  praise  of  a  fanatical  EVench  strumpet,  whose  title  of  witch  would 
be  correct  with  the  change  of  the  first  letter. 

t  like  Sir  B  Buivess's  "Richard,"  the  tenth  book  of  which  I  read  at  Malta,  on 
a  trunk  of  Eyres,  19,  Cockspnr-street.  If  this  be  doubted,  I  shall  buy  aportman- 
teau  to  quote  from. 


*  This  Latin  has  sorely  puzzled  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  BaBantTBe 
said  it  meant  the  "  Bridge  of  Berwick,'*  but  Southey  claimed  it  as  half  English ; 
Soott  swore  it  was  the  **  Brig  o*  Stirling ; "  he  had  just  passed  two  Kii^  Jamea'a 
and  a  dozen  Doudasses  over  it.  At  iMt  it  was  decided  by  Jeffrey,  that  itmftant 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  Uie  "  counter  of  Afchy  Constable's  shop." 


k 


mirrs  fbom  horacb.  495 

Whose  old-establish'd  board  of  joint  controli 
Included  kingdoms  in  the  cure  of  souls. 

Next  rose  the  martial  Homer,  Epic's  prince. 
And  fighting  's  been  in  fashion  ever  since ; 
And  old  Tyrtseus,  when  the  Spartans  warr'd, 
(A  limping  leader,  but  a  lofty  bard,^ 
Though  wall'd  Ithome  had  resisted  long 
Reduced  the  fortress  by  the  force  of  song. 

When  oracles  prevail'd,  in  times  of  old, 
In  song  alone  Apollo's  will  was  told. 
Then  if  your  vorse  is  what  all  Terse  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  Paphtan  or  a  prude ; 
Fierce  as  a  bride  when  first  she  feels  afifright, 
Mild  as  the  same  upon  the  second  night ; 
Wild  as  the  wife  of  alderman  or  peer, 
Now  for  his  grace,  and  now  a  grenadier ! 
Her  eyes  beseem,  her  heart  belies,  heir  zone, 
Ice  in  a  crowd,  and  lava  when  alone. 

If  verse  be  studied  with  some  show  of  art, 
Kind  Nature  always  will  perform  her  part ; 
Though  without  genius,  and  a  native  vein 
Of  wit,  we  loathe  an  artificial  strain  — 
Tet  art  and  nature  join'd  will  win  the  prize, 
Unless  they  act  like  us  and  our  allies. 

The  youth  who  trains  to  ride,  or  run  a  race. 
Must  bear  privations  with  unruffled  face, 
Be  call'd  to  labour  when  he  thinks  to  dine, 
And,  harder  still,  leave  wenching  and  his  wine. 

Sic  honor  et  nomen  diviiiU  vatibiu  atque 
Carmimbiu  veniL    Post  hoi  inaigiu*  Honienif 
Tyrtnuiqae  marec  animoi  in  Mania  bella 
V«nibm  exaeuit ;  diets  per  carmina  torlM  .- 
Et  vita  monatrata  via  est :  et  gratia  regmn 
Piefiis  tentata  modis :  ladaaque  repertoa, 
Et  ion^ium  operand  finia :  ne  forte  padori 
Sit  tibt  Muia  lyns  solera,  et  cantor  Apollo. 
Natura  fieret  laodabile  carmen,  an  arte, 
C^naeitom  est :  ego  nee  studium  sine  dirite  rena. 
Nee  rude  quid  prosit  video  ingenium :  alterios  sic 
Altera  poscit  opem  res,  et  conjurat  amice. 
Qni  atndet  optatam  cursn  contin^ere  motam, 
Multa  tnlit  fecitque  puer ;  sudavit,  et  alsit ; 
AbftiAuit  Venere  et  vino :  qui  Pythia  oantat 


486  Hxnrs  fbom  hosacs. 

Ladies  who  sing,  at  least  who  sing  at  sight. 

Have  foUow'd  music  through  her  farthest  flight ; 

But  rhymes  tell  you  neither  more  nor  less, 

"  I  've  got  a  pretty  poem  for  the  press ;  ** 

And  that  's  enough  ;  then  write  and  print  so  fast ;  - 

If  Satan  take  the  hindmost,  who  'd  be  last  ? 

They  storm  the  types,  they  publish,  one  and  all, 

They  leap  the  counter,  and  they  leave  the  stall. 

Provincial  maidens,  men  of  high  command. 

Yea,  baronets  have  ink'd  the  bloody  hand ! 

Cash  cannot  quell  them ;  Pollio  play'd  this  prank, 

(Then  Phoebus  first  found  credit  in  a  bank  \) 

Not  all  the  living  only,  but  the  dead, 

Fool  on,  as  fluent  as  an  Orpheus^  head ;  * 

Damn'd  all  their  days,  they  posthumously  thrive  — * 

Dug  up  from  dust,  though  buried  when  alive ! 

Reviews  record  this  epidemic  crime. 

Those  Books  of  Martyrs  to  the  rage  for  rhyme. 

Alas !  woe  worth  the  scribbler !  often  seen 

In  Morning  Post,  or  Monthly  Magazine. 

There  lurk  his  earlier  lays  ;  but  soon,  hot-press'd. 

Behold  a  quarto !  —  Tarts  must  tell  the  rest. 

Then  leave,  ye  wise, 'the  lyre's  precarious  chords 

To  muse-mad  baronets  or  madder  lords. 

Or  country  Crispins,  now  grown  somewhat  stale. 

Twin  Doric  minstrels,  drunk  with  Doric  ale ! 

Hark  to  those  notes,  nai^cotically  soft 

The  cobbler-laureats  sing  f  to  Capel  Loffi !  f 

Tibicen,  didicit  priiu,  extimiitiqae  magistixun. 
Nunc  satis  est  dixisse ;  ego  inira  poemata  pango : 
Occopet  ertrenram  scabiea:  mihi  tarpe  rainqni  est, 
Et,  quod  non  didici,  sane  nescire  faler' 


*  Turn  quoque  marmorea  caput  a  cervice  revulsnm, 

Gurgite  cum  medio  portans  CEagtius  Hebras, 
Volveret  Euiydicon  vox  ipsa^  et  frigida  lingua ; 
Ah,  miseram  Eurydicen !  anuna  fufjpente  vocabat ; 
Eurydicen  toto  referebant  flumine  npas. — Oeorgic.  iv.  523. 

T  I  beg  Nathaniel's  pardon ;  he  is  not  a  cobbler ;  It  is  a  rax7of,  but  begged 

Capel  Lofft  to  sink  the  profession  in  his  preface  to  two  pair  of  panta psha ! 

—  of  cantos,  which  be  wished  the  public  to  try  on ;  but  the  sieve  of  a  patron  let 
it  out,  and  so  far  saved  the  expense  of  an  advertisement  to  his  country  costo- 
merSd — Merry's  ** Mooriield's  whine"   wajp  nothing  to  aU  this.     'Fhe  "Delia 

X  This  well-meaning  gentleman  has  spoiled  some  excellent  shoe-makera,  and 
been  accessary  to  the  poetical  undoing  of  many  of  the  industrious  poor.  Nathanie! 
Bloomfield  and  hie  brother  Bobby  have  set  all  SomerMtsbiie  nnging;  nor  has 


HINTS   I'BOM    HORACE.  487 

Till,  lo !  that  modern  Midas,  fs  he  hears, 
Adds  an  eU  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  bis  duller  muse. 
To  publish  faults  which  friendship  should  excuse. 
If  friendship  's  nothing,  self-regard  might  teach 
More  polish'd  usage  of  hiis  parts  of  speech. 
But  what  is  shame,  or  what  is  aught  to  him : 
He  vents  his  spleen,  or  gratifies  his  whim. 
Some  fancied  slight  has  roused  his  lurking  hate, 
Some  folly  cross'd,  some  jest,  or  some  debate  ; 
Up  to  his  den  'Sir  Scribbler  hies,  and  soon 
The  gathered  gall  is  voided  in  lampoon. 


Crnscaiw*'  were  people  of  eene  oducatkm,  tnd  no  profeesion  ;  but  these  Arcadians 
f*' Arcades  anbo"  —  bumpkins  both)  send  out  their  native  nonsense  without 
the  snailest  alloy,  and  leare  all  the  snoes  and  smallclothes  in  the  parish  unre- 
paired, to  patch  up  Elegies  on  Enclosures  and  Pnans  to  Gunpowder.  Sittmg  on 
a  shopboard,  thev  describe  fields  of  battle,  when  the  only  blood  they  ever  saw 
wa«  shed  from  the  finger;  and  an  '*  Essay  on  War"  is  produced  by  the  ninth 
part  of  a  "poet" 

**.  And  own  that  nine  such  poets  made  a  Tate." 

Did  Nathan  ever  read  that  lin«  of  Pbpe  7  and  if  he  did,  why  not  take  it  as  his 

motto? 

the  malady  confined  itself  to  one  county.  Pratt  too  (who  once  was  wiser)  has 
caught  the  contagion  of  patronage,  and  decoyed  a  })oor  fellow  named  Blackett 
into  poetry ;  but  he  died  during  the  operation,  leaving  one  child  and  two  vo- 
lumes of  ''  Remains  "  utterly  oostitnte.  The  girl,  if  she  do  n't  take  a  poetical 
twist,  and  come  forth  as  a  shoe-making  Sappho,  may  do  well ;  but  the  "  tragedies  " 
are  as  rickety  as  if  they  had  been  the  onsprinff  of  an  Earl  or  a  Heatonian  prize 
poet.  The  patrons  of  this  poor  lad  are  certaiiuv  answerable  for  his  end ;  and  it 
ought  to  be  an  indictable  ooTence.  But  this  is  tne  least  they  have  done ;  for,  by 
a  refinement  of  barbarity,  they  have  made  the  (late)  man  posthumously  ridicu- 
lous, by  printing  what  he  would  have  had  sense  enough  never  to  print  himself. 
Certes  these  rnkers  of  "  Remains  "  come  under  the  statute  against  "  resurrec- 
tion men."  What  does  it  signify  whether  a  poor  dear  dead  dunce  is  to  be  stuck 
up  in  Suiveons'  or  in  Stationers'  Hall  7  Is  it  so  bod  to  unearth  hii  bones  as  hift 
blunders  f  Is  it  not  better  to  gibbet  his  body  on  a  heath,  than  his  soul  in  an 
octavo  7  "  We  know  what  we  are,  but  we  know  not  what  we  may  be ; "  and 
it  is  to  be  hoped  we  never  shaU  know,  if  a  man  who  has  passed  through  life  with 
a  sort  of  ^clat,  is  to  find  himself  a  mountebank  on  the  other  side  of  Styx,  and 
made,  Uke  poor  Joe  Blacken,  the  laughing-stock  of  purgatory.  The  plea  of 
publication  is  to  provide  for  the  child ;  now,  might  not  some  of  this  '*  Sutor  ultra 
l/repidam's  "  friends  and  seducers  have  done  a  decent  action  without  inveigling 
Pratt  into  biography  7  And  then  his  inscription  split  into  so  many  modicums  1 
—  ^  To  the  Ducness  of  So-much,  the  Right  Hon.  So-and-So,  and  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Somebody,  these  volumes  are,  &c.  &c.— why,  this  it  doling  out  the  "  soft  milk 
of  dedication  "  in  gills, —  there  is  but  a  quart,  and  he  divides  it  among  a  dozen. 
Why,  Pratt,  hadst  thou  not  a  puff  left  ?  Dost  thou  think  sit  families  of  distinc- 
tion can  share  this  in  quiet?  —  There  is  a  child,  a  book,  and  a  dedication ;  send 
tlie  giri  to  her  grace,  the  volumes  to  the  grocer,  and  the  dedication  to  the  devil. 


438  HINTS   FROX    HORACE. 

Perhaps  at  some  pert  speech  you  *ve  dared  to  frown, 
Perhaps  your  poem  may  have  pleased  the  town  : 
If  so,  alas !  't  is  nature  in  the  man  — 
May  Heaven  forgive  you,  for  he  never  can  ! 
Then  he  it  so  ;  and  may  his  withering  bays 
Bloom  fresh  in  satire,  though  they  fade  in  praise ! 
While  his  lost  songs  no  more  shall  steep  and  stink. 
The  dullest,  fattest  weeds  on  Lethe's  brink, 
But  springing  upwards  from  the  sluggish  mould, 
Be,  (what  they  never  were  before)  be  —  sold ! 
Should  some  rich  bard  (but  such  a  monster  now, 
In  modem  physics,  we  can  scarce  allow), 
Should  some  pretending  scribbler  of  the  court. 
Some  rhyming  peer  —  there  's  plenty  of  the  sort  ^  — 


*  Here  will  Mr.  Gifford  allow  me  to  introduce  once  more  to  his  aotiee  tlie 
■ole  eorvivor,  the  **  ultimas  Romenomm,"  the  last  of  the  **Cniscanli!**— 
"  Edwin  **  the  "  profound/'  by  our  I^dy  of  Punishment !  here  he  is,  aa  Hwfif 
as  in  the  days  of  "  well  said  Baviad  the  Correct"  I  thought  Fiti|senhi  bcMl  been 
the  tail  of  poeey ;  but,  alas  I  he  is  only  the  penultimate. 

A  FAMILIAR  BrtSTLX  TO  THK  KDlTOK  OP  THE  MORlVIIiO  CTBEONICLX. 

**  What  reams  of  paper,  floods  of  ink," 
Do  some  men  spoil,  who  never  thiiik ! 
And  so  perhaps  you  *11  say  of  me. 
In  which  your  readers  may  agree. 
Still  I  write  on,  and  tell  you  why ; 
Nothing  's  so  bad,  you  can*t  deny, 
But  may  instruct  or  entertain 
Without  the  risk  of  dving  pain. 
And  should  you  doubt  what  I  assert, 
The  name  of  Camden  I  insert. 
Who  novels  read,  and  oft  maintainM 
He  here  and  ^ere  some  knowledge  gam*di 
Then  why  not  I  indulge  my  fxen. 
Though  I  no  fame  or  profit  gain, 
Yet  may  amuse  your  idle  men  ; 
Of  whom,  though  some  may  be  seTerei 
Otfiers  may  ren^  without  a  sneer? 
Tlius  much  premised,  I  next  proceed ' 
To  give  you  what  I  feel  my  creed, 
Andin  what  follows  to  display 
Some  humours  of  the  passuig  day. 

ON  BOMB  MODERN  QUACKS  AND  RRFORMISTt. 

In  tracing  of  the  human  mind 

Through  all  its  various  courses, 
Though  strange,  't  is  true,  v^e  often  find 

It  knows  not  its  resources : 

And  men  through  bfe  assume  a  part 

For  which  no  talents  they  possess. 
Yet  wonder  that,. with  all  their  art. 

They  meet  no  better  with  success. 


BlinV   FROM   HOSAOte.  489 

All  bat  one  poor  dependent  priest  withdrawn, 

(Ah  !  too  regardlej»  of  his  chaplain's  yawn !) 

Condemn  the  unlucky  curate  to  recite 

Their  last  dramatic  work  by  candle-light, 

H[ow  would  the  preacher  turn  each  rueful  leaf, 

Dull  as  his  sermons,  but  not  half  so  brief! 

Yet,  since  't  is  promised  at  the  rector's  death. 

He  11  risk  no  living  for  a  little  breath. 

Then  spouts  and  foams,  and  cries  at  every  line, 

(The  Lord  forgive  him !)  "  Bravo !  grand  !  divine ! " 

Hoarse  with  those  praises  (which,  by  flatt'ry  fed, 

Dependence  barters  for  her  bitter  bread), 

He  strides  and  stamps  along  with  creaking  boot. 

Till  the  floor  echoes  his  emphatic  foot ; 

Then  sits  again,  then  rolb  his  pious  eye, 

As  when  the  dying  vicar  will  not  die ! 

Nor  feels,  forsooth^  emotion  at  his  heart ;  — 

But  all  dissemblers  overact  their  part. 

Ye,  who  aspire  to  '*  build  the  lofty  rhyme," 
Believe  not  all  who  laud  your  false  ^  sublime ;  " 


*T  ii  thus  we  see,  through  life's  career, 
So  few  eicel  in  their  profession ;     «        , 

Whereas,  would  each  man  but  appear 
In  what 's  within  bis  own  possession,     . 

We  should  not  see  such  dail7  quacks, 

(For  quacks  there  are  in  every  art) 
Attempting,  by  their  strange  attacks 

To  meliorate  the  mind  and  heart. 

Nor  mean  I  here  the  stafe  alone. 
Where  some  deserve  th'  applause  they  meet ; 

For  quacks  there  are,  and  they  well  known, 
In  either  house,  who  hold  a  seat 

Reform  's  the  order  of  the  day,  I  hear, 

To  which  I  cordially  assent : 
Bui  then  let  this  reform  appear. 

And  ev'ry  class  of  men  cement 

For  if  you  but  reform  a  few, 

And  others  leave  to  their /aS  bent^ 
I  fear  you  will  but  little  do, 

And  find  your  time  and  pain  mispent. 

Let  each  man  to  his  poet  assigned 
By  Nature,  take  his  pnrt  to  act, 
And  then  few  causes  shall  we  find 
'  To  can  each  man  we  meet  —  a  quack.* 

*  For  such  every  man  is  who  either  appears  to  be  what  he  is  not,  or  strives 
lo  be  what  ha  cannot. 


440  rilNTS   FROM   HOBACB. 

But  if  some  friend  shall  hear  your  work,  aod  say, 
*<  Expunge  that  stanza,  lop  that  line  away," 
And,  afler  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  'U  have  no  words -^  I  've  only  lost  my  pains. 

Yet«  if  you  only  prize  your  favourite  thought, 

As  critics  kindly  do,  and  authors  ought ; 

If  your  cool  friend  annoy  you  now  and  then. 

And  cross  whole  pages  with  his  plaguy  pen  ; 

No  matter,  throw  your  ornaments  aside, -^ 

Better  let  him  than  all  the  world  deride. 

Give  light  to  passages  too  much  in  sh&de. 

Nor  let  a  doubt  obscure  one  verse  you  Ve  made  ; 

Your  friend  *s  **  a  Johnson,"  not  to  leave  one  word. 

However  trifling,  which  may  seem  absurd ; 

Such  erring  trifles  lead  to  serious  ills. 

And  furnish  food  for  critics,  f  or  their  quills. 

As  the  Scotch  fiddle,  with  its  touching  tune. 
Or  the  sad  influence  of  the  angry  moon. 


i  carmina  coimm, 


Nonqnani  te  iallant  anima  sub  vulpe  latentea. 

Quintilio  si  quid  recitarea,  Corrige,  sodas, 

Hoc  (aiebat)  et  hoc :  melius  te  posse  negares, 

Bis  terqne  expeitum  frustra,  deiere  jabebat, 

Et  male  tomatos  incudi  reddere  versus. 

Si  defendere  delictum  qnam  vertere  malles, 

Nullum  ultra  verbum,  aut  operam  insumebat  inanem, 

Quin  sine  rivali  toque  et  tua  solus  amares. 

Vir  bonus  et  prudens  versus  reprehendet  inertea : 
Culpabit  duros :  inoomptis  allinet  atrum 
Trans  verso  caiamo  sinram ;  ambitiosa  recidet 
Omamenta ;  param  Claris  lucem  dare  co^t ; 
Ajguet  ambigue  dictum ;  mutanda  notabit ; 
Fiet  AristurchuB :  nee  dicet.  Cur  ego  amicum 
Ofiendam  in  nugis  7  be  nug»  seria  ducent 
In  mala  derisum  semel  exceptumque  siiustro 

Ut  mala  quem  scabies  aut  morbus  regins  uguet, 
Aut  fknaticus  error  et  iracunda  Diana, 

*  Bastard  of  your  brains, —  Minerva  being  the  first  by  Jupiter^s  head-mecef 
and  a  variety  of  equally  unaccountable  parturitions  upon  earth,  such  as  Madoc, 
&c.  &c.  &c. 

t  "  A  crust  for  the  critics."—  Bayes,  in  the**  I^ehearsal.** 


aniTt   FROM   HOSACK.  441 

All  men  avoid  bad  writers'  ready  tongues, 
As  yawning  waiters  fly  *  Fitzscribble  s  lungs ; 
Yet  on  he  mouths  —  ten  minutes — tedious  each 
As  prelate's  homily,  or  placeman's  speech ; 
Long  as  the  last  years  of  a  lingering  lease. 
When  riot  pauses  until  rents  increase. 
While  such  a  minstrel,  muttering  fustian,  strays 
O'er  hedge  and  ditch,  through  unfrequented  ways, 
If  by  some  chance  he  walks  into  a  well, 
And  shouts  for  succour  with  stentorian  yell, 
*'  A  rope !  help.  Christians,  as  ye  hope  for  grace ! " 
Nor  woman,  man,  nor  child  will  stir  a  pace ; 
For  there  his  carcass  he  might  freely  fling, 
From  frenzy,  or  the  humour  of  the  thing. 
Though  this  has  happen'd  to  more  bards  than  one  ,* 
I  11  tell  you  Budgell's  story, —  and  have  done. 

Budgell,  a  rogue  and  rhymester,  for  no  good, 
(Unless  his  case  be  much  misunderstood) 
When  teased  with  creditors'  continual  claims, 
^  To  die  like  Cato,"  f  leapt  into  the  Thames ! 
And  therefore  be  it  lawful  through  the  town 
For  any  bard  to  poison,  hang,  or  drown. 
Who  saves  the  intended  suicide  receives 
Small  thanks  from  him  who  loathes  the  life  he  leaves , 
And,  sooth  to  say,  mad  poets  must  not  lose   ' 
The  glory  of  that  death  they  freely  choose. 

yeMnam  t«tigiMe  timent  fu^antqne  poetam, 
Qui  npiunt ;  agitant  pueri,  incaatique  seqnantur. 
Hie  dam  sublimes  versus  ructatur,  et  errat 
8i  veluti  meniiis  intentus  decidit  auceps 
In  puteum,  foveamve ;  licet,  Succurrite,  longum 
Clwnet,  lo  cives !  non  sii  qui  tollere  curet. 
8i  ^uis  curet  opem  ferre,  et  demittere  funem, 
Qui  scis  an  prudens  hue  m  dejecerit,  atque 
Senrari  nolit  ?  Dicam :  Siculique  poeto 
Narrabo  interitum.    Deus  immortalis  haberi 
Dum  eupit  Empedocles,  ardentem  frigidus  iCtnam 
Inriluit :  sit  jus  liceatque  perire  poeUs : 
Invitum  qui  servatf  idem  facit  oecidenti. 
Nee  semel  hoe  fecit ;  nee,  si  retractus  erit,  jan 
Fiet  bi»mo,  et  ponat  (amosas  mortis  amorem. 

•  And  the  "waiters"  are  the  only  fortunate  people  who  can  "fly"  from 
them :  all  the  rest,  viz.  the  sad  subscribers  to  the  "  Literary  Fund,"  being 
compelled,  by  courtesy,  to  sit  out  the  recitation  without  a  hope  of  eiclaiming, 
"Sio  "  (that  IS,  by  choking  Fitz.  with  bad  wine  or  worse  poetry)  "  me  servaiot 
Apollo ! " 

t  On  his  table  were  found  these  words :  "  What  Cato  ditl,  and  Addison  approved^ 
oarmot  be  wrong.**  But  Addison  did  not  "  approve  ;  "  and  if  he  had,  &  would 
not  have  mended  the  matter.  He  had  invited  his  daughter  on  the  same  water- 
patty  ;  but  SCsa  Budgell,  by  some  accident,  escaped  this  last  paternal  attention 
Thus  fen  the  sycophant  of  "  Atticus,"  and  the  enemy  of  Pope  1 


442  HINTO   FBOM   UOBACS, 

Nor  is  it  certain  that  some  sorts  of  verse 
Prick  not  the  poet's  conscience  as  a  curse ; 
Dosed  with  vile  drams  on  Sunday  he  was  foundt* 
Or  got  a  child  on  consecrated  ground ! 
And  hence  is  haunted  with  a  rhyming  rage — 
Fear'd  like  a  bear  just  bursting  from  his  cage. 
If  free,  all  fly  his  versifying  fit, 
.  Fatal  at  once  to  simpleton  or  wit. 
But  him,  unhappy  !  whom  he  seizes,  —  Jam 
He  flays  with  recitation  limb  by  limb ; 
Probes  to  the  quick  where'er  he  makes  his  breach. 
And  gorges  like  a  lawyer  —  or  a  leech. 

Nee  eatifl  apparet  cur  versus  facdtet :  utram 
Minxerit  in  patrios  cineres,  an  tristc  bidental 
Movent  incestus  :  certe  furit,  ac  velut  uraug, 
Obiectot  caves  valuit  si  frangere  clathros, 
Indoctum  doctura^ue  fugat  recitator  acerbus. 
Quein  vera  arripuit,  tenet,  occiditque  legendo. 
"Son  miMiira  cutem,  nisi  plena  cruoriB,  Eirudo. 

*  If  "doaed  ^th,"  &c.  be  censured  as  low,  I  beg  leave  to  refer  to  the  on^i- 
nal  for  somethinf  still  lower ;  and  if  any  reader  wiH  translate  "  flfinxerit  m 
patrios  cineres  "  &c.  into  a  decent  couplet,  I  will  insert  said  ooi:q>let  io  Ken  of 
the  present 


"Di^tZs  cBt  proprie  communia  dicere.** — Mde.  Dacier,  Mde.  de  S^vi^sA, 
BoOeau,  and  others,  have  left  their  dispute  on  the  meaning  of  this  passage  m  a 
traot  considerably  longer  than  the  poem  of  Horace.  It  is  printed  at  the  cloee  of 
the  eleventh  volume  of  Madame  ds  S^vign£*8  letters,  edited  by  Grouvelle,  Puis, 
1806.  Presuming  that  all  who  cau  construe  may  venture  an  opinion  on  such 
subjects,  particulariy  as  so  many  who  can  not  have  taken  the  same  liberty,  I 
should  have  held  my  "  farthing  candle,"  as  awkwardly  as  another,  had  not  my 
respect  for  die  wits  of  Louis  the  Fourteernh's  Augustan  si^le  induced  me  to 
subjoin  these  illustrious  authorities.  Ist,  Boileau :  **  11  est  difficile  do  inlter  des 
sujets  qui  sont  k  la  port^e  de  tout  le  monde  d'  une  mani&re  qui  vous  les  rende 

Sropres,  ce  aui  s'appelle  s'approprier  un  sujet  parle  tour  qu' on  y  donne."  2d]y, 
latteui :  "  Mais  il  est  bien  difficile  de  donner  des  traits  propreset  individuels  aux 
£ires  purement  possibles.*'  3dly,  Dacier : "  11  est  difficile  de  traitor  oonvenablemant 
COS  caract^res  que  tout  le  monde  pent  inventor."  Mde.  de  S^vign^'s  opinion 
and  translation,  consisting  of  some  thirty  pages,  I  omit,  pardcularly  as  M. 
Grouvelle  observes,  **  La  chose  est  bien  remarquable,  aucune  oe  ces  diverses 
interpretations  ne  parait  4tre  la  veritable."  But,  by  way  of  comfort,  it  seems, 
fifty  years  afterwards,  "  Le  lumineux  Dumarsais  "  made  his  appearance  to  set 
Horace  on  his  legs  again,  "  dissiper  tons  les  nuages, et  concilier  tousles  dissenti- 
mens; "'and,  some  fifty  years  hence,  somebody,  still  more  luminous,  wUl 
doubtless  start  up  and  demolish  Dumarsais  and  his  system  on  this  weighty  aflUr, 
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  to 
say,  "la  longueur  de  la  dissertation "  of  M.  D.  prevents  M.  G.  from  saying  any 
more  on  the  matter.  A  better  poet  than  Boileau,  and  at  least  as  good  a  soiolar 
as  S^vign^,  has  said, 

**  A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing." 

And  by  this  comparison  of  comments,  it  may  be  perceived  how  a  good  deal  quay 
be  rendered  as  perilous  to  the  proprietors. 


THB 


CURSE    OF    MINERVA 


"  PtJUaM  te  hoc  vulnare,  PtoUu 

Immolat,  et  ponam  scelerato  «z  nngmne  tumit* 


THE 


CURSE    OF    MINERVA 


Athens,  Cspuchiii  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  iEgina'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  gulf,  unconqu^r'd  Salamis ! 
Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse, 
More  deeply  purpled,  meet  his  mellowing  glance. 
And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven  ; 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
Behind  his  Delphian  rock  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve  his  palest  beam  he  cast 
When,  Athens !  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray. 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  f  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 ; 

*  The  lines  with  which  this  satire  opens,  to  "  As  tlins,  within  the  walls  of 
Pallas'  fane,"  are  repeated,  with  some  oherations,  at  the  commencement  of  the 
third  canto  of  the  Corsair. 

t  Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sunset  (the  h<nir  of  execu- 
tion), notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of  his  disciples  to  wait  tiD  tho  sun  Went 
down. 


446  THE   CUR8B   OP  MINSXVA. 

Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land  where  PhcBbiis  never  frown'd  before ; 
But  ere  he  sunk  below  CLtheron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quaflPd  —  the  spirit  fled  ; 
The  soul  of  him  that  scorn'd  to  fear  or  fly, 
Who  lived  and  died  as  none  can  live  or  die. 

fiut,  lo  !  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign :  * 
No  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm, 
Hides  her  fair  face,  or  girds  hc^r  glowing  form. 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moonb^ms  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  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk,  f 
And  sad  and  sombre  mid  the  holy  calm. 
Near  Theseus'  fane,  yon  solitary  palm  ; 
AH,  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye  , 
And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by« 

Again  the  .£gean,  heard  no  more  afar, 
Lulls  his  chafed  iM^ast  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  walls  of  Pallas'  fane, 
I  mark'd  the  beauties  of  the  land  and  main, 
Alone,  and  friendless,  on  the  magic  shore. 
Whose  arts  and  arms  but  live  in  poets'  lore  ; 
Oft  as  the  matchless  dome  I  turn'd  to  scan« 
Sacred  to  gods,  but  not  secure  from  man. 
The  past  return'd,  the  present  seem'd  to  cease. 
And  Glory  knew  no  clime  beyond  her  Greece  ! 

*  The  twilight  in  Greeoe  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own  conntrj ;  the  da^ 
in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of  less  duration. 

t  Tlie  kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house ;  the  palm  is  without  the  present 
walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple  of  Theseos,  between  which  and  the  ires 
the  wall  mtervenes. — Cephisus*  stream  is  indeed  scanty,  and  Dissus  hat  no 
stream  at  all. 


THB   CVB8K   OF  UmEMYA.  447 

Hours  roUM  along,  and  Dlan's  orb  on  high 
Had  gained  the  centre  of  her  soHest  sky ; 
And  yet  unwearied  still  my  footsteps  trod 
O'er  the  vain  shrine  of  many  a  vanish'd  ffod : 
But  chiefly,  Pallas  !  thine ;  when  Hecate  s  glare, 
Check'd  by  thy  columns,  fell  more  sadly  fair 
O'er  the  chill  marble,  where  the  startling  tread 
Thrills  the  lone  heart  like  echoes  from  the  dead. 
Long  had  1  mused,  and  treasured  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  arips  she  ranged ! 
Not  such  as  erst,  by  her  divine  command. 
Her  form  appear'd  from  Phidias'  plastic  hand : 
Gone  were  the  terrors  of  her  awful  brow, 
Her  idle  egis  bore  no  Gorgon  now  ; 
Her  helm  was  dinted,  and  the  broken  lance 
Seem'd  weak  and  shaffcless  e'en  to  mortal  glance ; 
The  olive  ^ranch,  which  still  she  deign'd  to  clasp, 
Shrunk  from  her  touch,  and  wither'd  in  her  grasp ; 
And,  ah  !  though  still  the  brightest  of  the  sky. 
Celestial  tears  bedimm'd  her  large  blue  eye  ; 
Round  the  rent  casque  her  owlet  circled  slow, 
And  mourn'd  his  mistress  with  a  shriek  of  woe ! 

•«  Mortal !  "  ('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'd  less  by  all,  and  least  by  me : 
Chief  of  thy  foes  shall  Pallas  still  be  found. 
Seek'st  thou  the  cause  of  loathing  ?  — look  around. 
Lo  !  here,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, 
I  saw  successive  tyrannies  expire. 
s  'Scaped  from  the  ravage  of  the  Turk  and  Goth, 
Thy  country  sends  a  spoiler  worse  than  both. 
Survey  this  vacant,  violated  fane ; 
Recount  the  relics  torn  that  yet  remain  : 
These  Cecrops  placed,  this  Pericles  adorn'd,  * 
That  Adrian  rear'd  when  drooping  Science  mourn'd. 

*  thii  if  tpoken  of  the  dty  in  general,  and  not  of  the  Acropofii  in  perticnlar. 
The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympms,  by  some  rappotod  the  Pentheon,  wu  finished 
by  Hednan ;  sixteen  oolamns  are  standing,  m  the  most  beautifiil  marble  and 
architecture. 


448  THE    CCK8B   OF  MINBSVA. 

What  more  I  owe  let  gratitude  attest  — 
Know,  Alaric  and  Elgia  did  the  rest. 
That  all  may  learn  from  whence  the  plunderer  came, 
The  insulted  wall  sustains  his  hated  name : 
For  Elgin's  fame  thus  grateful  Pallas  pleads. 
Below,  his  name  —  above,  behold  his  deeds ! 
Be  ever  hail'd  with  equal  honour  here. 
The  Gothic  monarch  and  the  Pictish  peer : 
Arms  gave  the  first  his  right,  the  last  had  none, 
But  basely  stole  what  less  barbarians  won. 
So  when  the  lion  quits  his  fell  repast, 
Next  prowls  the  wolf,  the  filthy  jackal  last : 
Flesh,  limbs,  and  blood  the  former  make  their  own ; 
The  last  poor  brute  securely  gnaws  the  bone. 
Yet  still  the  gods  are  just,  and  crimes  are  crossM : 
See  here  what  Elgin  won,  and  what  he  lost ! 
Another  name  with  his  pollutes  my  shrine : 
Behold  where  Dian's  beams  disdain  to  shine  ! 
Some  retribution  still  might  Pallas  claim. 
When  Venus  half  avenged  Minerva's  shame."  * 

She  ceased  awhile,  and  thus  I  dared  reply. 
To  soothe  the  vengeance  kindling  in  her  eye  : 
^*  Daughter  of  Jove  !  in  Britain's  injured  name, 
A  true-born  Briton  may  the  deed  disclaim. 
Frown  not  on  England  ;  England  onus  him  not : 
Athena,  no !  thy  plunderer  was  a  Scot. 
Ask'st  thou  the  difference?  From  fair  PhyW  towers 
Survey  Bceotia  ;  —  Caledonia 's  ours. 
And  well  I  know  within  that  bastard  landf 
Hath  Wisdom's  goddess  never  held  command ; 
A  barren  soil,  where  Nature's  germs,  confined 
To  stern  sterility,  can  stint  the  mind  ; 
Whose  thistle  well  betrays  the  niggard  earth. 
Emblem  of  all  to  whom  the  land  gives  birth  ; 
Each  genial  influence  nurtured  to  resist ; 
A  land  of  meanness,  sophistry,  and  mist. 
Each  breeze  from  foggy  mount  and  marshy  plain 
Dilutes  with  drivel  every  drizzly  brain. 
Till,  burst  at  length,  each  wat'ry  head  o'erflows. 
Foul  as  their  soil,  and  frigid  as  their  snows. 

*  Hit  tordship^t  name,  and  that  of  one  who  no  longer  bean  it,  are  carved  con- 
apicuouslv  on  the  Parthenon ;.  above,  in  a  \wn  not  far  distant,  are  the  torn  rem 
nanu  of  the  basso  rehevot,  destroyed  in  a  vain  attempt  to  remove  them. 

t  **  Irish  bastards,**  according  to  Sir  Callaghan  O'Brallaghan. 


TRB  cuwam  OF  xniBBTA.  449 

Then  thousand  schemes  of  petulance  and  pride 

Despatch  her  scheming  children  far  and  wide : 

Some  east,  some  west,  some  every  where  but  north, 

In  quest  of  lawless  gain,  they  issue  forth. 

And  thus  —  accurst  be  the  day  and  year  !  — 

She  sent  a  Pict  to  play  the  felon  here. 

Tet  Caledonia  claims  some  native  worth, 

As  dull  BcBotia  gave  a  Pindar  birth  ; 

So  may  her  few,  the  letter'd  and  the  brave, 

Bound  to  no  clime,  and  victors  of  the  gravci 

Shake  off  the  sordid  dust  of  such  a  land, 

And  shine  like  children  of  a  happier  strand  ; 

As  once,  of  yore,  in  some  obnoxious  place. 

Ten  names  (if  foimd)  had  saved  a  wretched  race." 

**  Mortal  1 "  the  blu&«yed  maid  resumed,  **  once  more 
Bear  back  my  mandate  to  thy  native  shore. 
Though  fallen,  alas !  this  vengeance  jet  is  mine, 
To  turn  my  counsels  far  from  lands  like  thine. 
Hear  then  in  silence  Pallas'  Atem  behest ; 
Hear  and  believe,  for  Time  will  tell  the  rest. 

"  First  on  the  head  of  him  who  did  this  deed 
Af  y  curse  shall  light,  —  on  him  and  all  his  seed 
Without  one  spark  of  intellectual  fire, 
Be  all  the  sons  as  senseless  as  the  sire : 
If  one  with  wit  the  parent  brood  disgrace^ 
Believe  him  bastard  of  a  brighter  race : 
Still  with  his  hireling  artists  let  him  prate, 
And  Folly's  praise  repay  for  Wisdom's  hate ; 
Long  of  their  patron's  gusto  let  them  tell. 
Whose  noblest,  natioe  gusto  is  —  to  sell : 
To  sell,  and  make  —  may  Shame  record  the  day  !  — 
The  state  receiver  of  his  pilfer'd  prey. 
Meantime,  the  flattering,  feeble  dotard,  West, 
Europe's  worst  dauber,  and  poor  Britain's  best. 
With  palsied  hand  shall  turn  each  model  o'er, 
And  own  himself  an  infant  of  fourscore.* 
Be  all  the  bruisers  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  '  f  there. 

Mr.  Wett,  on  ■eeinir  the  "  Elfin  Collection  "  (I  rappose  we  shall  henr  of  the 
Abenhaw  and  **  Jack  Shephard^  coQection,)  dedareo  himielf  "a  mere  tyro** 
in  ait. 
t  Poor  Crib  waa   ndly  pnuled  when  the  marble*  were  first  exhibited  at 
VOL.  v, — eg 


4M  THB   OUSSB   OF  MINBBVA. 

Round  the  throng'd  gate  shall  sauntering  coxcombs  creep, 
To  lounge  and  lucubrate,  to  prate  and  peep ; 
While  many  a  languid  maid,  with  longing  sigh, 
On  giant  statues  casts  the  curious  eye  ; 
The  room  with  transient  glance  appears  to  skim. 
Yet  marks  the  mighty  back  and  length  of  limb  ; 
Mourns  o*er  the  difference  of  now  and  then; 
Excbiims,  *  These  Greeks  indeed  were  proper  men  ! ' 
Draws  sly  comparisons  of  tltese  with  those. 
And  envies  Lais  all  her  Attic  beaux. 
When  shall  a  modern  maid  have  swains  like  these  * 
Alas!  Sir  Harry  is  no  Hercules  ! 
And  last  of  all,  amidst  the  gaping  crew, 
Some  calm  spectator,  as  he  takes  his  view, 
In  silent  indignation  mix'd  with  grief, 
Admires  the  plunder,  but  abhors  the  thief. 
Oh,  loath'd  in  life,  nor  pardon' d  in  the  dust, 
May  hate  pursue  his  sacrilegious  lust ! 
Link'd  with  the  fool  that  fired  the  Ephesian  dome» 
Shall  vengeance  follow  far  beyond  the  tomb, 
And  Eratostratus  and  Elgin  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  ages  yet  unborn, 
Fix'd  statue  on  the  pedestal  of  Scorn ; 
Though  not  for  him  alone  revenge  shall  wait. 
But  fits  thy  country  for  her  coming  fate : 
Hers  were  the  deeds  that  taught  her  lawless  son 
To  do  what  oft  Britannia's  self  had  done. 
Look  to  the  Baltic  —  blazing  from  afar. 
Your  old  ally  yet  mourns  perfidious  war. 
Not  to  such  deeds  did  Pallas  lend  her  aid, 
Or  break  the  compact  which  herself  had  made ; 
Far  from  such  councils,  from  the  faithless  field 
She  fled  —  but  left  behind  her  Gorgon  shield : 
A  fatal  gift,  that  turn'd  your  friends  to  stone. 
And  lefl  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  dead  ; 

E Hoaw :  he  asked  if  it  wae  not  "*  a  itone  shop?  "—He  was  xi{^ ;  il  i*  • 


THB   CUB8B   OF  KmSVA*  451 

Till  Indufi  rolls  a  deep  purpureal  flood, 
And  clainns  his  long  arrear  of  northern  blood. 
So  may  ye  perish !  —  Pallas,  when  she  gave 
Tour  free-born  rights,  forbade  ye  to  enslave. 

**  Look  on  your  Spain !  ^•she  clasps  the  hand  she  hates^ 
^  But  boldly  clasps,  and  thrusts  you  from  her  gates. 
*  Bear  witness,  bright  Barossa !  thou  canst  tell 

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  7 

"  Look  last  at  home — ye  love  not  to  look  there ; 
On  the  grim  smile  of  comfortless  despair :    * 
Your  city  saddens  :  loud  though  Revel  howls, 
Here  Famine  faints,  and  yonder  Rapine  prowls. 
See  all  alike  of  more  or  less  berefl ; 
No  misers  tremble  when  there  's  nothing  left. 
*  Blest  paper  credit ; '  *  who  shall  dare  to  sing  ? 
It  clogs  like  lead  Corruption's  weary  wing. 
Yet  Pallas  pluck'd  each  premier  by  the  ear, 
Who  gods  and  men  alike  disdain'd  to  hear ; 
But  one,  repentant  o*er  a  bankrupt  state. 
On  Pallas  calls,  but  calls,  alas  !  too  late  : 
Then  raves  for  *  *  ;  to  that  Mentor  bends. 
Though  he  and  PaUas  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  Bgypt  chose  an  onion  for  a  god. 

•*  Now  fare  ye  well !  enjoy  your  little  hour ; 
60,  grasp  the  shadow  of  your  vanish 'd  power ; 
Gloss  o'er  the  failure  of  each  fondest  scheme  ; 
Your  strength  a  name,  your  bloated  wealth  a  dream, 

**  BlMt paper  credit!  kit  and  beat  supply. 
That  lendi  Convption  lighter  wingi  to  Aj !  **  •»  Pcpg, 


452  THx  omtsB  or  minbkya. 

Gone  IS  that  gold,  the  marvel  of  mankind 

And  pirates  barter  all  that 's  lefl  behind.* 

No  more  the  hirelings,  purchased  near  and  far, 

Crowd  to  the  ranks  of  mercenary  war. 

The  idle  merchant  on  the  useless  quay 

Droops  o'er  the  bales  no  bark  may  bear  away  ; 

Or,  back  returning,  sees  rejected  stores 

Rot  piecemeal  on  his  own  encumber'd  shores  : 

The  starved  mechanic  breaks  his  rusting  loom, 

And  desperate  mans  him  'gainst  the  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 ; 

E'en  factions  cease  to  charm  a  factious  land  : 

Yet  jarring  sects  convulse  a  sister  isle, 

And  light  with  maddening  hands  the  mutual  pile. 

<<  'T  is  done,  't  is  post,  since  Pallas  warns  in  vain  ; 
The  Furies  seize  her  abdicated  reign  : 
Wide  o'er  the  realm  they  wave  their  kindling  brands. 
And  wring  her  vitals  with  their  fiery  hands. 
But  one  convulsive  struggle  still  remains, 
And  Gaul  shall  weep  ere  Albion  wear  her  chains. 
The  banner'd  pomp  of  war,  the  glittering  files. 
O'er  whose  gay  trappings  stem  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, 
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  battle  won. 
Though  drench'd  with  gore,  his  woes  are  but  begun 
His  deeper  deeds  as  yet  ye  know  by  name ; 
The  slaughter'd  peasant  and  the  ravish'd  ^une, 
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  ! 

*  Th*  Deal  wad  Dover  trtffloken  in  tpMm, 


THB   CinUE    OF  MIinBBVA.  463 

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  deyoted  coast, 
Go,  ask  thy  bosom  who  deserves  them  most. 
The  law  of  heaven  and  earth  is  life  for  life. 
And  she  who  raised,  in  vain  regrets,  the  strife.*' 


THE  WALTZ 
AN  APOSTROPHIC  HYMN. 


*'Qiia1is  in  Earot«  npii,  aut  per  joga  Cynthi, 
Exercet  Diana  chores."  Viroil. 

**  Such  on  Earota*8  banks,  or  Cynthia**  height, 
Diana  seems :  and  so  she  charms  the  sight. 
When  in  the  dance  the  graceful  goddesa  leads 
The  quire  of  nymphs,  and  overtops  their  heads." 

DrTDSH'S  YlROll. 


TO  THE  PUBLISHER. 


Sir, 
f  AM  a  country  gentleman  of  a  midland  county.  I  might 
have  been  a  parliament-man  for  a  certain  borough,  having  had 
the  offer  of  as  many  votes  as  General  T.  at  the  general  election 
in  1812.*  But  I  was  all  for  domestic  happiness ;  as,  fifteen 
years  ago,  on  a  visit  to  London,  I  married  a  middle-aged  maid 
of  honour.  We  lived  happily  at  Hornem  Hall  till  last  season, 
when  my  wife  and  I  were  invited  by  the  Countess  of  Waltazway 
(a  distant  relation  of  my  spouse)  to  pass  the  winter  in  town. 
Thinking  no  harm,  and  our  girls  being  come  to  a  marriageable 
(or,  as  they  call  it,  marketdbie)  age,  and  having  besides  a  Chan- 
eery  suit  inveterately  entailed  upon  the  family  estate,  we  came 
up  in  our  old  chariot,  —  of  which,  by  the  by,  my  wife  grew  so 
much  ashamed  in  less  than  a  week,  that  I  was  obliged  to  buy 
a  second-hand  barouche,  of  which  I  might  mount  the  box,  Mrs. 
H.  says,  if  I  could  drive,  but  never  see  the  inside— that  place 
being  reserved  for  the  Honourable  Augustus  Tiptoe,  her  part- 
ner-general and  opera-knight.  Hearing  great  praises  of  Mrs. 
HVs  dancing  (she  was  famous  for  birthnight  minuets  in  the 
latter  end  of  the  last  century),  I  unbooted,  and  went  to  a  ball 
at  the  countess's,  expecting  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  Mrs.  Hor- 
nem with  her  arms  half  round  the  loins  of  a  huge  hussar-look- 
ing gentleman  I  never  set  eyes  on  before ;  and  his,  to  say  truth, 
rather  more  than  half  round  her  waist,  turning  round,  and 

round,  and  round,  to  a  d d  see-saw  up-and-down  sort  of 

tune,  that  reminded  me  of  the  ''Black  joke,"  only  more  ^affet^ 
tuaaOf**  till  it  made  me  quite  giddy  with  wondering  they  were 
not  so.  By  and  by  they  stopped  a  bit,  and  I  thought  they 
would  flit  or  fall  down  :  —  but  no  ;  with  Mrs.  H.'s  hand  on  his 

*  State  of  the  poU,  (lait  day,)  5. 


458  TO   THE   PUBLISHER* 

shoulder,  "  quam  famUiariier  "*  (as  Terence  said,  when  I  was 
at  school),  they  walked  about  a  minute,  and  then  at  it  again, 
like  two  cockchafers  spitted  on  the  same  bodkin.  I  asked  what 
all  this  meant,  when,  with  a  loud  laugh,  a  child  no  older  than 
our  Wilhelmina  (a  name  I  never  heard  but  in  the  Yicar  of 
Wakefield,  though  her  mother  would  call  her  after  the  Princess 
of  Swap|>enbach,)  said,  ^  Lord !  Mr.  Homem,  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 
roiyid-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  morning).  Indeed,  so 
much  do  I  like  it,  that  having  a  turn  for  rhyme,  tastily  displayed 
in  some  election  ballads,  and  songs  in  honour  of  all  the  victo- 
ries (but  till  lately  I  have  had  little  practice  in  that  way),  I  sat 
down,  and  with  the  aid  of  William  Fitzgerald,  Esq.  and  a  few 
hints  from  Dr.  Busby,  (whose  recitations  I  attend,  and  am 
monstrous  fond  of  Master  Busby's  manner  of  delivering  his 
father's  late  successful  <<  Drury  Lane  Address,")  I  composed  the 
following  hymn,  wherewithal  to  make  my  sentiments  known  to 
the  public,  whom,  nevertheless,  I  heartily  despise,  as  well  as  the 
critics. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  <$ec.  6cc. 

HORACE  HORNEM. 

*  My  Latin  is  all  forgotten,  if  a  man  can  be  aaid  to  have  foisotten  wfaat  110 
never  remembered ;  but  I  bought  my  title-page  motto  of  a  CatboUo  priest  for  a 
three-Bhilling  bank  token,  after  much  haggling  for  the  even  sixpence.  I  grudged 
the  money  to  a  papist,  being  all  for  the  memory  of  Perceval  and  **  No  popery,** 
and  quite  regretdxig  the  downfall  of  the  pope  because  we  can't  bum  nim  any 
more* 


THE   WALTZ. 


Musk  of  the  many-twinkling  feet !  *  whose  charms 
Are  now  extended  up  from  legs  to  arms ; 
Terpsichore  !  —  too  long  misdeem'd  a  maid  — 
Reproachful  term  —  bestow'd  but  to  upbraid  — 
Henceforth  in  all  the  bronze  of  brightness  shinet 
The  least  a  vestal  of  the  virgin  Nine. 
Far  be  from  thee  and  thine  the  name  of  prude  ; 
Mock'd,  yet  triumphant ;  sneer'd  at,  unsubdued  ; 
Thy  legs  must  move  to  conquer  as  they  fly. 
If  but  thy  coats  are  reasonably  high ; 
Thy  breast  —  if  bare  enough  —  requires  no  shield ; 
Dance  forth  —  sans  armour  thou  shalt  take  the  neld« 
And  own  —  impregnable  to  most  assaults 
Thy  not  too  lawfully  begotten  "  Waltz." 

Haili  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  unraatch'd  since  Orpheus  and  his  brutes : 
Hail,  spirit-stirring  Waltz !  —  beneath  whose  banners 
A  modem  hero  fought  for  modish  manners ; 
On  Hounslow's  heath  to  rival  Wellesley's  f  fame, 
Cock'd  —  fired  —  and  miss'd  his  man  —  but  gain'd  his  aim  ; 

*  **  Glance  their  many-twtnkling  feet."  —  Oray, 

t  To  rival  Lord  W.*b,  or  his  nephew's,  as  the  reader  pleases : — the  one  gained 
a  pretty  woman,  whom  he  deserved,  by  fighting  for;  and  the  other  has  been 
fighting  in  the  Peninsula  many  a  long  day,  "  by  Shrewsbury  cbck,"  without 

K'niiw  any  thing  in  that  country  bat  the  title  of  '*  the  Great  Lord,"  and  "  ths 
rd,  which  savours  of  profanation,  having  been  hitherto  applied  only  to  that 
Being  to  whom  **  Te  Deunu  "  for  carnage  are  the  rankest  hlaspnemy. —  It  iv  to  be 
presumed  l^e  general  will  one  day  return  to  his  Sabine  farm ;  there 


**  To  tame  the  genius  of  the  stubborn  plain, 
Almost  aa  quirJdy  as  he  conquer'd  Spain !  * 


The  Lord  Peterborough  conquered  continents  in  a  summer ;  we  do  i 
we  contrive  both  to  conquer  and  lose  them  in  a  shorter  season.  If  the  **  ^reat 
Lord's  "  Cincmnatian  progress  in  a^culture  be  no  speedier  than  the  proportional 
average  of  time  in  Pope's  couplet,  it  wUl,  according  to  the  fiumer's  proverb,  be 
**^uffhing  with  dogs." 

By  the  by — one  of  this  illustrious  person's  new  titles  is  forgotten — it  is,  how- 
ever, worth  remembering  —  **  Salvador  del  mundo  !  "  credite^  pogteri  !  If  this  be 
the  appellation  annexed  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  Peninsula  to  the  name  of  a  mm 


460  THE   WALTZ. 

HaU,  moving  Muse !  to  whom  the  fair  one's  breast 

(rives  all  it  can,  and  bids  us  take  the  rest. 

Oh !  for  the  flow  of  Busby,  or  of  Fitz, 

The  latter's  loyalty,  the  former's  wits, 

To  "  energize  the  object  I  pursue," 

And  give  both  Belial  and  his  dance  their  due ! 

imperial  Waltz  !  imported  from  the  Rhine 
(Famed  for  the  growth  of  pedigrees  and  wine). 
Long  be  thine  import  from  all  duty  free. 
And  hock  itself  be  less  esteemed  than  thee  ; 
In  some  few  qualities  alike  —  for  hock 
Improves  our  cellar — thou  our  living  stock. 
The  head  to  hock  belongs  —  thy  subtlei^  art 
Intoxicates  alone  the  heedless  heart : 
Through  the  full  veins  thy  gentler  poison  swims, 
And  wakes  to  wantonness  the  willing  limbs. 

Oh,  Germany  !  how  much  to  thee  we  owe, 
As  heaven-bom  Pitt  can  testify  below, 
Ere  cursed  confederation  made  thee  France's, 
And  only  left  us  thy  d  —  d  debts  and  dances ! 
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  begetting  George  the  Fourth. 
To  Germany,  and  highnesses  serene, 
Who  owe  us  millions  —  do  n't  we  owe  the  queen? 
To  Germany,  what  owe  we  not  besides  ? 
So  ofl  bestowing  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  not  transferr'd  to  Bonaparte's  "  fiat !  " 


who  has  not  yet  saved  them — query — are  they  worth  saving,  even  in  diii 
woild  7  for,  according  to  the  mildeet  modification*  of  any  Christian  creed,  those 
three  words  make  the  odds  much  against  them  in  the  next — "  Saviour  of  the 
world,"  quotha ! — it  were  to  be  wished  that  he,  or  anv  one  else,  oould  save  a 
comer  ofit — his  country.  Yet  this  stupid  misnomer,  although  it  shows  the  near 
connexion  between  superstition  and  impiety,  so  far  has  its  use,  that  it  proves 
there  can  be  Uttle  to  dread  from  those  Catholics  (inquisitorial  Catholics  too)  who 
can  confer  such  an  appellation  on  a  Protestant  1  suppoae  next  year  he  will  be 
entitled  the  "  Virgin  Mary : "  if  so,  Lord  Georse  Gordon  himself  would  have 
nothing  to  object  to  such  liberal  bastards  of  our  Lady  of  Babylon. 


THE    WALTZ.  461 

Back  to  ray  theme  —  O  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,  starting  from  her  slumbers,  deign'd  arise, 
Heligoland !  to  stock  thy  mart  with  lies ; 
While  unburnt  Moscow  ♦  yet  had  news  to  send, 
Nor  owed  her  fiery  exit  to  a  friend. 
She  came  —  Waltz  came  —  and  with  her  certain  sets 
Of  true  despatches,  and  as  true  gazettes  ; 
Then  flamed  of  Austerlitz  the  blest  despatch, 
Which  Moniteur  nor  Morning  Post  can  match  ; 
And  —  almost  crush'd  beneath  the  glorious  news  ! 
Ten  plays,  and  forty  tales,  of  Kotzebue's  ; 
One  envoy's  letters,  six  composers'  airs. 
And  loads  from  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  Heyn6,  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  pas-scul  excited  some  remark  ; 
Not  love-lorn  Quixote,  when  his  Sancho  thought 
The  knight's  fandango  friskier  than  it  ought ; 
Not  soft  Herodias,  when,  with  winning  tread 
Her  nimble  feet  danced  off  another's  head ; 

*  The  patriotic  arson  of  our  amiable  allies  cannot  be  sufficiently  commended 
•—nor  ■uDscribedfor.  Amongst  other  details  omitted  in  the  variuuK  despatcheif 
of  onr  eloquent  ambassador,  he  did  not  state  (being  too  much  occupied  with  the 
exploits  of  Col.  C  ,  in  swimming  rivers  frozen,  and  galloping  over  roods  im- 
passable,)  that  one  entire  province  perished  by  famine  m  the  most  melancholy 
manner,  as  follows  :  —  In  (General  Rostxipchin's  consummate  confla^pration,  the 
cnnsumption  of  tallow  and  train  oil  was  so  great,  that  the  market  was  inadequate 
to  tho  demand  :  and  thus  one  hundred  and  thirty-three  thousand  persons  were 
starved  lo  death,  by  being  reduced  to  wholesome  diet !  The  lamplighters  of 
London  have  since  subscribed  a  pint  (of  oil)  a  piece,  and  the  tallow-chandlers 
have  nnanimously  voted  a  quantity  of  best  moulds  (four  to  the  pound),  to  the  re- 
lief of  the  surviving  Scythians ;  —  the  scarcity  will  soon,  by  such  exertions,  and 
a  proper  attention  to  tho  quality  rather  than  the  quantity  of  provision,  be  totally 
aueviaied.  It  is  said,  in  return,  that  the  nntouched  Ukraine  nas  subtcribed  sixty 
thooiaad  beeves  for  a  day's  meal  to  our  suffering  manulaeluran. 


462  THE    WALTZ^ 

Not  Cleopatra  on  her  galley's  deck, 
Display 'd  so  much  o£leg,  or  more  ofneckj 
Than  thou,  ambrosial  Waltz,  when  first  the  moon 
Beheld  thee  twi/aLg  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  roU'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  ladies,  and  sotnetimes  their  lords  ; 
To  you,  ye  single  gentlemen,  who  seek 
Torments  for  life,  or  pleasures  for  a  week ; 
As  Love  or  Hymen  your  endeavours  guide. 
To  gain  your  own,  or  snatch  another's  bride  ;— • 
To  one  and  all  the  lovely  stranger  came. 
And  every  ball-room  echoes  with  her  name 

Endearing  Waltz !  —  to  thy  more  melting  tune 
Bow  Irish  jig,  and  ancient  rigadoon. 
Scotch  reels,  avaunt !  and  country-dance,  forego 
Your  future  claims  to  each  fantastic  toe  ! 
Waltz  —  Waltz  alone  —  both  legs  and  arms  demands, 
Liberal  of  feet,  and  lavish  of  her  hands  ; 
Hands  which  may  freely  range  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  near  ; 
And  true,  though  strange  —  Waltz  whispers  this  remark, 
**  My  slippery  steps  are  safest  in  the  dark ! " 
But  here  the.  Muse  with  due  decorum  halts, 
And  lends  her  longest  petticoat  to  Waltz. 

Observant  travellers  of  every  time  ! 
Ye  quartos  publish'd  upon  every  clime  ! 
O  say,  shall  dull  Romaika's  heavy  round, 
Fandango's  wriggle,  or  Bolero's  bound  ; 
Can  Egypt's  Almas  *  —  tantalizing  group  — 
Columbia's  caperers  to  the  warlike  whoop  — 

*  DandDg  giili  — who  do  for  hire  what  Walts  doth  gratia. 


THE   WALTZ.  463 

Can  aught  from  cold  Kamschatka  to  Cape  Horn 
With  Waltz  compare,  or  afler  Waltz  be  borne  ? 
Ah,  no !  from  Morier's  pages  down  to  Gait's, 
Each  tourist  pens  a  paragraph  for  **  Waltz." 

Shades  of  those  belles  whose  reign  began  of  yore, 
With  George  the  Third's  —  and  ended  long  before !  — 
Though  in  your  daughters'  daughters  yet  you  thrive, 
Burst  from  your  lead,  and  be  yourselves  alive ! 
Back  to  the  ball-room,  speed  your  spectred  host : 
Fool's  Paradise  is  dull  to  that  you  lost. 
No  treacherous  powder  bids  conjecture  quake ; 
No  stiff-starch'd  stays  make  meddling  fingers  ache  ; 
(Transferr'd  to  those  ambiguous  things  that  ape 
Goats  in  their  visage,*  women  in  their  shape  ;) 
No  damsel  faints  when  rather  closely  prcss'd. 
But  more  caressing  seems  when  most  caress'd ; 
Superfluous  hartshorn,  and  reviving  salts. 
Both  banish 'd  by  the  sovereign  cordial  **  Waltz." 

Seductive  Waltz  !  —  though  on  thy  native  shore 
Even  Werter's  self  proclaim'd  thee  half  a  whore ; 
Werter  —  to  decent  vice  though  much  inclined, 
Yet  warm,  not  wanton  —  dazzled,  but  not  blind ; 
Though  gentle  Genlis,  in  her  strife  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  -7-  if  nothing  else  ^  at  least  our  heads ; 

*  It  cannot  be  complained  now,  as  m  the  Lady  Baossidre's  time,  of  the  ^  Sioui 
de  la  Croix,"  that  there  be  "  no  whiakert ; "  bat  how  far  these  are  indications  of 
valour  in  the  field,  or  elsewhere,  may  ttUl  be  questionable.  Much  may  be,  and 
hath  been,  avouched  on  both  sides.  In  the  olden  time  philosophers  had 
whiskers,  and  soldiers  none  —  Scipio  himself  was  shaven  —  Hannibal  thought 
his  one  eye  handsome  enough  without  a  beard ;  but  Adrian,  the  emperor,  wore 
a  beard  (having  warts  on  his  chin,  which  neither  the  Empress  Sabina  nor  even 
the  courtiers  could  abide)  —  Turenne  had  whiskers,  Marlborough  none  —  Buona- 
parte is  nnwhiskered,  the  Regent  whiskered ;  **argal*'  greatness  of  mind  and 
whiskers  may  ormav  not  go  together:  but  certainly  the  different  occurrences^ 
since  the  growth  of  tne  last-mentioned,  go  further  m  behalf  of  whiskers  than 
the  anathema  of  Anselm  did  against  long  hair  in  the  reign  of  Henry  I. 

Formerly,  red  was  a  favourite  colour.  See  Lodowick  Barrey*B  comedy  of 
Ram  Alley,  1661 ;  Act  I.  Scene  1. 

**  Taffeta.  Now  for  a  wager — What  cobured  beard  comes  next  by  the 
window? 

**  Adriana,    A  black  man*s,  I  think. 

*'  Taffeta.    I  tkink  not  so  :  I  think  a  red,  for  that  is  most  in  fashion." 

There  is  ''nothing  new  under  the  lun; "  but  red,  then  a  fawmrile,  has  now 
flubiuled  into  a/ooourtte's  colour. 


464  THB  WALTZ. 

With  thee  even  clumsy  cits  attempt  to  boance, 
And  cockneys  practise  what  they  can't  pronounce. 
Gods  !  how  the  glorious  theme  my  strain  exalts^ 
And  rhyme  finds  partner  rhyme  in  praise  of**  Waltz !  ** 

Blest  was  the  time  Waltz  chose  for  her  d^hut ; 
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  f )  to  follow  those  that  fled  ; 
New  victories  —  nor  can  we  prize  them  less, 
Though  Jenky  wonders  at  his  own  success  ; 
New  wars,  because  the  old  succeed  so  well* 
That  most  survivors  envy  those  who  fell ; 
New  mistressrs —  no,  old  —  and  yet 't  is  true, 
Though  they  be  old^  the  thing  is  something  new ; 
Each  new,  quite  new  —  (except  some  ancient  tricks,  t) 
New  white-sticks,  gold-sticks,  broom-sticks,  all  new  sticks. 
With  vests  or  ribands  —  deck'd  alike  in  hue, 
New  troopers  strut,  new  turncoats  blush  in  blue  : 

So  saith  the  muse  —  my ,§  what  say  y ou  ? 

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  more,  and  petticoats  not  much  ; 
Morals  and  minuets,  virtue  and  her  stays, 
And  tell-tale  powder  —  all  have  had  their  days. 
The  ball  begins  —  the  honours  of  the  house 
First  duly  done  by  daughter  or  by  spouse, 

*  An  anachronism  —  Waltz  and  the  battle  of  Austerlitz  are  before  said  to  hav 
opened  the  ball  together:  the  bard  means  (if  he  means  any  thing),  Waltz  was 
not  so  much  in  vogue  till  the  Regent  attained  the  acm^  of  his  popularity.  Waltz, 
the  comet,  whiskers,  and  the  new  govemmenl,  illuminated  heaven  and  earth,  m 
all  their  glory,  much  about  the  same  time :  of  these  the  comet  only  has  disap- 
peared ;  Uie  other  three  continue  to  astonish  us  still.  —  Printer' t  Ikvil. 

t  Amongst  others  a  new  ninepence — a  creditable  coin  now  forthcoming,  worth 
a  pound,  in  paper,  at  the  fairest  calculation. 

I  "  Oh  that  right  should  thus  overcome  fnvht !  **  Who  does  not  remember 
the  "  delicate  investigation  '*  in  the  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  ?  " 

**  Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near :  if  I  suopect  without  cause,  why  then  make 
sport  at  me ;  then  let  me  be  your  jest ;  I  deserve  it.  How  now  ?  whither  bear 
yovL  this  7 

**  Mr»,  Ford,  What  have  you  to  do  whither  they  bear  it? — you  were  best 
meddle  with  buck-washing. 

^  The  gentle,  or  ferocious,  reader,  may  fill  up  the  blank  as  he  pleases —  there 
are  several  dissyllabic  names  at  his  service  (being  already  m  ttie  Regent's) .  i* 
would  not  be  fair  to  back  any  peculiar  initial  against  the  alphabet,  as  every 
month  will  add  to  the  list  now  entered  for  the  sweepstakes :  — a  distinguished 
eonsonant  is  said  to  be  the  favourite,  much  againat  the  wishes  of  the  huwmB 
ones. 


THE    WALTK.  465 

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  mistaken  for  a  blush. 

From  where  the  garb  just  leaves  the  bosom  free. 

That  spot  where  hearts  *  were  once  supposed  to  be. 

Round  all  the  confines  of  the  yielded  waist, 

The  strangest  hand  may  wander  undisplaced ; 

The  lady's  in  return  may  grasp  as  much 

As  princely  paunches  offer  to  her  touch. 

Pleased  round  the  chalky  floor  how  well  they  trip. 

One  hand  reposing  on  the  royal  hip  ; 

The  other  to  the  shoulder  no  less  royal 

Ascending  with  affection  truly  loyal ! 

Thus  front  to  front  the  partners  move  or  stand. 

The  foot  may  rest,  but  none  withdraw  the  hand  ; 

And  all  in  turn  may  follow  in  their  rank. 

The  Earl  of—  Asterisk — and  Lady  —  Blank  ; 

Sir  —  Such-a-one  —  with  those  of  fashion's  host. 

For  whose  blest  surnames  —  vide  **  Morning  Post ; " 

(Or  if  for  that  impartial  print  too  late. 

Search  Doctors'  Commons  six  months  from  my  date,) — 

Thus  all  and  each,  in  movement  swifl  or  slow. 

The  genial  contact  gently  undergo  ; 

Till  some  might  marvel,  with  the  modest  Turk, 

If  **  nothing  foHows  all  this  palming  work  7  "f 

True,  hofiest  Mirzal  —  yoa  may  trust  my  rhyme  — 

Something  does  follow  at  a  fitter  time ; 

The  breast  thus  publicly  resign'd  to  man. 

In  private  may  resist  him if  it  can. 

O  ye  who  loved  our  grandmothers  of  yore, 
Fitzpatrick,  Sheridan,  and  many  more  ! 
And  thou,  my  prince !  whose  sovereign  taste  and  will 
It  is  to  love  the  lovely  beldames  still  f 
Thou  ghost  of  Queensbury  !  whose  judging  sprite 
Satan  may  spare  to  peep  a  single  night, 

•  •*  We  have  changed  aU  that,"  says  tlie  Mock  Doctor—  't  is  all  gone—  As 
modeus  knows  where.  After  all,  it  is  of  no  Kitat  importance  how  women's 
hearts  are  disposed  of;  they  have  nature's  privuege  to  distribute  thom  as  ab- 
surdly as  possible.  But  there  are  also  some  men  with  hearts  so  thoroughly  bad. 
as  to  remmd  us  of  those  phenomena  often  mentioned  in  natural  history ;  viz.  a 
mass  of  solid  stone  —only  to  be  opened  by  force  —  and  when  divided,  you  dis- 
cover a  toad  in  the  centre,  lively,  and  with  the  reputation  of  being  venomous. 

+  In  Turkey  a  pertinent,  here  an  impertinent  and  superfluous,  question  —  li- 
terally put,  as  in  the  text,  by  a  Persian  to  Morier,  on  seeinsr  a  waltz  in  Pera.  -J» 
Vide  Morier'i  Travdg. 

VOL.  V. — ^H  h 


466  TBM   WAISTS. 

Pronounce  —  if  ever  in  your  days  of  bliss 
Asmodeus  struck  so  bright  a  stroke  as  this^ 
To  teach  the  young  ideas  how  to  rise, 
Flush  in  the  cheek,  and  languish  in  the  eyes ; 
Rush  to  the  heart,  and  lighten  through  tfa^  frame, 
With  half-told  wish  and  ill-dissembl^  flame  ; 
For  prurient  nature  still  will  storm  the  breast  — 
WhOf  tempted  thus,  can  answer  for  the  rest  ? 

But  ye  —  who  never  felt  a  single  thought 
For  what  our  morab  are  to  be,  or  ought ; 
Who  wisely  wish  the  charms  you  view  to  reap, 
Say  —  would  you  make  those  beauties  quite  so  cheap  f 
Hot  from  the  hands  promiscuously  applied, 
Round  the  slight  waist,  or  down  the  glowing  side. 
Where  were  the  rapture  then  to  clasp  the  form 
From  this  lewd  grasp  and  lawless  contact  warmt 
At  once  love's  most  endearing  thought  resign, 
To  press  the  hand  so  press'd  by  none  but  tbine ; 
To  gaze  upon  that  eye  which  never  met 
Another's  ardent  look  without  regret ; 
Approach  the  lip  which  all,  without  restraint, 
Come  near  enough  —  if  not  to  touch  —  to  taint , 
If  such  thou  loyest  —  love  her  then  n*o  more, 
Or  give  — like  her  —  caresses  to  a  score ; 
Her  mind  with  these  is  gone,  and  with  it  go 
The  little  left  behind  it  to  bestow. 

Voluptuous  Waltz !  and  dare  I  thus  blaspheme  ? 
'  Thy  bard  forgot  thy  praises  were  his  theme. 
Terpsichore,  forgive  !  —  at  every  ball 
My  wife  nom  waltzes  -*  and  my  daughters  $haU ; 
My  son  —  (or  stop  —  't  is  needless  to  inquire  — 
These  little  accidents  should  ne'Ser  transpire ; 
Some  ages  hence  our  genealogic  tree 
Will  wear  as  green  a  bough  for  him  as  me)  — 
Waltzing  shall  rear^  to  make  our  name  amends. 
Grandsons  for  me  —  in  heirs  to  all  his  friends. 


AGE    OF   BRO  NZE; 

Oft, 

CIKMEN  8ECULARE  ET  ANNUS  HAUD  MIRABILI& 
'  Impu  Cmtgrmnu  AehiDi.*' 


TH« 


AGE    OP    BRONZE 


I. 

The  ^  ^ood  old  times  "  —  all  times  when  old  are  good  - 

Are  gone ;  the  present  might  be  if  they  would  ; 

Great  things  have  been,  and  are,  and  greater  still 

Want  little  of  mere  iViortals  but  their  will : 

A  wider  space,  a  greener  field,  is  given 

To  those  who  play  their  ^'  tricks  before  high  heaven  " 

I  know  not  if  the  angels  weep,  but  men 

Have  wept  enough  —  for  what  ?  —  to  weep  again 

11. 
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  Titans,  face  to  face  — 
Athos  and  Ida,  with  a  dashing  sea 
Of  eloquence  between,  which  flow'd  all  free, 
As  the  deep  billows  of  the  jGgean  roar 
Betwixt  the  Hellenic  and  the  Phrygian  shore. 
But  where  are  they  —  the  rivab !  —  a  few  feet 
Of  sullen  earth  divide  each  winding  sheet. 
How  peaceful  and  how  powerful  is  the  grave 
Which  hushes  all !  a  calm,  unstormy  wave 
Which  oversweeps  the  world.     The  theme  is  old 
Of  '*  dust  to  dust ;  "  but  half  its  tale  untold  : 
Time  tempers  not  its  terrors  —  still  the  worm 
Winds  its  cold  folds,  the  tomb  preserves  its  form^ 
Varied  above,  but  still  alike  below ; 
The  urn  may  shine,  the  ashes  will  not  glow, 
Though  Cleopatra's  mummy  cross  the  sea 
O'er  which  from  empire  she  lured  Antony ; 


470  TRB   AGS    OF   BKONZB. 

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  the  earth 
Knows  not  his  name,  or  but  his  death,  and  birth, 
And  desolation  ;  while  his  native  Greece 
Hath  all  of  desolation,  save  its  peace. 
He  "  wept  for  worlds  to  conquer !  "  he  who  ne'er 
Conceived  the  globe,  he  panted  not  to  spare ! 
With  even  the  busy  Northern  Isle  unknown, 
Which  holds  his  urn,  and  never  knew  his  throne. 

m. 
But  where  is  he,  -the  modern,  mightier  far, 
Who,  bom  no  king,  made  monarchs  draw  his  car ; 
The  new  Sesostris,  whose  unhamess'd  kings, 
Freed  from  the  bit,  believe  themselves  with  wings, 
And  spurn  the  dust  o'er  which  thev  crawl'd  of  late, 
Chain'd  to  the  chariot  of  the  chieftain's  state  ? 
Yes  !  where  is  he,  the  champion  and  the  child 
Of  all  that 's  great  or  little,  wise  or  wild  ? 
Whose  game  was  empires,  and  whose  stakes  were  thrones? 
Whose  table  earth  —  whose  dice  were  human  bones  ? 
Behold  the  grand  result  in  yon  lone  isle, 
And,  as  thy  nature  urges,  weep  or  smile. 
Sigh  to  behold  the  eagle's  loft^r  rage 
Reduced  to  nibble  at  his  narrow  cage ; 
Smile  to  survey  the  queller  of  the  nations 
Now  daily  squabbling  o'er  disputed  rations ; 
Weep  to  perceive  him  mourning,  as  he  dines, 
O'er  curtaii'd  dishes  and  o'er  stinted  wines ; 
O'er  petty  quarrels  upon  petty  things. 
Is  this  the  man  who  scourged  or  feasted  kings  ?  ^ 

Behold  the  scales  in  which  his  fortune  hangs, 
A  surgeon's  statement,  and  an  earl's  harangues ! 
A  bust  delay 'd,  a  book  revised,  can  shake 
The  sleep  of  him  who  kept  the  world  awake. 
Is  this  indeed  the  tamer  of  the  great. 
Now  slave  of  alt  could  tease  or  irritate  — 
The  paltry  gaoler  and  the  prying  spy. 
The  staring  stranger  with  his  note-book  nigh  ? 
Plunged  in  a  dungeon,  he  had  still  been  great ; 
How  low,  how  little,  was  this  middle  state. 
Between  a  prison  and  a  palace,  where 
How  few  could  feel  for  what  he  hatl  to  bear ! 


THX    AGS    OF    BKONZB.  471 

Vain  hifl  complaint,  —  my  lord  presents  his  bilU 
His  food  and  wine  were  doled  out  duly  still : 
Vain  was  his  sickness,  never  was  a  clime 
So  free  from  homicide  —  to  doubt  's  a  crime ; 
And  the  stiff  surgeon,  who  maintained  his  cause, 
Hath  lost  his  place,  and  gain'd  the  world's  applause* 
But  smile  ^-  though  all  the  pangs  of  brain  and  heart 
Disdain,  defy,  the  tardy  aid  of  art ; 
Though,  save  the  few  fond  friends,  and  imaged  face 
Of  that  fair  boy  his  sire  shall  ne'er  embrace. 
None  stand  by  his  low  bed  —  though  even  the  mind 
Be  wavering,  which  long  awed  and  awes  mankind  : 
Smile  —  for  the  fetter'd  eagle  breaks  his  chain, 
And  higher  worlds  than  this  are  his  again. 

IV. 

How,  if  that  soaring  spirit  still  retain 
A  conscious  twilight  of  his  blazing  reign. 
How  must  he  smile,  on  looking  down,  to  see 
The  little  that  he  was  and  sought  to  be  !  > 

What  though  his  name  a  wider  empire  found 
Than  his  ambition,  though  with  scarce  a  bound  ; 
Though  first  in  glory,  deepest  in  reverse, 
He  tasted  empire's  blessings  and  its  curse  ; 
Though  kings,  rejoicing  in  their  late  escape 
From  chains,  would  gladly  be  their  tyrant's  ape  ; 
How  must  he  smile,  and  turn  to  yon  lone  grave, 
The  proudest  sea-mark  that  o'ertops  the  wave  ! 
What  though  his  gaoler,  dqteous  to  the  last. 
Scarce  deem'd  the  coffin's  lead  could  keep  him  fast, 
Refusing  one  poor  line  along  the  lid. 
To  date  the  birth  and  death  of  all  it  hid  ; 
That  name  shall  hallow  the  ignoble  shore, 
A  talisman  to  all  save  him  who  bore : 
The  fleets  that  sweep  before  the  eastern  blast 
Shall  hear  their  sea. boys  hail  it  from  the  mast ; 
When  Victory's  Gallic  column  shall  but  rise, 
Like  Pompey's  pillar,  in  a  desert's  skies, 
The  rocky  isle  that  holds  or  held  his  dust 
Shall  crown  the  Atlantic  like  the  hero's  bust* 
And  mighty  nature  o'er  his  obsequies 
Do  more  than  niggard  envy  still  denies. 
But  what  are  these  to  him  f  Can  glory's  lust 
Touch  the  freed  spirit  or  the  fetter'd  dust  1 
Small  care  hath  he  of  what  his  tomb  consists  ; 
Nought  if  he  sleeps  —  nor  more  if  he  exists  : 


472  THB   AOB   OF   BRONXE. 

Alike  tl^  better-seeing  shade  will  smile 

On  the  rude  cavern  of  the  rocky  isle, 

As  if  his  ashes  found  their  latest  home 

In  Rome's  Pantheon  or  Gaul's  mimic  dome. 

He  wants  not  this  ;  but  France  shall  feel  the  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  tho  battle's  van, 

To  form,  like  Guesclin's  *  dust,  her  talisman. 

But  be  it  as  it  is  —  the  time  may  come 

His  name  shall  beat  the  alarm,  like  Ziska's  drum. 

V. 

Oh  heaven !  of  which  he  was  in  power  a  feature  ; 

Oh  earth !  of  which  he  was  a  noble  creature ; 

Thou  isle  !  to  be  remeraber'd  long  and  well, 

That  saw'st  the  unfledg'd  eaglet  chip  his  shell ! 

Ye  Alps,  which  view'd  him  in  his  dawning  flights 

Hover,  the  victor  of  a  hundred  fights  ! 

Thou  Rome,  who  saw'st  thy  Caesar's  deeds  outdone  • 

Alas  !  why  pass'd  he  too  the  Rubicon  — 

The  Rubicon  of  man's  awaken'd  rights,. 

To  herd  with  vulgar  kings  and  parasites? 

Egypt !  from  whose  all  dateless  tombs  arose 

Forgotten  Pharaohs  from  their  long  repose, 

And  shook  within  their  pyramids  to  hear 

A  new  Camhyses  thundering  in  their  ear ; 

While  >iie  dark  shades  of  forty  ages  stood  • 

Like  startled  giants  by  Nile's  famous  flood ; 

Or  from  the  pyramid's  tall  pinnacle 

Beheld  the  desert  peopled,  as  from  helU 

With  clashing  hosts,  who  strew'd  the  barren  sand 

To  re-manure  the  uncultivated  land ! 

Spain !  which,  a  moment  mindless  of  the  Cid, 

Beheld  his  banner  flouting  thy  Madrid  ! 

Austria  !  which  saw  thy  twice-ta'en  capital 

Twice  spared  to  be  the  traitress  of  his  fall ! 

Ye  race  of  Frederic  !  —  Frederics  but  in  name 

And  falsehood  —  heirs  to  all  except  his  fi|pe  ; 

Who,  crush'd  at  Jena,  crouch'd  at  Berlin,  feU 

First,  and  but  rose  to  follow  !  Ye  who  dwell 

Where  Kosciusko  dwelt,  remembering  yet 

*  Guesclin  died  during^  the  siege^f  a  city ;  it  surrendered,  and  the  keys  were 
brought  and  laid  upon  his  bier,  so  that  the  place  might  appear  rendered  to  his 
aahet. 


rVB   AOB   OF  BRONZE.  473 

The  unpaid  amount  of  Catherine's  bloody  debt ! 

Poland  !  o'er  which  the  avenging  angel  past, 

But  lefl  thee  as  he  found  thee,  still  a  waste, 

Forgetting  all  thy  still  enduring  claim, 

Thy  lotted  people  and  extinguished  name, 

Thy  sigh  for  freedom,  thy  long-flowing  tear, 

That  sound  that  crushes  in  the  tyrant's  ear  — 

Kosciusko !  On  —  on  —  on  —  the  thirst  of  war 

Gasps  for  the  gore  of  serfs,  and  of  their  czar. 

The  half  barbaric  Moscow's  minarets 

Gleam  in  the  sun,  but 't  is  a  sun  that  sets ! 

Moscow  !  thou  limit  of  his  long  career, 

For  which  rude  Charles  had  wept  his  frozen  tear 

To  see  in  vain  —  he  saw  thee  —  how  T  with  spire 

And  palace  fuel  to  one  common  fire. 

To  this  the  soldier  lent  his  kindling  match. 

To  this  the  peasant  gave  his  cottage  thatch. 

To  this  the  merchant  flung  his  hoarded  store. 

The  prince  his  hall  —  and  Moscow  was  no  more ! 

Sublimest  of  volcanos  !  Etna's  flame 

Pales  before  thine,  and  quenchless  Hecla  's  tame  ;         ' 

Vesuvius  shows  his  blaze,  an  usual  sight 

For  gaping  tourists,  from  his  hackney 'd  height : 

Thou  stand'st  alone  unrivall'd,  till  the  fire 

To  come,  in  which  all  empires  shall  expire  ! 

Thou  other  element !  as  strong  and  stem, 
To  teach  a  lesson  conquerors  will  not  learn ! 
Whose  icy  wing  flapp'd  o'er  the  faltering  foe, 
Till  fell  a  hero  with  each  flake  of  snow ; 
How  did  they  numbing  beak  and  silent  fang 
Pierce,  till  hosts  perish'd  with  a  single  pang? 
In  vain  shall  Seine  look  up  along  his  banks 
For  the  gay  thousands  of  his  dashing  ranks  ! 
In  vain  shall  France  recall  beneath  her  vines 
Her  youth  —  their  blood  flows  faster  than  her  wines ; 
Or  stagnant  in  their  human  ice  remains 
In  frozen  mummies  on  the  Polar  plains. 
In  vain  will  Italy's  broad  sun  awaken 
Her  ofl!spring  chill'd  ;  its  beams  are  now  forsaken; 
Of  all  the  trophies  gather'd  from  the  war, 
What  shall  return  ?  —  the  conqueror's  broken  car  ! 
The  conqueror's  yet  unbroken  heart !     Again 
The  horn  of  Roland  sounds,  and  not  in  vain. 
Lutzen,  where  fell  the  Swede  of  victory, 
'^eholds  him  conquer,  but,  alas !  not  die  : 


474  TUB   AGB   OF  BRONXK. 

Dresden  surveys  three  despots  fly  once  more 

Before  their  sovereign,  —  sovereign  as  before  j 

But  there  exhausted  Fortune  quits  the  field, 

And  Leipsic's  treason  bids  the  unvanquish'd  yield ! 

The  Saxon  jackal  leaves  the  lion's  side 

To  turn  the  bear's,  and  wolPs,  and  fox's  guide  ; 

And  backward  to  the  den  of  his  despair 

The  forest  monarch  shrinks,  but  finds  no  lair. 

Oh  ye  !  and  each,  and  all !  Oh  France !  who  found    . 
Thy  long  fair  fields,  plough'd  up  as  hostile  ground. 
Disputed  foot  by  foot,  till  treason,  stilt 
His  only  victor,  from  Montmartre's  hill 
Look'd  down  o'er  trampled  Paris  !  and  thou  Isley 
Which  seest  Etruria  from  thy  ramparts  smile. 
Thou  momentary  shelter  of  his  pride, 
Till  woo'd  by  danger,  his  yet  weeping  bride ! 
Oh,  France  !  retaken  by*  a  single  march, 
Whose  path  was  through  one  long  triumphal  arch  I 
Oh,  bloody  and  nM>st  bootless  Waterloo ! 
Which  proves  how  fools  may  have  their  fortune  too. 
Won  half  by  blunder,  half  by  treachery  : 
Oh  dull  Saint  Helen !  with  thy  gaoler  nigh  — 
Hear !  hear  Prometheus  *  from  his  rock  appeal 
To  earth,  air,  ocean,  all  that  felt  or  feel 
His  power  and  glory,  all  who  yet  shall  hear 
A  name  eternal  as  the  rolling  year  ; 
He  teaches  them  the  lesson  taught  so  long. 
So  oft,  so  vainly  --^. learn  to  do  no  wrong  ! 
A  single  step  into  the  right  had  made 
This  man  the  Washington  of  worlds  betray'd : 
A  single  step  into  the  wrong  has  given 
His  name  a  doubt  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven ; 
The  reed  of  Fortune,  and  of  thrones  the  rod, 
Of  Fame  the  Moloch  or  the  demigod  ; 
His  country's  Ceesar,  Europe's  Hannibal, 
Without  their  decent  dignity  of  fall. 
Tet  Vanity  herself  had  better  taught 
A  surer  path  even  to  the  fame  he  sougot. 
By  pointing  out  on  history's  fruitless  page 
Ten  thousand  conquerors  for  a  single  sage. 
While  Franklin's  quiet  memory  climbs  to  heaven. 
Calming  the  lightning  which  he  thence  hath  riven, 

*  I  refer  the  reader  to  the  fint  addreai  of  I^metheus  in  iEachyliia,  wh0D- 
it  left  alone  by  his  attendants,  and  before  the  arrival  of  the  Chorus  of 
nymphs* 


THE    AGE    OF   BBOXSS.  476 

Or  drawing  from  the  no  less  kindled  earth 
Freedom  and  peace  to  that  which  boasts  his  birth  ; 
While  Washington's  a  watchword,  such  as  ne'er 
Shall  sink  while  there  's  an  echo  left  to  air : 
While  even  the  Spaniard's  thirst  of  gold  and  war 
Forgets  Pizarro  to  shout  Bolivar  ! 
Alas !  why  must  the  same  Atlantic  wave 
Which  wafted  freedom  gird  a  tyrant's  grave  — 
The  king  of  kings,  and  yet  of  slaves  the  slave, 
Who  bursts  the  chains  of  millions  to  renew 
The  very  fetters  which  his  arm  broke  through, 
And  crush'd  the  rights  of  Europe  and  his  own, 
To  flit  between  a  dungeon  and  a  throne  7 

VI. 

But 't  will  not  be  —  the  spark  's  awaken 'd  *—lo ! 

The  swarthy  Spaniard  feels  his  former  glow  ; 

The  same  high  spirit  which  beat  back  the  Moor 

Through  eight  long  ages  of  alternate  gore 

Revives  —  and  where  7  in  that  avenging  clime 

Where  Spain  was  once  synonymous  with  crime, 

Where  Cortes'  and  Pizarro's  banner  flew. 

The  infant  world  redeems  her  name  of  ^  iVino." 

'T  is  the  old  aspiration  breathed  afresh, 

To  kindle  souls  within  degraded  flesh, 

Such  as  repulsed  the  Persian  from  the  shore 

Where  Greece  was  —  No  !  she  still  is  Greece  once  more. 

One  common  cause  makes  myriads  of  one  breast, 

Slaves  of  the  east,  or  helots  of  the  west ; 

On  Andes'  and  on  Athos'  peaks  unfurl 'd. 

The  self-same  standard  streams  o'er  either  world  ; 

The  Athenian  wears  again  Harmodius'  sword ; 

The  Chili  chief  abjures  his  foreign  lord  ; 

The  Spartan  knows  himself  once  more  a  Greek, 

Young  Freedom  plumes  the  crest  of  each  cacique ; 

Debating  despots,  hemm'd  on  either  shore, 

Shrink  vainly  from  the  roused  Atlantic's  roar  ; 

Through  Calpe's  strait  the  rolling  tides  advance, 

Sweep  slightly  by  the  half-tamed  land  of  France, 

Dash  o'er  the  old  Spaniard's  cradle,  and  would  fain 

Unite  Ausonia  to  the  mighty  main : 

But  driven  from  thence  awhile,  yet  not  for  aye, 

Break  o'er  th'  .£gean,  mmdful  of  the  day 

Of  Salamis !  —  there,  there  the  waves  arise, 

Not  to  be  lull'd  by  tyrant  victories* 


476  THE   AGE   OF  BBOITSE. 

Lone,  lost,  abandon'd  in  their  utmost  need 

By  Christians,  unto  whom  they  gave  their  creed, 

The  desolated  lands,  the  ravaged  isle, 

The  foster'd  feud  encouraged  to  beguile, 

The  aid  evaded,  and  the  cold  delay, 

Prolong'd  but  in  the  hope  to  make  a  prey ;  — 

These,  these  shall  tell  the  tale,  and  Greece  can  show 

The  false  friend  worse  than  the  infuriate  foe. 

But  this  is  well :  Greeks  only  should  free  Greece, 

Not  the  barbarian,  with  his  mask  of  peace. 

How  should  the  autocrat  of  bondage  be 

The  king  of  serfs,  and  set  the  nations  free  ? 

Better  still  serve  the  haughty  Mussulman, 

Than  swell  the  Cossaque's  prowling  caravan  ; 

Better  still  toil  for  masters,  than  await. 

The  slave  of  slaves,  before  a  Russian  gate,  — 

Numbered  by  hordes,  a  human  capital, 

A  live  estate,  existing  but  far  thrall, 

Lotted  by  thousands,  as  a  meet  reward 

For  the  first  courtier  in  the  Czar's  regard ; 

Wliile  their  immediate  owner  never  tastes 

His  sleep,  sans  dreaming  of  Siberia's  wastes  ; 

Better  succumb  even  to  their  own  despair, 

And  drive  the  camel  that  purvey  the  bear.' 

VII. 

But  not  alone  within  the  hoariest  clime 

Where  Freedom  dates  her  birth  with  that  of  Time, 

And  not  alone  where,  plunged  in  night,  a  crowd 

Of  Incas  darken  to  a  dubious  cloud. 

The  dawn  revives  :  renown'd,  romantic  Spain, 

Holds  back  the  invader  from  her  soil  again. 

Not  now  the  Roman  tribe  nor  Punic  horde 

Demands  her  fields  as  lists  to  prove  the  sword  ; 

Not  now  the  Vandal  or  the  Visigoth 

Pollute  the  plains,  aUke  abhorring  both ; 

Nor  old  Pelayo  on  his  mountain  rears 

The  warlike  fathers  of  a  thousand  years. 

That  seed  is  sown  and  reap'd,  as  oflt  the  Moor 

Sighs  to  remember  on  his  dusky  shore. 

Long  in  the  peasant's  song  or  poet's  page 

Has  dwelt  the  memory  of  Abencerrage  ; 

The  Zegri,  and  the  captive  victors,  flung 

Back  to  the  barbarous  realm  from  whence  they  sprung. 

But  these  are  gone  — >  their  faith,  their  swords,  their  sway, 

Yet  lefl  more  anti-christian  foes  than  they : 


THB    AGE   or  BRONZE.  477 

The  bigot  monarch  and  the  butcher  priest, 

The  Inquisition,  with  her  burning  feast, 

The  faith's  red  ♦*  auto,"  fed  with  human  fuel, 

While  sate  the  catholic  Moloch,  calmly  cruel. 

Enjoying,  with  inexorable  eye, 

That  fiery  festival  of  agony ! 

The  stern  or  feeble  sovereign,  one  or  both 

By  turns  ;  the  haughtiness  whose  pride  was  sloth : 

The  long  degenerate  noble  ;  the  debased 

Hidalgo,  and  the  peasant  less  disgraced, 

But  more  degraded  ;  the  unpeopled  realm  ; 

The  once  proud  navy  which  forgot  the  helm ; 

The  once  impervious  phalanx  disarray'd  ; 

The  idle  forge  that  form'd  Toledo's  blade  ; 

The  foreign  wealth  that  flow'd  on  ev'ry  shore. 

Save  hers  who  earn'd  it  with  the  natives*  gore ; 

The  very  language  which  might  vie  with  Rome's, 

And  once  was  known  to  nations  like  their  homes. 

Neglected  or  forgotten :  —  such  was  Spain  ; 

But  8u6h  she  is  not,  nor  shall  be  again. 

These  worst,  these  home  invaders,  felt  and  feel 

The  new  Numantine  soul  of  old  Castile. 

Up !  up  again !  undaunted  Tauridor ! 

The  bull  of  Phalaris  renews  his  roar ; 

Mount,  chivalrous  Hidalgo !  not  in  vain 

Revive  the  cry  —  "  la  go  !  and  close  Spain  !  "  • 

Yes,  close  her  with  your  armed  bosoms  round, 

And  form  the  barrier  which  Napoleon  found,-*- 

The  exterminating  war,  the  desert  plain, 

The  streets  without  a  tenant,  save  the  slain , 

The  wild  sierra,  with  its  wilder  troop 

Of  vulture-plumed  guerrillas,  on  the  stoop 

For  their  incessant  prey ;  the  desperate  wall 

Of  Saragossa,  mightiest  in  her  fall ; 

The  man  nerved  to  a  spirit,  and  the  maid 

Waving  her  more  than  Amazonian  blade ; 

The  knife  of  Arragon,t  Toledo's  steel ; 

The  famous  lance  of  chivalrous  Castile : 

The  unerring  rifle  of  the  Catalan  ; 

The  Andalusian  courser  in  the  \'an ; 

The  torch  to  make  a  Moscow  of  Madrid  ; 

And  in  each  heart  the  spirit  of  the  (  i<!  •  - 

*  **8t  lago  !  and  dote  Spain ! "  tlie  old  Spanish  war-crjr. 
t  The  Armfcmiant  are  peculiarly  dexterous  in  the  use  of  thia  weapon,  and 
difpbyed  ii  particularly  in  former  French  wars. 


478  THE   AeB   OF  BROlffB. 

Such  have  been,  such  shall  be,  such  are.     Adyance, 
And  win  —  not  Spain,  but  thine  own  freedom,  France ! 

vni« 

But  lo  !  a  Congress !     What !  thai  hallow'd  name 
Which  freed  the  Atlantic  ?     May  we  hope  the  same 
»    -     For  outworn  Europe  ?    With  the  sound  arise, 
Like  Samuel's  shade  to  Saul's  monarchic  eyes. 
The  prophets  of  young  Freedom,  summoned  far 
From  climes  of  Washington  and  Bolivar ; 
Henry,  the  forest-born  Demosthenes, 
Whose  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  bteak* 
But  who  compose  this  senate  of  the  few 
That  should  redeem  the  many  ?     Who  renew 
This  consecrated  name,  till  now  assign'd 
To  councils  held  to  benefit  mankind? 
Who  now  assemble  at  the  holy  call  ? 
The  blest  Alliance,  which  says  three  are  all ! 
An  earthly  trinity !  which  wears  the  shape 
Of  heaven's,  as  man  is  mimick'd  by  the  ape. 
A  pious  unity !  in  purpose  one  -— 
To  melt  three  fools  to  a  Napoleon. 
Why,  Eg3rpt's  gods  were  rational  to  these ; 
Their  dogs  and  oxen  knew  their  own  degrees. 
And,  quiet  in  their  kennel  or  their  shed. 
Cared  little,  so  that  they  were  duly  fed  ; 
But  these,  more  hungry,  must  have  something  more. 
The  power  to  bark  and  bite,  to  toss  and  gore. 
Ah !  how  much  happier  were  good  iEIsop  s  frogs 
Than  we  1  for  ours  are  animated  logs. 
With  ponderous  malice  swaying  to  and  fro. 
And  crushing  nations  with  a  stupid  blow ; 
All  dully  anxious  to  leave  little  work 
Unto  the  revolutionary  stork. 

XX. 

Thrice  blest  Verona !  since  the  holy  tiiree 
With  their  imperial  presence  shine  on  thee ; 
Honour'd  by  them,  thy  treacherous  site  forgets 
The  vaunted  tomb  of  **  all  the  Capulets  ; " 
Thy  Scaligers  —  for  what  was  "  Dog  the  Great,'* 
^  Can  Grande,"  (which  I  venture  to  translate,) 


THS   AOB   OF  BROim.  479 

To  these  miUimer  pugs  ?    Thy  poet  too, 

Catullus,  whose  old  laurels  yield  to  new  ; 

Thine  amphitheatre,  where  Romans  sate ; 

And  Dante's  exile  shelter'd  by  the  gate ; 

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 ! 

Crowd  to  the  theatre  with  loyal  rage, 

The  comedy  is  not  upon  the  stage ; 

The  show  is  rich  in  ribandry  and  stars. 

Then  gaze  upon  it  through  thy  dungeon  bars ; 

Clap  thy  permitted  palms,  kind  Italy, 

For  thus  much  still  thy  fetter'd  hands  are  free* 


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. 

But  harden'd  back  whene'er  the  morning 's  raw ; 

With  no  objection  to  true  liberty. 

Except  that  it  would  make  the  nations  free. 

How  well  the  imperial  dandy  prates  of  peace. 

How  fiiin,  if  Greeks  would  be  his  slaves,  free  Greece ! 

How  nobly  gave  he  back  the  Poles  their  Diet, 

Then  told  pugnacious  Poland  to  be  quiet ! 

How  kindly  would  he  send  the  mild  Ukraine, 

With  all  her  pleasant  pulks,  to  lecture  Spain  ? 

How  royally  show  off  in  proud  Madrid 

His  goodly  persoA,  from  the  South  lonff  hid ! 

A  blessing  cheaply  purchased,  the  world  knows, 

By  having  Muscovites  for  friends  or  foes. 

Proceed,  thou  namesake  of  ffreat  Philip's  son ! 

La  Harpe,  thine  Aristotle,  feckons  on ; 

And  that  which  Scythia  was  to  him  of  yore 

Find  with  €hy  Scythians  on  Iberia's  shore. 

Tet  think  upon,  thou  somewhat  aged  youth, 

Thy  predecessor  on  the  banks  of  Pruth  ; 

*  The  fomow  old  mtn  of  Veioiia. 


460  THB   AGB   OF   BRON<B. 

Thou  hast  to  aid  thee,  should  his  lot  be  thinet 
Many  an  old  woman,  but  no  Catherine.* 
Spain,  too,  hath  rocks,  and  rivers,  and  defiles  — 
The  bear  may  rush  into  the  lion's  toils: 
Fatal  to  Goths  are  Xeres'  sunny  fields ; 
Think'st  thou  to  thee  Napoleon's  victor  yields  ? 
•       Better  reclaim  thy  deserts,  turn  thy  swords 

To  ploughshares,  shave  and  wash  thy  Bashkir  hordos. 

Redeem  thy  realms  from  slavery  aiid  the  knout. 

Than  follow  headlong  in  the  fatal  route. 

To  infest  the  clime  whose  skies  and  laws  are  pure 

With  thy  foul  legions.     Spain  wants  no  manure : 

Her  soil  is  fertile,  but  she  feeds  no  foe ; 

Her  vultures,  too,  were  gorged  not  long  ago ; 

And  wouldst  thou  furnish  them  with  fresher  prey  I 

Alas  !  thou  wilt  not  conquer,  but  purvey. 

I  am  Diogenes;  though  Russ  and  Hun 

Stand  between  mine  and  many  a  myriad's  sun  ; 

But  were  I  not  Diogenes,  I  'd  wander 

Rather  a  worm  than  such  an  Alexander ! 

Be  slaves  who  will,  the  cynic  shall  be  free ; 

His  tub  hath  tougher  walls  than  Sinope : 

Still  will  he  hold  his  lantern  up  to  scan 

The  face  of  monarchs  for  an  '<  honest  man.'' 

XI. 

And  what  doth  Gaul,  the  all-prolific  land 
Of  ne  plus  ultra  ultras  and  their  band 
Of  mercenaries  ?  and  her  noisy  chambers 
And  tribune,  which  each  orator  first  clambers 
Before  he  finds  a  voice,  and  when  't  is  found, 
Hears  "  the  lie  "  echo  for  his  answer  round  ? 
Our  British  Commons  sometimes  deign  to  *'  hear !  " 
A  Gallic  senate  hath  more  tongue  than  ear ; 
Evon  Constant,  their  sole  master  of  debate, 
Must  fight  next  day  his  speech  to  vindicate. 
But  this  costs  little  to  true  Franks,  who  had  rather 
Combat  than  listen,  were  it  to  their  father. 
What  is  the  simple  standing  of  a  shot. 
To  listening  long,  and  interrupting  not  ? 
Though  this  was  not  the  method  of  old  Rome, 
When  TuUy  fulmined  o'er  each  vocal  dome, 
Demosthenes  has  sanction'd  the  transaction. 
In  saying  eloquence  meant  "  Action,  action  !  " 

*  The  dexterity  of  Catherine  extricated  Peter  (c&Sed  the  Great  by  conileiy,) 
when  rarrounded  by  the  MutttdiMng  on  the  bnoks  of  Uie  river  Pknth. 


THS  A«l  OF  BBOnSB.  481 

zn. 

But  wh^e's  the  monarch  ?  hath  he  dined  ?  or  yet 

Groans  beneath  indigestion's  heavy  debt  ? 

Hare  revolutionary  pat^s  risen, 

And  tum'd  the  royal  entrails  to  a  prison  ? 

Have  discontented  movements  stirr'd  the  troops  ? 

Or  have  no  movements  followed  traitorous  soups  ? 

Have  Carbonaro  cooks  not  carbonadoed 

Each  course  enough  1  or  doctors  dire  dissuaded 

Repletion  ?  Ah  !  in  thy  dejected  looks 

I  read  all  France's  treason  in  her  cooks  ! 

Good  classic  Louis !  is  it,  canst  thou  say, 

Desirable  to  be  the  *'  Desir^  ?  " 

Why  wouldst  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  Epicurean,  form'd,  at  best, 

To  be  a  kind  host  and  as  good  a  guest. 

To  talk  of  letters,  and  to  know  by  heart 

One  Judf  the  poet's,  all  the  gourmand's  art ; 

A  scholar  always,  now  and  then  a  wit. 

And  gentle  when  digestion  may  permit ;  ^- 

But  not  to  govern  lands  enslaved  or  free ; 

The  gout  was  martyrdom  enough  for  thee. 

XIH. 

Shall  noble  Albion  pass  without  a  phrase 

From  a  bold  Briton  in  her  wonted  praise  ? 

**Arts  —  arms  —  and     George  —  and    glory  —  and    the 

isles  — 
And  happy  Britain  —  wealth  —  and  Freedom's  smiles  — 
White  clifis,  that  held  invasion  far  aloof — 
Contented  subjects,  all  alike  tax-proof — 
Proud  Wellington,  with  eagle  beak  so  curl'd. 
That  nose,  the  hook  where  he  suspends  the  world !  * 

And  Waterloo — and  trade  —•and (hush !  not  yet 

A  syllable  of  imposts  or  of  debt^  — 
And  ne'er  (enough)  lamented  Cfastlereagh, 
Whose  penknife  slit  a  goose-quill  t'  other  day  — 

*  "  N«BO  roipendit  adunoo.** — Horace, 
(The  RomAn  appliet  it  to  one  who  merely  was  imperiouB  to  hii  ac<iaaait* 
ue.) 
VOL    v  — I  i 


482  THB   AOB   OF  KBOHZB. 

And  '  pilots  who  have  weather'd  every  stonn  *  — 
(But,  no,  not  even  for  rhyme's  sake,  name  Reform)/' 
These  are  the  themes  thus  sung  so  oft  before, 
Methinks  we  need  not  sing  them  any  more ; 
Found  in  so  many  volumes  far  and  near, 
There  's  no  occasion  you  should  find  them  here. 
Tet  something  may  remain  perchance  to  chime 
With  reason,  and,  what 's  stranger  still,  with  rhyme. 
Even  this  thy  genius,  Canning !  may  permit. 
Who,  bred  a  statesman,  still  wast  bom  a  wit. 
And  never,  even  in  that  dull  House,  couldst  tame 
To  unleaven'd  prose  thine  own  poetic  flame ; 
Our  last,  our  best,  our  only  orator. 
Even  I  can  praise  thee —  Tories  do  no  more  : 
Nay,  not  so  much ;  ^-  they  hate  thee,  man,  because 
Thy  spirit  less  upholds  them  than  it  awes, 
*       The  hounds  will  gather  to  their  huntsman's  hollo. 
And  where  he  leads  the  duteous  pack  will  follow ; 
But  not  for  love  mistakei  their  yelling  cty ; 
Their  yelp  for  game  is  not  an  eulogy  ; 
Less  faithful  far  than  the  four-footed  pack, 
A  dubious  scent  would  lure  the  bipeds  back. 
Thy  saddle-girths  are  not  yet  quite  secure, 
Nor  royal  stallion's  feet  extrem^y  sure ; 
The  unwieldy  old  white  horse  is  apt  at  last 
To  stumble,  kick,  and  now  and  then  stick  fast 
With  his  great  self  and  rider  in  the  mud  : 
But  what  of  that  ?  the  animal  shows  blood* 

xnr. 
Alas,  the  country  ?  how  shall  tongue  or  pen 
Bewail  her  now  uncountry  gentlemen  t 
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  I 
To  hunt,  and  vote,  and  raise  the  price  of  com  t 
But  com,  like  every  mortal  thing,  must  faU, 
Kings,  conquerors,  and  markets  most  of  all. 
And  must  ye  fall  with  every  ear  of  erain  t 
Why  would  you  trouble  %uonapartes  reign  t 
He  was  your  great  Triptolemus  ;  his  vices 
Destroyed  but  reahns,  and  still  maintained  your  prices ; 
He  amplified  to  every  lord's  content 
The  grand  agrarian  alchymy,  hight  rent. 
Why  did  the  tyrant  stumble  on  the  Tartars, 
And  lower  wheat  to  such  desponding  quarters  ? 


THS  AGi  or  BXomuB.  469 

Why  did  you  chain  him  on  yon  isle  so  lone ! 

The  man  was  worth  much  more  upon  his  throne. 

True,  blood  and  treasure  boundlessly  were  spilt ; 

But  what  of  that  t  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  7 

The  purse-proud  tenant,  never  known  to  fail  7 

The  farm  which  never  yet  was  left  on  hand  t 

The  marsh  reclaimed  to  most  improving  land? 

The  impatient  hope  of  the  expiring  lease  7 

The  doubling  rental  7     What  an  evil 's  peace  ! 

In  vain  the  prize  excites  the  ploughman's  skill, 

In  vain  the  Commons  pass  their  patriot  bill ; 

The  landed  interest —  (you  may  understand 

The  phrase  much  better  leaving  out  the  land) 

The  land  self-interest  groans  from  shore  to  shore* 

For  fear  that  plenty  should  attain  the  poor. 

Up,  up  again,  ye  rents  !  exalt  your  notes. 

Or  else  the  ministry  will  lose  their  votes. 

And  patriotism,  so  delicately  nice. 

Her  loaves  will  lower  to  the  market  price ; 

For  ah !  ^  the  loaves  and  fishes,"  once  so  high. 

Are  gone  —  their  oven  closed,  their  ocean  dry. 

And  nought  remains  of  all  the  millions  spent. 

Excepting  to  grow  moderate  and  content. 

They  who  are  not  so,  had  their  turn  —  and  tui 

About  still  flows  from  Fortune's  equal  urn ; 

Now  let  their  virtue  be  its  own  reward, 

And  share  the  blessings  which  themselves  prepared. 

See  these  inglorious  Cincinnati  swarm. 

Farmers  of  war,  dictators  of  the  farm ; 

Their  ploughshare  was  the  sword  in  hireling  hands, 

Their  fields  manured  by  gore  of  other  lands ; 

Safe  in  their  barns,  these  Sabine  tiUers  sent 

Their  brethren  out  to  battle  — why  7  for  rent ! 

Tear  after  year  they  voted  cent,  per  cent.. 

Blood,  sweat,  and  tear-wrung  millions  —  why  7  for  rent! 

They  roar'd,  they  dined,  they  drank,  they  swore  they 

meant 
To  die  for  England  —  why  then  live  7  —  for  rent ! 
The  peace  has  made  one  general  malcontent 
Of  these  high-market  patriots ;  war  was  rent ! 
Their  love  of  country,  millions  aU  mis-spent, 
How  reconcile  7  by  reconciling  rent ! 
And  will  they  not  repay  the  treasures  lent  7 


484  THS   AOB   or   BSOIIU. 

No  :  down  with  every  thing,  and  up  with  rent ! 

Their  good,  ill,  healdi,  wealth,  joy,  or  discontent. 

Being,  end,  aim,  religion  —  rent,  rent,  rent  I 

Thou  sold'st  thy  birthright,  Esau !  for  a  mess; 

Thou  shouldst  have  gotten  more,  or  eaten  less ; 

Now  thou  hast  swill'd  thy  pottage,  thy  demands 

Are  idle  ;  Israel  says  the  bargain  stands. 

Such,  landlords  !  was  your  appetite  for  war, 

And,  gorged  with  blood,  you  grumble  at  a  scar ! 

What !  would  they  spread  their  earthquake  even  o'er  cash  ? 

And  when  land  crumbles,  bid  firm  paper  crash  1 

So  rent  may  rise,  bid  bank  and  nation  fall. 

And  found  on  'Change  a  Fundling  Hospital  ? 

Lo,  Mother  Church,  while  all  religion  writhes. 

Like  Niobe,  weeps  o'er  her  ofispring.  Tithes ; 

The  prelates  go  to  —  where  the  saints  have  gone. 

And  proud  pluralities  subside  to  one  ; 

Church,  state,  and  faction  wrestle  in  the  dark, 

Toss'd  by  the  deluge  in  their  common  ark. 

Shorn  of  her  bishops,  banks,  and  dividends. 

Another  Babel  soars  —  but  Britain  ends. 

And  why  ?  to  pamper  the  self-seeking  wants. 

And  prop  the  hill  of  these  agrarian  ants. 

"  Go  to  these  ants,  thou  sluggard,  and  be  wise  ;" 

Admire  their  patience  through  each  sacrifice. 

Till  taught  to  feel  the  lesson  of  their  pride. 

The  price  of  taxes  and  of  homicide  ; 

Admire  their  justice,  wliich  would  fain  deny 

The  debt  of  nations  :  —  pray  who  made  it  High  ? 


Or  turn  to  sail  between  those  shifting  rocks, 

The  new  Symplegades  —  the  crushing  Stocks, 

Where  Midas  might  again  his  wish  behold 

In  real  paper  or  imagined  gold. 

That  magic  palace  of  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  !  not  indeed  in  mines, 

Or  peace  or  plenty,  com  or  oil,  or  wines ; 

No  land  of  Canaan,  full  of  milk  and  honey, 

Nor  (save  in  paper  shekels)  ready  money : 


t:ie  age  or  bronze.  485 

But  let  119  not  to  own  the  truth  refuse, 
Was  ever  Christian  land  so  rich  in  Jews  ? 
Those  parted  with  their  teeth  to  good  King  John, 
And  now,  ye  kings !  they  kindly  draw  your  own  ; 
All  states,  all  things,  all  sovereigns  they  control. 
And  waft  a  loan  ^  from  Indus  to  the  pole." 
The  banker  —  broker  —  baron  —  brethren,  speed 
To  aid  these  bankrupt  tyrants  in  their  need. 
Nor  these  alone  ;  Columbia  feels  no  less 
Fresh  speculations  follow  each  success  ; 
And  philanthropic  Israel  deigns  to  drain 
Her  mild  per-centage  from  exhausted  Spain. 
Not  without  Abraham's  seed  can  Russia  march  ; 
^  is  gold,  not  steel,  that  rears  the  conqueror's  arch. 
Two  Jews,  a  chosen  people,  can  command 
In  every  realm  their  scripture-promised  land :  — 
Two  Jews  keep  down  the  Romans,  and  uphold 
The  accursed  Hun,  more  brutal  than  of  old  : 
Two  Jews  —  hut  not  Samaritans  —  direct 
The  world,  with  all  the  spirit  of  their  sect. 
What  is  the  happiness  of  earth  to  them  7 
A  congress  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  their  Jewish  gaberdine," 
But  honour  them  as  portion  of  the  show  — 
^Where  now,  oh  pope  !  is  thy  forsaken  toe  t 
Could  it  not  favour  Judah  with  some  kicks  7 
Or  has  it  ceased  to  ^*  kick  against  the  pricks  7  **) 
On  Shylock's  shore  behold  them  stand  afresh, 
To  cut  from  nations'  hearts  their  **  pound  of  flesh.'* 

XVI. 

Strange  sight  this  Congress !  destined  to  unite 

All  that 's  incongruous,  all  that 's  opposite. 

I  speak  not  of  thi  Sovereigns  — they  're  alike, 

A  common  coin  as  ever  mint  could  strike : 

But  those  who  sway  the  puppets,  pull  the  strings, 

Have  more  of  motley  than  their  heavy  kings. 

Jews,  authors,  generals,  charlatans,  combine. 

While  Europe  wonders  at  the  vast  design  : 

There  Metternich,  power's  foremost  parasite. 

Cajoles ;  there  Wellington  forgets  to  fight ; 

There  Chateaubriand  forms  new  books  of  martyrs  ;  * 

Bfomieur  Chateaubriand,  who  has  not  forgotten  the  author  in  the  minifltei; 


486  THB   AGS   OF  BSONSB. 

And  subtle  Greeks  intrigue  for  stupid  Tartars ; 

There  Montmorenci,  the  sworn  foe  to  charters. 

Turns  a  diplomatist  of  great  eclat, 

To  furnish  articles  for  the  "D6bat8  ;  " 

Of  war  so  certain  —  yet  not  quite  so  sure 

As  his  dismissal  in  the  '^  Moniteur/' 

Alas  !  how  could  his  cabinet  thus  err  7 

Can  peace  be  worth  an  ultra-minister  7 

He  falls  indeed,  perhaps  to  rise  again, 

<'  Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquer'd  Spain." 

xvn. 
Enough  of  this  —  a  sight  more  moumftil  woes 
The  averted  eye  of  the  reluctant  muse* 
The  imperial  daughter,  the  imperial  bride^ 
The  imperial  victim  —  sacrifice  to  pride ; 
The  mother  of  the  hero's  hope,  the  boy, 
The  young  Astyanax  of  modern  Troy ; 
The  still  pale  shadow  of  the  loftiest  queen 
That  earth  has  yet  to  see,  or  e'er  hath  seen ; 
She  flits  amidst  the  phantoms  of  the  hour, 
>        The  theme  of  pity,  and  the  wreck  of  power. 
Oh,  cruel  mockery  !  Could  not  Austria  spare 
A  daughter  ?     What  did  France's  widow  there  ? 
Her  fitter  place  was  by  St.  Helen's  wave. 
Her  only  throne  is  in  Napoleon's  grave. 
But,  no,  —  she  still  must  hold  a  petty  leign, 
Flank'd  by  her  formidable  chamberlain  ; 
The  martial  Argus,  whose  not  hundred  eyes 
Must  watch  her  through  these  paltry  pageantries. 
What  though  she  share  no  more,  and  shared  in  vain^ 
A  sway  surpassing  that  of  Charlemagne, 
Which  swept  from  Moscow  to  the  southern  seas  ! 
Tet  still  she  rules  the  pastoral  realm  of  cheese, 
Where  Parma  views  the  traveller  resort 
To  note  the  trappings  of  her  mimic  court. 
But  she  appears  !  Verona  sees  her  shorn 

Of  all  her  beams  —  while  nations  gaze  and  mourn 

Ere  yet  her  husband's  ashes  have  had  time 
To  chill  in  their  inhospitable  clime  ; 


L 


reeeiveda  handaome  compUinent  at  Verona  from  a  literary  aoveraun  ■  "Ah» 

MonrieurC -,  are  you  related  to  that  Chateaubriand  who  — vXo'-^who 

faai  written  MomeOiing  7      {^cntjuelqiie  choBe .')  It  ia  said  that  the  author  of  At£ 
repented  him  for  a  moment  of  hw  legitimacy.  ^^ 


g 


THB   AGE   OF  BBONZE.  487 

If  e'er  those  awful  ashes  can  grow  cold  ;  — 

iut  DOy  —  their  embers  soon  will  burst  the  mould ;) 

She  comes ! — the  Andromache  (but  not  Racine's^ 

Nor  Homer's) — Lo !  on  Pyrrhus'  arm  she  leans ! 

Tes !  the  right  arm,  yet  red  from  Waterloo, 

Which  cut  her  lord's  haUlshatter'd  sceptre  through, 

Is  offer'd  and  accepted  !  Could  a  slave 

Do  more  7  or  less  ?—  and  he  in  his  new  gra^e ! 

Her  eye,  her  cheek,  betray  no  inward  stnfe, 

And  the  eop-empress  grows  as  e«  a  wife ! 

So  much  for  human  ties  in  royal  breasts ! 

Why  spare  men's  feelings,  when  their  own  are  jests  f 

XVJil. 

But,  tired  of  foreign  follies,  I  turn  home. 

And  sketch  the  group  —  the  picture  's  yet  to  come. 

My  muse  'gan  weep,  but,  ere  a  tear  was  spilt,  # 

She  caught  Sir  William  Curtis  in  a  kilt ! 

While  tl^ong'd  the  chiefs  of  every  Highland  clan 

To  hail  their  brother,  Vich  Ian  Alderman ! 

Guildhall  grows  Gael,  and  echoes  with  Erse  roar. 

While  all  the  Common  Council  cry  **  Cla3rmore !  ** 

To  see  proud  Albyn's  tartans  as  a  belt 

Gird  the  gross  sirloin  of  a  city  Celt, 

She  bursts  into  a  laughter  so  extreme. 

That  I  awoke  —  and  lo  !  it  was  no  dream ! 

Here,  reader,  will  we  pause :  — -  if  there  's  no  harm  in 
This  first— 'you  11  have,  perhaps,  a  second  **  Carmen." 


TBK 


VISION   OF   JUDGMENT, 


•T 

QUEVEDO  REDIVIVU8. 


■UGOSSTIO  IT  TBI  COHPOSITIOlf  SO  INTITLIO  IT  THE  AUTBOE  OF 
"WAT  TTLIE." 


"A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  yea,  a  Daniel ! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word.* 


PREFACE. 


It  h&th  been  wisely  said,  that  ^  One  fool  makes  many ;  "  and 
it  hath  been  poetically  observed, 

"  That  IboU  nuh  in  where  angels  fear  to  tiead." — Popt. 

If  Mr.  Southey  had  not  rushed  in  where  he  had  no  business, 
and  where  he  never  was  before,  and  never  will  be  again,  the 
follow  poem  would  not  have  been  written.  It  is  not  impossi. 
ble  that  it  may  be  as  good  as  his  own,  seeing  that  it  cannot,  by 
«ny  species  of  stupidity,  natural  or  acquired,  be  trorse.  The 
gross  flattery,  the  dull  impudence,  the  renegado  intolerance 
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  quintessence  of  his  own  attributes. 

So  much  for  his  poem  —  a  word  on  his  preface.  In  this  pre- 
face it  has  pleased  the  magnanimous  Laureate  to  draw  the  pic- 
ture of  a  supposed  ^  Satanic  School,"  the  which  he  doth  re* 
commend  to  the  notice  of  the  legislature ;.  thereby  adding  to  his 
other  laurels  the  ambition  of  ^ose  of*  an  informer.  If  there 
exists  any  where,  excepting  in  his  imagination,  such  a  School, 
is  he  not  sufficiently  armed  against  it  by  his  own  intense  vani. 
ty  t  The  truth  is,  that  there  are  certain  writers  whom  Mr.  S* 
imagines,  like  Scrub,  to  have  *<  talked  of  him ;  for  they  laughed 
consumedly." 

I  think  I  know  enough  of  most  of  the  writers  to  whom  he  is 
supposed  to  allude,  to  assert,  that  they,  in  their  individual  capa- 
cities,  have  done  more  good,  in  the  charities  of  life,  to  their  fel- 
low-creatures in  any  one  year,  than  Mr.  Southey  has  done 
harm  to  himself  by  his  absurdities  in  his  whole  life ;  and  this 
is  saying  a  great  deal.     But  I  have  a  few  questions  to  ask. 

Istly.  Is  Mr.  Southey  the  author  of  «  Wat  Tyler  ?  " 

2dly.  Was  he  not  rdused  a  remedy  at  law  by  the  highest 


492  PREFACE. 

judge  of  his  beloved  England,  because  it  was  a  blasphemous  and 
seditious  publication  ? 

ddly.  Was  he  not  entitled  by  William  Smith,  in  full  parlia- 
ment, '<  a  rancorous  renegade  ?  " 

4thly.  Is  he  not  poet  laureate,  with  his  own  lines  on  Martin 
the  regicide  staring  him  in  the  face  ? 

And,  5thly.  Putting  the  four  preceding  items  together,  with 
what  conscience  dare  he  call  the  attention  of  the  laws  to  the 
publicatioBS  of  others,  be  they  what  they  may  ? 

I  say  nothing  of  the  cowardice  of  such  a  proceeding ;  its 
meanness  speaks  for  itself;  but  I  wish  to  touch  upon  the  mofnx, 
which  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  that  Mr.  S.  has  been  laughed 
at  a  little  in  some  recent  publications,  as  he  was  of  yore  in  the 
<<  Anti-jacobin  "  by  his  present  patrons.  Hence  all  this  '<  skim- 
ble  scamble  stuff"  about  ^*  Satanic,"  and  so  forth.  However, 
it  is  wqrthy  of  him  — *  ^  quedis  ab  tncepfo." 

If  there  is  any  thing  obnoxious  to  the  political  opinions  of  a 
portion  of  the  public  in  the  following  poem,  they  may  thank  Mr. 
Southey.  He  might  have  written  hexameters,  as  he  has  writ, 
ten  every  thing  else,  for  aught  that  the  writer  cared  —  had  they 
been  upon  another  subject.  But  to  attempt  to  canonise  a  mo- 
narch,  who,  whatever  were  his  household  virtues,  was  neither  a 
successful  nor  a  patriot  king,  —  inasmuch  as  several  years  of 
his  reign  passed  in  war  with  America  and  Ireland,  to  say  no. 
thing  of  the  aggression  upon  France, — like  all  other  exa^e- 
ration,  necessarily  begets  opposition.  In  whatever  manner  lie 
may  be  spoken  of  in  t|»is  new  "  Vision,"  his  pMic  career  will 
not  be  more  favourably  transmitted  by  history.  Of  his  private 
virtues  (although  a  little  expensive  to  the  nation)  there  can  be 
no  doubt. 

With  regard  to  the  supernatural  personages  treated  of,  I  can 
only  say  that  I  know  as  much  about  them,  and  (as  an  honest 
man)  have  a  better  right  to  talk  of  them  than  Robert  Southey. 
I  have  also  treated  them  more  tolerantly.  The  way  in  which 
that  poor  insane  creature,  the  Laureate,  deals  about  his  judg. 
meats  in  the  next  world,  ia  like  his  own  judgment  in  this.  If 
it  was  not  completely  ludicrous,  it  would  be  something  worse. 
I  do  n't  think  that  there  is  much  more  to  say  at  present. 

QUEVEDO  REDIVIVUS. 


PEBFACE.  493 

P.  S. — It  is  possible  that  some  readers  may  object,  in  these 
objectionable  times,  to  the  freedom  with  which  saints,  angels,  and 
spiritual  persons  discourse  in  this  <<  Vision."  But  for  prece- 
dents upon  such  points,  I  must  refer  him  to  Fielding's  **  Journey 
from  this  World  to  the  next,"  and  to  the  Visions  of  myself,  the 
said  Quevedo,  in  Spanish  or  translated.  The  reader  is  also 
requested  to  observe,  that  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  said  for  the  Laureate, 
who  hath  thought  proper  to  make  him  talk,  not  ^  like  a  school 
divine,"  but  like  the  unscholarlike  Mr.  Southey.  The  whole 
action  passes  on  the  outside  of  heaven  ;  and  Chaucer's  Wife  of 
Bath,  Pulci's  Morgante  Maggiore,  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  faculties  will  in  the  mean- 
time have  acquired  a  little  more  judgment,  properly  so  called  : 
otherwise  he  will  get  himself  into  new  dilemmas.  These  apos- 
tate  jacobins  furnish  rich  rejoinders.  Let  him  take  a  speci- 
4»en.  Mr.  Southey  laudeth  grievously  ^  one  Mr.  Landor,"  who 
cultivates  much  private  renown  in  the  shape  of  Latin  verses ; 
and  not  long  ago,  the  poet  laureate  dedicated  to  him,  it  ap- 
peareth,  one  of  his  fugitive  lyrics,  upon  the  strength  of  a  poem 
called  Geinr,  Who  could  suppose,  that  in  this  same  Gebir  the 
aforesaid  Savage  Landor  (for  such  is  his  grim  cognomen)  put- 
teth  into  the  infernal  regions  no  less  a  person  than  the  hero  of 
his  friend  Mr.  Southey's  heaven,  —  yea,  even  George  the 
Third!  See  also  how  personal  Savage  becometh,  when  he 
hath  a  mind.  The  following  is  his  portrait  of  our  late  gra- 
cious  sovereign :  — 

{Prince  Oebir  having  descended  into  ike  infernal  regione,  ike  diade$  of 
kie  roval  ancestora  are,  at  hie  request,  called  iq)  to  ku  view,  and  he 
exdaane  to  hie  ghostly  guide)  — 

"  A  roar,  what  wretch  that  nearest  us  ?  what  wretch 
It  that  with  eyebrows  white  and  Planting  brow  7 


494  PRBrACK. 

liften !  him  yonder,  who,  bound  down  ia|>uie, 
8hrinki  yellinj;  from  that  iword  there,  engine-hiing. 
He  too  amonf  my  enceBiori !    I  bete 
The  despot,  but  the  dastard  I  des|iiie. 
Was  he  oar  ooontryman  7  ** 

*«  Alas,  O  king! 
Iberia  bore  him,  bm  the  breed  accurst 
Inclement  winds  blew  blighting  from  northeast." 
**  He  was  a  warrior  then,  nor  fear'd  the  gods  ?  '* 
**  Gebir,  he  fear'd  the  demons,  not  the  gods. 
Though  them  indeed  his  daily  fiice  adored ; 
And  was  no  warrior,  yet  the  thousand  lives 
Squander'd,  as  stones  to  exerdse  a  sling, 
And  the  tame  cruelty  and  cold  caprice — 
Oh  madness  of  mankind !  address'd,  adored ! "  —  OMr,  p.  89. 

I  omit  noticing  some  edifying  Ithyphallics  of  Savagius,  wish- 
ing to  keep  the  proper  veil  over  them,  if  his  grave  but  some- 
what indiscreet  worshipper  will  suffer  it ;  but  certainly  these 
teachers  of  **  great  moral  lessons  "  are  apt  to  be  found  in  strange 
company. 


THE 

VISION  OP  JUDGMENT. 


Sahc T  Pbtss  sat  by  the  celestial  gate : 
His  keys  were  rusty,  and  the  lock  was  dull. 

So  little  trouble  had  been  given  of  late ; 
Not  that  the  place  by  any  means  was  full. 

But  since  the  Gallic  era  *^  eighty-eight " 
The  devils  had  ta'en  a  longer,  stronger  pull. 

And  ^  a  pull  altogether,"  as  they  say 

At  sea  —  which  drew  most  souk  another  way* 

n. 
The  angels  all  were  singling  out  of  tune, 

And  hoarse  with  having  little  else  to  do, 
Excepting  to  wind  up  the  sun  and  moon. 

Or  curb  a  runaway  youD^  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, 
Ajs  boats  are  sometimes  by  a  wanton  whale. 

m. 

The  guardian  seraphs  had  retired  on  high, 
Finding  their  charges  past  all  care  bdow ; 

Terrestrial  business  Sl'd  nought  in  the  sky 
Save  the  recording  angel's  black  bureau ; 

Who  found,  indeed,  Sie  &cts  to  multiply 
With  such  rapidity  of  vice  and  wo. 

That  he  had  stripped  off  both  his  wings  in  quills. 

And  yet  was  in  arrear  of  human  ills. 

rv. 
His  business  so  augmented  of  late  years, 

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

For  some  resource  to  turn  himself  about 


496  THE   vision   OF  JUPOKBNT. 

And  claim  the  help  of  his  celestial  peers, 

To  aid  him  ere  he  should  be  quite  worn  out 
By  the  increased  demands  for  his  remarks  ; 
Six  angels  and  twelve  saints  were  named  his  clerks. 


This  was  a  handsome  board  —  at  least  for  heaven ; 

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

So  many  kingdoms  fitted  up  anew  ; 
Each  day  too  slew  its  thousands  six  or  seven. 

Till  at  the  crowning  ccurnage,  Waterloo, 
They  threw  their  pens  down  in  divine  disgust  — 
The  page  was  so  besmear'd  with  blood  and  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  sword. 
It  almost  quenchM  his  innate  thirst  of  evil. 

rHere  Satan's  sole  good  woric  deserves  insertion  — 

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

VII. 

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

And  heaven  none  —  they  form  the  tyrant's  lease. 
With  nothing  but  new  names  subscrib'd  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  in  the  head  than  horn. 


vni. 
In  the  first  year  of  freedom's  second  dawn 

Died  Greorge  the  Third ;  although  no  tyrant,  one 
Who  shielded  tyrants,  till  each  sense  withdrawn 

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

A  worse  king  never  left  a  realm  undone ! 
He  died  —  but  left  his  subjects  still  behind, 
One  half  as  mad  -^  and  t'  other  no  less  blind. 


THB   TI8ION  or  JVDGXENT.  497 

n. 

He  died !  —  his  death  made  no  great  stir  on  earth ; 

His  burial  made  some  pomp ;  there  was  profusion 
Of  velvety  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. 

Porm'd  a  sepulchral  melodrame.     Of  all 
The  fools  who  flock'd  to  swell  or  see  the  show, 

Who  cared  about  the  corpse  1    The  funeral 
Made  the  attraction,  and  the  black  the  wo. 

There  throbb'd  not  there -a  thought  which  pierced  the  pall ; 
And  when  the  gorgeous  coffin  was  laid  low, 

It  secm'd  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 

The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold. 

XI. 

So  mix  his  body  with  the  dust !     It  might 

Return  to  what  it  must  far  sooner,  were 
The  natural  compound  left  alone  to  fight 

Its  way  back  into  earth,  and  fire,  and  air ; 
But  the  unnatural  balsams  merely  blight 

What  nature  made  him  at  his  birth,  as  bare 
As  the  mere  million's  base  unmummied  clay  — 
Yet  aU  his  spices  but  prolong  decay. 

xu. 

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

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

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

In  whom  his  qualities  are  reigning  still. 
Except  that  household  virtue,  most  uncommon^ 
Of  constancy  to  a  bad,  ugly  woman. 

xm. 
'**  God  save  the  king ! "    It  is  a  large  economy 

In  God  to  save  the  like ;  but  if  he  will 
Be  saving,  all  the  better ;  for  not  one  am  I 
Of  those  who  think  damnation  better  still : 
T)L.  ▼• — ^E  k 


498  THB   VISION   OF  JUDGXElfT. 

I  hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I 
In  this  small  hope  of  bettering  future  ill 
By  circumscribing,  with  some  slight  restrictioni 
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  may  e'er  be  so  ; 

I  know  my  catechism  ;  I  know  we  are  cramm'd 
,         With  the  best  doctrines  till  we  quite  o'erflow ; 

I  know  that  all  save  England's  church  have  shamm'd. 
And  that  the  other  twice  two  hundred  churches 
And  synagogues  have  made  a  damxCd  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  jSsh, 

Or  to  the  butcher  to  purvey  the  lamb ; 
Not  that  I  'm  fit  for  such  a  noble  dish 

As  one  day  will  be  that  immortal  fry 

Of  almost  every  body  born  to  die, 

XVI. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate, 

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

A  rushing  sound  of  wind,  and  stream,  and  flame  ; 
In  shorty  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  the  angel,  "  prithee  rise  !  " 

Waving  a  goodly  wing,  which  glow'd,  as  glows 
An  earthly  peacock's  tail,  with  heavenly  dyes  : 

To  which  the  saint  replied,  «  Well,  what 's  the  matter  T 

Is  Lucifer  come  back  with  all  this  clatter  ? " 


TBS   vmOK  OF  JU1>0]CSNT.  409 

XVIII. 

«  No,"  qaoth  the  cherub  ;  *«  George  the  Third  is  dead." 
**  And  who  is  George  the  Third  T  "  replied  the  apostle : 

«  WJuU  George  ?  what  Third  V    "The  king  of  England," 
said 
The  angel.     "  Well !  he  won't  find  kings  to  jostle 

Him  on  his  way ;  but  does  he  wear  his  head? 
Because  the  last  we  saw  here  had  a  tustle, 

And  ne'er  would  have  got  into  heaven's  good  graces, 

Had  be  not  flung  his  head  in  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  ventured  in  my  face  to  advance 

A  claim  to  those  of  martyrs  —  like  my  own : 
If  I  had  had  my  sword,  as  I  had  once 

When  I  cut  ears  off,  I  had  cut  him  down  ; 
But  having  but  my  heys^  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  took  him  in ; 

And  there  he  sits  by  St.  Paul,  cheek  by  jowl ; 
That  fellow  Paul  •*  the  parvenil  f    The  skin 

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

So  as  to  make  a  martyr,  never  sped 

Better  than  did  this  weak  and  wooden  head. 

XXI. 

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

The  fellow^eeling  in  the  saints  beholders 
Seems  to  have  acted  on  them  like  a  spell ; 

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

And  seems  the  custom  here  to  overthrow 

Whatever  has  been  wisely  done  below." 

xxn. 
The  angel  answerM,  ^  Peter !  do  not  pout : 

The  king  who  comes  has  head  and  all  entire, 
And  never  knew  much  what  it  was  about  — 

He  did  as  doth  the  puppet —  bv  its  wire, 


500  THB  TSaOV  OF  JVDOMBICT. 

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." 

xzin« 

While  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  caravan, 

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

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

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

XXIV. 

But  bringing  up  the  rear  of  this  bright  host 

A  Spirit  of  a  different  aspect  waved 
His  wings,  like  thunder-clouds  above  some  coast  ^ 

Whose  barren  beach  with  frequent  wrecks  is  paved  ; 
His  brow  was  like  the  deep  when  tempest-toss'd ; 

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

XXV. 

As  he  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  the  gate 
Ne'er  to  be  enter'd  more  by  him  or  sin. 

With  such  a  glance  of  supernatural  hate. 
As  made  Saint  Peter  wish  himself  within ; 

He  patter'd  with  his  keys  at  a  great  rate,  ^ 

And  sweated  through  his  apostolic  skin  : 

Of  course  his  perspiration  was  but  ichor, 

Or  some  such  other  spiritual  liquor. 

XXVI. 

The  very  cherubs  huddled  all  together. 
Like  birds  when  soars  the  falcon  ;  and  they  felt 

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

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

With  royal  manes,  (for  by  many  stories, 

And  true,  we  learn  the  angels  all  are  Tones.) 


THB   VISION    OF  JUDGMBIVT.  501 

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

xxvin. 
And  from  the  gate  thrown  open  issued  beaming 

A  beautiful  and  mighty  Thing  of  Light, 
Radiant  with  glory,  like  a  banner  streaming 

Victorious  from  some  world-o'erthrowing  fight : 
My  poor  comparisons  must  needs  be  teeming 

With  earthly  likenesses,  for  here  the  night 
Of  clay  obscures  our  best  conceptions,  saving 
Johanna  Southcote,  or  Bob  Southey  raving. 

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  somo  altar-pieces,  though 
I  really  can  't  say  that  they  much  evince 

One  's  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits ; 

But  let  the  connoisseurs  explain  their  merits. 

XXX. 

Michael  flew  forth  in  glory  and  in  good ; 

A  goodly  work  of  him  from  whom  all  glory 
And  good  arise  ;  the  portal  past  —  he  stood ; 

Before  him  the  young  cherubs  and  saints  hoary,  — 
(I  say  youngy  begging  to  be  understood 

By  looks,  not  years ;  and  should  be  very  sorry 
To  state,  they  were  not  older  than  Saint  P^ter, 
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 


502  THB   VISION  OF  JITDOXXNT. 

Pride  in  his  heavenly  bosom,  in  whose  core 

No  thought,  save  for  his  Maker's  service,  durst 
Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high ; 
He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  of  the  sky. 

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  will 

Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 

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

xxxm. 
But  here  they  were  in  neutral  space  :  we  know 

From  Job,  that  Satan  hath  the  power  to  pay 
A  heavenly  visit  thrice  a  year  or  so ; 

And  that  **  the  sons  of  God,"  like  those  of  clay. 
Must  keep  him  company ;  and  we  might  show 

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

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  tittle  true,  beyond  suspicion, 

And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 

XXXV. 

The  spirits  were  in  neutral  space,  before 

The  gate  of  heaven ;  like  eastern  thresholds  is 

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

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

Yet  still  between  his  Darkness  and  his  Brightness 

There  pass!d  a  mutual  glance  of  great  politeness. 


THB   VISION   OF  lUDOMKlTr.  508 

XXXVI, 

The  Archangel  bow'd,  not  like  a  modern  beau. 

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

The  heart  in  good  men  is  supposed  to  tend. 
He  tum'd  as  to  an  equal,  not  too  low, 

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

xxxvn. 
He  merely  bent  his  diabolic  brow 

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

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

Eternal,  more  than  other  kings,  endued 
With  better  sense  and  hearts,  whom  history  mentions, , 
Who  long  have  ''  paved  hell  with  their  good  intentions." 

xxxvin. 
Michael  began :  <<  What  wouldst  thou  with  this  man, 

Now  dead,  and  brought  before  the  Lord  1    What  ill 
Hath  he  wrought  since  his  mortal  race  began. 

That  thou  canst  claim  him  7  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  luBt 

Were  of  his  weaknesses ;  yet  on  the  throne 

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

XL. 

**  Look  to  our  earth,  or  rather  mine ;  it  was, 
OneCf  more  thy  master's :  but  I  triumph  not 

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


504  THH   VISION  OF  JUDeUKT. 

With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  worlds  which  pass 

In  worship  round  him,  he  may  have  forgot 
Yon  weak  creation  of  such  paltry  things  : 
I  think  few  worth  damnation  save  their  kings, — 

ZLI. 

^  And  these  but  as  a  kind  of  quit-rent,  to 
Assert  my  right  as  lord ;  and  even  had 

I  such  an  inclination,  't  were  (as  you 
Well  know)  superfluous  ;  they  are  grown  so  bad» 

That  hell  has  nothing  better  lefl  to  do 

Than  leave  them  to  themselves :  so  much  more  me 

And  evil  by  their  own  internal  curse. 

Heaven  cannot  make  them  better,  nor  I  worse. 

XLn. 
"  Look  to  the  earth,  I  said,  and  say  again  : 

When  this  old,  blind,  mad,  helpless,  weak,  poor  worm 
Began  in  youth's  first  bloom  and  flush  to  reign. 

The  world  and  he  both  wore  a  diflerent  form. 
And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 

Of  ocean  callM  him  king :  through  many  a  storm 
His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time  ; 
For  the  rough  virtues  chose  them  for  their  clime. 

xLin. 
<<  He  came  to  his  sceptre  young ;  he  leaves  it  old  : 

Look  to  the  state  in  which  he  found  his  realm. 
And  lefl  it ;  and  his  annals  too  behold. 

How  to  a  minion  first  he  gave  the  helm  ; 
How  grew  upon  his  heart  a  thirst  for  gdd. 

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  first  to  last 
(I  have  the  workmen  safe) ;  but  as  a  tool 

So  let  him  be  consumed.     From  out  the  past 
Of  ages,  since  mankind  have  known  the  rule 

Of  monarchs —  from  the  bloody  rolls  amass'd 
Of  sin  and  slaughter — from  the  Cssars'  school. 

Take  the  worst  pupil ;  and  produce  a  reign 

More  drench'd  with  gore,  more  cumberM  with  the  slain. 


THB   YltlON    OF  JUDGKSIIT.  M5 

XLT. 

**  He  ever  warr'd  with  freedom  and  the  free  : 
Nations  as  men,  home  subjects,  foreign  foes, 

So  that  they  utter'd  the  word  «  Liberty ! ' 
Found  George  the  Third  their  first  opponent. 

History  was  ever  stain'd  as  his  will  be 
With  national  and  individual  woes  t 

I  grant  his  household  abstinence ;  I  grant 

His  neutral  virtues,  which  most  monarchs  want ; 

XL  VI. 

'*  I  know  he  was  a  constant  consort ;  own 

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

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

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

xLvn. 
"  The  New  World  shook  him  off;  the  Old  yet  groans 

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

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

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

zLvm. 
^  Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who  hold 

The  faith  which  makes  ye  great  on  earth,  implored 
A  part  of  that  vast  all  they  held  of  old, — 

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

Must  be  your  souls,  if  >ou  have  not  abhorr'd 
The  foe  to  catholic  participation 
In  all  the  license  of  a  Christian  nation. 

XLIX. 

*^  True !  he  allow'd  them  to  pray  God  ;  but  as 
A  consequence  of  prayer,  refused  the  law 

Which  would  have  placed  them  upon  the  same  base 
With  them  who  did  not  hold  the  saints  in  awe." 


506  THE   VISION    OF  JUDOICKIIT. 

But  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his  place. 

And  cried,  «  You  may  the  prisoner  withdraw : 
Ere  heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this  Guelph, 
While  I  am  guard,  may  I  be  damn'd  myself!  * 


«  Sooner  will  I  with  Cerberus  exchange 

My  office  (and  his  is  no  sinecure) 
Than  see  this  royal  Bedlam  bigot  range 

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

The  wrongs  he  made  your  satellites  endure ; 
And  if  to  this  exchange  you  should  be  given, 
I  11  try  to  coax  our  Cerberus  up  to  heaven," 

LI. 

Here  Michael  interposed  :  «  Good  saint !  and  devil! 

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

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

Even  saints  sometimes  forget  themselves  in  session. 
Have  you  got  more  to  say  ?"  —  "  No."  —  « If  you  please, 
I  *ll  trouble  you  to  call  your  witnesses." 

LII. 

Then  Satan  tum'd  and  waved  his  swarthy  hand, 

Which  stirr'd  with  its  electric  qualities 
Clouds  farther  off  than  we  can  understand. 

Although  we  find  him  sometimes  in  our  skies  ; 
Infernal  thunder  shook  both  sea  and  land 

In  all  the  planets,  and  hell's  batteries 
Let  off  the  artillery,  which  Milton  mentions 
As  one  of  Satan's  most  sublime  inventions. 

Lin. 
This  was  a  signal  unto  such  damn'd  souls 

As  have  the  privilege  of  their  damnation 
Extended  far  beyond  the  mere  controls 

Of  worlds  past,  present,  or  to  come ;  no  station 
Is  theirs  particularly  in  the  rolls 

Of  hell  assigned ;  but  where  their  inclination 
Or  business  carries  them  in  search  of  game, 
They  may  range  freely  —  being  damn'd  the  same. 


THE   VISION    OF   JtTDGMBIfT.  507 

LIV, 

They  are  proud  of  this  —  as  very  well  they  may, 
It  being  a  sort  of  knighthood,  or  gilt  key 

Stuck  in  their  loins  ;  or  like  to  an  '<  entr6'* 
Up  the  back  stairs,  or  such  free-masonry. 

I  borrow  my  comparisons  from  clay, 

Being  clay  myself.     Let  not  those  spirits  be 

Offended  with  such  base  low  likenesses ; 

We  know  their  posts  are  nobler  far  than  these. 

LV. 

When  the  great  signal  ran  from  heaven  to  hell  — 
About  ten  million  times  the  distance  reckoned 

From  our  sun  to  its  earth,  as  we  can  tell 

How  much  time  it  takes  up,  even  to  a  second. 

For  every  ray  that  travels  to  dispel 

The  fogs  of  London,  through  which,  dimly  beacon'd. 

The  weathercocks  are  gilt  some  thrice  a  year, 

If  that  the  summer  is  not  too  severe  :  — 

LVI, 

I  say  that  I  can  tell  —  't  was  half  a  minute  : 
I  know  the  solar  beams  take  up  more  time 

Ere,  pack'd  up  for  their  journey,  they  begin  it ; 
But  then  their  telegraph  is  less  sublime. 

And  if  they  ran  a  race,  they  would  not  win  it 

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

The  sun  takes  up  some  years  for  every  ray 

To  reach  its  goal  —  the  devil  not  half  a  day. 

ivn. 

Upon  the  verge  of  space,  about  the  size 

Of  half-a-crown,  a  little  speck  appear'd 
(I  've  seen  a  something  like  it  in  the  skies 

In  the  iEgean,  ere  a  squall) ;  it  near'd, 
And,  growing  bigger,  took  another  guise ; 

Like  an  aerial  ship  it  tack'd,  and  steer'd, 
Or  was  steer'd  (I  am  doubtful  of  the  grammar 
Of  the  last  phrase,  which  makes  the  stanza  stammer ;  — 

Lvm. 
But  take  your  choice)  ;  and  then  it  grew  a  cloud  ; 

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

Of  locusts  numerous  as  the  heavens  saw  these ; 


508  THK  VUION   OF  JUDOKXST. 

They  shadowM  with  their  myriads  space  ;  their  loud 

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

I.IX. 

Here  crashed  a  sturdy  oath  of  stout  John  Bull, 
Who  damn'd  away  his  eyes  as  heretofore  : 

There  Paddy  brogued  "By  Jasus  ! "  — «  What 's  your 
wuU  ?  " 
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  shoal  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  against  spades  : 
All  summon'd  by  this  grand  "  subpoena,"  to 
Try  if  kings  may  n't  be  damn'd  like  me  or  you. 

LXI. 

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

He  tum'd  all  colours  —  as  a  f>eacock's  tail. 
Or  sunset  streaming  through  a  Gothic  skylight 

In  some  old  abbay,  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. 

Lxn. 
Then  he  address'd  himself  to  Satan  :  <<  Why  — 

My  good  old  friend,  for  such  I  deem  you,  though 
Our  difibrent  parties  make  us  fight  so  shy, 

I  ne'er  mistake  you  for  a  personal  foe ; 
Our  difference  is  political,  and  I 

Trust  that,  whatever  may  occur  below. 
You  know  my  great  respect  for  you  :  and  this 
Makes  me  regret  whate'er  you  do  amiss  — 


ram  viBioir  of  jvDGinirr.  509 

Lzin. 
^  Whjf  my  dear  Lucifer,  would  you  abuse 

My  call  for  witnesses  ?     I  did  not  mean 
That  you  should  half  of  earth  and  hell  produce  ; 

Tis  even  superfluous,  since  two  honest,  clean, 
True  testimonies  are  enough  :  we  lose 

Our  time,  nay»  our  eternity,  between 
The  accusation  and  defence :  if  we 
Hear  both,  't  will  stretch  our  immortality.'' 

LXIV. 

Satan  replied,  <*  To  me  the  matter  is 

Indifferent,  in  a  personal  point  of  view  : 
I  can  have  fifty  better  souls  than  this 

With  far  less  trouble  than  we  have  gone  through 
Already ;  and  I  merely  argued  his 

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

LXV, 

Thus  spoke  the  Demon  (late  call'd  ^  multifaced '' 
By  multo-scribbling  Southey^.     **  Then  we  11  call 

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

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

It  be  ?  "    Then  Satan  answered,  ••  There  are  many  5 

But  you  may  choose  Jack  Wilkes  as  well  as  any." 

LXVI, 

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

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

By  people  in  the  next  world  ;  where  unite 

Ail  the  costumes  since  Adam's,  right  or  wrong. 

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

Almost  as  scanty,  of  days  less  remote. 

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

The  spheres,  we  shall  catch  cold  amongst  these  clouds ; 
So  let  's  to  business  :  why  this  general  call  ? 


510  THB   VISION  OF  JUDOMBNT. 

If  those  are  freeholders  I  see  in  shrouds, 

And  *t  is  for  an  election  that  they  bawl. 
Behold  a  candidate  with  unturn'd  coat ! 
Saint  Peter,  may  I  count  upon  your  vote  f  " 

LXVUI. 

*<  Sir,"  replied  Michael,  ^  you  mistake ;  these  things 

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

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

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

LXIZ. 

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

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

To  lift  itself  against  the  loftiest."  —  "  Some," 

Said  Wilkes,  *<  do  n'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  hollow  at  the  last, 

With  all  his  Lords  and  Commons  :  in  the  sky 

I  do  n't  like  ripping  up  old  stories,  since 

His  conduct  was  but  natural  in  a  prince. 

LXXI. 

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

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

To  see  him  punish'd  here  for  their  excess, 

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

Their  place  below  :  for  me,  I  have  forgiven* 

And  vote  his  '  habeas  corpus '  into  heaven." 


THE   VUION   OF  JUDGMSIVT.  511 

LXXII. 

«  Wilkes,"  said  the  Devil,  « I  understand  all  this ; 

You  turn'd  to  half  a  courtier  ere  you  died, 
And  seem  to  think  it  would  not  be  amiss 

To  grow  a  whole  one  on  the  other  side 
Of  Charon's  ferry  ;  you  forget  that  his 

Reign  is  concluded  ;  whatsoe'er  betide, 
He  won't  be  sovereign  more  ;  you  've  lost  your  labour. 
For  at  the  best  he  will  but  be  your  neighbour. 

Lxxni. 
**  However,  I  knew  what  to  think  of  it. 

When  I  beheld  you  in  your  jesting  way 
Flitting  and  whispering  round  about  the  spit 

Where  Belial,  upon  duty  for  the  day, 
With  Fox's  lard  was  basting  William  Pitt, 

His  pupil ;  I  knew  what  to  think,  I  say  : 
That  fellow  even  in  hell  breeds  farther  ills ; 
I  11  have  him  gagged  —  't  was  one  of  his  own  bills. 

I.XXJV. 

<<  Call  Junius ! "  From  the  crowd  a  shadow  stalk'd. 
And  at  the  name  there  was  a  general  squeeze, 

So  that  the  very  ghosts  no  longer  walk'd 
In  comfort,  at  thf  ir  own  aerial  ease, 

But  were  all  ramm'd,  and  jamm'd  (but  to  be  balk'd, 
As  we  shall  see),  and  jostled  hands  and  knees, 

Like  wind  compress'd  and  pent  within  a  bladder, 

Or  like  a  human  colic,  which  is  sadder. 

LXXV. 

The  shadow  came  -^  a  tall,  thin,  gray-hair'd  figure, 
That  look'd  as  it  had  been  a  shade  on  earth ; 

Quick  in  its  motions,  with  an  air  of  vigour, 
But  nought  to  mark  its  breeding  or  its  birth : 

Now  it  wax'd  little,  then  again  grew  bigger, 
With  now  an  air  of  gloom,  or  savage  mirth ; 

But  as  you  gazed  upon  its  features,  they 

Changed  every  instant  —  to  whaty  none  could  say. 

Lxxn. 
The  more  intently  the  ghosts  gazed,  the  less 

Could  they  distinguish  whose  the  features  were ; 
The  Devil  himself  seem'd  puzzled  ev^n  to  guess ; 

They  varied  like  a  dream  —  now  here,  now  there  ; 


512  THE   VISION  OF  JITDOKBITT. 

And  several  people  swore  from  out  the  press, 

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


Lzxvn. 
Another,  that  he  was  a  duke  or  knight, 

An  orator,  a  lawyer,  or  a  priest, 
A  nabob,  a  man-midwife  ;   but  the  wight, 

Mysterious  changed  his  countenance  at  least 
As  ofl  as  they  their  minds  :  though  in  full  sight 

He  stood,  the  puzzle  only  was  increased ; 
The  man  was  a  phantasmagoria  in 
Himself —  he  was  so  volatile  and  thin. 


Lxxvni* 
The  moment  that  you  had  pronounced  him  one^ 

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

It  varied,  till  I  do  n't  think  his  own  mother 
(If  that  he  had  a  mother)  would  her  son 

Have  known,  he  shifted  so  from  one  to  t'  other ; 
Till  guessing  from  a  pleasure  grew  a  task, 
At  this  epistolary  <<  Iron  Mask." 

LXXIX. 

For  sometimes  he  Uke  Cerberus  would  seem  — 
**  Three  gentlemen  at  once  "  (as  sagely  says 

Good  Mrs.  Malaprop) ;  then  you  might  deem 
That  he  was  not  even  one  ;  now  many  rays 

Were  flashing  round  him ;  and  now  ^  thick  steam 
Hid  him  from  sight  —  like  fogs  on  London  days : 

Now  Burke,  now  Tooke,  he  grew  to  people's  fancies. 

And  certes  often  like  Sir  Philip  Francis. 

LXZX. 

I  've  an  h3rpothesis  —  't  is  quite  my  own ; 

I  never  let  it  out  till  now,  for  fear 
Of  doing  people  harm  about  the  throne, 

And  injuring  some  minister  or  peer, 
On  whom  the  stigma  might  perhaps  be  blown : 

It  is — my  gentle  public,  lend  thine  ear  j 
T  is,  that  what  Junius  we  are  wont  to  call 
Was  reaUyj  tndy^  nobody  at  all. 


THX   VISION  OF  JimaXlKT.  513 

LXXXI. 

I  do  n't  see  wherefore  letters  should  not  be 
Written  without  hands,  since  we  daily  view 

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

And  really  till  we  fix  on  somebody 

For  certain  sure  to  claim  them  as  his  due, 

Their  author,  like  the  Niger's  mouth,  will  bother 

The  world  to  say  if  there  be  mouth  or  author. 

Lxxxn. 
^  And  who  and  what  art  thou  V  the  Archangel  said. 

"  For  that  you  may  consult  my  title-page," 
Replied  this  mighty  shadow  of  a  shade  : 

**  If  I  have  kept  my  secret  half  an  age, 
I  scarce  shall  tell  it  now."  —  "  Canst  thou  upbraid," 

Continued  Michael, ''  George  Rex,  or  allege 
Aught  further  ?  "    Junius  answer'd,  "You  had  better 
First  ask  him  for  his  answer  to  my  letter : 

rxxxni. 

"  My  charges  upon  record  will  outlast 
The  brass  of  both  his  epitaph  and  tomb^" 

«  Repent'st  thou  not,"  said  Michael,  "  of  some  past 
Exaggeration  ?  something  which  may  doom 

Thyself  if  false,  as  him  if  true  ?   Thou  wast 
Too  bitter  —  is  it  not  so  ?  —  in  thy  gloom 

Of  passion  ?  "  —  "  Passion !  "  cried  the  phantom  dim, 

"  I  loved  my  country,  and  I  hated  him- 

Lxxxrv. 

"  What  I  have  written,  I  have  written  :  let 
The  rest  be  on  his  head  or  mine  !  "     So  spoke 

Old  **  Nominis  Umbra  ;  "  and  while  speaking  yet, 
Away  he  melted  in  celestial  smoke. 

Then  Satan  said  to  Michael,  "  Do  n't  forget 

To  call  Georee  Washington,  and  John  Home  Tooke, 

And  Franklin ;    —  but  at  this  time  there  was  heard 

A  cry  for  room,  though  not  a  phantom  stirr'd. 

LXXXV. 

At  lenffth  with  jostling,  elbowing,  and  the  aid 

Of  cherubim  appointed  to  that  post. 
The  d^vil  Asmodeus  to  the  circle  made 

His  way,  and  look'd  as  if  his  journey  cost 

VOL.  v.— L  1 


514  THB   VISION   or  JUDGMENT. 

Some  trouble.     When  his  burden  down  he  laid, 

"What  's  this?"  cried  Michael;  "why,  't  is  not  a 
ghost?  " 
"  I  know  ity"  quoth  the  incubus  ;  "  but  he 
Shall  be  one,  if  you  leave  the  affair  to  me. 

LXZZVI. 

"  Confound  the  renegado !     I  have  sprain'd 
My  left  wing,  he  's  so  heavy  ;  one  would  think 

Some  of  his  works  about  his  neck  were  chain'd. 

But  to  the  point ;  while  hovering  o'er  the  brink       « 

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

And  stooping,  caught  this  fellow  at  a  Ubel  — 

Novless  on  lustory  than  the  Holy  Bible. 

Lxxzvn. 
«  The  former  is  the  devil's  scripture,  and 

The  latter  yours,  good  Michael ;  so  the  affair 
Belongs  to  all  of  us,  you  understand. 

I  snatch'd  him  up  just  as  you  see  him  there, 
And  brought  him  off  for  sentence  out  of  hand  : 

I  've  scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  the  air— 
At  least  a  ({darter  it  can  hardly  be : 
I  dare  say  that  his  wife  is  stiU  at  tea." 

Lxxxvxn. 
Here  Satan  said,  "  I  know  this  man  of  old,    • 

And  have  expected  him  for  some  time  here ; 
A  sillier  fellow  you  will  scarce  behold. 

Or  more  conceited  in  his  petty  sphere  : 
But  surely  it  was  not  worth  while  to  fold 

Such  trash  below  your  wing,  Asmodeus  dear  : 
We  had  the  poor  wretch  safe  (without  being  bored 
With  carriage)  coming  of  his  own  accord. 

LXXXIX. 

"  But  since  he  's  here,  let 's  see  what  he  has  done." 
"  Done ! "  cried  Annodeus,  "  he  anticipates 

The  very  business  you  are  now  upon. 

And  scribbles  as  if  head  clerk  to  the  Fates. 

Who  knows  to  what  his  ribaldry  may  run. 
When  such  an  ass  as  this,  like  Balaam's,  prates  7  " 

"  Let 's  hear,"  quoth  Michael,  "  what  he  has  to  say ; 

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


THB   VinOIf   OF  J0DOXBNT.  515 

XC. 

Now  the  bard,  glad  to  get  an  audience,  which 

By  no  means  often  was  his  case  below, 
Began  to  cough,  and  hawk,  and  hem,  and  pitch 

His  voice  into  that  awfui  note  of  woe 
To  all  unhappy  hearers  within  reach 

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

xci. 
But  ere  the  spavin'd  dactyls  could  be  spurred 

Into  recitative,  in  great  dismay 
Both  cherubim  and  seraphim  were  heard 

To  murmur  loudly  through  their  long  array ; 
And  Michael  rose  ere  he  could  get  a  word 

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

best  — 
Non  Dh  wm  homines  —  you  know  the  rest." 

xcn. 
A  general  bustle  spread  throughout  the  throng, 

Which  seem'd  to  hold  all  verse  in  detestation ; 
The  angels  had  of  course  enough  of  song 

When  upon  service ;  and  the  generation 
Of  ghosts  had  heard  too  much  in  life,  not  long 

Before,  to  profit  by  a  new  occasion  ; 
The  monarch,  mute  till  then,  exclaim'd,  '<  What !  what ! 
Pye  come  again  ?    No  more — no  more  of  that ! " 

xciu. 
The  tumult  grew ;  an  universal  cough 

Convulsed  the  skies,  as  during  a  debate. 
When  Castlereagh  has  been  up  long  enough 

(Befote  he  was  first  minister  of  state, 
I  mean  —  the  slaoes  hear  now) ;  some  cried  ^Off,  off!  ** 

As  at  A  farce ;  til],  grown  quite  desperate, 
The  bard  Saint  Peter  pray'd  to  interpose 
(Himself  an  author)  only  for  his  prose. 

xciv. 
The  varlet  was  not  an  ill-fiivour'd  knave ; 

A  good  deal  like  a  vulture  in  the  face. 
With  a  hook  nose  and  a  hawk's  eye,  which  gave 

A  smart  and  sharper^looking  sort  of  grace 


516  THS  VISION  OP  jmoxKsrr. 

To  his  whole  aspect,  which,  though  rather  grave, 

Was  hy  no  means  so  ugly  as  his  case ; 
But  that  indeed  was  hopeless  as  can  be. 
Quite  a  poetic  felony  ^  de  «e." 

rev. 
Then  Michael  blew  his  trump,  and  still'd  the  noise 

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

Which  now  and  then  will  make  a  slight  inroad 
Upon  decorous  silence,  few  will  twice 

Lift  up  their  lungs  when  fairly  over-crow*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  topics ;  't  was,  besides,  his  bread, 

Of  which  he  butter'd  both  sides ;  't  would  dday 

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

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

«  Wat  Tyler  " — «  Rhymes  on  Blenheim  "  —  *«  Waterloo.' 

xcvn. 
He  had  written  praises  of  a  regicide ; 

He  had  written  praises  of  all  kings  whatever ; 
He  had  written  for  republics  far  and  wide. 

And  then  against  them  bitterer  than  ever  : 
For  pantisocracy  he  once  had  cried 
*  Aloud,  a  scheme  less  moral  than  't  was  clever  ; 
Then  grew  a  hearty  anti-jacobin  — 
Had  turnM  his  coat — and  would  have  tum'd  his  skin. 

xcvin. 
He  had  sung  against  all  battles,  and  again 

In  their  high  praise  and  glory ;  he  had  callM 
Reviewing  ***  **  the  ungentle  craft,"  and  then 

Become  as  base  a  critic  as  e'er  crawl'd  — 
Fed,  paid,  and  pamper'd  by  the  very  men 

By  whom  his  muse  and  morals  had  been  maul'd : 
He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker  prose, 
And  more  of  both  than  any  body  knows. 

*  8ee*<Lii;»of  H.KirkeWliHe.*' 


TKS  rmoTf  or  judoxsnt.  617 

xcix. 
He  had  written  Wedey's  life :  -— here  tumiog  round 

To  Satan,  ^  Sir,  I  'm  ready  to  write  yours, 
In  two  octavo  volumes,  nicely  bound, 

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

For  fear ;  for  I  can  choose  my  own  reviewers ! 
So  let  me  have  the  proper  documents, 
That  I  may  add  you  to  my  other  saints/* 


Satan  bow'd,  and  was  silent.     ^  Well,  if  you, 

With  amiable  modesty,  decline 
My  offer,  what  says  Michael  1    There  are  few 

Whose  memoirs  could  be  rendered  more  divine. 
Mine  is  a  pen  of  all  work ;  not  so  new  , 

As  it  was  once,  but  I  would  make  you  shine 
Like  your  own  trumpet.     By  the  way,  my  own 
Has  more  of  brass  in  it,  and  is  as  well  blown. 

CI. 

*^  But  talking  about  trumpets,  here  's  my  Vision ! 

Now  you  shall  judge,  all  people ;  yes,  you  shall    » 
Judge  with  my  judgment,  and  by  my  decision 

Be  guided  who  shall  enter  heaven  or  fall. 
I  settle  all  these  things  by  intuition, 

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

CII. 

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

Or  angels,  now  could  stop  the  torrent ;  so 
He  read  the  first  three  lines  of  the  contents  ; 

But  at  the  fourth,  the  whole  spiritual  show 
Had  vanished,  with  variety  of  scents, 

Ambrosial  and  sulphureous,  as  they  sprang, 

Like  lightning,  off  from  his  ^  melodious  twang."  f 

*  King  Alfonso,  speaking  of  the  Ptolemean  sTstem,  said,  that  "  had  he  been 
consulted  at  the  creation  of  the  world,  he  woula  have  spared  the  Maker  some 
abaurdities." 

t  See  Aubrey's  account  of  the  apparition  which  disappeared  "with  a  curiou 
perfume  and  a  most  melodious  twang ;"  or  see  the  Antiquary^  vol.  i.  p.  223. 


518  THB  VI0IOK   OF  JUDGXBNT. 

cai. 
Those  grand  heroics  acted  as  a  speU  : 

The  angels  stopp'd  their  ears  and  plied  their  pinions ; 
The  devils  ran  howling,  deafen'd,  down  to  hell ; 

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

And  I  leave  every  man  to  his  opinions^  ; 
Michael  took  refuge  in.  his  trump —  but,  lo ! 
His  teeth  were  set  on  edge,  he  could  not  blow* 

CIV. 

Saint  Peter,  who  has  hitherto  been  known 
For  an  impetuous  saint,  upraised  his  keys, 

And  at  the  fifth  line  knock'd  the  poet  down  ; 
Who  fell  like  Phaeton,  but  more  at  ease. 

Into  his  lake,  for  there  he  did  not  drown ; 
•A  different  web  being  by  the  Destinies 

Woven  for  the  Laureate's  final  wreath,  whene'er 

Reform  shall  happen  either  here  or  there. 

cv. 

He  first  sank  to  the  bottom  —  like  his  works, 
But  soon  rose  to  the  surface  —  like  himself; 

vFor  all  corrupted  things  are  buoy'd  like  corks,* 
By  their  own  rottenness^  light  as  an  elf. 

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

In  his  own  den,  to  scrawl  some  "  Life  "  or  "  Vision/' 

As  Welbom  says  —  "  the  devil  turn'd  precisian.^ 

cvi. 
As  for  the  rest,  to  come  to  the  conclusion 

Of  this  true  dream,  the  telescope  is  gone 
Which  kept  my  optics  free  from  all  delusion, 
And  show'd  me  what  I  in  my  turn  have  shown  ; 
«    All  I  saw  farther,  in  the  last  confusion. 

Was,  that  King  George  slipp'd  into  heaven  for  one ; 
And  when  the  tumult  dwindled  to  a  calm, 
I  left  him  practising  the  hundredth  psalm. 

*  A  drowned  body  liei  at  the  bottom  till  rotten;  it  then  floeti,  u  moM  people 
know. 


'>«v 


THS 


MORGANTE   MAGGIORE 

OF  PULCI. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Thk  Morgante  Magglore,  of  the  first  canto  of  which  this 
translation  is  offered,  divides  with  the  Orlanda  Innamorato  the 
honour  of  having  formed  and  suggested  the  style  and  story  of 
Ariosto.     The  great  dfefects  of  Boiardo  were  his  treating  too 
seriously  the  narratives  of  chivalry,  and  his  harsh  style,     Ari- 
osto, in  his  continuation,  by  a  judicious  mixture  of  the  gayety 
of  Palci,  has  avoided  the  one ;  and  Berni,  in  his  reformation  of 
Boiardo's  poem,  has  corrected  the  other.     Pulci  may  be  con- 
sidered as  the  precursor  and  model  of  Berni,  altogether,  as  he 
has  partly  been  to  Ariosto,  however  inferior  to  both  his  copyists. 
He  is  no  less  the  founder  of  a  new  style  of  poetry  very  lately 
sprung  up  in  England.     I  allude  to  that  of  the  ingenious  Whis- 
tlecraft.     The  serious  p9em3  on  Roncesvalles  in  the  same  Ian- 
guage,  and  more  particularly  the  excellent  one  of  Mr.  Merivale, 
are  to  be  traced  to  the  same  source.     It  has  never  yet  been  de- 
cided entirely  whether  Pulci's  intention  was  or  was  not  to  de- 
ride the  religion  which  is  one  of  his  favourite  topics*     It  ap- 
pears to  me,  that  such  an  intention  would  have  been  no  less 
hazardous  to  the  poet  than  to  the  priest,  particularly  in  that 
age  and  country  ;  and  the  permission  to  publish  the  poem,  and 
its  reception  among  the  classics  of  Italy,  prove  that  it  neither 
was  nor  is  so  interpreted.     That  he  intended  to  ridicule  the 
monastic  life,  and  suffered  his  imagination  to  play  with  the  sim- 
ple dulness  of  his  converted  giant,  seems  evident  enough  ;  but 
surely  it  were  as  unjust  to  accuse  him  of  irreligion  on  this  ac- 
count, as  to  denounce  Fielding  for  his  Parson  Adams,  Barnabas, 
Thwackum,  Supple,  and  the  Ordinary  in  Jonathan  Wild,  —  or 
Scott,  for  the  exquisite  use  of  his  Covenanters  in  the  "  Tales 
of  my  Landlord." 

In  the  following  translation  I  have  used  the  liberty  of  the 
original  with  the  proper  names ;  as  Pulci  uses  Gan,  Ganellon, 


522  ADVBRTISBKEIIT 

or  Ganellone ;  Carlo,  Carlomagno,  or  Carlomano ;  Rondel,  or 
Rondello,  dec*  as  it  suits  his  convenience ;  so  has  the  translator. 
In  other  respects  the  version  is  faithful  to  the  best  of  the  trans- 
lator's ability  in  combining  his  interpretation  of  the  one  lan- 
guage with  the  not  very  easy  task  of  reducing  it  to  the  same 
versification  in  the  other.  The  reader,  on  comparing  it  with 
the  original,  is  requested  to  remember  that  the  antiquated  lan- 
guage 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  indulgent  to  the  present  attempt. 
How  far  the  translator  has  succeeded,  and  whether  or  no  he 
shall  continue  the  work,  are  questions  which  the  public  will  de- 
cide. He  was  induced  to  make  the  experiment  partly  by  his 
love  for,  and  partial  intercourse  with,  the  Italian  language,  of 
which  it  is  so  easy  to  acquire  a  slight  knowledge,  and  with 
which  it  is  so  nearly  impossible  for  a  foreigner  to  become  accu- 
rately conversant.  The  Italian  language  is  like  a  capricious 
beauty,  who  accords  her  smiles  to  all,  her  favours  to  few,  and 
sometimes  least  to  those  who  have  courted  her  longest.  The 
translator  wished  also  to  present  in  an  EngUsh  dress  a  part  at 
least  of  a  poem  never  yet  rendered  into  a  northern  language ; 
at  the  same  time  that  it  has  been  the  original  of  some  of  the 
most  celebrated  productions  on  this  side  of  the  Alps,  as  well  as 
of  those  recent  experiments  in  poetry  in  England  which  have 
been  already  mentioned. 


THE 

MORGANTE    MAGGIORE. 


CANTO  TH£  FIBflT. 


I. 

Iif  the  beginning  Fas  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 : 
Therefore,  just  Lord !  from  out  thy  high  abode, 

Benign  and  pious,  bid  an  angel  flee, 
One  only,  to  be  my  companion,  who 
Shall  help  my  famous,  worthy,  old  song  through. 

II. 
And  thou,  oh  Virgin !  daughter,  mother,  bride. 

Of  the  same  Lord,  who  gave  to  you  each  key 
Of  heaven,  and  hell,  and  every  thing  beside, 

The  day  thy  Gabriel  said  «« All  hail !  "  to  thee, 
Since  to  thy  servants  pity  's  ne'er  denied. 

With  flowing  rhymes,  a  pleasant  style  and  free^ 
Be  to  my  verses  then  benignly  kind. 
And  to  the  end  illuminate  my  mind. 

m. 
T  was  in  the  season  when  sad  Philomel 

Weeps  with  her  sister,  who  remembers  and 
Deplores  the  ancient  woes  which  both  befell. 

And  makes  the  nymphs  enamour'd,  to  the  hand 
Of  Phaeton  by  Phoebus  loved  so  well 

His  car  (but  temper'd  by  his  sire's  command) 
Was  given,  and  on  the  horizon's  verge  just  now 
Appear'd,  so  that  Tithonus  scratch'd  his  brow : 

IV. 

When  I  prepared  my  bark  first  to  obey. 
As  it  should  still  obey,  the  helm,  my  mind. 

And  carry  prose  or  rhyme,  and  this  my  lay 
Of  Charles  the  Emperor,  whom  you  will  find 


524  XOBOANTB   MAGOIOKS. 

By  fleveral  pens  already  praised :  bat  they 
Why  to  diffuse  his  ^lory  were  inclined, 
For  all  that  I  can  see  m  prose  or  verse, 
Have  understood  Charles  badly  —  and  wrote  worse. 


Leonardo  Aretino  said  already, 

That  if,  like  Pepin,  Charles  had  had  a  writer 
Of  genius  quick,  and  diligently  steady. 

No  hero  would  in  history  look  brighter ; 
He  in  the  cabinet  being  always  ready. 

And  in  the  field  a  most  victorious  fighter, 
Who  for  the  church  and  Christian  faith  had  wrought 
Certes,  far  more  than  yet  is  said  or  thought. 

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  Giusafia's  would  seem  few,  if  any. 

vn. 
But  the  world,  blind  and  ignorant,  do  n't  prize 

His  virtues  as  I  wish  to  see  them :  thou, 
Florence,  by  his  great  bounty  do  n't  arise, 

And  hast,  and  may  have,  if  thou  wilt  allow. 
Ail  proper  customs  and  true  courtesies  : 

Whatever  thou  hast  acquired  from  then  till  now, 
With  knightly  courage,  treasure,  or  the  lance. 
Is  sprung  from  out  the  noble  blood  of  France. 

vm. 
Twelve  paladins  had  Charles  in  court,  of  whom 

The  wisest  and  most  famous  was  Orlando  ; 
Him  traitor  Gan  conducted  to  the  tomb 

In  Roncesvalles,  as  the  villain  plann'd  too, 
While  the  horn  rang  so  loud,  and  knell'd  the  doom 

Of  their  sad  rout,  though  he  did  all  knight  can  do  ; 
And  Dante  in  his  comedy  has  given 
To  him  a  happy  seat  with  Charles  in  heaven. 


xoboahtb  kaggxobb*  035 

IX. 

T  was  Christmas-day ;  in  Paris  all  his  court 
Charles  held ;  the  chief,  I  say,  Orlando  was. 

The  Dane ;  Astolfo  there  too  did  resort; 
Also  Ansuigi,  the  gay  time  to  pass 

In  festival  and  in  triumphal  sport, 
The  much-renown'd  St.  Dennis  being  the  came; 

Ansiolin  of  Bayonne,  and  Oliver, 

And  gentle  BeUnghieri  toe  came  there : 


Avolio,  and  Arino,  and  Othone 

Of  Normandy,  and  Richard  Paladin, 
Wise  Hamo,  and  the  ancient  Saleroone, 

Walter  of  Lion's  Mount  and  Baldovin, 
Who  was  the  son  of  the  sad  Ganellone, 

Were  there,  exciting  too  much  gladness  in 
The  son  of  Pepin :  —  when  his  kmghts  came  hither, 
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  king 

One  day  he  openly  began  to  say, 

**  Orlando  must  we  always  then  obey  ? 

xn. 
**  A  thousand  times  I  've  been  about  to  say, 

Orlando  too  presumptuously  goes  on  ; 
Here  are  we,  counts,  kings,  dukes,  to  own  thy  sway, 

Hamo,  and  Otho,  Ogier,  Solomon, 
Each  have  to  honour  thee  and  to  obey  ; 

But  he  has  too  much  credit  near  the  throne, 
Which  we  won't  suffer,  but  are  quite  decided 
By  such  a  boy  to  be  no  longer  guided. 
• 
xm. 
*'  And  even  at  Aspramont  thou  didst  begin 

To  let  him  know  he  was  a  gallant  knight. 
And  by  the  fount  did  much  the  day  to  win ; 

But  I  know  who  that  day  had  won  the  fight 


626  MOSOANTS   XA06I0RB. 

If  it  had  not  for  good  Ghenrdo  been : 

The  victory  was  Almonte's  else ;  his  sight 
He  kept  upon  the  standard,  and  the  laurels 
In  fact  and  fairness  are  his  earning,  Charles 

XIV, 

«<  If  thou  rememberest  being  in  Gascony, 

When  there  advanced  the  nations  out  of  Spain, 

The  Christian  cause  had  suffer'd  shamefully, 
Had  not  his  valour  driven  them  back  again. 

Best  speak  the  truth  when  there  's  a  reason  why : 
Know  then,  oh  emperor  !  that  all  complain : 

As  for  myself,  I  shall  repass  the  mounts 

O'er  which  I  cross'd  with  two  and  sixty  counts. 

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  T  " 

Orlando  one  day  heard  this  speech  in  brief, 
As  by  himself  it  chanced  he  sate  apart : 

Displeaised  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'd  Gan, 

But  Oliver  thrust  in  between  the  pair. 
And  from  his  hand  extracted  Durlindan, 

And  thus  at  length  they  separated  were. 
Orlando  angry  too  with  Carloman, 

Wanted  but  little  to  have  shiin  him  there ; 
Then  forth  alone  from  Paris  went  the  chief, 
And  burst  and  madden'd  with  disdain  and  grief. 

xvn. 
From  Ennellinay  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 
Stretch'd  forth  her  arms  to  clasp  her  lord  again: 

Orlando,  in  whose  brain  all  was  not  well, 
As  ^  Welcome,  my  Orlando,  home,"  she  said. 
Raised  up  his  sword  to  smite  her  on  the  head. 


xoiaAifTS  ]KA«eiosB«  527 

xvni. 
Like  him  a  fury  counsels  ;  his  revenge 

On  Gan  in  that  rash  act  he  seem'd  to  take. 
Which  Aldabella  thought  extremely  strange  ; 

But  soon  Orlando  found  himself  awake ; 
And  his  spouse  took  his  bridle  on  this  change, 

And  he  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and  spake 
Of  every  thing  which  pass'd  without  demur, 
And  then  reposed  himself  some  days  with  her. 

Then  full  of  wrath  departed  from  the  place, 
And  far  as  pagan  countries  roam'd  astray, 

And  while  he  rode,*yet  still  at  every  pace 
The  traitor  Gan  reyiember'd  by  the  way ; 

And  wandering  on  in  error  a  long  space, 
An  abbey  which  in  a  lone  desert  lay, 

'Midst  glens  obscure,  and  distant  lands,  he  found. 

Which  form'd  the  Christian's  and  the  pagan's  bound. 

XX. 

The  abbot  was  call'd  Clermont,  and  by  blood 

Descended  from  Angrante :  under  cover 
Of  a  great  mountain's  brow  the  abbey  stood, 

But  certain  savage  giants  look'd  him  over ; 
One  Passamont  was  foremost  of  the  brood, 

And  Alabaster  and  Morgante  hover 
Second  and  third,  with  certain  slings,  and  throw 
In  daily  jeopardy  the  place  below. 

XXI. 

The  monks  could  pass  the  convent  gate  no  more. 
Nor  leave  their  cells  for  water  or  for  wood  ; 

Orlando  knock'd,  but  none  would  ope,  before 
Unto  the  prior  it  at  length  seem'd  good ; 

Enter'd,  he  said  that  he  was  taught  to  adore 
Him  who  was  bom  of  Mary's  holiest  blood. 

And  was  baptized  a  Christian ;  and  then  show'd 

How  to  the  abbey  he  had  found  hb  road. 

xxn. 

Said  the  abbot,  **  Tou  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 


528  xoboahtb  xaogiou. 

The  cause  of  our  delay  to  let  you  in 
To  be  rusticityy  you  shall  receive 
The  reason  why  our  gate  was  barr'd  to  you : 
Thus  those  who  in  suspicion  live  must  do. 

xzin. 
^'  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,  to  fierce  to  tame, 

'T  was  fit  our  quiet  dwelling  to  secure ; 
But  now,  if  here  we  M  stay,  we  needs  must  guard 
Against  domestic  beasts  with  watch  and  wanl. 

XXIV. 

<<  These  make  us  stand,  in  fact,  upon  the  watch  ; 

For  late  there  have  appeared  three  giants  rough ; 
What  nation  or  what  kingdom  bore  the  batch 

I  know  not,  but  they  are  all  of  savage  stuff; 
When  force  and  malice  with  some  genius  matcb. 

You  know,  they  can  do  all  —  we  are  not  enough : 
And  these  so  much  our  orisons  derange, 
I  know  not  what  to  d"^,  till  matters  change. 

XXV. 

**  Our  ancient  fathers  living  the  desert  in. 
For  just  and  holy  works  were  duly  fed  ; 

Think  not  they  lived  on  locusts  sole,  't  is  certain 
'^hat  manna  was  rain'd  down  from  heaven  instead ; 

But  here  't  is  fit  we  keep  on  the  alert  in 

Our  bounds,  or  taste  the  stones  shower'd  down  for  bread 

From  off  yon  mountain  daily  raining  faster. 

And  flung  by  Passamont  and  Alabaster. 

XXVI. 

^  The  third,  Morgante,  's  savagest  by  far ;  he 
Plucks  up  pines,  beeches,  poplar-trees,  and  oaks. 

And  flings  them,  our  community  to  bury ; 
And  all  that  I  can  do  but  more  provokes." 

While  thus  they  parley  in  the  cemetery, 
A  stone  from  one  of  their  gigantic  strokes. 

Which  nearly  crush'd  RondeU,  came  tumbling  over, 

So  that  he  took  a  long  leap  under  cover. 


kOROAZCTB  MAOGIOBS.  ^29 

xxvn, 
*«  For  God-sake,  cavalier,  come  in  with  speed ; 

The  manna's  falling  now,"  the  abbot  cried. 
«*  This  fellow  does  not  wish  my  horse  should  feed, 

Dear  abbot,"  Roland  unto  him  replied. 
**  Of  restiveness  he  'd  cure  him  had  he  need  ; 

That  stone  seems  with  good  will  and  aim  applied." 
The  holy  father  said,  « I  do  n't  deceive ;  ^^ 

They  '11  one  day  fling  the  mountain,  I  beheve. 

xxvni. 
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  food  horse  yon  comer-stone." 
Said  the  abbot,  "  Let  not  my  advice  seem  shallow ; 

As  to  a  brother  dear  I  speak  alone; 
I  would  dissuade  you,  baron,  from  this  strife, 
As  knowing  sure  that  you  will  bse  your  life. 

XXIX. 

**That  Passamont  has  in  his  hand  three  darts  — 

Such  sUngs,  clubs,  ballast-stones,  that  yield  you  must; 

You  know  that  giants  have  much  stouter  hearts 
Than  us,  with  reason,  in  proportion  just : 

If  go  you  will,  guard  well  against  their  arts,  ^ 
For  these  axe  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  sign'd  the  great  cross  on  his  front,     ^^ 
"Then  go  you  with  God's  benison  and  mine: 

Orlando,  after  he  had  scaled  the  mount, 
As  the  abbot  had  directed,  kept  the  line 

Right  to  the  usual  haunt  of  Passamont ; 
Who,  seeing  him  alone  in  this  design, 

Survey'd  him  fore  and  aft  with  eyes  observant, 

Then  ask'd  him,  "  If  he  wish'd  to  stay  as  servant! 

XXXI. 

And  promised  him  an  office  of  great  ease. 

But,  said  Orlando,  «*  Saracen  insane ! 
I  come  to  kiU  you,  if  it  shaU  so  please 

God,  not  to  serve  as  footboy  in  your  train ; 

VOL.  V.  —  Mm 


M 


530  XOSOAHTB   MAOOIOBX. 

You  with  hiB  monks  so  oft  hare  broke  the  peace  — 

Vile  dog!  't  is  past  his  patience  to  sustain." 
The  giant  ran  to  fetch  his  arms,  quite  (iirious. 
When  he  received  an  answer  so  injurious. 

zxxn. 
And  being  retum'd  to  wheri  Oriando  stood. 

Who  had  not  moved  him  from  the  spot,  and  swinging 
The  cord,  he  hurl'd  a  stone  with  strength  so  rude. 

As  show'd  a  sample  of  his  skill  in  sUnging ; 
It  roird  on  Count  Orlando's  hehnet  good 

And  head,  and  set  both  head  and  hdmet  nngmg. 
So  that  he  swoon'd  with  pain  as  if  he  died. 
But  more  than  dead,  he  seem'd  so  stupified. 

xxxin. 

Then  Passamont,  who  thought  him  slain  outright, 
Said,  « I  wiU  go,  and  whUe  he  li^  »*«;"& 

Disarm  me :  why  such  craven  did  I  fight? 
But  Christ  his  servants  ne'er  abandons  long, 

Especially  Orlando,  such  a  knight, 
\s  to  desert  would  almost  be  a  wrong. 

While  the  giant  goes  to  put  off  his  defences. 

Orlando  has  recallM  his  force  and  senses : 

XXXIV. 

And  loud  he  shouted,  "Giant,  where  deist  go? 

Thou  thought'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  tuni'd  about,  and  stopp'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  twam  was  what  he  acbemad : — 
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  stiU  blasphemed; 
But  while  his  crude,  rude  blasphemieshe  heard, 
Orlando  thank'd  the  Father  and  the  Word,  — 


XOSOAKTB   KA06I0BX.  581 

XXXVI. 

Saying,  ^  What  grace  to  one  thou  'at  this  day  given ! 

And  I  to  thee,  oh  Lord !  am  ever  bound. 
I  know  my  life  was  saved  by  thee  from  heaven, 

Since  by  the  giant  I  was  fairly  down'd. 
All  things  by  thee  are  measured  just  and  even ; 

Our  power  without  thine  aid  would  nought  be  found 'i 
I  pray  thee  take  heed  of  me,  till  I  can 
At  least  return  once  more  to  Carloman." 

xxxni. 

Ana  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  roach'd  him,  loud  'gan  say, 

"How  think'st  thou,  glutton,  such  a  stone  to  throw?" 
When  Alabaster  heard  his  deep  voice  ring, 
He  suddenly  betook  him  to  his  sling, 

xxxvni. 
And  hurl'd  a  fragment  of  a  size  so  large, 

That  if  it  had  in  fact  fulfill'd  its  mission, 
And  Roland  not  avail'd  him  of  his  targe. 

There  would  have  been  no  need  of  a  physician. 
Orlando  set  himself  in  turn  to  charge. 

And  in  his  bulky  bosom  made  incision 
With  all  his  sword.     The  lout  fell ;  but  overthrown,  he 
However  by  no  means  forgot  Maoone, 

XXXIX. 

Morgante  had  a  palace  in  his  mode, 

Composed  of  branches,  logs  of  wood,  and  earth. 

And  stretch'd  himself  at  ease  in  this  abode. 
And  shut  himself  at  night  within  his  birth. 

Orlando  knocked,  and  knockM  aeain,  to  goad 
The  giant  from  his  sleep ;  and  he  came  forth, 

The  door  to  open,  like  a  crazy  thing. 

For  a  rough  dream  had  shook  him  slumbering. 

XL. 

He  thought  that  a  fierce  serpent  had  attack'd  him, 

And  Mahomet  he  call'd  ;  but  Mahomet 
Is  nothing  worth,  and  not  an  instant  back'd  him ; 

But  praying  blessed  Jesu,  he  was  set 


582  XOHGAITTB   XAGOIOBS. 

At  liberty  from  all  the  fears  which  rackM  him ; 
And  to  the  gate  he  came  with  great  regret  — 
**  Who  knocks  here  ? "  grumbling  all  the  while,  said  he. 
"That,"  said  Orlando,  **  you  will  quickly  see. 

XLI. 

**  I  come  to  preach  to  you,  as  to  your  brothers, 
Sent  by  the  miserable  monks  —  repentance ; 

For  Providence  divine,  in  you  and  others, 
Condemns  the  evil  done  my  new  acquaintance. 

'T  is  writ  on  high  —  your  wrong  must  pay  anotbe^s ; 
From  heaven  itself  is  issued  out  this  sentence. 

Know  then,  that  colder  now  than  a  pilaster 

I  left  your  Passamont  and  Alabaster." 

XLII. 

Morgante  said,  "  Oh  gentle  cavalier ! 

Now  by  thy  God  say  me  no  villany ; 
The  favour  of  your  name  I  fain  would  hear, 

And  if  a  Christian,  speak  for  courtesy." 
Replied  Orlando,  "  So  much  to  your  ear 

I  by  my  faith  disclose  contentedly ; 
Christ  I  adore,  who  is  the  genuine  Lord, 
And,  if  you  please,  by  you  may  be  adored." 

XLIU. 

The  Saracen  rejoin'd  in  humble  tone, 
"  I  have  had  an  extraordinary  vision  ; 

A  savage  serpent  fell  on  me  alone. 

And  Macon  would  not  pity  my  condition ; 

Hence  to  thy  God,  who  for  ye  did  atone 
Upon  the  cross,  preferred  I  my  petition ; 

His  timely  succour  set  me  safe  and  free, 

And  I  a  Christian  am  disposed  to  be." 

XLIV. 

Orlando  answer'd,  "  Baron  just  and  pious. 
If  this  good  wish  your  heart  can  really  move 

To  the  true  God,  who  will  not  then  deny  us 
Eternal  honour,  you  will  go  above, 

And,  if  you  please,  as  friends  we  will  aUy  us, 
And  I  will  love  3'ou  with  a  perfect  love* 

Your  idols  are  vain  liars,  full  of  fraud : 

The  only  true  God  is  the  Christian's  God. 


XOBeA2«TS  XAG«IOBS.  683 

XLV. 

'<  The  Lord  descended  tor  the  yirffin  breast 

Of  Mary  Mother,  sinless  and  divine 
If  you  acknowledge  the  Redeemer  blest, 

Without  whom  neither  sun  nor  star  can  shine  ; 
Abjure  bad  Macon's  false  and  felon  test, 

Your  renegado  god,  and  worship  mine, — 
Baptize  yourself  with  zeal,  since  you  repent." 
To  which  Morgan te  answer 'd,  ^  I  'm  content." 

XLVI. 

And  then  Orlando  to  embrace  him  flew, 
And  made  much  of  his  convert,  as  he  cried, 

^^  To  the  abbey  I  will  gladly  marshal  you." 
To  whom  Morgante,  "  Let  ud  go,"  replied ; 

"  I  to  the  friars  have  for  peace  to  sue." 

Which  thing  Orlando  heard  with  inward  pride, 

Saying,  '<  My  brother,  so  devout  and  good, 

Ask  the  abbot  pardon,  as  I  wish  you  would : 

XLVII. 

**  Since  God  has  granted  your  illumination, 

Accepting  you  in  mercy  for  his  own. 
Humility  should  be  your  first  oblation." 

Morgante  said, "  For  goodness'  sake,  make  known  — 
Since  that  your  God  is  to  be  mine  —  your  station. 

And  let  your  name  in  verity  be  shown  ; 
Then  will  I  every  thing  at  your  command  do." 
On  which  the  other  said,  he  was  Orlando. 

XLvin. 
"  Then,"  quoth  the  giant,  "  blessed  be  Jesu 

A  thousand  times  with  gratitude  and  praise ! 
Oft,  perfect  baron  !  have  I  heard  of  you 

Through  all  the  different  periods  of  my  days : 
And,  as  I  said,  to  be  your  vassal  too 

I  wish,  for  your  great  gallantry  always." 
Thus  reasoning,  they  continued  much  to  say, 
And  onwards  to  the  abbey  went  their  way. 

XLIX. 

And  by  the  way  about  the  giants  dead 

Orlando  with  Morgante  reasoned :  ^  Be, 
For  their  decease,  I  pray  you,  comforted  ; 

And,  since  it  is  God's  pleasure,  pardon  roe. 


534  HOROAlfTB  MAG6I40US. 

A  thousand  wrongs  unto  the  monks  they  bred, 

And  our  true  Scripture  soundeth  openly. 
Good  is  rewarded,  and  chastised  the  ill. 
Which  the  Lord  never  faileth  to  fulfil : 


L. 

*^  Because  his  love  of  justice  unto  all 

Is  such,  he  wills  his  judgment  should  devour 

All  who  have  sin,  however  great  or  small ; 
But  good  he  well  remembers  to  restore. 

Nor  without  justice  holy  could  we  call 
Him,  whom  I  now  require  you  to  adore. 

All  men  must  make  his  will  their  wishes  sway, 

And  quickly  and  spontaneously  obey.  V 

LI. 

"  And  here  our  doctors  are  of  one  accord. 

Coming  on  this  point  to  the  same  conclusion,  — 

That  in  their  thoughts  who  praise  in  heaven  the  Lord. 
If  pity  e'er  was  guilty  of  intrusion 

For  their  unfortunate  relations  stored 

In  hell  below,  and  damn'd  in  great  confusion, — 

Their  happiness  would  be  reduced  to  nought, 

And  thus  unjust  the  Almighty's  self  be  thought. 

Ln« 
^  But  they  in  Christ  have  firmest  hope,  and  all 

Which  seems  to  him,  to  them  too  must  appear 
Well  done ;  nor  could  it  otherwise  befall : 

He  never  can  in  any  purpose  err. 
If  sire  or  mother  suffer  endless  thrall, 

They  do  n't  disturb  themselves  for  him  or  her ; 
What  pleases  God  to  them  must  joy  inspire ;  — 
Such  is  the  observance  of  the  eternal  choir." 

I  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,  't  is  in  heaven  obey'd  — 
Ashes  to  ashes,  —  merry  let  us  be ! 

I  will  cut  ojQT  the  hands  from  both  their  trunks. 

And  carry  them  unto  the  holy  monks. 


xoxoANTB  KAoaiosa.  585 

uv. 
^  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,  who  hath  withdrawn  the  curtain 

Of  darkness,  making  his  bright  realm  appear," 
He  cuts  his  brethren's  hands  off  at  these  words. 
And  left  them  to  the  savage  beasts  and  birds. 

LV. 

Then  to  the  abbey  they  went  on  together, 
Where  waited  them  the  abbot  in  great  doubt. 

The  monks  who  knew  not  yet  the  fact,  ran  thither 
To  their  superior,  all  in  breathless  rout, 

Saying  with  tremor,  '<  Please  to  tell  us  whether 
You  wish  to  have  this  person  in  or  out  ?  " 

The  abbot,  looking  through  upon  the  giant. 

Too  greatly  fear'd,  at  first,  to  be  compliant. 

LVI. 

Orlando,  seeing  him  thus  agitated, 

Said  quickly,  "  Abbot,  be  thou  of  good  cheer ; 

Ho  Christ  believes,  as  Christian  must  be  rated, 

And  hath  renounced  his  Macon  false  ;  "  which  here 

Morgante  with  the  hands  corroborated, 

A  proof  of  both  the  giants'  fate  quite  clear : 

Thence,  with  due  thanks,  the  abbot  God  adored. 

Saying,  "  Thou  hast  contented  me,  oh  Lord  I  " 

Lvn. 
He  gazed  ;  Morgante's  height  he  calculated, 

And  more  than  once  contemplated  his  size ; 
And  then  he  said,  '*  Oh  giant  celebrated ! 

Know,  that  no  more  my  wonder  will  arise, 
How  you  could  tear  and  fling  the  trees  you  late  did, 

M^en  I  behold  your  form  with  my  own  eyes. 
You  now  a  true  and  perfect  friend  will  show 
Yourself  to  Christ,  as  once  you  were  a  B$e. 

Lvm. 
**  And  one  of  our  apostles,  Saul  once  named, 

Long  persecuted  sore  the  faith  of  Christ, 
Till,  one  day,  by  the  Spirit  being  inflamed, 

*  Why  dost  thou  persecute  me  thus  ? '  said  Christ ; 


596  MOSSAITTS  MAOOIOKS. 

And  then  from  his  ofience  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. 

£JX. 

^  So,  my  Morgante,  you  may  do  likewise ; 

He  who  repents  —  thus  writes  the  Evangelist  — 
Occasions  more  rejoicing  in  the  shies 

Than  ninety.nine  of  the  celestial  list 
You  may  be  sure,  should  each  desire  arise 

With  just  zeal  for  the  Lord,  that  you  '11  exist 
Among  the  happy  saints  for  evermore ; 
But  you  were  lost  and  damn'd  to  hell  before } " 

LX. 

And  thus  great  honour  to  Morgante  paid 
The  abbot :  many  days  they  did  repose. 

One  day,  as  with  Orlando  they  both  strayed, 

And  saunter'd  here  and  there,  where'er  they  chose^ 

The  abbot  show'd  a  chamber,  where  array'd 
Much  armour  was,  and  hung  up  certain  bows ; 

And  one  of  these  Morgante  for  a  whim 

Girt  on,  though  useless,  he  believed,  to  him. 

LXI. 

There  being  a  want  of  water  in  the  place, 

Orlando,  like  a  worthy  brother,  said, 
"  Morgante,  I  could  wish  you  in  this  case 

To  go  for  water."    «  You  shall  be  obey'd 
In  all  commands,"  was  the  reply,  ^<  straight  ways.  ** 

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  sUidenly  along  the  forest  spread ; 

Whereat  from  out  his  quiver  he  prepares 
An  arrow  for  his  bow,  and  lifls  his  head ; 

And  lo !  a  monstrous  herd  of  swine  appears. 
And  onward  rushes  with  tempestuous  tread. 

And  to  the  fountain's  brink  precisely  pours  ; 

So  that  the  giant 's  joined  by  all  the  boars. 


XOSOAZTTE   XAOOIOBS.  687 

Lxni. 
Morffante  at  a  venture  shot  an  arrow, 

which  pierced  a  pig  precisely  in  the  ear, 
And  passM  unto  the  other  side  quite  thorough ; 

So  that  the  boar»  defunct,  lay  tripp'd  up  near. 
Another,  to  revenge  his  fellow  farrow, 

Against  the  giant  rush'd  in  fierce  career, 
And  reach'd  the  passage  with  so  swifl  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  other  pigs  along  the  valley  fled  ; 

Morgante  on  his  neck  the  bucket  took, 

Full  from  the  spring,  which  neither  swerved  nor  shook. 

LXV. 

•The  ton  was  on  one  shoulder,  and  there  were 
The  hogs  on  t'  other,  and  he  brush'd  apace 

On  to  the  abbey,  though  by  no  means  near. 
Nor  spilt  one  drop  of  water  in  his  race. 

Orlando,  seeing  him  so  soon  appear 

With  the  dead  boars,  and  with  that  brimful  vase, 

Marvell'd  to  see  his  strength  so  very  great ; 

So  did  the  abbot,  and  set  wide  the  gate. 

LXVI. 

The  monks,  who  saw  the  water  fresh  and  good, 
Rejoiced,  but  much  more  to  perceive  the  pork ;  — 

All  animals  are  glad  at  sight  of  food : 

They  lay  their  breviaries  to  sleep,  and  work 

With  greedy  pleasure,  and  in  such  a  mood. 
That  the  flesh  needs  no  salt  beneath  their  fork. 

Of  rankness  and  of  rot  there  is  no  fear,  ■ 

For  all  the  fasts  are  now  left  in  arrear. 

*  "Gli  dette  in  mi  la  testa  nn  mn  punzone."  It  is  ■trange  that  Pulci  shoald 
have  literally  anticipated  the  technical  terms  of  my  old  friend  and  muter,  Jack- 
eon,  and  the  art  which  he  haa  carried  to  iti  highest  pitch.  **  A  punch  en  the 
knit  ^^  "  ^  pufuA  in  the  head^'  —  **  un  punzone  in  bu  la  testa,"  —  is  the  exact 
and  frequent  phrase  of  our  best  pugilists,  who  little  dream  that  they  are  talking 
the  purest  Tuscan. 


hSIS  MOSGAim   XAOOIOKS. 

Lxvn. 
As  though  they  wish'd  to  burst  at  once,  they  ate ; 

And  gorged  so  that,  as  if  the  bones  had  been 
In  water,  sorely  grieved  the  dog  and  cat, 

Perceiving  that  they  all  were  pick'd  too  clean. 
The  abbot,  who  to  all  did  honour  great, 

A  few  days  after  this  convivial  scene. 
Gave  to  Morgante  a  fine  horse,  well  trained, 
Which  he  long  time  hadibr  himself  maintainM* 

Lxvin. 
The  horse  Morgante  to  a  meadow  led, 

To  gallop,  and  to  put  him  to  the  proof, 
Thinking  that  he  a  back  of  iron  had, 

Or  to  skim  eggs  unbroke  was  light  enough ; 
But  the  horse,  sinking  with  the  pain,  fell  dead. 

And  burst,  while  cold  on  earth  lay  head  and  hoof. 
Morgante  said,  "  Get  up,  thou  sulky  cur  !  " 
And  still  continued  pricking  with  the  spur 

LXIX. 

But  finally  he  thought  fit  to  dismount, 
And  said,  <<  I  am  as  light  as  any  feather. 

And  he  has  burst ;  —  to  this  what  say  you,  count  ?  '* 
Orlando  answer'd,  *'  Like  a  ship's  mast  rather 

You  seem  to  me,  and  with  the  truck  for  front :  — 
Let  him  go  ;  Fortune  wills  that  we  together 

Should  march,  but  you  on  foot  Morgante  still." 

To  which  the  giant  answer'd,  "  So  I  will. 

LXX. 

**  When  there  shall  be  occasion,  you  will  see 
How  I  approve  my  courage  in  the  fight." 

Orlando  said,  <'  I  really  think  you  '11  be, 

If  it  should  prove  God's  will,  a  goodly  knight ; 

Nor  will  you  napping  there  discover  me. 
But  never  mind  your  horse,  though  out  of  sight 

'T  were  best  to  carry  him  into  some  wood, 

If  but  the  nleans  or  way  I  understood." 

LXXI. 

The  giant  said,  "  Then  carry  him  I  will. 
Since  that  to  carry  me  he  was  so  slack — 

To  render,  as  the  gods  do,  good  for  ill ; 

But  lend  a  hand  to  place  him  on  my  back." 


XOSGANTE   MAG6I0RB.  5^P 

Orlando  answcr'd,  **l£  my  counsel  still 

May  weigh,  Morgante,  do  not  undertake 
To  lift  or  carry  this  dead  courser,  who. 
As  you  have  done  to  him,  will  do  to  you. 

Lxxn. 

^  Take  care  he  do  n't  revenge  himself,  though  dead* 

As  Nessus  did  of  old  beyond  all  cure. 
I  do  n't  know  if  the  fact  you  Ve  heard  or  recul ; 

But  he  will  make  you  burst,  you  may  be  sure." 
"  But  help  him  on  my  back,"  Morgante  said, 

'<  And  you  shall  see  wjiat  weight  I  can  endure. 
In  place,  my  gentle  Roland,  of  this  palfrey, 
With  all  the  bells,  I  'd  carry  yonder  belfry." 

UCXIII. 

The  abbot  said,  ^  The  steeple  may  do  well, 

But,  for  the  bells,  you  've  broken  them,  I  wot."  ' 

Morgante  answer'd,  <*  Let  them  pay  in  hell 
The  penalty  who  lie  dead  in  yon  grot ;  " 

And  hoisting  up  the  horse  from  where  he  fell. 
He  said,  **  Now  look  if  I  the  gout  have  got, 

Orlando,  in  the  legs  ^  or  if  I  have  force ; "  — 

And  then  he  made  two  gambols  with  the  horse, 

LXXIV. 

Morgante  was  like  any  mountain  framed ; 

So  if  he  did  this,  't  is  no  prodigy  ; 
But  secretly  himself  Orlando  blamed, 

Because  he  was  one  of  his  family ; 
And  fearing  that  he  might  be  hurt  or  maim'd, 

Once  more  he  bade  him  lay  his  burden  by  : 
•*  Put  down,  nor  bear  him  further  the  desert  in." 
Morgante  said,  **  I  *1I  carry  him  for  certain." 

LXXV. 

He  did ;  and  stow'd  him  in  some  nook  away, 
And  to  the  abbey  then  returned  with  speed* 

Orlando  said,  "  Why  longer  do  we  stay  7 
<<  Morgante,  here  is  nought  to  do  indeed." 

The  abbot  by  the  hand  he  took  one  day, 
And  said,  with  great  respect,  he  had  agreed 

To  leave  his  reverence ;  but  for  this  decision 

He  WLsh'd  to  have  his  pardon  and  permission. 


540  X0B6AHTE   KAGOIORS. 

LXXTI. 

The  honours  they  continued  to  receive 
Perhaps  exceeded  what  his  merits  claim'd ; 

He  said,  ''  I  mean,  and  quickly,  to  retrieve 

The  lost  days  of  time  past,  which  may  be  blamed ; 

Some  days  ago  I  should  have  ask'd  your  leave, 
Kind  father,  but  I  really  was  ashamed, 

And  know  not  how  to  show  my  sentiment. 

So  much  I  see  you  with  our  stay  content. 

Lxxvn. 
"  But  in  my  heart  I  bear  through  every  clime 

The  abbot,  abbey,  and  this  solitude  — 
So  much  I  love  you  in  so  short  a  time ; 

For  me,  from  heaven  reward  you  with  ail  good 
The  God  so  true,  the  eternal  Lord  sublime ! 

Whose  kingdom  at  the  last  hath  open  stood. 
IVbantime  we  stand  expectant  of  your  blessing. 
And  recommend  us  to  your  prayers  with  pressing." 

LXXVUI. 

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  appeared, 
Than  fits  me  for  such  gentle  blood  to  e3cpress, 

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  pater-nosters. 

Hot  suppers,  dinners,  (fitting  other  places 
In  verity  much  rather  than  the  cloisters) ; 

But  such  a  love  for  you  my  heart  embraces, 
For  thousand  virtues  which  your  bosom  fosters, 

That  wheresoe'er  you  go  I  too  shall  be, 

And,  on  the  other  part,  you  rest  with  me. 

LXXX. 

**  This  may  involve  a  seeming  contradiction ; 

But  you  I  know  are  sage,  and  feel,  and  taste, 
And  understand  my  speech  with  full  conviction. 

For  your  just  pious  deeds  may  you  be  graced 


XOBGANTE   HAOOIOBK.  541 

With  the  Lord's  great  reward  and  benediction. 

By  whom  you  were  directed  to  this  waste : 
To  his  high  mercy  is  our  freedom  due. 
Tor  which  we  render  thanks  to  him  and  you. 

LXXXI. 

'*  You  faved  at  once  our  life  and  soul :  such  fear 
The  giants  caused  us,  that  the  way  was  lost 

By  which  we  could  pursue  a  fit  career 
In  search  of  Jesus  and  the  saintly  host ; 

And  your  departure  breeds  such  sorrow  here. 
That  comfortless  we  all  are  to  our  cost ; 

But  months  and  years  you  would  not  stay  in  sloth. 

Nor  are  you  form'd  to  wear  our  sober  cloth ; 

LXXXII. 

"  But  to  bear  arms,  and  wield  the  lance  ;  indeed, 
With  these  as  much  is  done  as  with  this  cowl ; 

In  proof  of  which  the  Scripture  you  may  read. 
This  giant  up  to  heaven  may  bear  his  soul 

By  your  compassion :  now  in  peace  proceed. 
Your  state  and  name  I  seek  not  to  unroll ; 

But,  if  I  'm  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  choose. 

And  cover  with  it  o'er  this  giant's  skin." 
Orlando  answer'd,  "  If  there  should  lie  loose 

Some  armour,  ere  our  journey  we  begin, 
Which  might  be  turn'd  to  my  companion's  use, 

The  gift  would  be  acceptable  to  me." 

The  abbot  said  to  him,  *'  Come  in  and  see." 


LXZXIV. 

And  in  a  certain  closet,  where  the  wall 
Was  cover'd  with  old  armour  like  a  crust, 

The  abbot  said  to  them,  '<  I  give  you  all." 
Morgante  rummaged  piecemeal  from  the  dust 

The  whole,  which,  save  one  cuirass,  was  too  small, 
And  that  too  had  the  mail  inlaid  with  rust. 

They  wonder'd  how  it  fitted  him  exactly, 

Which  ne'er  has  suited  others  so  compactly. 


642  HOBOANTS   HAOOIORB. 

LXXXV. 

T  was  an  immeamirable  giant's,  who 
By  the  great  Milo  of  Agrante  fell 

Before  the  abbey  many  years  ago. 

The  story  on  the  wall  was  figured  well ; 

In  the  last  moment  of  the  abbey's  foe, 
Who  long  had  waged  a  war  implacable :      ^ 

Precisely  as  the  war  occurred  they  drew  him. 

And  there  was  Milo  as  he  overthrew  him. 

LXXXVI. 

Seeing  this  history.  Count  Orlando  said 
In  his  own  heart,  <*  Oh  God,  who  in  the  sky 

Know'st  all  things !  how  was  Milo  hither  led  ? 
Who  caused  the  giant  in  this  place  to  die  ?  *' 

And  certain  letters,  weeping,  then  he  read, 
So  that  he  could  not  keep  his  visage  dry,  — 

As  I  will  tell  in  the  ensuing  story. 

From  evil  keep  you  the  high  King  of  glory ! 


THE    BLUES; 
A  UTERARY  ECLOGUE. 


"Nimium  ne  erode  coJori." — Viroil. 

O  trust  not,  ye  beautiful  croatune,  to  hue. 

Though  your  hair  wero  as  red,  as  your  ttcckingt  ara  blue. 


THE  BLUES; 

A  LITERARY  ECLOGUE. 


ECLOGUE  FIRST. 
Ltmdmi^  Before  the  Door  of  a  Lecture  Room. 

Enter  Tract,  meeting  Inkel. 

Iftk.  Yov  're  too  late. 

Tra.  Is  it  over  ? 

Ink.  Nor  will  be  this  hour. 

But  the  benches  are  cramm'd,  like  a  garden  in  flower, 
With  the  pride  of  our  belles,  who  have  made  it  the  fashion.'^ 
So,  instead  of  *<  beaux  arts,"  we  may  say  '*  la  heUe  passion  " 
For  learning,  which  lately  has  taken  the  lead  in  ^ 

The  world,  and  set  all  the  iine  gentlemen  reading. 

Tra.  I  know  it  too  well,  and  have  worn  out  my  patience. 
With  studying  to  study  your  new  publications. 
There  's  Vamp,  Scamp,  and  Mouthy,  and  Wordswords 

and  Co. 
With  their  damnable — 

Ink.  Hold,  my  good  friend,  do  you  Vn6m 

Whom  you  speak  to  ? 

Tra.  Right  well,  boy,  and  so  does  <<  the  Row :  " 

You  're  an  author — a  poet — 

Ink.  ,    And  think  you  that  I 

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

Tra.  Excuse  me :  I  meant  no  offence 

To  the  Nine ;  ihou^  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  shop, 
(Next  door  to  the  pastry-cook's ;  so  that  when  I 
Cannot  find  the  new  volume  I  wanted  to  buy 
On  the  bibliopole's  sfadves,  it  is  only  two  paces,    , 
As  one  finds  every  author  in  one  of  those  places^) 
TOL,  T. — ^Nn 


546  THE   BLUES, 

Where  I  just  had  been  skimmiDg  a  charming  critique, 
So  studded  with  wit,  and  so  sprinkled  with  Greek ! 
Where  your  friend — you  know  who — has  just  got  such  a 

threshing, 
That  it  is,  as  the  phrase  goes,  extremely  "  refreshing,^ 
What  a  beautiful  word ! 

JfiJfe.  Very  true  ;  't  is  so  soft 

And  so  cooling  —  they  use  it  a  little  too  oft; 
And  the  papers  have  got  it  at  lost  —  but  no  matter. 
So  they  Ve  cup  up  our  friend  then  ? 

Tra.  Not  left  him  a  tatter— 

Not  a  rag  of  his  present  or  past  reputation, 
Which  they  call  a  disgrace  to  the  age  and  the  nation. 

Ink,  I  'm  sorry  to  hear  this !  for  friendship,  you  know  — 
Our  poor  friend !  —  but  I  thought  it  would  terminate  so. 
Our  friendship  is  such,  I  '11  read  nothing  to  shock  it. 
You  do  n't  happen  to  have  the  Review  in  your  pocket  ? 

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

Ink,  Let  us  join  them. 

Tra,  What,  won't  you  return  to  the  lecture ! 

Ivk,  Why,  the  place  is  so  cramm'd,  there  's  not  room 
^  for  a  spectre. 

Besides,  our  friend  Scamp  is  to-day  so  absurd  — 

Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  till  you  hear  him  ? 

Ifik.  I  heard 

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

Tra,  I  have  had  no  great  loss  then  ? 

Ink,  Loss  !  —  such  a  palaver 

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

That come  — do  not  mi£e  me  speak  ill  of  one's 

neighbour. 

Tra.  I  make  you ! 

Ink.  Yes,  you !  I  said  nothing  until 

You  compell'd  me,  by  speaking  the  tnith  — 

Tra.  To  speak  mt 

Is  that  your  deduction  7 

Ink,  When  speaking  of  Scamp  iU, 

I  certainly  yWfow,  not  sei  an  example. 
The  fellow  's  a  fool,  an  impostor,  a  zany. 


A   UTUUBY  BGLOGUB.  547 

7Va.  And  the  crowd  of  to.ik.y  shows  that  one  fool  makes 
many. 
But  we  two  will  be  wise* 

ItJc.  Prfty*  then,  let  us  retire. 

Tru,  I  would,  but^— 

Ink*  There  must  be  attractions  much  higher 

Than  Scamp»  or  the  Jews'  harp  he  nicknames  his  lyre. 
To  call  you  to  this  hotbed. 

Tra.  I  own  it—  't  is  true — 

A  fair  lady        ■ 

Ink.  A  spinster  1 

Tra.  Miss  Lilac ! 

Ink.  The  Blue! 

The  heiress! 

Tra.  The  angel ! 

Ink.  The  devil !  why,  man ! 

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

Tra.  I  say  she  's  an  angel. 

Ink.  Say  rather  an  angle. 

If  you  and  she  marry,  you  '11  certainly  wrangle. 
I  say  she  's  a  Blue,  man,  as  blue  as  the  ether. 

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

Ink.  Humph !  I  can't  say  I  know  any  happy  alliance  ^ 
Which  has  lately  sprung  up  from  a  wedlock  with  science. 
She  's  so  learned  in  all  things,  and  fond  of  concerning 
Herself  in  all  matters  connected  with  learning, 
That 

Tra.         What? 

Ink,  I  perhaps  may  as  well  hold  my  tongue ; 

But  there  's  five  hundred  people  can  tell  you  you  're  wrong. 

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

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

Tra.  Why,  Jack,  I  '11  be  frank  with  you — something 
of  both. 
The  girl 's  a  fine  girl. 

It£.  And  you  feel  nothing  loth 

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

Tra.  Let  her  live,  and  as  long  as  she  likes ;  I  demand 
Nothing  more  than  the  heart  of  her  daughter  and  hand. 

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

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


M8  TBB  BLVSS, 

Ink  To  what  purpose  ? 

Tro.        Yoa  know,  my  desr  firioid,  that  in  prooe 
My  talent  is  decent,  as  far  as  it  goes ; 
But  in  rhyme—— 

Ink,  Yoa  'le  a  terrible  sHek,  to  be  sine. 

Tnu  I  own  it ;  and  yet,  in  these  times,  there  's  no  hne 
For  the  heart  of  the  fair  like  a  stanza  or  two ; 
And  so,  as  I  can't,  will  yoa  famish  a  few  ? 

Ink.  In  your  name  1 

Tta,  In  my  name.    I  will  copy  them  oat. 

To  slip  into  her  hand  at  the  rery  next  rout. 

Iiik,  Are  you  so  far  advanced  as  to  hazard  this  ? 

Tra.  Why, 

Do  you  think  me  subdued  by  a  Blue-stocking's  eye. 
So  far  as  to  tremble  to  tell  her  in  rhyme 
What  I  Ve  told  her  in  prose,  at  the  least,  as  subtime  ? 

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

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

Iiik.  As  sublime !  —  Mr.  Tracy  —  I  Ve  nothing  to  say. 
Stick  to  prose  —  As  sublime ! !  —  but  I  wish  you  good  day. 

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

Ink.  As  sublime ! ! 
0  IVa.  I  but  used  the  expression  in  haste. 

Ink.  That  may  be,  Mr.  Tracy,  but  shows  damn'd  bad 
taste* 

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

Ink.  I  see  what  you  'd  be  at  - 

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

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

Ink.  Why  that 

To  be  sure  makes  a  difference. 

Tra.  I  know  what  is  what : 

And  you,  who  're  a  man  of  the  gay  world,  no  less 
Than  a  poet  oft'  other,  may  easily  guess 
That  I  never  could  mean,  by  a  word,  to  offend 
A  genius  like  you,  and  moreover  my  friend. 

ivk.  No  doubt ;  you  by  this  time  should  know  what  is 
due 
To  a  man  of —but  come —  let  us  riiake  hands. 

Tra.  You  knew, 

And  you  Jbiow,  my  dear  fdlow,  how  heartily  I, 
Whatever  you  publish,  am  ready  to  buy* 


A   LITSBABY   BCLOOUB.  549 

Ivk.  That  '8  my  bookseller's  business ;  I  care  not  for' 
sale; 
Indeed  the.  best  poems  at  first  rather  fail. 
There  were  Renegade's  epics,  and  Botherby's  plays, 
And  my  own  grand  romance -»^- 

Tra*  Had  its  full  share  of  praise. 

I  myself  saw  it  pufPd  in  the  «  Old  Girl's  Review." 

Ink.  What  Review  ? 

Tra.  "T  is  the  English  "  Joiimal  de  Trevoux ;  " 

A  clerical  work  of  our  Jesuits  at  home. 
Have  you  never  yet  seen  it  ? 

lfik»  That  pleasure  's  to  come. 

Tra.  Make  hastQ  then. 

Ink.  Why  so  ? 

Tra.  I  have  heard  people  say 

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

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

Tra.  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 

moon 
(Where  he  seems  to  be  soaring  in  search  of  his  wits). 
And  an  interval  grants  from  his  lecturing  fits, 
I  'm  engaged  to  the  Lady  Bluebottle's  collation, 
To  partake  of  a  luncheon  and  learn'd  conversation  : 
'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  unplccisant. 
Will  you  go?  There  's  Miss  Lilac  will  also  be  present. 

Tra.  That  «  metal  's  attractive." 

Ink.  No  doubt  —  to  the  pocket. 

Tra.  You  should  rather  encourage  my  passion   than 
sliock  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  '11  be  kept  here  an  hour  at  their  levy, 
On  the  rack  of  cross  questions,  by  all  the  blue  bevy. 
Hark !  Zounds,  th^y  '11  be  on  us ;  I  know  by  the  drone 
Of  old  Botherby's  spouting,  ex-cathedra  tone. 
Ay !  there  he  is  at  it.     Poor  Scamp !  better  join 
Your  friends,  or  he  '11  pay  you  back  in  your  own  coin. 

Tra.  All  fair ;  't  is  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.  [^Exii  Ixkel. 


550  THS   BLmM, 

Treu  Toa  are  right,  and  I  H  follow , 

T  is  high  time  for  k**  Sic  me  stnaoU  ApdloJ^ 
And  yet  we  shall  have  the  whole  crew  on  our  kibes. 
Blues,  dandies,  and  dowagers,  and  second-hand  scribes. 
All  flocking  to  moisten  their  exquisite  throttles 
With  a  glass  of  Madeira  at  Lady  Bluebottle's. 

[Exit  Tracy. 


ECLOGUE  6ECX>ND. 

An  ApartmefU  in  the  House  of  Lady  Bluebottle. —  A  Tal>le 
prepared. 

Sib  Richakd  Bluebottle  solus. 

Was  there  ever  a  man  who  was  married  so  sorry  ? 
Like  a  fool,  I  must  needs  do  the  thing  in  a  hurry. 
My  life  is  reversed,  and  my  quiet  destroy'd ; 
My  days,  which  once  pass'd  in  so  gentle  a  void. 
Must  now,  every  hour  of  the  twelve,  be  employed  : 
The  twelve,  do  I  say  ?  —  of  the  whole  twenty  .'four. 
Is  there  one  which  I  dare  call  my  own  any  nK>re  ? 
What  with  driving  and  visiting,  dancing  and  dining. 
What  with  learning,  and  teaching,   and   scribbling,  and 

shining, 
In  science  and  art,  I  'II  be  cursed  if  I  know 
Mysdf  from  my  wife  ;  for  although  we  are  two, 
Yet  she  somehow  contrives  that  all  things  shall  be  done 
In  a  style  which  proclaims  us  eternally  one. 
But  the  thing  of  all  things  which  distresses  me  more 
Than  the  bilb  of  the  week  (though  they  trouble  me  sore) 
Is  the  numerous,  humorous,  backbiting  crew 
Of  scribblers,  wits,  lecturers,  white,  black,  and  blue, 
Who  are  brought  to  my  house  as  an  inn,  to  my  cost 
—  For  the  bill  here,  it  seems,  is  defrayed  by  the  host  — 
No  pleasure  !  no  leisure !  no  thought  for  my  pains. 
But  to  hear  a  vile  jargon  which  addles  my  brains ; 
A  smatter  and  chatter,  glean'd  out  of  reviews. 
By  the  rag,  tag,  and  bobtail,  of  those  they  call  "  Blues  ;  " 
A  rabble  who  know  not  —  But  soft,  here  they  «ome  ! 
Would  to  God  I  were  deaf!  as  I  'm  not,  1 11  be  dumb. 


A   UTERASY   BCLOOUB.  ^1 

Enter  Lady  Blvebottlb,  Miss  Lixjlc,  JLady  BLtTBHorirr, 
Ms.  BoTHBSBY,  I>'KBL,  Tracy,  Miss  Mazabinb,  and 
cthersy  with  Scamp  the  Lecturer,  ^-c.  ^v. 

Lady  Blueb.    Ah  !    Sir  Richard,  good  morning  ;  I  've 
brought  you  some  friends. 

Sir  Rich,    (bows,  and  afterwards  aside.)    If  friends 
they  're  the  first.  ^ 

Lady  Blueb.  But  the  luncheon  attends. 

I  pray  ye  be  seated,  **  sans  c^^monie,^* 
Mr.  Scamp,  you  're  fatigued ;  take  your  chair  there,  next 
me.  [They  all  sU. 

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

Lady  Blueb.  Mr.  Tracy  — 

Lady  Bluemount  —  Miss  Lilac  ^—  be  pleased,  pray,  to  place 

ye; 
And  you,  Mr.  Botherby  — 

Both.  Oh,  my  dear  Lady 

I  obey. 

Lady  Blueb.  Mr.  Inkel,  I  ought  to  upbraid  ye : 
You  were  not  at  the  lecture. 

Ink.  Excuse  me,  I  was ; 

But  the  heat  forced  me  out  in  the  best  part  —  alas  * 
And  when 

Lady  Blueb.  To  he  sure  it  was  broiling;  but  then 
You  have  lost  such  a  lecture  ! 

Both.  The  best  of  the  ten. 

Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  7  there  are  two  more. 

Both.  Because 

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

Ink.  Oh,  if  that  be  the  test, 

I  allow  our  frigid  Scamp  h&a  this  day  done  his  best. 
Miss  Lilac,  permit  me  to  help  you  ;  —  a  wing? 

Miss  LU.  No  more,  sir,  I  thank  you.     Who  lectures 
next  spring  t 

Boihm  Dick  Dunder. 

Ink.  That  is,  if  he  lives. 

Miss  LU^  And  why  not  ? 

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

Lady  Bluem.  With  pleasure. 

Ink.  How  does  your  friend  Wordawords,  that  Winder, 
mere  treasure  ? 
Does  he  stick  to  his  lakes,  like  the  leeches  he  sings^ 
And  their  gatherers,  as  Homer  sung  warriors  and  kings  ? 


553  m  BUTss, 

LadifBhuh.  Hehasjiutgot  apbos. 

InL  As  a  footmui  ? 

LadffBbtem.  Fori 

Nor  profane  with  yoor  sneers  so  poetic  a  name. 

Ink.  Nay,  I  meant  him  no  eril,  bat  pitied  his  master ; 
For  the  poet  of  pedlars  't  were,  sore,  no  disaster 
To  wear  a  new  lirery  ;  the  more,  as  't  is  not 
The  first  time  he  has  tum'd  both  his  creed  and  hb  coat. 

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

Ladp  Blueb.  Never  mind  our  friend  Inkd ;  we  all  know, 
my  dear, 
n*  is  his  way. 

Sir  Rich.  But  this  place  — ^— 

Ink.  Is  perhaps  like  friend  Scamp's, 

A  lecturer's. 

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

Tra.  Collector ! 

Sir  Rich.  How? 

MissLU.  What?- 

Ink.  I  shall  think  of  him  oft  when  I  buy  a  ^ew  hat : 
There  his  works  will  appear  — - 

Lady  Bluem.  Sir,  they  reach  to  the  Ganges 

Ink.  1  sha'n't  go  so  far  —  I  can  have  them  at  Grange's.* 

Lady  Blueb.  Oh  fie  ! 

BUss  LU.  And  for  shame ! 

Lady  Bluem.  Tou  're  too  bad. 

Both.  Very  good ! 

Lady  Bluem.  How  good  ? 

Lady  Blueb.  He  means  nought  —  't  is  his  phrase. 

Lady  Bhtem.  He  grows  rude. 

Lady  Blueb.  He  means  nothing ;  nay,  ask  him. 

Lady  Bluem.  Pfay,  sir !  did  you  mean 

What  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  defence. 

Both.  If  yon  please,  with  submission, 

I  can  make  out  my  own. 

Irdc.  It  would  be  your  perdition. 

While  you  live,  my  dear  Botherby,  never  defend 

*  Grange  ti  or  was  a  fiimous  pastry-cook  and  frniterar  m  FlccadiD]r- 


A  UmtABY   ECIiOGUS.  553 

Yourself  or  your  works ;  bat  leave  both  to  a  friend. 
A  propos  —  Is  your  play  theu  accepted  at  last  ? 

Bath.  At  last? 

Ink.  Why  I  thought  —  that 's  to  say  —  there  had  pass'd 
A  few  green-room  whispers,  which  hinted — you  know 
That  the  taste  of  the  actors  at  best  is  so  so. 

BM.  Sir,  the  green-room  's  in  rapture,  and  so  's  the 
committee. 

Ink.  Ay  —  yours  are  the  plays  for  exciting  our  "  pity 
And  fear,"  as  the  Greek  says  :  for  **  purging  the  mind," 
I  doubt  if  you  '11  leave  us  an  equal  behind. 

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

Ink.  Well,  time  enough  yet,  when  the  play  's  to  be 
play'd. 
Is  it  cast  yet? 

Bath:  The  actors  are  fighting  for  parts. 

As  is  usual  in  that  most  litigious  of  arts. 

Lady  Blueb.   We  '11  all  make  a  party,  and  go  the  Jlrst' 
night.  ^ 

Tra.  And  you  promised  the  epilogue,  Inkel. 

Ink.  Not  quite. 

However,  to  save  my  friend  Botherby  trouble, 
I  '11  do  what  I  can,  though  my  pains  must  be  double. 

Tra.  Why  so  ? 

Ink.  To  do  justice  to  what  goes  before. 

Beth.  Sir,  I  'm  happy  to  say,  I  have  no  fears  on  that 
score. 
If  our  parts,  Mr.  Inkel,  are   ■■ 

Ink.  Never  mind  mine ; 

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

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

Ink.  Yes,  ma'am ;  and  a  fugitive  reader  sometimes  ; 
On  Wordswords,  for  instance,  I  seldom  alight. 
Or  on  Mouthey,  his  friend,  without  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  Blueb.  Perhftps  you  have  doubts  that  they  ever 
will  take  7 

Ink.  Not  at  all ;  on  the  contrary,  those  of  the  Jake 


554  THB   BLVMBf 

Have  taken  already,  and  still  will  continue 

To  take  —  what  they  can,  frohi  a  groat  to  a  guinea. 

Of  pension  or  place  ;  —  but  the  subject 's  a  bore. 

Lady  Bluem,  Well,  sir,  the  time  's  coming. 

Ink.  Scamp !  do  n't  you  feel  sore  ? 

What  say  you  to  this  ? 

Scamp.  They  have  merit,  I  own  ; 

Though  their  system's  absurdity  keeps  it  unknown. 

Ink.  Then  why  not  unearth  it  in  one  of  your  lectures  ? 

Scamp.    It  is  only  time  past  which  comes  under  my 
strictures. 

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

Both.  And  down  Aristotle ! 

Lady  Bluem.     Sir  George  thinks  exactly  with  Lady 
Bluebottle ; 
And  my  Lord  Seventy  .four,  who  protects  our  dear  Bard, 
And  who  gave  him  his  place,  has  the  greatest  regard 
For  the  poet,  who,  singing  of  pedlars  and  asses, 
Has  found  out  the  way  to  dispense  with  Parnaasus. 

Tra.  And  you,  Scamp  !  — 

Scamp.  1  needs  must  confess  I  'm  embarrass'd. 

Ink.  Do  n't  call  upon  Scamp,  who 's  already  so  harassed 
With  old  schools,  and  new  schools,  and  no  schodls^  and  all 
schools. 

Tra.    Well,  one  thing  is  certain,  that  some  must  be 
fools. 
I  should  like  to  know  who. 

Ink.  And  I  should  not  be  sorry 

To  know  who  are  not ;  —  it  would  save  us  some  worry. 

Lady  Blueb.     A  truce  with  remark,  and   let  nothing 
control 
This  <*  feast  of  our  reason,  and  flow  of  the  soul." 
Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Botherby  !  sympathise !  —  I 
Now  feel  such  a  rapture,  I  'm  ready  to  fly, 
I  feel  so  elastic  —  **so  buoyant — so  buoyant  f  "  * 

Ink.  Tracy !  open  the  window. 

Tra.  I  wish  her  much  joy  on  't. 

Both.  For  God's  sake,  my  Lady  Bluebottle,  check  not 
This  gentle  emotion,  ^so  seldom  our  lot 
Upon  earth.     Give  it  way ;  't  is  an  impulse  which  Hda 
Our  spirits  from  earth  ;  the  subliraest  of  gtfls ; 

*  Fact  from  Ufe,  with  the  worda. 


A   LITBRART   BCLOGUE.  6bb 

For  whicb  poor  Prometheus  was  chain'd  to  his  mountain. 
T  is  the  source  of  all  sentiment  —  feeling's  true  fountain : 
T  is  the  Vision  of  Heaven  upon  Earth :  't  is  the  gas 
Of  the  soul :  't  is  the  seizing  of  shades  as  they  pass, 
And  making  them  substance :  't  is  something  diviife  :  — 

Ink.  Shall  I  help  you,  my  friend,  to  a  little  more  wine  ? 

Both,  I  thank  you ;  not  any  more,  sir,  till  I  dine. 

Ink,  A  propos  —  Do  you  dine  with  Sir  Humphry  to- 
day? 

Tra.  I  should  think  with  Duke  Humphry  was  more  in 
your  way. 

Ink,  It  might  be  of  yoi;e  ;  but  we  authors  now  look 
To  the  knight,  as  a  landlord,  much  more  than  the  Duke. 
The  truth  is,  each  writer  now  quite  at  his  ease  is, 
And  (except  with  his  publisher)  dines  where  he  pleases. 
But  't  is  now  nearly  five,  and  I  must  to  the  Park. 

Tra.  And  I'll  take  a  turn  with  you  there  till  't  is  dark. 
And  you,  Scamp— 

Scamp.  Excuse  me ;  I  must  to  my  notes, 

For  my  lecture  next  week. 

Ink.  He  must  mind  whom  he  quot^ 

Out  of  w  Elegant  Extracts." 

Lady  Blueh.  Well,  now  we  break  up  ; 

But  remember  Miss  Diddle  invites  us  to  sup. 

Ink.    Then  at  two  hours  past  midnight  we  all   meet 
again, 
For  the  sciences,  sandwiches,  hock,  and  champaigne ! 

Tra.  And  the  sweet  lobster  salad  ! 

Both.  I  honour  that  meal ; 

For  't  is  then  that  our  feelings  most  genuinely  —  feel. 

Ink.  True ;  feeling  is  truest  thtny  far  beyond  question  : 
I  wish  to  the  gods  'twas  the  same  with  digestion  ! 

Lady  Blueh.  Pshaw !  —  never  mind  that ;  for  one  mo- 
ment of  feeling 
Is  worth  —  God  knows  what. 

Ink.  'T  is  at  least  worth  concealing 

For  itself,  or  what  follows  —  But  here  comes  your  car 
riage. 

Sir  Rich,  (aside.)  I  wish  all  these  people  were  d d 

with  my  marriage !  [Exeunt. 


&86  XAirvBBP.  ACT  m. 


THE  THIRD  ACT  OP  MANFRED  IN  ITS  ORIGINAL  SHAPE, 
AS  FIRST  SENT  TO  THE  PUBUSHER> 

ACT  m. 

SCENE  I. 
A  HaU  in  the  CasOe  of  Manfred. 

Manfbed  and  Hebkan. 

Man.  What  is  the  hour  ? 

Her.  It  wants  but  one  tiU  sunset. 

And  promises  a  lovely  twilight. 

Man.  Say, 

Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  tower 
As  I  directed  ? 

Her.  All,  ray  lord,  are  ready  : 

Here  is  the  key  and  casket. 
9  Jlfon.  It  19  well : 

Thou  may'st  retire.  [E»U  Heskax* 

Man.  (alone.)         There  is  a  calm  upOn  me  — 
In^plicable  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  motUest, 
The  merest  word  that  ever  fool'd  the  ear 
From  out  the  schoolman's  jargon,  I  should  deem 
The  golden  secret,  the  sought  *<  Kalon/'  found. 
And  seated  in  my  soul.     It  will  not  last, 
But  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though  but  once : 
It  hath  enlarged  my  thoughts  with  a  new  sense, 
And  I  within  my  tablets. would  note  down 
That  there  is  such  a  feeling.     Who  is  there  ? 

Re-enter  Hebman. 

Her.  My  lord,  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maurice  craves 
To  greet  your  presence. 

Enter  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maubice. 

Abbot.  Peace  be  with  Count  Manfred  » 

Man.  Thanks,  holy  father  !  welcome  to  these  walls ; 

*  See  Letter  to  Mr.  Murray,  Aoril  14, 1S17  vol.  2,  page  6^ 


MAtmuD.  557 

Thy  presence -honours  them,  and  blesses  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

Ahboi.  /Would  it  were  so,  Count .» — 

But  I  would  fain  confer  with  thee  alone. 

Man.    Herman,   retire*     What   would   my    r^Verend 
guest  ?  [ExU  Hbbxan. 

Ahboi.    Thus,  without  prelude: — Age  and  zeal,  my 
office, 
And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  pririlege ; 
Our  near,  though  not  acquainted,  neighbourhood, 
May  also  be  my  herald.     Rumours  strange. 
And  of  unholy  nature,  are  abroad. 
And  busy  with  thy  naime  ;  a  noble  name 
For  centuries ;  may  he  who  bears  it  now 
Transmit  it  unimpaired ! 

Man.  Proceed,  —  I  listen. 

Abbot*  'T  is  said  thou  boldest  converse  with  the  things 
Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  of  man  ; 
That  with  the  dwellers  of  the  dark  abodes, 
The  many  evil  and  unheavenly  spirits 
Which  walk  the  valley  of  the  shade  of  death, 
Thou  communest.     I  know  that  with  mankind. 
Thy  fellows  in  creation,  thou  dost  rarely 
Exchange  thy  thoughts,  and  that  thy  solitude 
Is  as  an  anchorite^s,  were  it  but  holy. 

Man.    And  what  are  they  who  do  avouch  these  things  1 

Ahbct.  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  :  whatever 
1  may  have  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  between 
Heaven  and  myself —  I  shall  not  choose  a  mortal 
To  be  my  mediator.    Have  I  sinn'd 
Against  your  ordinances  ?  prove  and  punish  !  * 

Abbot.  Then,  hear  and  tremble !    For  the  headstrong 
wretch 
Who  m  the  mail  of  innate  hardihood 
Would  shield  himself,  and  battle  for  his  sins, 

*  It  win  be  perceived  that,  u  far  u  tliii,  the  onginal  mstter  of  the  Third  Aet 
hee  been  reteined. 


666  XAHFRSD.  ACT  UI. 

There  is  the  stake  on  earth,  and  heyond  earth  eternal 

Man.  Charity,  most  reverend  father, 
Becomes  thy  lips  so  much  more  than  this  menace, 
That  I  would  call  thee  back  to  it ;  but  say, 
\fliat  wouldst  thou  with  me  1 

Abbot,  It  may  be  there  are 

Things  that  would  shake  thee— but  I  keep  them  back. 
And  give  thee  till  to-morrow  to  repent* 
Then  if  thou  dost  not  all  devote  thyself 
To  penance,  and  with  gift  of  all  thy  lands 
To  the  monastery  — 

Man,  I  understand  thee>  -—  well 

Abbot,  Expect  no  mercy  ;  I  have  warned  thee. 

Man,  {opening  ike  casket,)  Stop  — 

There  is  a  gifl  for  thee  within  this  casket, 

[Manfred  opens  the  casket^  strikes  a  Ugnt^  and 
bums  some  incense. 
Ho!  Ashtaroth! 

The  Demon  Ashtasoth  aippears^  singing  asfoOoms :  — 

The  raven  sits 

On  the  raven-stone. 
And  his  black  wing  flits 

O'er  the  milk-white  bone  ; 
To  and  fro,  as  the  night  winds  blow, 

The  carcass  of  the  assassin  swings ; 
And  there  alone,  on  the  raven-stone,* 

The  raven  flaps  his  dusky  wings. 

The  fetters  creak  — ^  and  his  ebon  beak 

Croaks  to  the  close  of  the  hollow  sound ; 
And  this  is  the  tune  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

To  which  the  witches  dance  their  round,  — 
Merrily,  merrily,  cheerily,  cheerily. 

Merrily,  speeds  the  ball : 
The  dead  in  their  shrouds,  and  the  demons  in  clouds, 

Flock  to  the  witches'  carnival. 

Abbot,  I  fear  thee  not  —  hence  —  hence  — 
Avaunt  thee,  evil  one !  —  help,  ho !  without  there  ! 

Man,  Convey   thiis  man  to   the   Shreckhom  —  to  its 
peak  — 
To  its  extremest  peak  —  watch  with  him  there 

*  "Raven-atone,  (RabeDstein,)  a  translation  of  the  German  word  for  the  gib 
bet,  which  m  German jr  and  Swilzeriand  it  permanent,  and  made  of  stone.** 


559 

From  now  till  mmriae ;  let  him  gaze,  and  know 
He  ne'er  again  will  be  so  near  to  heaven. 
But  harm  him  not ;  and,  when  the  morrow  breaks. 
Set  him  down  safe  in  his  cell  —  away  with  him  ! 

Ath.  Had  I  not  better  bring  his  brethren  too,        ^ 
Convent  and  all,  to  bear  him  company  ? 

Man,  No,  this  will  serve  for  the  present.     Take  him  up. 

Ash.  Come,  friar  !  now  an  exorcism  or  two^ 
And  we  shall  fly  the  lighter. 

AsHTABOTH  duappeoTs  with  the  Abbot,  singing  asfoUaws: — 

A  prodigal  son,  and  a  maid  undone, 

And  a  widow  re- wedded  within  the  year  i 

And  a  worldly  monk  and  a  pregnant  nun. 
Are  things  which  every  day  appear. 

Manfred  o/bne. 

Man.  Why  would  this  fool  break  in  on  me,  and  force 
My  art  to  pranks  fantastical  ?  —  no  matter. 
It  was  not  of  my  seeking.     My  heart  sickens, 
And  weighs  a  fix'd  foreboding  on  my  soul : 
But  it  is  calm  —  calm  as  a  sullen  sea 
After  the  hurricane  ;  the  winds  are  still, 
But  the  cold  waves  swell  high  and  heavily, 
And  there  is  danger  in  them.     Such  a  rest 
Is  no  repose.     My  life  hath  been  a  combat, 
And  every  thought  a  wound,  till  I  am  scarr'd 
In  the  immortal  part  of  me. —  What  now  ? 

Re-enter  Herman. 

Her.  My  lord,  you  baoe  me  wait  on  you  at  sunset : 
He  sinks  behind  the  mountain. 

Man.  Doth  he  so  ? 

I  will  look  on  him. 

[Manfred  advances  to  the  vnndofw  of  the  kail. 
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. — 

*  Thie  foliloquy,  and  a  mat  part  of  the  subsequent  acene,  have  been  retained 
in  the  present  form  of  the  drama. 


560  KASTSBD.  ACT  K. 

Most  glorioos  orb !  that  wert  a  wofship,  ere 

The  mystery  of  thy  making  was  reveal'd ! 

Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Almighty, 

^hich  gladden'd,  on  their  mountain  tops,  the  hearts 

Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  till  they  ppur'd 

Themselves  in  orisons!  thou  material  God ! 

And  representative  of  the  Unknown  — 

Who  chose  thee  for  his  shadow  !  thou  chief  star! 

Centre  of  many  stars  !  which  mak'st  our  earth 

Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 

And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  within  thy  rays! 

Sire  of  the  seasons !  Monarch  of  the  climes, 

And  those  who  dwell  in  them  !  for,  near  or  far, 

Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee, 

Even  as  our  outward  aspects  ;  —  thou  dost  rise, 

And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.     Fare  thee  well ! 

I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.     As  my  first  glance 

Of  love  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then  take 

My  latest  look  :  thou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 

To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth  have  been 

Of  a  more  fatal  nature.     He  is  gone : 

I  follow.  [Exit  Manfrei^ 

SCENE  II. 

The  Mountains  —  The  CasfSl^e  of  Manfred  at  some  distance.  —  A 
Terrace  before  a  Tower. —  Time^  TwiligJu, 

Hbbman,  MAmTBL,  and  other  Dependants  of  Manfred. 

Her,  'T  is  strange  enough  ;  night  after  night,  for  years, 
He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower,  • 
Without  a  witness.     I  have  been  within  it,  — 
So  have  we  all  been  ofltimes  ;  but  from  it. 
Or  its  contents,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  absolute  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to.     To  be  sure,  there  is 
.  One  chamber  where  none  enter  ;  I  would  give 
The  fee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these  three  years, 
To  pore  upon  its  mysteries. 

Manuel,  'T  were  dangerous ;    . 

Content  thyself  with  what  thou  know'st  already. 

Her,  Ah !  Manuel !  thou  art  elderly  and  wise. 
And  couldst  say  much ;  thou  hast  dwelt  within  the  castle— 
How  many  years  is  't  ? 

Manuel,  Ere  Count  Manfred's  birth, 

I  served  his  father,  whom  he  nought  resembles. 


MAVWKRV.  561 

Her.  Tbere  be  more  sons  in  like  predicament. 
But  wherein  do  they  differ  ? 

Manuel,  I  speak  not 

Of  features  or  of  form,  but  mind  and  habits : 
Count  Sigismund  was  proud,  —but  gay  and  free»  — 
A  warrior  and  a  reveller ;  he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  night 
A  gloomy  vigil*  but  a  festal  time, 
Merrier  than  day  ;  he  did  not  walk  the  rocks 
And  forests  like  a  welf,  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  waUs  again  ;  they  look 
As  if  they  had  forgotten  them. 

Manuel,  These  walls 

Must  change  their  chieftain  first.     Oh !  I  have  seen 
Some  strange  things  in  these  few  years.* 

Her,  Come,  be  friendly  ; 

Rdate  me  some,  to  while  away  our  watch : 
I  Ve  heard  thee  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which  happen'd  hereabouts,  by  this  same  tower. 

Manuel,  That  was  a  night  indeed !  I  do  remember 
T  was  twilight,  as  it  may  be  now,  and  such 
Another  evening ;  —  yon  red  cloud,  which  rests 
On  Eigher's  pinnacle,  so  rested  then,  — 
So  like  it  that  it  might  be  the  same ;  the  wind 
Was  faint  and  gusty,  and  the  mountain  snows 
Began  to  glitter  with  the  climbing  moon  ; 
Count  Manfred  was,  as  now,  within  his  tower,  — - 
How  occupied,  we  knew  not,  but  with  him 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
And  watchings — her,  whom  of  all  earthly  things 
That  lived,  the  only  thing  seem'd  to  love, 
As  he,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do, 
The  lady  Astarte,  his 

Her,  Look  —  look — the  tower — 

The  tower  's  on  fire.    Oh,  heavens  and   earth!    what 

sound. 
What  dreadful  sound  is  that  ?  [A  craeh  like  thunder, 

Manuel,  Help,  help,  there!  —  to    the  rescue  of   the 
Count, — 
The  Count 's  in  danger,  —  what  ho !  there  !  approach ! 

[The  Servants f  VatsaU,  and  Peasantry  approach^ 
stapled  with  terror, 

*  Mtend,  in  the  present  Ibnn,  to  **  Some  strange  things  in  them,  HermuL*' 

VOL.  v.— O  0 


562  MAimsD. 


ACT] 


If  there  be  any  of  you  who  have  heart 

And  love  of  human  kind,  and  will  to  aid 

Those  in  distress— pause  not  —  but  follow  me— 

The  portal 's  open,  follow.  [MANvUr  g^  hu 

Her.  Come — who  follows  t 

What,  none  of  ye  t  — ye  recreants !  shiver  then 
Without.     I  will  not  see  old  Manuel  risk 
His  few  remaining  years  unaided.  [Hsbmav  ^oet  ku 

FoMoZ.  Hark!  — 

No — all  is  silent  —  not  a  breath— the  flame 
,    Which  shot  forth  such  a  blaze  is  also  gone ; 
What  may  this  mean  ?  let 's  enter ! 

Peasant.  Faitii,  not  I,— 

Not  that,  if  one,  or  two,  or  more,  will  join, 
I.  then  will  stay  behind ;  but,  for  my  part» 
I  do  not  see  precisely  to  what  end. 

VaudL  Cease  your  vain  prating-^ come. 

Manuel,  {epeakk^  wMa.)  'T  is  all  in  vain — 

He  's  dead. 

Her.  {wiihm.)  Not  so — even  now  methou^t  he  moved ; 
But  it  is  dark— so  bear  him  gently  out  — 
SofUy  — how  cold  be  is !  take  care  of  his  ten^les 
In  winding  down  the  staircase. 

Re-enter  Manuel  and  Herman,  ieonii^  Manfbbd  mAeirarwu. 

Manud.  Hie  to  the  castle,  some  of  ye,  and  bring 
What  aid  you  can.     Saddle  the  barb,  and  speed 
For  the  leach  to  the  city  —  quick !  some  water  tiiere  ! 
Her.  His  cheek  is  black  —  but  there  is  a  faint  beat 
Still  lingering  about  the  heart.     Some  water. 

[They  aprinlde  Manfred  with  footer;  after  a  patue 
he  gives  some  signs  of  life. 
Manuel.  He  seems  to  strive  to  speak  -—  come  ^  eheerly. 
Count! 
He  moves  his  lips  —  canst  hear  him?  I  am  old, 
And  cannot  catch  faint  sounds. 

[Herman  indming  his  head  and  listening. 
Her.  I  hear  a  word 

Or  two — but  indistinctly  —  what  is  next  ? 
What 's  to  be  done  t  let 's  bear  him  to  the  castle. 

[Manfred  motions  with  his  hand  not  to  rethoice  him. 
Manud.  He  disapproves— -and  't  wert  of  no  avails 
He  changes  rapidly. 

Her.  'T  will  soon  be  over. 

Manuel.  Oh !  what  a  death  is  this !  that  I  should  live 


•cms  a. 


XAlfVXJBD.  MB 


To  shake  my  gt%y  hairs  over  the  last  chief 
Of  the  house  of  SigismuiiV).-^  And  sach  a  death ! 
Alone— -we  know  not  how— unduived— ontended  — 
With  strange  aocompaniments  and  fearful  si^^  — 
I  shudder  at  the  sight—  but  must  not  leave  mm. 

Manfnd.  (tpeaSngfaMy  and  douAyJ)    Old  man  *t  is 
not  so  diflScult  to  die. 

[MAimuBDy  hamng  taid  Att,  esptret. 
Hctm  His  eyes  are  nx'd  and  lifeless.—  He  is  gone. 
Meamel.  Close  them.-*  My  old  hand  quivers.— He  de- 
parts— 
Whither?  I  dread  to  think  — But  he  is  gone! 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


TO  BAY  DEAR  MARY  ANNE. 

♦ 

[THZ  rOLLOWINO  LINM  AKK  THK  BAKLIKST  WKITTKN  BY  LOftD  BTftOM. 
THKT  WKKS  ADDKKSflKD  TO  MISS  CHAWORTH,  AFTERWARDS  MRS.  MU8TRR8, 
IN  1804,  ABOUT  A  TEAR  BKPORS  HKR  MARRIAGE.] 

Adieu  to  sweet  Maiy  for  ever  f 

From  her  I  must  quickly  depart ; 
Thouf^  the  fates  us  from  each  other  sever, 

StiU  her  image  will  dwell  in  my  heart. 

The  flame  that  within  my  heart  bums 
If  unlike  what  in  lovers'  hearts  glows ; 

The  love  which  for  Mary  I  feel 
Is  far  purer  than  Cupid  bestows. 

I  wish  not  your  peace  to  disturb, . 

I  wish  not  your  joys  to  molest ; 
Mistake  not  my  passion  for  love, 

T  is  your  friendship  alone  I  request. 

Not  ten  thousand  lovers  could  feel 
The  friendship  my  bosom  contains ; 

It  will  ever  within  my  heart  dwell, 
While  the  warm  blood  flows  through  my  veins. 

May  the  Ruler  of  Heaven  look  down, 

And  my  Mary  from  evil  defend  ! 
May  she  ne'er  know  adversity's  frown, 

May  her  happiness  ne'er  have  an  end  ! 

Once  more,  my  sweet  Mary,  adieu ! 

Farewell !  I  with  anguish  repeat, 
For  ever  I  '11  think  upon  you 

While  this  heart  in  my  bosom  shall  beat. 


568  OCCASIOlfAL  PIBCB8. 

A  LOVE  BONG. 

TO   ***«***• 

RBXiifD  me  net,  remind  me  not, 
Of  those  beloved,  those  yanishM  hoius 
When  all  my  soul  was  given  to  thee ; 
Hours  that  may  never  be  forgot, 
Till  time  unnerves  our  vital  powers. 

And  thou  and  I  shall  cease  to  be.  ^ 

Can  I  forget  —  canst  thou  forget. 
When  playing  with  thy  golden  hair, 
How  quick  thy  fluttering  heart  did  moTeT 
Oh,  by  my  soul,  I  see  thee  yet, 
•  With  eyes  so  languid,  breast  so  fair, 

And  lips,  though  silent,  breathing  love. 

When  thus  reclining  on  my  breast, 

lliose  eyes  threw  back  a  glance  so  sweet. 
As  half  reproach'd  yet  raised  desire, 
And  still  we  near  and  nearer  press'd. 
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'  darkening  gloss 
Seem'd  stealing  o'er  thy  brilliant  cheek* 
Like  raven's  plumage  smooth'd  on  snow. 

I  dreamt  last  night  our  love  retum'd. 
And,  sooth  to  say,  that  very  dream 
Was  sweeter  in  its  phantasy 
Than  if  for  other  hearts  I  bum'd. 
For  eyes  that  ne'er  like  thine  could  beam 
In  rapture's  wild  reality. 

Then  tell  me  not,  remind  me  not. 
Of  hours  which,  though  for  ever  gone, 
Can  still  a  pleasing  dream  restore, 
Till  thou  and  I  shall  be  forgot. 

And  senseless  as  the  moiddering  stone 
Which  tells  that  we  shall  be  no  more. 


000A8X0NAL  FXBGB8.  6d9 


STANZA& 


TO  *««***«« 


Thsbs  was  a  time,  I  need  not  naaie« 
Since  it  will  ne'er  forgotten  be, 

When  all  our  feelings  were  the  same 
As  still  my  soul  hath  been  to  thee. 

"  And  from  that  hour  when  first  thy  tongue 

Confess'd  a  love  which  equall'd  mine, 
Thouch  many  a  grief  my  heart  hath  wrung, 
Unknown  and  thus  unfelt  by  thine, 

None,  none  hath  sunk  so  deep  as  this  — 
To  think  how  all  that  love  hath  flown  j 

Transient  as  every  faithless  kiss. 
But  transient  in  thy  breast  alone. 

And  yet  my  heart  some  solace  knew. 
When  late  I  heard  thy  lips  declare^ 

In  accents  once  imagined  true, 
Remembrance  of  the  days  that  were. 

Yes !  my  adored,  yet  most  unkind ! 

Though  thou  wilt  never  love  again, 
To  me  't  is  doubly  sweet  to  find 

Remembrance  of  that  love  remain. 

Yes !  't  is  a  glorious  thought  to  me, 
Nor  longer  shall  my  soul  repine, 

Whate'er  thou  art  or  e'er  shalt  be, 
Hiou  hast  been  dearly,  solely  mine  I 


TO  THE  SAMR 


Ain>  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  t 
Sweet  lady !  speak  those  words  again : 

Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so  — 
I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 


My  heart  is  sad,  my  hopes  are  gone^ 
My  hlood  runs  coldly  through  my  breast ; 

And  when  I  perish,  thou  alone 
Wilt  sigh  above  my  place  of  lest. 

And  yet,  methinks,  a  gleam  of  peace 

Doth  through  my  cloud  of  anguish  shine; 

And  for  awhile  my  sorrows  cease* 
To  know  thy  heart  hath  felt  for  minQ. 

Oh,  lady!  blessed  be  that  tear — 
It  falls  for  one  who  cannot  weep : 

Such  precious  drops  are  doubly  dear 
To  those  whose  eyes  no  tear  may  steep* 

Sweet  lady !  once  my  heart  was  warm 
With  every  feeling  soft  as  thine ; 

But  beauty's  self  hath  ceased  to  charm 
A  wretch  created  to  repine* 

Tet  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  ? 

Sweet  lady !  speak  those  words  again ; 
Tet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so— • 

I  woukl  not  give  that  bosom  pain* 


SONG. 

.FcLL  the  ffoblet  again,  for  I  never  before 

Felt  the  ^ow  which  now  ffladdme  my  heart  to  its  core ; 

Let  us  £inkt-—wh9  would  not?-* since,  through  life's 

varied  round, 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply ; 

I  have  bask'd  in  the  beam  of  a  dark  rolling. eye ; 

1  have  loved!  —  who  has  not?  — but  what  heart  can 

declare 
That  pleasure  existed  while  paaaion  was  there  ? 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  the  heart 's  in  its  spring, 
And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 


oocAMsovAL  mess.  tiTl 

I  had  fiiends!— -who  has  not?  — but  what  tongue  wiQ 

arowy 
That  friends,  rosy  wine !  are  so  faithful  as  thou  ? 

The  heaK  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange*' 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam  — thoi  never  canst 

ciuinge: 
Thou  grow'st  oM  — who  does  not?-^— but  on  earth  what 

appears, 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with  its  years  1 

Tet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow, 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below, 
Weare  jealous  !  —  who 'snot?  —  thou  hast  no  such  alloy : 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  nK>re  we  enjoy. 

Then  the  season  of  youth  and  its  vanities  past, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last ; 
There  we  find  —  dp  we  not  ? — in  the  flow  of  the  soul. 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowL 

When  the  dox  of  Pandora  was  open'd  on  earth, 
And  Misery'iB  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 
Hope  was  lefi«  was  she  not  7  —  but  the  goblet  we  Idas, 
And  care  not  for  hope,  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 

Long  life  to  the  grape !  for  when  summer  is  flown, 
The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own : 
Wemust  die  — who  shall  not? — May  our  sins  be  for- 
given, 
And  Hepe  shaH  never  be  idle  in  heaven. 


TO  LADY  CAROLED  LA1£B. 

AifD  say'st  thou  that  I  have  not  felt. 

Whilst  thou  wert  thus  estranged  from  met 
Nor  know'st  how  dearly  I  have  dwelt 

On  one  unbroken  dream  of  thee? 
But  love  like  ours  must  never  be. 

And  I  will  learn  to  prize  thee  less ; 
As  thou  hast  fled,  so  let  me  flee, 

And  change  the  heart  thou  mayest  not  bless. 


572   '  00CA8I01TAL   PUCBS. 

They  11  teH  thee,  Clara !  I  have  aeem'd. 

Of  Iate>  another's  charms  to  woo. 
Nor  sigh'd,  nor  frown'd,  as  if  I  deem'd 

That  thou  wert  banish'd  from  my  view. 
Clara !  this  struggle — to  undo 

Whflft  thou  hast  done  too  well,  for  me ; 
This  mask  before  the  babbling  crew  — 

This  treachery  —  was  truth  to  thee ! 

I  have  not  wept  while  thou  wert  gonoy 

Nor  worn  one  look  of  sullen  woe  ; 
But  sought,  in  many,  all  that  one 

(Ah I  need  I  name  her?)  could  bestow. 
It  is  a  duty  which  I  owe 

To  thine  —  to  thee  —  to  man — to  God, 
To  crush,  to  quench  this  guilty  glow. 

Ere  yet  the  path  of  crime  be  trod. 

But  since  my  breast  is  not  so  pure. 

Since  still  the  vulture  tears  my  heart. 
Let  me  this  agony  endure, 

Nqt  thee — oh !  dearest  as  thou  art ! 
In  mercy,  Clara !  let  us  part, 

And  I  will  seek,  yet  know  not  how, 
To  shun,  in  time,  the  threatening  dart 

Guilt  must  not  aim  at  such  as  thou. 

But  thou  must  aid  me  in  the  task, 

And  nobly  thus  exert  thy  power ; 
Then  spurn  me  hence  —  't  is  all  I  ask— - 

Ere  time  mature  a  guiltier  hour ; 
Ere  wrath/s  impending  vials  shower 

Remorse  redoubled  on  my  head ;  ^ 

Ere  fires  unquenchably  devour 

A  heart,  whose  hope  has  long  been  dead. 

• 

Deceive  no  more  thyself  and  me, 

Deceive  not  better  hearts  than  mine ; 
Ah !  shouldst  thou,  whither  wouldst  thou  flee» 

From  woe  like  ours  — from  shame  like  thinef 
And,  if  there  be  a  wrath  divine, 

A  pang  beyond  this  fleeting  breath* 
E'en  now  all  future  hope  resign. 

Such  thoughts  are  guilt  —such  guilt  is  death. 


occAsioiTAL  nxcis  578 


ON  THE  PRINCE  RBQENT'S  RETURNING  THE  PICTURE  OF 
SARAH,  COUNTESS  OF  JERSEY,  TO  MRS.  MEE. 

WHSir  the  yain  triumph  of  the  imperial  lord, 
Whom  servile  Rome  obej'd,  and  yet  abhorr'd, 
Crave  to  the  vulgar  gaze  each  glorious  bust. 
That  left  a  likeness  of  the  brave  or  just ; 
What  most  admired  each  scrutinizing  eye 
Of  all  that  deck'd  that  passing  pageantry  ? 
What  spread  from  face  to  face  that  wondering  airf 
The  thought  of  Brutus — for  his  was  not  there ! 
That  absence  proved  his  worth,  —  that  absence  fiz'd 
His  memory  on  the  longing  miifd,  unmix'd ; 
And  more  decreed  his  glory  to  endure, 
Than  all  a  gold  Colossus  could  secure. 

If  thus,  fair  Jersey,  our  desiring  gaze 
Search  for  thy  form,  in  vain  and  mute  amoze^ 
Amid  those  pictured  charms,  whose  loveliness. 
Bright  though  they  be,  thine  own  had  rendered  less ; 
If  he,  that  vain  old  man,  whom  truth  admits 
Heir  of  his  father's  throne  and  shatter'd  wits. 
If  his  corrupted  eye  and  withered  heart 
Could  with  thy  gentle  image  bear  depart,  • 
That  tasteless  sl&me  be  kU,  and  ours  the  grief, 
To  gaze  on  Beauty's  band  without  its  chief: 
Yet  comfort  still  one  selfish  thought  imparts, 
We  lose  the  portrait,  but  preserve  our  hearts. 

What  can  his  vaulted  gallery  now  disclose  T 
A  ffarden  with  all  flowers — except  the  rose ;. — 
A  rount  that  only  wants  its  liviocf  stream ; 
And  night  with  every  star,  save  Dian's  beam. 
Lost  to  our  eyes  the  present  forms  shall  be. 
That  turn  from  tr&cing  them  to  dream  of  thee ; 
And  more  on  that  recall'd  resemblance  pause. 
Than  all  he  shaU  not  force  on  our  applause. 

Lonff  may  thy  yet  meridian  lustre  shine,  • 

With^  that  Virtue  asks  of  Homage  thine : 
The  symmetry  of  youth — the  grace  of  mien— 
The  eve  that  gladdens — and  the  brow  serene; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  that  clustering  hair, 
Which  shades,  yet  shows  that  forehead  more  than  fiur. 
Each  glanoe  tiiat  wins  us,  and  the  life  that  throws 
A  spell  which  will  no/t  let  our  looks  repose,. 
But  turn  to  gaze  again,  and  find  anew 
Some  charm  that  well  rewards  another  view. 


574  occASOHAL  nscn. 

These  are  not  leflsen'dy  these  are  still  as  bright^ 
Albeit  too  dariing  for  a  dotard's  sight ; 
And  these  must  watt  tiO  every  charm  is  gone 
To  please  the  paltry  heart  that  pleases  none. 
That  didl  cold  sensualist,  whose  siekly  eye 
In  envious  dimness  pass'd  thy  portrait  by ; 
Who  rack'd  his  little  spirit  to  combine 
Its  hate  of  FreedtmCi  lovdinessy  and  ikme^ 


J^1814. 


TO  BEL8HAZZAR. 

I. 
Bbishabxas  !  from  the  banquet  turn. 

Nor  in  thy  sensual  fulness  fall : 
Behold !  whUe  yet  before  thee  bum 

The  graven  words,  the  glowing  wall. 
Many  a  despot  men  miscall 

Crown'd  and  anointed  from  on  high ; 
But  thou,  the  weakest,  worst  of  all — 

Is  it  not  written,  thou  must  die? 

n. 
60 !  dash  the  roses  firom  thy  brow — 

Gray  hairs  but  poorly  wreattie  with  them  ; 
Youth's  garlands  misbecome  thee  now, 

More  Uian  thy  very  diadem. 
Where  thou  hast  tarnish'd  every  ran: — 

Then  throw  the  worthless  bauble  by. 
Which,  worn  by  thee,  e'en  skives  contonn ; 

And  leam  like  better  men  to  die* 

in* 
Oh !  early  in  the  balance  welgh'd. 

And  ever  light  of  word  and  worth, 
Whose  soul  expired  ere  youth  decay'd, 

And  left  thee  bat  a  mass  of  earth. 
To  see  thee  moves  the  seomer's  mirth : 

But  tears  in  Hope's  averted  eye 
Lament  that  even  thou  hadst  birth -*- 

Unfit  to  govern,  live,  or  die. 


oocAnoNAi.  PBoia*  676 


BEBBEW  BiELODIES. 


Ih  the  valley  of  waters  we  wept  o'er  the  day 
When  the  host  of  the  stranger  made  Salem  his  prey ; 
And  oar  heads  on  our  bosoms  all  droopingly  lay, 
And  our  hearts  were  so  fall  of  the  lanid  far  away. 

The  song  they  demanded  in  vain —-it  lay  still 
In  our  souls  as  the  wind  that  hath  died  on' the  hill, 
They  called  for  the  harp,  but  our  blood  they  shall  spill, 
Ere  our  right  hands  shall  teach  them  one  tone  of  their  skill 

All  stringlessly  hunc  on  the  willow's  sad  tree, 
As  dead  as  her  dead  leaf  those  mate  harps  most  be, 
Our  hands  may  be  fettered,  our  tears  still  are  free, 
For  our  God  and  our  glory,  and  Sion !  for  thee* 

OeUUr,  18R 


Tbbt  say  that  Hope  is  happiness, 
But  genuine  Love  must  prize  the  past ; 

And  Memory  wakes  the  thoughts  that  bless  — 
They  rose  the  first,  they  set  the  last. 

And  all  that  Memory  loves  the  most 

Was  once  our  only  hope  to  be ; 
And  all  that  hope  adored  and  lost 

Hath  melted  into  memory. 

Alas !  it  is  delusion  all 

The  future  cheats  us  from  afar, 
Nor  can  we  be  what  we  recall 

Nor  dare  we  think  on  what  we  are. 


THE  IRISH  AVATAR.* 

X. 
EsB  the  daughter  of  Brunswick  is  cold  in  her  grave, 
And  her  ashes  still  float  to  their  home  o'er  the  tidie, 

*  OntfaaKiiMK'tvuittolielttidiBini. 


576  OOCAnOHAL  piecbs. 

Lo !  George  the  triumphant  speeds  over  the  wave, 
To  the  long-cherish  d  isle  which  he  loved  like  his — bride. 

n. 
True,  the  great  of  her  bright  and  brief  era  are  eone. 

The  rainbow-like  epoch  where  Freedom  could  pause 
For  the  few  little  years,  out  of  centuries  won, 

Which  betray'd  not,  or  crushed  not,  or  wept  not  her  cause. 

m. 
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  freedomlees  crags 

Is  extending  its  steps  to  her  desolate  shore. 

IV. 

To  her  desolate  shore  —  where  the  emigrant  stands 
For  a  moment  to  gaze  ere  he -flies  from  his  hearth ; 

Tears  fall  on  lus  chun  though  it  drops  from  his  hands, 
For  the  dungeon  he  quits  is  the  place  of  his  birth. 


But  ho  comes !  the  Messiah  of  royalty  comes ! 

Like  a  goodly  Leviathan  roll'd  from  the  waves ! 
Then  receive  hun  as  best  such  an  advent  becomes. 

With  a  legion  of  cooks  and  an  army  of  slaves ! 

VI. 

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 ! 
Ck>uld  the  green  in  his  hat  be transferr'd  to  his  hnart! 

vn. 
Could  that  long*wither'd  spot  but  be  verdant  again. 

And  a  new  spring  of  noble  affections  arise  — 
Then  might  freedom  forgive  thee  this  dance  in  thy  chain, 

And  this  shout  of  thy  slavery  which  saddens  the  skies. 

vin. 
Is  it  madness  or  meanness  which  dings  to  thee  now ! 

Were  he  Grod  —  as  he  is  but  the  commonest  clay. 
With  scarce  fewer  wrinkles  than  sins  on  his  brow  — 

Such  servile  devotion  might  shame  him  away. 


OeOJMCfNAL  FBICa*.  S77 


Xjf  foa?  in hb  train!  let  tfatne  omtors  lash 
Their  faaeifbl  spirits  to  pamper  his  pride  — 

Not  thas  did  thy  Grattan  indigiiaiitly  flash 
His  soul  o'er  the  froodoia  iii^ored  and  denied. 


Ever  glorious  Grrattaft!  the  best  of  the-good ! 

So  sinqirie  in  hearty  so  sublime  in  the  rest ! 
With  all  which  DemosUieDes  wanted  endued, 

kmi  his  rival  or  victor  in  all  he  possess'd. 

Ere  Tully  arose  in  the  zenith  of  Rome, 

Though  unequall'd,  preceded,  the  ta^  was  begun  ^ 

But  Grattan  sprung  up  like  a  God  from,  the  tomb 
Of  agesy  the  first,  last,  the  saviour,  the  ofis  / 

xn. 
With  the  skill  of  an  Orpheus  to  soften  the  brute ; 

With  the  fire  of  Prometheus  to  kindle  mankind ; 
Even  Tyranny  listening  sate  melted  or  mute, 
And  Corruption  shrunk  scorch'd  from  the  glance  of  his 
mind. 

xin« 
But  back  to  our  theme  f  Back  to  despots  and  slaves ! 

Feasts  furatsh'd  by  Famine  !  rejoicings  by  Pain ! 
True  Freedom  but  ftdcames^  while  slavery  still  raveSf 

When  a  week's  saturnalia  hath  loosen'd  her  chain. 


XIV. 

Let  the  poor  squalid  splendour  thy  wreck  can  afford    ■ 
(Am  tl^  bankrupt's  profusion  hiis  ruin  would  hide) 

Gud  over  the  palace.    Lo !  Erin,  thy  lord  ! 
Kiss  his  fbot  with  thy  blessing  for  blessings  denied. 


XV. 

Or  if  freedom  past  hope  be  extorted  at  last, 
If  the  idol  of  brass  find  his  feet  are  of  clay, 

Must  what  terror  or  policy  wring  forth  be  class'd 
With  what  monarchs  ne'er  give,  but  as  wolves  yield  their 
prey? 

VOL.  v.— P  p 


fi78  oooAtamuL  nscss. 

XVI. 

Each  brute  hath  its  nature,  a  king's  is  to  reigHf  — ^ 
To  reign  !  in  that  word  see,  ye  ages,  compriBed 

The  cause  of  the  curses  ail  anniJs  contain. 
From  Cssar  the  dreaded  to  George  the  despised. 

xvn. 
Wear,  Fingal,  thy  trappings !  O'Conndl,  proclaim 

His  accompUsfaments !  Hu  !  !  !  and  thy  country  convince 
Half  an  age's  contempt  was  an  error  of  fame, 

And  that  ^  Hal  is  the  rascaliest,  sweetest  young  prince  * 

xvin. 
Will  thy  yard  of  blue  riband,  poor  Fingal,  recall 

The  fetters  from  millions  of  Catiiolic  limbs  ? 
Or,  has  it  not  bound  thee  the  fastest  of  all 

The  slaves,  who  now  hail  their  betrayer  with  hymns  t 

XIX. 

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 ! 

XX. 

Spread —  spread,  for  Vitellius,  the  royal  repast, 
Till  the  gluttonous  despot  be  stuff 'd  to  the  gorge ! 

And  the  roar  of  his  drunkards  proclaims  him  at  last 
The  Fourth  of  the  fools  and  oppressors  call'd  *'  George ! ' 

XXI. 

Let  the  taUes  be  loaded  with  feasts  till  they  groan ! 

Tin  the^  groan  like  thy  people,  through  ages  of  "Woe ! 
Let  the  wme  flow  around  the  old  Bacchanal's  throne, 

Like  their  blood  which  has  flow'd,  and  which  y^i  has  to 
flow. 


xxn. 
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  jeera. 


O0CA8IOKAL  PIB0B8*  570 

xzin. 
Till  nowy  when  the  kle  which  should  Uush  for  his  birth, 

Deep*  deep  as  the  gore  which  he  sh^d  on  her  soil, 
Seems  proud  of  the  reptile  which  crawl'd  from  her  earth, 

And  for  nuirder  repays  him  with  shouts  and  a  smile ! 

Without  one  sin^e  ray  of  her  genius,  without 
The  fancy,  the  manhood,  the  fire  of  iier  race-* 

The  miscreant  who  well  might  plunge  Erin  in  doubt 
Uthe  ever  gave  birth  to  a  beong  so  base. 

XXV. 

If  she  did  <— let  her  long-boasted  proverb  be  hush'd, 
Which  proclaims  that  from  Erin  no  reptile  can  spring— 

See  the  cold-blooded  serpent,  with  venom  full  flush'd. 
Still  warming  its  folds  in  the  breast  of  a  king ! 

XXVI. 

Shout,  drink,  feast,  and  flatter !  On !  Erin,  how  low 
Wert  thou  sunk  by  misfortune  and  tyranny,  till 

Thy  welcome  of  tyrants  hath  plunged  thee  below 
The  d^th  of  thy  deep  in  a  deeper  gulf  still. 

xxvn. 
My  voice,  though  but  humble,  was  raised  for  thy  right, 

My  vote,  as  a  freeman's^  still  voted  thee  froe» 
This  hand,  though  but  feeble,  would  arm,  in  thy  fight, 

And  this  heart,  though  outworn,  had  a  throb  still  for  theef 

xxvni. 
Yes,  I  loved  thee  and  thine,  though  thou  art  not  my  land, 

I  have  known  noble  hearts  and  great  souls  in  thy  sons. 
And  t  wept  with  the  world  o'er  the  patriot  band 

Who  are  gone,  but  I  weep  them  no  longer  as  once. 

XXIX. 

For  happy  are  they  now  reposing  afar,  — 
Thy  Grattan,  tl^  Curran,  thy  Sheridan,  aU 

Who,  for  years,  were  the  chiefs  in  the  eloquent  war. 
And  redeem'd,  if  they  have  not  retarded,  thy  fall. 

XXX. 

Yes,  happy  are  they  in  their  cold  English  gmveg  ! 

Their  shades  cannot  start  to  thy  shouts  of  to^Iay, — 
Nor  the  steps  of  enslavers  and  chain-kissing  slaves 

Be  stamp'd  in  the  turf  o'er  their  fetterless  clay. 


580  ogeuunoiiAL  rnoss. 


Till  now  I  had  envied  thy  sons  and  their  shofe. 
Though  their  virtues  were  hunted,  their  hberties^fledy 

There  waa  something  so  warm  and  subhme  in  the  core 
Of  an  Irishman's  hearty  that  I  envy  —  thy  dead. 


Or,  if  aught  in  my  bosom  can  quench  for  an  hour 
My  contempt  for  a  nation  so  servile,  though  scmib, 

Which  though  trod  like  the  worm  will  not  turn  upon  power 
'T  is  the  glory  of  Grattan,  and  genias  of  Moore. 

S^ptmier  16, 1»L 


STANZAS. 

VO  HSR  WHO  B£8T  C^N  UNDBEaTAND  THXM. 

Bn  it  SO !  we  part  for  ever ! 

Let  the  past  as  nothing  be  ;  — 
Had  I  only  loved  thee,  never 

Hadst  thou  been  thus  dear  to  me» 

Had  I  loved  and  thus  been  slighted,  > 
That  I  better  could  haVe  borne ;  •— 

Love  is  <pielled,  when  unrequited. 
By  the  rising  pulse  of  sconu 

Pride  may  cool  what  passion  heatod, 
Time  will  tame  the  wayward  will ; 

But  the  heart  in  friendship  cheated 

Throbs  with  woe's  most  maddening  thrill* 

Had  I  loved,  I  now  might  hate  thee^ 

In  thai  hatred  solace  seek. 
Might  esxjlt  to  execrate  thee, 

Andy  in  words,  my  vengeance  wreak. 

Bui  there  is  a  silent  sorrow, 

Which  can  find  no  vent  in  speech, 

Which  disdains  relief  to  borrow 

From  the  heights  that  song  can  reach* 

Like  a  clankless  chain  enthralling, — 
Like  the  deepless  dreams  that  mock,  -^ 

Like  the  frigid  ice-drops  falling 
From  the  surf-surrounded  rock. 


OOCA8IOHAL   FIXOB8.  C81 

Such  the  oeld  and  sickening  feeling 

Thou  hast  caused  this  heart  to  laioify 
Stabbed  the  deeper  by  concealing 

From  the  world  its  bitter  woe. 

Once  it  fondly,  proudly,  deemed  thee 

All  that  ftncy's  self  could  paint, 
Once  it  honoured  and  esteemed  thee, 

As  its  idol  and  its  saint ! 

More  than  woman  thou  wast  to  me ; 

Not  as  man  1  looked  on  thee ;  ^" 
Why  like  woman  then  undo  me ! 

Why  **  heap  man's  worst  curse  on  me*'' 

Wast  thou  but  a  fiend,  assuming 

Friendship's  smile,  and  woman's  art. 
And,  in  borrow'd  beauty  blooming. 

Trifling  with  a  trusted  heart ! 

• 
By  that  eye  which  once  c6uld  glisten 

With  opposing  glance  to  me ; 
By  that  ear  which  once  could  listen 

To  each  tale  I  told  to  thee ;  ~ 

By  that  lip,  its  smile  bestowing. 

Which  could  soften  sorrow's  gush ;  — 

By  that  cheek,  once  brightly  glowing 
With  pure  friendship's  well-fetgned  blush ; 

By  all  those  fidse  charms  united,  •— 

Thou  hast  wrought  thy  wanton  will, 
And,  without  compunction,  blighted 

What  **  thou  wottklst  not  kindly  kilL" 

Yet  I  curse  thee  not  in  sadness, 
Still,  I  feel  how  dear  thou  wert ; 

Oh !  I  could  not— e'en  in  madness- 
Doom  thee  to  thy  jnst  desert  I 

Live !  and  when  my  life  is  over, 
Should  thine  own  be  lengthen'd  long, 

Thou  may'st  then,  too  late,  discover 
By  thy  feelitigs,  all  my  wrong. 


582  OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 

When  thy  beauties  all  are  faded, — 
When  thy  flatterers  fawn  no  more,— 

Ere  the  solemn  shroud  hath  shaded 
Some  regardless  reptile's  store,  — 

Ere  that  hour,  false  syren,  hear  me ! 

Thou  may'st  feel  what  I  do  now, 
While  my  spirit,  hovering  near  thee, 

Whispers  firiendship's  broken  vow* 

But  —  't  is  useless  to  upbraid  thee 
With  thy  past  or  present  state ; 

What  thou  wast,  my  &ncy  made  thee, 
What  thou  art,  I  know  too  late. 


The  foUawing  Poems,  from  MamiseripU  cdttected  after  Ihe  death 
of  Lord  Byron,  loereffa  pMished  m  London  m  1833. 


TO  A  LADY  WHO  PREBEI^TED  THE  AUTHOR  WITH  THE 
VELVET  BAND  WHICH  BOUND  HER  TRESSES. 

This  Band,  which  bound  thy  yeUow  hair. 
Is  mine,  sweet  girl !  thy  pledge  of  love ; 

It  claims  my  warmest,  dearest  care. 
Like  relics  left  of  saints  above* 

Oh !  I  will  wear  it  next  my  heart ; 

T  wiU  bind  my  soul  in  bonds  to  thee; 
From  roe  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  bUas : 

This  will  recall  each  youthful  scene. 

E'en  when  our  lives  are  on  the  wane ; 
The  leaves  of  Love  will  still  be  green 
•  When  Memory  bids  them  bo4  again. 


0CCA8I0HAL  VIBOM.  588 

Oh!  little  loek  of  golden  hue, 

In  gently  waring  ringlet  curiM, 
Bj  the  dei^  head  on  which  you  grew, 
*     I  would  not  lose  you  for  a  wond. 

Not  though^  thooaand  more  adorn 

The  polish'd  brow  where  once  you  shone, 

like  rays  which  gild  a  cloudleeB  mom, 
Beneath  Columbia's  fervid  aone. 

1806. 


REMEMBRAI^CE. 

T  IS  done !  —  I  saw  it  in  my  dreams : 

No  more  with  Hope  the  future  beams ; 
My  days  of  happiness  are  few : 

Chitt'd  by  misfortune's  wintry  blast, 

My  dawn  of  life  is  overcast ; 
Love,  Hope,  and  Joy,  alike  adieu  :  — 
Would  I  could  add  Remembrance  too. 

1806. 


THE  ADIEU.  • 

WaiTTBII  VHBEM  TBI'  IMrBKMIOir  TRAT  TBI  AUTHOE  WOULD  lOOH  DIE. 

Adibu,  thou  Hill !  *  where  early  joy 

Spread  roses  o'er  my  brow ; 
Where  Science  seeks  each  bitering  boy 

With  knowledge  to  endow* 
Adieu  my  youthml  friends  or  foes, 
Partners  of  former  bliss  or  woes; 

No  more  through  Ida's  paths  we  stray ; 
Soon  must  I  share  the  gloomy  cell, 
Whose  ever  slumbering  inmates  dwell 

Unconscious  of  the  day. 

Adieu,  ye  hoary  Regal  Fanes, 

Te  spires  of  Granta's  vale. 
Where  Learning  robed  in  sable  reigns, 

And  Melancholy  pale. 

*Haiiow. 


584  •ooiwoiyAL 

Te  comrades  of  the  jovial  boor, 
Ye  tenants  of  the  classic  bower. 

On  Cama's  yerdant  mufin  ptacedf 
Adieu !  while  memory  still  is  nunet 
For,  offerings  on  ObUrion's  shrine, 

These  scenes  must  be  efiac^ 

Adieu,  ye  mountains  c^  the  dime 

Were  grew  my  youthful  yean ; 
Where  I^h  na  Garr  in  snows  sablime 

His  giant  summit  rears. 
Why  did  my  childhood  wander  forth 
From  you,  ye  regions  of  the  North, 

Witii  sons  of  pride  to  roam  1 
Why  did  I  quit  my  Highland  cave, 
Marr's  dusicy  heath,  and  Dee's  dear  waives 

To  seek  a  Southern  home  7 

Hall  of  my  Sires !  *  a  kmg  faiewdl— 

Yet  why  to  thee  adieu  ? 
Thy  vaults  will  echo  back  my  knell, 

Thy  towers  my  tonrii)  will  view : 
The  faltering  tongue  which  sung  thy  faD, 
And  former  glories  of  the  Hall 

Forgets  its  wonted  simple  note  — 
But  yet  the  Lyre  retains  the  strings, 
And  sometimes  on  iElolian  wings, 
•        In  dying  strains  may  float. 

Fields,  which  surround  yon  rustic  cot, 

While  yet  I  linger  here, 
Adieu !  you  are  not  now.foigot, 

To  retrospection  dear. 
Streamlet !  f  ahmg  whose  rippling  surge, 
My  youthful  limbs  were  wont  to  urge 

At  noontide  heat  their  pliant  course ; 
Runging  with  ardour  from  the  shore. 
Thy  springs  wtU  lave  these  limbs  no  more, , 

Deprived  of  active  force. 

And  shall  I  here  forget  the  soeae^ 

Still  nearest  to  my  breast  t 
Rocks  rise,  and  rivers  roll  betwaea 

The  spot  which  passion  blest ; 

•  Newstead.  t  The  lifer  Gmei 


oocAuoirAi.  naoM.  566 

Tety  Mar^,  *  ail  thy  beauties  aeem 
Fresh  as  in  Love's  bewkchiag  dreamy 

To  me  in  smiles  di^lay'4 ; 
Till  slow  disease  resigns  bis  prey 
To  Deatht  the  i»areiit  of  decay, 

Thine  image  cannot  fade. 

And  then,  my  Friend !  f  whose  gende  love 

Yet  tfarilis  ny  bosom's  chords, 
How  much  thy  friendship  was  aboiFe 

Description's  powder  of  words ! 
Still  near  my  bveast  thy  gift  I  wear, 
Which  sparkled  once  wi£  Feeling's  tear, 

Of  Love  the  pave,  the  sacred  gem ; 
Our  souls  were  equal,  and  our  lot 
In  that  dear  moment  quite  foi^got ; 

Let  pride  akme  oondemn ! 

All,  all,  is  dark  and  cheerless  now ! 

No  smile  of  Love's  deceit 
Can  wann  my  veins  with  wonted  glow, 

Can  bid  Life's  pulses  beat : 
Not  e'en  the  hope  of  future  fame 
Can  wake  my  Ikint,  exhausted  frame, 

Or  crown  with  fancied  wreaths  my  head* 
Mine  is  a  short  inglorious  race,  — 
To  humble  in  tiie  dust  my  fece. 

And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

Oh  Fame  !  thou  goddess  of  my  heart ; 

On  him  who  gains  thy  praise,* 
Pointless  must  M  the  Spectre's  dart, 

Consumed  in  Glory's  blaze ; 
But  me  she  beckons  from  Ae  earth» 
My  name  obscure,  umnark'd  my  birth. 

My  life  a  Aort  and  vnlgar  dream : 
Lost  in  the  duD,  ignoble  crowd, 
My  hopes  lediae  within  a  slvoud, 

My  fate  10  LeOe'a  stfeam. 

When  I  repose  bflntetfa  tke  sod. 

Unheeded  in  the  elwr. 
Where  once  my  pkjrftil  footsteps  trod. 

Where  »ow  n^  head  must  lay  ; 

•  Mary  Due  t  EMaMoDs. 


666  OOOAflONAL  PISCB8. 

TIm  meed  of  Kty  win  be  ahed 
In  dew-dropt  o*er  my  nanow  bed« 

By  nigbUy  fliuesv  and  fltonns  akme ; 
No  oiorUi  eye  will  deign  to  steep 
Witb  tean  tbe  dark  sepolebral  deep 

Whicb  bides  a  name  nnknown. 

Foraet  tbis  worid,  my  resdess  sprite, 

'nim,  turn  tby  tbougbts  to  Heaven : 
Tbere  must  tbou  soon  direct  tby  fligbt, 

If  errws  are  forgiven* 
To  Ingots  and  to  sects  unknown, 
Bow  down  beneatb  the  Alnn^ty's  Tbrone; 

To  Him  address  tby  tremUing  prayer : 
He,  wbo  is  mercifiil  and  just, 
Will  not  reject  a  cbild  of  dost, 

Altbougb  biq  meanest  care. 


Fatber  of  Ligbt!  to  Tbee  I  call,* 

My  soul  is  dark  witbin: 
Tbou,  wbo  canst  Qiark  the  sparrow's  fall, 

Avert  tbe  deatb  of  sia. 
Tbou,  wbo  canst  guide  tbe  wandering  star, 
Wbo  calm'st  tbe  dbmental  war, 

Wbose  mantle  is  yon  boundless  sky, 
My  tbougbts,  my  words,  my  crimes  forgive ; 
And,  since  I  soon  must  cease  to  livci 

Instruct  me  bow  to  die. 

1B07 


TO  A  VAIN  LADY. 

Ab,  beedless  girl !  wby  tbus  disclose 
Wbat  ne'er  wa8  meant  for  other  ears? 

Wby  tbus  destroy  tbine  own  repose 
ibid  dig  the  source  of  future  tears? 

Ob,  tbou  wilt  weep,  imprudent  m^id, 
Wbile  lurking  envious  foes  will  smile. 

For  all  tbe  follies  tbou  bast  said 
Of  tbose  who  spoke  but  to  beguile; 

^  8MftftY«rorifatiiis,peg«471 


OCCA8XOVA&  ratCBS.  '687 

Yaiii  giri !  thy  liog'riiig  woes  mre  nigfa. 

If  thoa  believ'st  what  striplings  say : 
Oht  from  the  deep  temptation  fly, 

Nor  M  the  specious  spoiler's  prey. 

Dost  thou  repeat,  in  childish  boast. 

The  words  man  utters  to  deceive  t 
Thy  peace,  thy  hope,  thy  all  is  lost. 

If  thou  canst  venture  to  believe. 

While  now  amongvt  thy  female  peers 

Thou  tell'st  again  the  soothing  tale, 
Canst  thou  not  mark  the  rising  sneers 

Duplicity  in  vain  would  veil  ? 

These  tales  in  secret  silence  hush. 

Nor  make  thyself  the  public  saze  : 
What  modest  maid  without  a  bhish 

Recounts  a  flattering  coxc<Hnb's  praiM  1 

Witt  not  the  laughing  boy  despise 

Her  who  relates  each  fond  conceit  — 
Who,  thinking  Heaven  is  in  her  eyes, 

Yet  cannot  see  the  slight  deceit  ?» 

For  she  who  takes  a  soft  delight 

These  amorous  nothings  in  revealing. 
Must  credit  att  we  say  or  write. 

While  vanity  prevents  concealing. 

Cease,  if  3rou  prize  your  beauty's  reign ! 

No  j^ousy  bids  me  reprove : 
One,  who  is  thus  from  nature  vain, 

I  pity,  but  I  caimot  love. 

JafNMry^  V^  1807 


TO  ANNE. 


Oh,  Anne !  your  ofiences  to  me  have  been  grievous ; 

I  thought  from  my  wrath  no  atonement  could  save  you ; 
But  woman  is  made  to  command  and  deceive  us  *— 

I  look'd  in  your  face,  and  I  almost  forgave  you. 


588  OCCASIONAL  nacBs. 

I  vow'd  I  could  ne'er  for  a  moment  respect  yon, 
Yet  thought  that  a  da3r's  separation  was  long : 

When  we  met,  I  determined  again  to  suspect  you— 
Your  smile  soon  convinced  me  suspicion  was  wrong. 

I  swore,  in  a  transport  of  young  indignation, 
With  fervent  contempt  evermore  to  disdain  you : 

I  saw  you  —  my  anger  became  admiration ; 

And  now,  all  my  wish,  all  my  hope,  's  to  regain  you* 

With  beauty  like  yours,  oh,  how  vain  the  contention ! 

Thus  lowly  I  sue  for  forgiveness  beibie  you ;  -*• 
At  once  to  conclude  such  a  fruitless  dissension. 

Be  false,  my  sweet  Anne,  when  I  cease  to  adore  you ! 

Jmmnf  l^  1807. 


TO  THE  SAME. 


Oh  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  that  the  Fates  have  decreed 
The  heart  which  adores  you  should  wish  to  dissever ; 

Such  Fates  were  to  me  most  unkind  ones  indeed^«-~ 
To  bear-me  from  love  and  from  beauty  for  ever. 

Your  frowns,  lovely  girl,  are  the  Fates  which  alone 
Could  bid  me  from  fond  admiration  refrain ; 

By  these,  every  hope,  every  wish  were  o'erthrown. 
Till  smiles  should  restore  me  to  rapture  again. 

As  the  ivy  and  oak,  in  the  forest  entwined. 
The  rage  of  the  tempest  united  must  weather. 

My  love  and  my  life  were  by  nature  design'd 
To  flouiish  alike,  or  to  perish  together. 

Then  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  ^at  the  Fates  have  decreed, 
Your  lover  should  bid  you  a  lasting  adieu  ; 

Till  Fate  can  ordain  that  his  bosom  shall  bleed, 
His  soul,  his  existence,  are  centred  in  you. 

1807. 


TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  A  SONNET  BEGD^NING, 

<**8AI>  IS  MT  TSR8B,*  TOV  SAT,  *AKD  TKT  NO  TKAft.'** 

Tht  verse  is  "  sad  "  enough,  no  doubt : 
A  devilish  deal  more  sad  than  witty  ! 

Why  we  should  weep  I  can't  find  out, 
Unless  for  tfiee  we  weep  in  pity* 


Tet  there  is  one  I  pity  nx»r»; 

And  miicby  alas !  I  tbink  he  needs  it : 
For  he,  I  'm  sare»  will  saffer  sore, 

Who,  to  his  own  misfortune,  reads  it* 

Thy  rhymes,  without  the  aid  of  nuLffic, 
May  ence  be  read —  but  never  after : 

Tet  their  efiect  '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  make  us  weep  indeed. 
Tell  us,  you  11  read  them  o'er  again. 


ON  FINDING  A  PAN. 

Iv  one  who  felt  as  once  he  felt, 

This  might,  perhaps,  haye  &nn'd  the  flame ; 
But  now  his  heart  no  more  will  melt, 

Because  that  heart  is  not  the  same. 

As  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low. 
The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light. 

And  bade  them  bum  with  fiercer  glow, 
Now  quenches  all  their  blaze  in  night. 

Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires — 
As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers  ^- 

While  every  hope  of  love  expires, 
Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

Tbejktif  though  not  a  spark  survive. 
Seme  carefvd  hand  may  teach  to  burn ; 

The  Uutf  alas !  can  ne^er  survive ; 
No  touch  can  bid  its  warmth  return. 

Or,  if  it  chance  to  wake  again. 
Not  always  doom'd  its  ^t  to  smother, 

It  sheds  (so  wayward  fates  ordain) 
Its  former  warmth  around  another. 

1807. 


69C  OCCAIXON AL  PIBOMU 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  MUSE. 

Tbou  Power!  who  hast  ruled  me  through  infancy's  days^ 
Young  ofispring  of  Fancy,  't  is  time  we  should  part ; 

Then  rise  on  the  gale  this  tliMS  last  of  my  lays, 
The  coldest  effusion  which  springs  from  my  heart. 

This  bosom,  responsive  to  rapture  no  more, 
Shall  hush  thy  wild  notes,  nor  implore  thee  to  sing ; 

The  feelines  of  childhood,  which  taught  thee  to  soar. 
Are  watted  far  distant  on  Apathy's  wing. 

Though  simple  the  themes  of  my  rude  flowing  Lyre, 
Yet  even  these  themes  are  departed  for  ever ; 

No  more  beam  the  eyes  which  my  dream  could  inspire. 
My  visions  are  flown,  to  return,  —  alas,  never ! 

When  drain'd  is  the  nectar  which  gladdens  the  bowl, 
How  vain  is  the  effort  delight  to  prolong ! 

When  cold  is  the  beauty  which  dwelt  in  my  soul. 
What  magic  of  Fancy  can  lengthen  my  song  t 

Can  the  lips  sing  of  Love  in  the  desert  alone, 
Of  kisses  and  smiles  which  they  now  must  resign? 

Or  dwell  with  delight  on  the  hours  that  are  flown  t 
Ah,  no !  for  those  hours  can  no  longer  be  mine. 

Can  they  speak  of  the  friends  that  I  lived  but  to  love  ? 

Ah,  surely  affection  ennobles  the  strain ! 
But  how  can  my  numbers  in  sympathy  move, 

When  I  scarcely  can  hope  to  behold  them  agMn? 

Can  I  sing  of  the  deeds  which  my  Fathers  have  done, 
Andfaise  my  loud  harp  to  the  fame  of  my  Sbes? 

For  glories  like  theirs,  oh,  how  faint  is  my  tone  ! 
For  Heroes'  exploits  how  unequal  my  fires ! 

Untouch'd,  then,  my  Lyre  shall  reply  to  the  blast — 
T  is  hush'd ;  and  my  feeble  endeavours  are  o'er ; 

And  those  who  have  heard  it  will  pardon  the  past. 

When  they  know  that  its  murmurs  shall  vibrate  no 
more. 


oooAnoKAL  nacss.  591 

And  floon  shall  its  wild  erriop  notes  be  forgtH, 
8ino9  early  a£bction  and  love  is  overcast : 

Oh !  blest  had  my  fate  been»  and  happy  my  lot. 

Had  the  first  strain  of  love  been  tiie  dearest,  the  last. 

Farewell,  my  young  Muse !  since  we  now  can  ne'er  meet; 

If  our  songs  have  been  langaid,  they  surely  are  few : 
Lrt  us  hope  that  the  present  at  least  will  be  sweet -^ 

The  present — which  seals  our  eternal  Adieu. 

1807. 


TO  AN  OAK  AT  I9EWSTEAD.e 

YovNO  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. 

Such,  such  was  my  hope,  when,  in  in&ncy's  years, 
On  the  land  of  my  Uithers  I  reared  thee  with  pride  : 

They  are  past,  and  I  water  thy  stem  with  my  tws,— 
Tby  decay  not  the  weeds  that  surround  thee  can  hide. 

I  left  thee,  my  Oak,  and  since  that  fatal  hour, 
A  stranger  has  dwelt  in  the  haU  of  my  sire; 

Tin  manhood  shall  crown  me,  not  mine  is  the  power, 
But  his,  whose  neglect  may  have  bade  thee  expire. 

Oh !  hardy  thou  wert — even  now  little  care 
Might  revive  thy  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  hand  of  thy  Mastef  will  teach  thee  to  smile. 

When  Infancy's  years  of  probation  are  done. 

Oh,  live  then,  my  Oak !  tow'r  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. 

*  See  IVagment,  page  473. 


593  0COA8MNAI.  rascBS. 

Oh!  ye4^ifmiiidrit^0  9«miiiay'be  tfainey 
Thouch  1 8bmU  lie  low  in  the  cayern  of  death, 

On  thj  kaves  ytt  the  day-beam  of  ages  may  shine 
Uniigund  by  time>  or  the  rade  winter's  fcveath. 

For  eenteriea  still  may  tiiy  boughs  lightly  wave 
O'er  the  corse  of  thy  lord  in  thy  canopy  laid ; 

While  the  branches  thas  gratefully  shelter  his  grare^ 
Tho  chief  who  survives  may  recfine  in  thy  shade. 

And  as  he  with  his  boys  shall  revisit  this  spot. 
He  will  tell  them  in  whispers  more  sofUy  to  tread. 

Oh !  surely,  by  these  I  shall  ne'er  be  foreot : 
Remembrance  still  hafiows  the  dust  of  the  dead. 

And  here,  will  they  say,  when  in  life's  glowing  prime. 
Perhaps  he  has  poured  forth  his  young  simple  lay. 

And  here  must  he  sleep,  till  the  moments  of  time 
Are  lost  in  the  hours  of  Eternity's  day. 


1807 


UNES. 
ox  avimnfer  nur  ladt  btioh  was  ill,* 

Ahd  thou  wert  sad— yet  I  was  not  with  thee; 

And  thou  wert  sick,  and  yet  I  was  not  near ; 
Methought  that  joy  and  health  alone  could  be 

Where  I  was  not.— and  pain  and  sorrow  here ! 
And  iq  it  thus? — it  is  as  I  foretold. 

And  shall  be  more  so ;  for  the  mind  recoils 
Upon  itself,  and  the  wzeck'd  heart  lies  cold, 

While  heaviness  coUects  the  shatter'd  spoils. 
It  is  not  in  the  storm  nor  in  the  strife 

We  feel  benumb'd  and  wish  to  be  no  nune, 

But  in  the  after-silence  on  tRe  shore, 
When  aA  is  lost,  except  a  little  life. 

I  am  too  well  avenged  l-^-biit  't  was  my  right ; 

Whate'er  my  sins  might  be,  fAow  wert  not  sent 
To  be  the  Nemesis  who  should  requite— 

Nor  did  Heaven  choose  so  near  an  instrument. 

*  Se«  Fngment,  toL  i  p.  559. 


OOCUUMITAI.  vnoBs.  591 

Mercy  is  for  the  merciful ! — If  thou 

Hast  been  of  such,  't  will  be  accorded  now. 

Thy  nights  are  hanisk'd  fiom  the  realms  of  sleep !  — 

Yes !  they  may  flatter  thee,  but  thou  ^lalt  feel 

A  hollow  agony  which  wiQ  not  heal, 
For  thou  art  pillow'd  on  a  curse  too  deep ; 
Thou  hast  sown  in  my  sorrow,  and  must  reap 

The  bitter  harvest  in  a  woe  as  real !  - 
I  have  had  many  foes,  hut  none  like  thee, 

For  'gainst  the  rest  myself  I  could  defend, 

And  be  avenged,  or  turn  them  into  friend  ; 
But  thou  in  safe  implacability 

Hadst  nought  to  dread  —  in  thy  own  weakness  shielded. 
And  in  my  love,  which  hath  but  too  much  yielded. 

And  spared,  for  thy  sake,  some  I  should  not  spare  — 
And  thus  upon  the  world  —  trust  in  thy  truth  — 
And  the  wild  fame  of  my  ungovcm'd  youth — 

On  things  that  were  not,  and  on  things  that  are  — ; 
Even  upon  such  a  basis  hast  thou  built 
A  monument,  whose  cement  hath  been  guilt ! 

The  moral  Clytemnestra  of  thy  lord, 
And  hew'd  down,  with  an  unsuspected  sword, 
Fame,  peace,  and  hope  —  and  all  the  better  life 

Which,  but  for  this  cold  treason  of  thy  heart. 
Might  still  have  risen  from  out  the  grave  of  strife, 
And  found  a  nobler  duty  than  to  part. 
But  of  thy  virtues  didst  thou  make  a  vice. 

Trafficking  with  them  in  a  purpose  cold, 

For  present  anger,  and  for  future  gold  — 
And  buying  other^s  grief  at  any  price. 
And  thus  once  enter'd  into  crooked  ways, 
The  early  truth,  which  was  thy  oroper  praise. 
Did  not  still  walk  beside  thee  -*  but  at  times. 
And  with  a  breast  unknowing  its  own  crimes. 
Deceit,  averments  incompatible, 
Equivocations,  and  the  thoughts  which  dwell 

In  Janus-spirits  —  the  significant  eye 
Which  learns  to  lie  with  silence  —  the  pretext 
Of  Prudence,  with  advanti^es  annez'd  — 
The  acquiescence  in  all  things  which  tend. 
No  matter  how,  to  the  desired  end  — 

All  found  a  place  in  thy  philosophy. 
The  means  were  worthy,  and  the  end  is  won  — 
I  would  not  do  by  thee  as  thou  hast  done ! 

S^UaAer,  1816 

VOL.  V. — a  q 


Wi  OOGAnOllAli 


STANZAS. 

**00inJ>  LOTS  fOK  BTB.** 
I. 

Could  Love  for  ever 
Ron  like  a  rivery 
And  Tiine's  eDdeavour 

Be  tried  in  vain- 
No  other  pleasure 
With  this  could  meaaure ; 
And  like  a  treasure 

We  'd  hug  the  chain. 
But  since  our  sighing 
Ends  not  in  dying, 
And,  form'd  for  flying 

Love  plumes  his  wing ; 
Then  for  this  reason 
Let 's  love  a  season ; 
But  let  that  season  be  only  Spring. 

«  n. 
When  fevers  parted 
Feel  broken-hearted. 
And  all  hopes  thwarted, 

Expect  to  die ; 
A  few  years  oldcnr, 
Ah !  how  much  colder 
They  miriit  behold  her 

For  whom  they  sig^ ! 
When  link'd  together, 
In  every  weather, 
They  pluck  Love's  feather 

F^m  out  his  wing- 
He  11  stay  for  ever, 
But  sadly  shiver 
Without  his  plumage,  when  past  the  Spring. 

m. 
Like  Chiefs  of  Faction, 
His  life  is  action  — 
A  formal  paction 

That  curbs  his  leign, 
Obscures  his  g^oiy, 
Despot  no  more,  he 
Such  territory 

Quits  with  disdain. 


ooOMMiojXML  mcam.  696 

StiD,  0tin  adnuieiiig, 
With  bannen  gtancing 
Hiapower  fithandwg, 
He  sniflt  moYe  on— - 
RepOM  but  doys  hiniy 
Retreat  dealrojri  hinif 
Love  brooka  not  a  degraded  throne. 

IV. 

Wait  not»  fond  lover : 
Till  yearn  are  overt 
And  then  reoover. 

As  from  a  dream. 
VHiile  each  bewailing 
The  other's  failing. 
With  wrath  and  railing 

All  hideous  seem -^ 
While  first  decreasing^ 
Tet  not  quite  ceasing^ 
Wait  not  till  teasing 

All  passion  bliffht : 
If  once  dimimsh'd 
Love's  rei^  is  finidi'd— 
Then  part  in  fhendshipy— and  bid  good-night 

V. 

So  shall  Afiection, 

To  recollection 

The  dear  connection ; 

Bring  back  with  joy : 
Tou  had  not  waited 
Till,  tired  or  hated. 
Tour  passions  sated 

Bemi  to  cloy. 
Tour  last  embraces 
Leave  no  cold  traces  — 
The  same  fond  faces 

As  through  the  past; 
And  eyes^  the  mirrors 
Of  your  sweet  errors, 
Reflect  but  nature-— not  least  though  last. 

VI. 

True,  separations 
Ask  more  than  patience ; 
What  desperations 
From  such  have  risen ! 


!^86  oocA«pifia> 


But  yet  remraiag. 
What  ifl  't  but  dwiuiig 
Hearts  whM^  oiiee  waningy 

Beat  'gaioit  their  piiMmi 
Time  can  but  cloy  lore. 
And  uae  deetfoy  tove : 
The  vinged  boy,  Loinet 

Is  but  for  boys — 
You  11  find  it  torture 
Hiough  sharper,  shorter, 
To  wean,  and  not  wear  out  your  joys. 


STANZAS: 

TO  ▲  BINOOO  Aim. 


Oh  !  —  my  lonely  —  lonely  —  lonely  —  Pillow  ? 
Where  is  my  lover  ?  where  is  my  lover  ? 
Is  it  his  bark  which  my  dreary  dreams  discover  ? 
Far  —  far  away !  and  alone  sdong  the  billow  ? 

Oh !  my  lonely  —  lonely  —  lonely  —  Pillow ! 
Why  must  my  head  ache  where  his  gentle  brow  lay  ? 
How  the  long  night  flags  lovelessly  and  slowly, 
And  my  head  droops  over  thee  like  the  wxUow. — 

Oh !  thou,  my  sad  and  solitary  Pillow  ! 
Send  me  kind  dreams  to  keep  my  heart  from  breaking, 
In  return  for  the  tears  I  shed  upon  thee  waking : 
Let  me  not  die  till  he  comes  back  o'er  the  billow.  — 

Then  if  thou  wilt  —  no  more  my  hndy  Pillow, 
In  one  embrace  let  these  arms  again  enfold  him. 
And  then  expire  of  the  joy  —  but  to  behold  him  * 
Oh !  my  lone  bosom  ?  —  oh !  my  lonely  Pillow  ! 


In  the  original  mannacript  of  the  lint  Canto  of  Chflde  Harold't  PSIgriaitgf 
were  the  ibliowiag  lines,  lor  which  those  to  Ines,  page  10,  were  substituted  : 

I. 
Oh  never  talk  again  to  me 

Of  northern  climes  and  British  ladies ; 
It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see, 

Like  me,  the  lovely  girl  of  Cadiz. 


oooMKoxfAX.  niicxs.  597 

Although  h^  eyes  be  not  oT  blue, 

Noi  fair  her  locks,  like  English  lasses, 

How  far  its  own  expressive  hue 
The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses ! 

n. 
PrometheuB-like,  from  heaTen  slie  stole  ' 

The  fire,  that  through  those  BiHcett  lashes : 
In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll, 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes : 
And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 

In  lengthened  flow  her  mrm  tvesses, 
You  'd  swear  each  ch»teidng  kck  ^^M  feel, 

And  curl'd  to  give  her  neck  etu^e^Ms. 

in. 
Our  Endish  maids  are  long  to  wog. 

And  frigid  even  in  possessioi^; 
And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view, 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love's  confession : 
But  bom  beneath  a  brighter  sun, 

For  love  ordain'd  the  Spanish  maid  is. 
And  who,  —  when  fondly,  fairly  won,  — 

Enchants  you  like  the  girl  of  Cadiz  ? 

IV. 

Tlie  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette 

Nor  jojrs  to  see  a  Tover  tremblTe, 
And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate. 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 
Her  heart  can  ne'er  be  bought  or  sold* 

Howe'er  it  beats,  it  beats  sincerely ; 
And,  thouffh  it  will  not  bend  to  gpld, 

'T  will  love  you  long  and  love  you  dearly. 


Y. 

The  Spanish  girl  that  meets  your  love 

Ne'er  taunts  you  with  a  mock  denial,       _^« 
For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove  ' 

Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 
When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain, 

She  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the  danger ; 
And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain, 

She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love's  avenger. 


896  OOCABtpHtAL 


And  wbmkf  beneatii  the  evemng  8tar» 

She  mingles  in  the  say  Bolero, 
Or  sinjn  to  her  attuned  goitar 

Of  Chrifltian  knight  or  Mooridi  hero^ 
■Or  counts  her  beads  with  ftiry  hand 

Beneath  the  twinkling  rajrs  of  Hssper, 
Or  joins  devotion's  chond  band. 

To  ehaunt  the  sweet  and  haUow'd  vesper. 

vn. 
In  eaeh  her  charms  the  heart  most  wove 

Of  aU  who  venture  to  behold  her ; 
Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove 

Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder : 
Throo^  many  a  clime  't  is  mine  to  roam 

Whm  many  a  soft  and  melting  maid  is, 
But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home, 

Hay  matoh  the  daric-eyed  girl  of  Cadis. 


mm  or  thb  thdu>  voi>ina. 


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tOAQB 


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CHTLBE  H 

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THE  criT/sMK. 
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THE  VISION  Of  Jl 

AND    WILU    PE   COMPLETfD    IN  'twElVE    PARTS, 
AT    as    OUSTS    SAOB. 
FORMING  FOUR  LARGE  VOLUMES,  fOncm  t^aOUPAGEBJ 
JU  K  KPLESDIB  PWTMIT  flF  Till  lOTMB. 

CARET  &  HART,  Pobliilwo. 


[4yI0*1B43. 


^PwiTiM 


■.•  ^1  remt/HflfiPf  9/wPfM^tmif  fir  7V?o  OyiV*.