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Full text of "The works of Lord Byron embracing his suppressed poems, and a sketch of his life"

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THE 



WORKS 



OP 



LORD BYRON: 



EMBRACING 



HIS SUPPRESSED POEMS, 



AND 



A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE 



ILLUSTRATED. 
NEW EDITION, COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 




BOSTON 



PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. 

110 WASHINGTON STREET. 
18 5 1. 



l%5 



.1 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

ic preparation of the present edition of the works of Lord Byron, the 
publishers have spared no expense or delay in making it entirely complete. 
In its progress through the press, it has undergone the careful super'ision of a 
distinguished literary gentleman; and its proprietors feel that they can claim for 
this eiition what no other publisher can in this country, — that it contains, 
ukabridgel line for line, and word for word, the complete works of Lord 
Byron, and, in this respect, the only one ever issued from the American press. 



CONTENTS 



POEMS, ETC. 






\ 



Childb Harold's Fn.aBiKA.OB. ""■" 

Preface 17 

Tolanthe 18 

Canto 1 19 

Canto II 28 

Canto III 37 

Canto IV. . 47 

Notes to Canto 1 64 

Notes to Canto II 65 

Appendix 75 

Notes to Canto III 81 

Notes to Canto IV 84 

The Giaour 108 

Dedication 108 

Advertisement 108 

Notes 119 

Thb Bbidb of Abxdos . . . .122 

Dedication . . . . . . . 122 

Canto I. . . ' .... 122 

Canto II 126 

Notes 132 

Thb Cobsaib 135 

Dedication 135 

Canto 1 136 

Canto II 141 

Canto III 145 

Notes 151 

Lara. 154 

Canto I. • 154 

Canto II 159 

Note 165 

The Sieob of Corinth .... 166 

Dedication 166 

Advertisement 166 

Notes 175 

Pabisina 176 

Dedication . * 176 

Advertisement ... . 176 

Notes . . . . . 181 



The Prisoner op Chillon 

Sonnet on Chillon 

Notes 

Beppo 

^ Notes 

Mazeppa .... 



Advertisement ... 
The Isi/and . . . . 

Advertisement 

Canto I 

Canto II 

Canto III 

. Canto IV 

Appendix . . 

Manfred .... 

Notes 

The Deformed Transformed 

Advertisement . . 
Heaven and Earth . 
Cain 



Dedication 

Preface 

Marino Faliero, Doob of Venicb 

Preface 

Notes ...... 

Appendix 

The Two Poscari ... 

Appendix 

Sardanapaltts .... 

Dedication 

Preface 

Notes 

Werneb 

Dedication 

Preface 

Hours of* Idleness .... 

Dedication .... 

Preface . ... 

On leaving Newstead Abbey 



18344 

183 

186 

188 

195 

196* 

196 

,203 

203 

203 

205 

210 

212 

216 

220 

233 

233 

233 

248 

259 l> 

259 

259 

278 

278 

311 

312 

320 

341 

348 

348 

348 

377 

378 

378 

378 

412 

412 

41* 
41* 



CONTENTS 

Page 



%On a Distant View of the Village and School 
of Harrow on the Hill .... 414 

ToD 414 

Epitaph on a Friend .... 415 

A Fragment 415 

!dleston 415 

Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, 

Esq., on the cruelty of his Mistress . 415 

To the Sighing Strephon . . . .416 

The Tear 416 

::ss Pigot 417 

Lines written in "Letters of an Italian Nun 
and an English Gentleman. By J. J. 
Rousseau. Founded on Facts " . . 417 

Answer to the foregoing, addressed to Miss 417 

The Cornelian 417 

On the Death df a Young Lady, Cousin to 
the Author, and very dear to him . 418 

To Emma 418 

An Occasional Prologue. Delivered previous 
to the performance of " The Wheel of For- 
tune " at a private Theatre . . . 418 
On the Death of Mr. Fox . . . .419 

To M. S. G ' 419 

To Caroline 419 

To Caroline 42V 

To Caroline 420 

Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camoens 420 



The first Kiss of Love 

To Mary 

To Woman .... 

To M. S. G. . 

To a Beautiful Quaker 

Song. 

To 

To Mary, on receiving/her Picture 
To Lesbia . 



To the Earl of 436 

Granta. A Medley . . • . . .437 
Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a 
Friend to the Author, complaining that one 
of his Descriptions was rather too warmly 

drawn 438 

\Lachin Y Gair 439 » 

To Romance 439 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey ... 440 

•On a change of Masters at a great Public 

School 442 

Childish Recollections .... 442 

Answer to a beautiful Poem, written by Mont- 
gomery, entitled " The Common Lot" . 416 
To the Rev. J. T. Becher ... 447 

The Death of Calmar and Orla. An Imita- 
tion of Macpherson's Ossian 
To E. N. L., Esq. .... 
To U^A <yvt^ t oCu&t? 

Stanzas 

Lines written beneath an Elm in the Church- 
yard of Harrow on the Hill, September 2, 

1807 450 

Critique on " Hours of Idleness," extracted 
from the Edinburgh Review . . .451 
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers 453 

Prefacc 453 

Postscript 437/ 



447 
448 
449 
450 



Lines addressed to a Young Laey 
Love's Last Adieu 



Daratetas 

To Marion . 1 . 

Oscar of Alva .... 

To the Duke of Dorset 

Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Dying' 

Translation from Catullus. Ad iesbiam 

Translation of the Epitaph on r Virgil and 

Tibullus. By Domitius Marsu* . 
Imitation of Tibullus . . t 
Translation from Catullus 
Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen 
Translation from Horace. Ode 3, Lib. 3 
Ration from Anacreon. To his Lyre ' 

Fragments of School Exercises .' From the 

Prometheus Vinctus of JEschylus . 431 

neEp^^^^^^ ^431 

»phrase from the VEncid, Lib. IX. so, 

Translation from the Medea of Euripides ' S 

^Thought. .u«e,tedbyaColle,eEramta t ion £ 



421 Hints from Horace 

421 The Curse op Minerva . 

421 The Waltz 

422 To the Publisher 
422 The Age of Bronze . 

422 The Vision of Judgment 

423 Preface .... 

423 Morgante Maggoire 

424 Advertisement 

424 Canto I.;'. ... 

424 The Prophecy of Dante 

425 Dedication ..." 
425 Preface ..." 
425 Canto I. . 

428 Canto II. . 

429 Canto III. 

430 Canto IV. . 
Notes . . 

430 Hebrew Melodies 
^Advertisement . 
She Walks in Beauty . 
The Harp the Monarch MinstrelSwept 
If that High World . 
The Wild Gazelle . 
Oh ! Weep for Those . 
On Jordan's Banks . 
Jephtha's Daughter . 

Oh! snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom 
My Soul is Dark . 
I saw Thee Weep . 
Thy Days are Done 



468 

480 

483 

483 

487 

494 

494 

503 

503 

504 

510 

510 

510 

611 

512 

513 

515 

516 

518 

518 

51811 

518 

518 

518 

519 

619 

619 

519 

519 

520 



*■ 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

A Iragmeat. ... ... 1035 

Letter to John Murray on the Rev. W. L. 
Bowles's Strictures on the Life and Writings 

of Pope 1037 

Notes 1046 

Observations upon " Observations." A Sec- 
ond Letter to John Murray, Esq., on the 
Rev. W. L. Bowles's Strictures on the Life 
and Writings of Pope 1046 



TU 

Pag. 

Note 1054 

Some Observations upon an Article m Black- 
wood's Magazine 1055 

Letter to the Editor of My Grandmother's 

Review 1064 

Lord Bacon's Apothegms .... 1066 

Translation of Two Epistles from the Arme- 
nian Version .... . . 1068 

The Will of Lord Byron . . , 1070 












CONTENTS. 



Page 
520 

$20 
520 
521 
521 
521 



522 
523 
523 

525 
527 
528 
529 
530 
532 
537 
537 
537 



Song of Saul before his last Battle 

Saul 

" All is Vanity, saith the Preacher " 
When Coldness wraps this suffering Clay 
Vision of Be^stmszar .... 
Sun of the Sleepless ! . 
"Were my Bosom as False as Thou deem'st it 

to be 521 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne . . *21 
On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem 

by Titus ' . 522 

By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and 

wept 

I The Destruction^ Sennacherib 

From Job 

The Lament of Tasso .... 
Advertisement 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RlGHT HON. 

R. B. Sheridan - 

(Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte . 

Notes 

Ode on Venice 

t The Dre am . 

The Blues 

Miscellaneous Poems .... 

Written in an Album 

To * * * 

Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian Gulf 537 
Stanzas composed during the Night, in a 

Thunder-Storm 538 

Written at Athens 538 

Written after Swimming from Sestos to Aby- 
dos . . 538 

f Song. Zdin ftov ads ayan£> rl**+.tf nf^ u y* 539/ 
Translation of the famous Greek War Song, 

Axvre iraTdeg roJu'EXXfu'cov .... 539 
Translation of the Romaic Song, m Mmmi fits 

Wa neptftoyi 'QpaiOTarrj XatiSn " . . . 540 

Written beneath a Picture . . . 540 

/On Parting 540 

^ToThyrza 540 

Stanzas 

ToThyrza . . . 

Euthanasia 

Stanzas. " Heu quanto minus est cum reli 
quis versari quam tui meminisse " . 

Stanzas 

On a Cornelian Heart which was Broken . 
To a Youthful Friend .... 

To ***** * \u+k O^vV V> 

From the Portuguese 

Impromptu, in reply to a Friend 

Address, spoken at the opening of Drury- 

Lane Theatre 544 

'loTime 545 

T«inslation of a Romaic Love Song . . 545 

A Song 546 

On being asked what was the " Origin of 

Love" 546 



Remember Him, &c 

»Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from 

Skull 

On the Death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart. 

To a Lady weeping 547 



546 

547 
547 



547 
548 
548 

543 
548 
518 

549 P 
549* 
549 

550 W 
550 
66lf* 
551 
552 

553 
553 



From the Turkish 

Sonnet. To Genevra 

Sonnet. To Genevra .... 

Inscription on the Monument of a Newfound 
land Dog 

Farewell 

♦JBright be the Place of thy Soul . 

522 .-^Vhen we' Two Parted 

522 Stanzas for Music 

Stanzas for Music 

^aifi Thrn pfll, zzzzz** • • . 

A Sketch •* . . . , . 

To -M (Wfc-vW OfriAX} CW<**L/ 

Ode. [From the French*] ." . 

From the French 

On the Star of "the Legion of Honor.' : 

[From the French] .... 
Napoleon's Farewell. [From the French] 
Written on a blank Leaf of " The Pleasures 

of Memory " 554 

Sonnet . . 554r 

Stanzas to 4*$^V*b^j^ . . . 55^ 

Darkness . . ^ 554 

Churchill's Grave 555 

Prometheus 555 

VThe Prayer of Nature 556 

Romance muy J)oloroso del Sitio y Toma de 

Alhama 557 

A very mournful Ballad on the Siege and 

Conquest of Granada .... 557 
Sonetto di Vittorelli. Per Monaca . 559 
Translation from Vittorelli. On a Nun . 559 
To my dear Mary Anne .... 559 

To Miss Chaworth 559 

Fragment 560 

Fragment 560 

On Revisiting Harrow . . , . 560 

*L'Amitie est l'Amour sans Ailes . . 560 

To my Son . ... 561 

<Epitaph on John Adams, of Southwell . 561 

Fragment 50 1 

To Mrs. * * *, on being asked ray reason for 



*m 



541 
541 
542 

542 
543 
543 
543 
544 
544 
544 



quitting England in the Spring . . 502 

A Love Song 562 

Stanzas to ****** * . . . 562 

To the Same 562 

Song 563 

Stanzas to * * *, on leaving England . 563 

Lines to Mr. Hodgson .... 504 

Lines in the Travellers' Book at Orchomenus 564 

On Moore's Last Operatic Farce . . 565 

Epistle to Mr. Hodgson .... 565 

On Lord Thurlow's Poems . . . 565 

To Lord Thurlow 561 



CONTENTS. 



To Thomas Moore 

Fragment of an Epistle to Thomas Moore 

The Devil's Drive 566 

Windsor Poetics 567 

Additional Stanzas to the Ode to Napoleon 

Bonaparte 567 

To Lady Caroline Lamb .... 567 

Stanzas for Music 568 

Address intended to be recited at the Caledo- 
nian Meeting 568 

0«i the Prince Regent's returning the Picture 
of Sarah, Countess of Jersey, to Mrs. Mee 568 

ToBclshaxzar J&69 

Hi-brew Melodies 569 

Lines intended for the opening of " The Siege 

of Corinth " . 4^- 569 

Extract from an Unpublished iwn . 570 

To Augusta 7\M^ .AAa\&**i. • 570 

On the Bust of Helen, by Canova . . 571 
Fragment of a Poem on hearing that Lady 

torn was 111 571 

To Thomas Moore 572 

M to the River Po . . . .572 
Sonnet to George the Fourth ... 572 

Francesca of Rimini 572 

The Irish Avatar 573 

Stanzas to Her who can best understand Them 574 
Stanzas written on the Road between Florence 

and Pisa 575 

Impromptu, on Lady Blessington expressing 
her Intention of taking the Villa called , 
" II Paradiso," near Genoa . . 575 

To the Countess of Blessington . . . 575 
On this Day I complete my Thirty-Sixth Year 576 
To a Lady who presented the Author with 
the Velvet Band which bound her Tresses 576 



Remembrance 57B 

Whe Adieu .... .576 

To a Vain Lady 577 

To Anne 5 78 

To the Same 578 

To the Author of a Sonnet beginning " ' Sad 

is my Verse,' you say, "' and yet no Tear' " 578 

On Finding a Fan 578 

•Farewell to the Muss 579 

To an Oak at Newstead .... 579 

Lines, on hearing that Lady Byron was 111 579 

Stanzas. " Could Love for ever " . . 580 

Stanzas. To a Hindoo Air . . . 581 

Oh, never talk again tome ,. . . 581 
The Third Act of Manfred, in its original 

Shape, as first sent to the Publisher . 581 

Don Juan 685 

% Dedication . . w . . . . 585 

^ Canto 1 587 

f Canto II 603 

Canto III 618 

Canto IV 627 

Canto V 635 

Preface to Cantos VI. VII. and VIII. . 647 

Canto VI 648 

Canto VII 656 

Canto VIII 663 

|f Canto IX 673 

y Canto X 679 

y;CantoXI 685 

Canto XII 692 

Canto XIII 698 

Canto XIV 706 

CantaXV. , „,\\, . . . . 713 

Canto XVI J2l 

**" - 7» 






LBTTERS 

CCCCXXIV. to Mr. Murray. 
CCCCXXV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXVI. to Mr. Murray. 
CCCCXXVI* to Mr. Murray 
GCCCXXVIII. to Mr. Murray. 
CCCCXXIX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXX. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXXXI. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCXXXII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXXXIII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXXIV. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCXXXV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXXVI. to Mr. Murray. 
CCCCXXXVII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXXVIII. to Mr. Murray. 
CCCCXXXIX. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCXL. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCXLI. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCXLII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXLIII. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCXLIV. to Mr. Moore . 
CCCCXLV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXLVI. to Mr. Murray. 
CCCCXLVII. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCXL VIII. to Mr. Murray. 
CCCCXLIX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCL. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLIII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLIV. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCL V. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLYI. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLVII. to Mr. Murray 
0CCCLVIII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLIX. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCLX. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLXI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXII. to Mr. Moore . 
CCCCLXIII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXIV. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLXV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLX VI. to Mr. Murray. 
CCCCLXVII. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCLXVIII. to Mr. Moore . 
CCCCLXIX. to Mr. Moore 
address to the Neapolitan Government 
CCCCLXX. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCLXXI. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLXXII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLXXIV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXXV. to Mr. Moore . 
CCJCLXXVI. to Mr. Murray 
UCCCLXXVII. to Mr. Murray. 
CCCCLXXVIII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCLXXX. to Mr. Moore 



CONTENTS. 




T 


Pip 


LETTERS 


« 


*«• 


. 896 


CCCCLXXXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


921 


897 


CCCCLXXXII. 


to Mr. Perry 


921 


. 897 


CCCCLXXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


922 


897 


CCCCLXXXIV. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


922 


. 897 


CCCCLXXXV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


923 


897 


CCCCLXXXVI. 


to Mr. Shelley . 


923 


. 898 


CCCCLXXXVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


923 


898 


CCCCLXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Moore 


924 


. 898 


CCCCLXXXIX. 


to Mr. Moore . 


924 


899 


ccccxc. 


to Mr. Murray . 


924 


. 899 


CCCCXCI. to Mr. Hoppner 


925 


899 


CCCCXCII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


925 


. 900 


CCCCXCIII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


925 


901 


CCCCXCIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


926 


. 901 


ccccxcv. 


to the Countess Quiccioli 


926 


901 


CCCCXCVI. 


to Mr. Moore 


926 


. 902 


CCCCXCVII. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


927 


902 


CCCCXCVIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


927 


. 903 


CCCCXCIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


927 


903 


D. 


to Mr. Murray . 


927 


. 903 


DI. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


928 


904 


DII. 


to Mr. Moore 


926 


. 905 


DHL 


to Mr. Moore . 


928 


905 


DIV. 


to Mr. Moore 


929 


. 905 


DV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


929 


906 


DVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


929 


. 906 


DVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


930 


906 


DVIII. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


930 


. 906 


DIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


930 


906 


DX. 


to Mr. Moore 


931 


. 907 


DXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


932 


908 


DXII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


932 


. 908 


DXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


932 


909 


DXIV. 


to Mr. Moore 


933 


. 909 


DXV. 


to Mr. Murray 


933 


910 


DXVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


933 


. 910 


DXVII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


934 


911 


DXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


934 


. 911 


DXIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


935 


912 


DXX. 


to Mr. Moore 


935 


. 912 


DXXI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


935 


913 


DXXII. 


to Mr. Moore 


936 


. 914 


DXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


936 


914 


DXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


937 


. 915 


DXXV. 


to Mr. Moore 


938 


915 


DXXVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


938 


916 


DXXVII. 


to Mr. Moore 


938 


916 


DXXVIII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


939 


. 917 


DXXIX. 


to Mr. Moore 


939 


917 


DXXX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


940 


. 918 


DXXXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


940 


918 


DXXXII. 


to Mr. Rogers . 


940 


. 918 


DXXXIII. 


to Mr. Moore 


941 


918 


DXXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


941 


. 919 


DXXXV. 


to Mr. Murray . . 


941 


919 


DXXXVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


942 


. 920 


DXXXVII. 


to Mr. Sheppard . 


943 


921 


DXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


943 



Tl 



CONTENTS. 

P»fe 



LETTERS 

DXXXIX. to Mr. Murraj 
DXL. to Mr. Moore . 
DXLI. to Mr. Shelley . 
DXLII. to Mr. Moore . 
DXLIII. to Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 
DXLIV. to Douglas Kinnaird 
DXLV. to Mr. Murray . 
DXLVI. to Mr. Moore . 
DXLVII. to Mr. Moore 
DXLVIII. to Mr. Moore . 
DXLIX. to Mr. Moore 
DL. to Mr. Moore . 
DLL to Mr. Moore 
DLII. to Mr. Murray . 
DLIIL to Mr. Moore . 
DLIV. to Mr. Murray . 
DLV. to Mr. Murray . 
DLVL to Mr. Murray 
DLVII. to Mr. Murray . 
DLVIII. to Mr. Shelley . 
DLIX. to Sir Walter Scott . 
DLX. to Mr. Murray 
DLXI. to Mr. Moore . 
DLXII. to Mr. Murray . 
DLXIII. to Mr. Murray . 
1)1. XIV. to Mr. Murray 

Mr. Moore . 
DLX VI. to Mr. Ellicc 
1)1. XVII. to Mr. Murray. 
DLXVIII. to Mr. Murray 
DLXIX. to Mr. Moore' . 
DLXX. to Mr. Moore 
1)1. XXI. to Mr. Moore . 
DLXXII. to Mr. Murray . 
PLXXIII. t , Mr. Murray. 
DLXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 

DLXXV. to Lady . 

DLXXVI. to Mr. Proctor . 
LXVTL to Mr. Moore . 

DI. XXVIII. to Mrs. . 

vXIX. to Lady • ♦ •. 
DI.XXX. to Mr. Moore 
PI. XXXI. to the Earl of Blessington 
DLXXXII. to the Earl of Blessington 
DI. XX XIII. to the Earl of Blessington 
\XXIV. to the Count • • . 



943 

944 

944 

944 

945 

945 

946 

946 

947 

947 

947 

918 

948 

948 

949 

949 

949 

950 

950 

950 

950 

951 

951 

951 

952 

952 

952 

953 

953 

953 

953 

954 

954 

955 

955 

956 

957 

957 

957 

. 957 
958 

. 958 
959 

. 959 
960 
960 



DLXXXV. to the Countess of Blessington 960 

DLXXXVI. to the Countess of • • * .961 

I.adyByron. . . 961 

DLXXXVIII. to Mr. Blaquicre ... 961 

DLXXXIX. to Mr. Bowring . . 962 

■ >'■ to Mr. Hiring . . .963 

DXCI. to Mr. Church, American 

Consul at Genoa . . 963 

DXCII. to M. H. Beyle . . 963 

DXCIII. to Lady • • • • . . .964 

DXCIV. to the Countess of Blessington 964 

DXCV. to Mr. Bowring . . . 964 



LETTERS 

DXCVI. to Goethe ... 965 
DXCVIL to Mr. Bowring . . -965 
DXCVIIL to the General Government of 
Greece . 
DXCIX. to Prince Mavrocordato . 
DC. to Mr. Bowring . 
DCI. to Mr. Bowring 
DCII. to Mr. Bowring . 
DCIII. to the Honorable Mr. Douglas 

Kinnaird . . -967 
DCIV. to Mr. Bowring . • 968 
DCV. to Mr. Moore . • .968 
DCVI. to the Hon. Colonel Stanhope 969 
DCVII. to Mr. Muir . 
DCVIII. to Mr. C. Hancock . 
DCIX. to Mr. Charles Hancock 
DCX. to Mr. Charles Hancock 
DCXI. to Mr. Charles Hancock 
DCXII. to * * * * • • 
DCXIII. to Mr. Charles Hancock 
DCXIV. to Andrew Londo . 
DCXV. to His Highness Yussuff 

Pacha ... 973 

DCXVL to Mr. Barff . . . .973 

DCXVII. to Mr. Mayer ... 973 



966 
966 
966 
967 
967 



969 
969 
970 
971 
971 
971 
972 
973 



DCXVIII. to the Honorable Douglas 
Kinnaird . 
DCXIX. to Mr. Barff . 
DCXX. to Mr. Murray . 
to Mr. Moore 
to Dr. Kennedy 
to Mr. Barff . 
to Mr. Barff . 
DCXXV. to Sr. Parruca 
DCXXVI. to Mr. Charles Hancock 
DCXXYII. to Dr. Kennedy . 
DCXXVIII. to Colonel Stanhope 
DCXXIX. to Mr. Barff . 
DCXXX. to Mr. Barff . 
DCXXXI. to Mr. Barff . 



DCXXI. 
DCXXII. 
DCXXIII. 
DCXXIV. 



974 
974 
974 
975 
975 
976 
976 
976 
976 
976 
977 
977 
977 
978 
DCXXXII. to *****, a Prussian Officer 978 



DCXXXIII. to Mr. Barff .... 
DCXXXIV. to Mr. Barff . 
DCXXXV. to Mr. Barff .... 

Extracts from a Journal, begun November 14, 
1813 

Extracts fron; „ Journal in Switzerland 

Extracts from a Journal in Italy 

Detached Thoughts, extracted from various 
Journals, Memorandums, &c, &c. 

Review of Wordsworth's Poems 

Review of Gell's Geography of Ithaca, and 
Itinerary of Greece 

The First Chapter of a Novel, contemplated 
by Lord Byron in the' Spring of 1812 ; (after- 
wards Published in one of Mr. Dalle's 
Novels 

Parliamentary Speeches 



978 
978 
979 

979 



1010 

1022 

1023 



1028 
1029 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON 



George Gordon Byron was born in Holies 
street, London, on the 22d day of January, 1J88. 
Soon after his birth, his father deserted him, and the 
whole responsibility of his early training devolved 
on his mother, who, with him, soon after repaired 
to Aberdeen, where they resided for some time in 
almost complete seclusion. 

The infancy of Byron was marked with the work- 
ings of that wild and active spirit which he so fully 
displayed in all subsequent years of his life. As a 
child, his temper was violent, or rather, sullenly 
passionate. Being angrily reprimanded by his nurse, 
one day, for having soiled or torn a new frock in 
which he had just been dressed, he got into one of 
his " silent rages," (as he termed them,) seized the 
frock with both hands, rent it from top to bottom, 
and stood in sullen stillness, setting his ceusurer 
and her wrath at defiance. 

Notwithstanding these unruly outbreaks, in which 
he was too much encouraged by the example of his 
mother, who frequently proceeded to the same ex- 
tremities with her own caps, gowns, &c, there 
was in his disposition a mixture of affectionate 
sweetness and playfulness, which attached many to 
him, and which rendered him then, as in riper years, 
easily manageable by those who loved and under- 
stood him sufficiently to be at once gentle and firm 
enough for the task. 

The undivided affection of the mother was natu- 
rally centered in her son, who was her darling ; and 
when he only went out for an ordinary walk, she 
would entreat him, with tears in her eyes, to take 
care of himself, as " she had nothing on earth but 
him to live for ; " a conduct not at all pleasing to 
his adventurous spirit ; the more especially as some 
of his companions, who beheld the affectionate 
scene, would laugh and ridicule about it. This ex- 
cessive maternal affection and indulgence, and the 
entire absence of that salutary discipline so neces- 
sary to childhood, doubtless contributed to the 
formation of these unpleasant traits of character 
that distinguished Byron from all others in subse- 
quent years. 

An accident, at the time of birth, caused a mal- 
formation of one of his feet. Many expedients 
were used to restore the limb to its proper shape, 
under the direction of Dr. Hunter. His nurse, to 
whom fell the task of putting on the bandages, 
would often sing him to sleep, or relate to him sto- 
ries and legends, in which, like most other children, 
he manifested great delight. She also taught him 
to repeat a great number of Psalms ; and the first 
and twenty-third were among the earliest that he 
committed to memory. Out of these lessons arose, 
long afterwards, the " Hebrew Melodies ; " which, 
but for them, never would have been written, though 
Byron studied Lowth on the Sacred Poetry of the 
Hebrews all his life. It is a remarkable fact, that, 



through the care and daily instruction of this nurse, 
he attained a far earlier and more intimate acquaint- 
ance with the Sacred Writings, than falls to the lot 
of most young people. 

The defect in the formation of his foot, and a great 
weakness of constitution, induced his mother to keep 
him from an attendance on school, that he might 
expand his lungs and brace his limbs, upon the 
mountains of the neighborhood. 
Ji This was evidently the most judicious method for 
imparting strength to his bodily frame ; and the se- 
quel showed that it likewise imparted tone and 
vigor to his mind. The savage grandeur of nature 
around him ; the feeling that he was upon the hills 
where 

" Foreign tyrant never trod, 
But freedom, with her falchion bright, 
Swept the stranger from her sight ; " 

his intercourse with a people whose chief amuse- 
ments consisted in the recital of heroic tales of other 
times, feats of strength, and a display of independ- 
ence, blended with the wild, supernatural stories pe- 
culiar to remote and thinly-peopled districts ; — all 
these were calculated to foster that peculiar poetical 
feeling innate in his character. 

The malformation of his foot was a subject on 
which young Byron was extremely sensitive. As 
his nurse was walking with him one day, she was 
joined by a female friend, who said, " What a pretty 
boy, Byron is ! what a pity he has such a leg." On 
hearing this allusion to his infirmity, the child'*- 
eyes flashed with anger, and, striking"; rith a- 

little whip which he held in his hand", b 
exclaimed, " Dinna speak of it ! " 

As an instance of his quickness and this 

period, might be mentioned a little incifte.-' that oc- 
curred one night during the performance of " Tam- 
ing a Shrew," which his nurse had taken him to see. 
He had attended some time, with silent interest ; 
but, in the scene between Katharine and Petruchio, 
where the following dialogue takes place, — 

" Kath.—l Vnow it U the moon. 
Pet.— Nay, then, you lie,— it U the blessed sun," 

George started up, and cried out boldly, " But 1 say 
it is the moon, sir." 

Byron was not quite five years of age when he was 
sent to a day school at Aberdeen, taught by Mr. 
Bowers. At that school he remained about one 
year. 

During his schoolboy days he was lively, warm- 
hearted, generous, and high-spirited. He was, how- 
ever, passionate and resentful, and to a remarkable 
degree venturesome and fearless. If he received an 
injury, he was sure to revenge it : though the casti- 
gation he inflicted might be long on its way, yet it 
came at length, and severely. 



BYRON'S WORKS 



, ,,;„, 1,„ devoted all Ms arepctit.on .t.ssupposea ^ a 



attention to .t, »"'V;r. ,e "hero he stood in his 

»« retted hv Ms 
■SKL'Slf'.ffiWSl residenec in the High- 

blinir over ft declivity that overhung a small WMBT- 
S5 the LWof Dee, some heather caught 
,ou and he fell. He was rolling down- 
> th e attendant l T kilyeau,hthm^d 

«. hut iust in time to save hwu trom being killed. 

Anthem -Mav, L798, William, the fifth Lord 

IUtoh died without issue, at Newstead, and young 

ivn, then in his Unth Tear, «j*"^ *,*} 

id Ins cousin, the Lail ol 

• son of the late Lord's sister, was ap- 

^ of fortune Lord Byron was 
m under the immediate care of hi* 

,U hUhe latter part of 1793 he went with his mother 

\bh.-v. On their arrival, he was placed 

.-.,, under the care of a person who 

professed to be able to cure his lameness ; at the 

same time, he made some advancement in Latin 

■tudies, under the tuition of a schoolmaster of that 

, read parts of V lrgil and 

with him. The name of the man whose 

.ions in curing exeelled his skill, and under 

the voung lord was placed, was 

u<\ the manner in which he proceeded 

rubbing the foot over 

long time with handsful of oil, and then 

forcibly twisting the foot round, and binding it up in 

a sort of a machine, with about as much care and 

thought of the pain he might give, as if straighten 

ff_ -_ \. „-l 1!mK aC ri tron 



IllsSlisli 

rage. * ^elLmy J*™ 6 * 8 ^ " Upon which the 
'" ,\ Tl lr X & 7&e.,-and then broke out into 

his rage ; — 



i In Nottingham county, there lives at Swan Green, 
As curst an old lady as ever was seen ; 
And when she does die, which 1 hope will be soon, 
She firmly believes she will go to the moon." 



ing up a crooked limb o, 



up a crooKea ninu «>i >i uw 

a, during his lessons with Mr. Rogers, WSJ 
f te ' n j . ; and one day the latter said to 

uncomfortable, my lord, to see 
Mich pain as I know you must be 
r mi nil. Mr. Roeers." answered 



r. Rogers," answered! 

i ; " von ihaU BOl sec any signs of it in me." 

Thisgentl. . ''kc of the gaiety of his 

nd the delight he experienced in exposing 

One day he wrote 

• i f paper all the letters of the 

ther at random, and placing them 

trated body of pretension, asked 

[1 was. Not 

wishing , and not dreaming 

-nare to trip him, he replied as seriously as 

wai put, that it was Italian, to the 

:ht of the young satirist, who burst 

loud lau','h 



This was the occasion and the result of Ins first 
effort at rhyming. His « first dash at poetry, as 
he calls it, was niade one year later, during a vaea- 
tior visit at the house of a cousin, £«?«*«. 
Of that poem, he says, "It was the ebullition of a 
passion for my first cousin, one of the most beauti- 
ful of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten 
the verses, but it would be difficult for me to forget 
her-hcr dark eyes-hcr long eye-lashes-her com- 
pletely Greek cast of face and figure ! I was then 
about twelve-she rather older, perhaps a year. 
Love for this young lady obtained strong hold of 
his heart. Of her personal appearance, he says, 
« I do not recollect any thing equal to the transpa- 
rent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of her 
temper, during the short period of our intimacy. 
She looked as if she had been made out of a rain- 
bow— all beauty and peace." # 

After a short visit at Cheltenham, in the summer 
of 1801, at the earnest solicitation of his mother, 
he was placed at Harrow, under the tuition of 
Doctor Drury, to whom he testified his gratitude m 
a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold. In 
one of his manuscript journals, he says, Dr. 
Drury was the best, the kindest friend I ever no'. - 
and I look upon him still as a father." 

" Though he was lame," says one of his school- 
fellows, "he was a great lover of sports, and pre- 
ferred hockey to Horace, relinquished even Helicon 
for < duck puddle,' and gave up the best poet that 
ever wrote hard Latin for a game of cricket on the 
common. He was not remarkable (nor was he ever) 
for his learning, but he was always a clever, plam- 
spoken, and undaunted boy. I have seen him fight 
by the hour like a Trojan, and stand up against the 
disadvantage of his lameness with all the spirit of 
an ancient combatant." 

It was during a vacation, and his residence at 
Newstead, that he formed an acquaintance with 
Miss Chaworth, an event which, according to his 
own deliberate persuasion, exercised a lasting and 



l louii liin, a. 

about • '.yron's first symptt 

ted itself. T 



paramount influence over the whole of his sub- 
sequent character and eventful career. 

Twice had he loved, and now a third time he 
bowed before beauty, wit, and worth. 
/ The father of this young lady had been killed in 
a duel by the eccentric grand-uncle of Byron, and 
the union of the young peer with her, the heiress ot 
Annesley Hall, " would," as he said, " have healed 
feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers ; 
it would have joined lands rich and broad ; it would 
have joined at least one heart, and two persons net 
ill-matched in years." But all this was destined to 
exist but in imagination. They had a parting 
interview in the following year ; and, in 1805, Mis9 
Chaworth was married to Mr. Musters, with whom 
she lived unhappily. She^died in 1831. Many of 
his smaller poems are addressed to this lady. The 
scene of their last interview is most exquisitely 
^escribed in " The Dream." 



very 
ISM 



torn 
. The 
' I it is thus related : — 
elderly lady, who w;\>> in the habit of visiting 

de use of some expressions that xiesenoea in •• ine uream." 
much affronted him; and these slights, his A During one of the Harrow vacations he studied 
said, he generally resented violently and im- 1 French, but with little success, under the direction 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



of the Abbe de Rouffigny. The vacation of 1804 
he spent with his mother at Southwell, and in 
October, 1805, he left Harrow, and entered Trinity 
College, Cambridge. He left with feelings of sad- 
ness. He says, "I always hated Harrow till the 
last year ana a half, but then I liked it." He now 
began to feel that he was no longer a boy, and in 
solitude he mourned over the truth ; this sorrow he 
could not at all times repress in public. 

Soon after entering college, he formed an attach- 
ment with a youth named Eddleston, which exceeded 
in warmth and romance all his schoolboy attach- 
ments. 

In the summer of 1806, another visit to South- 
well resulted in an acquaintance with the family of 
Pigots, to a lady of which the earliest of his pub- 
lished letters were addressed. 

The temper of his mother exceeded all bounds. 
This temper, Byron in a great degree inherited. In 
his childhood, this passion often broke out in the 
most violent manner. Mother and son were often 
quarrelling, and provocations finally led to a sepa- 
ration, in August, 1806. Byron fled to London, 
where his mother followed him, made overtures of 
peace, and a reconciliation was brought about. 

Early in November, his first volume of poems 
were put in press. It was entitled " Poems on 
Various Occasions," and was printed anonymously 
by Mr. Ridge, a bookseller at Newark. Becoming 
dissatisfied with this, he caused a second edition to 
be printed in January, in which he omitted many 
pieces which had appeared in the first. This was 
not intended for public scrutiny, but merely circu- 
lated among his friends, and such persons as he 
thought well disposed towards the first effort of a 
young and inexperienced author. 
J Encouraged by its favorable reception, he again 
re-wrote the poems, made many additions and 
alterations, and, under the name of "Hours of 
Idleness," sent his volume forth to the public. 
j This book, containing many indications of genius, 
also contained many errors of taste and judgment, 
which were fiercely assailed by a critique* in the 
Edinburgh Review, and brought forth from Byron 
the stinging satire, " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers." 

The minor reviews gave the " Hours of Idleness" 
a better reception /yet we may, with no degree of un- 
reasonableness, suppose that to the scorching words 
of the Edinburgh he owed much of future success 
and fame. He was roused like a lion in its lair. 
He felt, though it might be true, he did not deserve 
such an article, and he resolutely determined to 
show the critic that he had talent and genius, 
though the reviewer, in his eager search for its 
absence, could not discovei its presence.^ 

Lord Byron supposed Jeffrey to be the author of 
the obnoxious article, and he poured out on him 
his vials of wrath and merciless satire. 

During the progress of his poem through the 
press, he added to it more than a hundred lines. 
New impressions and influences gave birth to new 
thoughts, and he made his Bards and Reviewers 
carry them forth to vex and annoy his victims. 
The person who superintended its progress through 
the press, daily received new matter for its pages ; 
and, in a note to that gentleman, Byron says, 
"Print soon, or I shall overflow with rhyme." It 
was so in subsequent years. ^If he could reach his 
printer, he would continue to send his " thick- 
coming fancies," which were suggested by perusals 
of what he had already written. 

On the 13th of March, he took his seat in the 
House of Lords, and on the middle of the same 
month published his s.afae^SUFrom the hour of its 
appearance, fame andmrtune followed him. Its 
success was such as to demand his attention in the 
preparation of a second edition. To this much was I 
added, and to it was prefixed his name. 



Lord Brougham. 



IX 

His residence was now at Newstead, where, during 
the preparation of the new edition of his poems, he 
dispensed with a liberal hand the hospitalities of 
the old Abbey to a party of college friends. C. S. 
Matthews, one of this party, in a letter to an 
acquaintance, gives the following description of the 
Abbey at that time, and amusing account of the 
proceedings and habits of its occupants : — 
. " Newstead Abbey is situated one hundred and 
thirty-six miles from London — four on this side 
Mansfield. Though sadly fallen to decay, it is still 
completely an abbey, and most part of it is still 
standing in the same state as when it was first 
built. There are two tiers of cloisters, with a 
variety of cells and rooms about them, which, 
though not inhabited, nor in an inhabitable state, 
might easily be made so ; and many of the original 
rooms, amongst which is a fine stone hall, are still 
in use. Of the abbey-church only one end remains ; 
and the old kitchen, -with a long range of apart- 
ments, is reduced to a heap of rubbish. Leading 
from the abbey to the modern part of the habita- 
tion is a noble room, seventy feet in length and 
twenty-three in breadth ; but every part of the 
house displays neglect and decay, save those which 
the present lord has lately fitted up. 

" The house and gardens are entirely surrounded 
by a wall with battlements. In front is a large 
lake, bordered here and there with castellated 
buildings, the chief of which stands on an eminence 
at the further extremity of it. Fancy all this 
surrounded with bleak and barren hills, with scarce 
a tree to be seen for miles, except a solitary clump 
or two, and you will have some idea of Newstead. 

" So much for the place, concerning which I have 
thrown together these few particulars. But if the 
place itself appears rather strange to you, the ways 
of its inhabitants will not appear much less so. 
Ascend, then, with me the hall steps, that I may 
introduce you to my lord and his visitants. But 
have a care how you proceed ; be mindful to go 
there in broad daylight, and with your eyes about 
you. For, should you make any blunders, — should 
you go to the right of the hall steps, you are laid 
hold of by a boar ; and should you go to the left, 
your case is still worse, for you run full against a 
wolf.* Nor, when you have attained the door, is 
your danger over ; for the hall being decayed, and 
therefore standing in need of repair, a bevy of 
inmates are very probablv banging at one end of it 
with their pistols ; so that if you enter without 
giving loud notice of your approach, you have only 
escaped the wolf and the bear, to expire by the 
pistol-shots o' the merry monks of Newstead. 

" Our party consisted of Lord Byron and four 
others, and was, now and then, increased by the 
presence of a neighboring parson. As for our way 
of living, the order of the day was generally this :— 
for breakfast we had no set hour, but each suited 
his own convenience, — every thing remaining on 
the table till the whole party had done; though 
had one wished to breakfast at the early hour of 
ten, one would have been rather lucky to find any 
of the servants up. Our average hour of rising 
was one. I, who generally got up between eleven 
and twelve, was alwavs— even when an invalid — 
the first of the party, and was esteemed a prodigy 
of early rising. It wa3 frequently past two before 
the breakfast party broke up. Then, for the amuse- 
ment of the morning, there was reading, fencing, 
single-stick, or shuttlecock, in the great room; 
practising with pistols in the hall ; walking, riding, 
cricket, sailing on the lake, playing with the bear, 
teasin"- the wolf. Between seven and eight we 
dined ; and our evening lasted from that time till 
one, two, or three in the morning. The evening 
diversions may be easily conceived. 

" I must not omit the custom of handing round, 
after dinner, on the removal of the cloth, a human 

• Lord Byron *• pot anniraaU at Nenftead. 



,kull filled with Bujg^J- ^ nes of Fra nce, wc 
cnoice viands, and the «£*JS! ourselves with 
adjouv ,n!-cach according 

reamng or imping ^ &c | 

CSS 1 -. ^ a variety to our 

^^"'^Id^Sn he put the finishing 
he took lcaTC of trial cuj, »• h arrived 

SSfeys 

ȣ? SSffSS 

S- . ««■»£ 
g- aassssss 

•• Tia pleaaiiig- to be achoolM in a airange tongue 
B» frmale lira and P)»— ih.«t U, 1 
W ton toth the t«ehcr and the umght arc young, 
At waa the caae, «t l«««. w»*re l haTC beeB * 

Leaving Cadiz, in the llyp,vion frigate he sailed 
r, W h«-rc he remained till the 19th ot 
he left for > . . 

ie formed ^acquaintance 
^th M r Smith, a lady whose hie had 

Sen fertile with remarkable incidents and whom 
hTaddressrs, in his poetry, under the name oi 



BYRON'S WORKS 



around him from the depths of solitude the spirit. 
oHther times to people its rums 



nerva Sunias. . , f Athens, ere we 

E r aodleSio SW-er of the 

-—•hose house he lodged. 



ll anchor for three or four days 

:,1 his friend proceeded to their 

; . On their passage, they had a 

mghi. ihey 

I September. From 

• - the capital of Albania 

it which place he 

v ith his troops in 

I [brahim Pacha in Berat Jrom 

deen. Being 
^^nnp travellers in that part of 

• with much attention, and the 

• -m of going to Patras, Lord 
I board a Turkish ship of v 



Greek lady at wh^^g ^easantly away, 
Ten weeks had flown lamdiy an P & Brit _ 

when the unexpecte doj^ ^J^d the travellers 

March, ^ith much reluctance houge of 

At Smyrna, Lord B>ion lesmca residence 

t- oSSaJSv ssttiS*-- ^e 

m ^^sS."!rSTeing about to sail for Con- 
The ba laette imM. w t, Hobhouse took pas- 

SSSEgfiEsS 

sued, and he swam three miles. 

He arrived at Constantinople on the ldtn ot i>>ay. 
While Sere, he wore a scarlet coat, richly embroi- 
dTredwUh gold, with two heavy W 1 *^" 1 *; 
feathered cocked hat. He remained about two 
months during which time he wus Presented to the 
Sultan, and made a journey to the Black bea ana 
other places of note in that vicinity. On the 14tn 
ofJulv they left in the Salsette frigate,— Mr. Hob- 
hemae intenoing to accompany Mr. Adair the Eng- 
lish I ambassador , to England, and Byron determined 

^Tnf SS? landed at Zea, with two Albanians a 
Tartar, and his English servant. Leaving Zea, he 
reached Athens on the 18th. From thence .he mad 
another tour over the same places he had P^wusjj 
visited, and returned to Athens in December ■, with 
the purpose of remaining there during hi Wjourn 
in Greece The persons with whom he associated 
S Athens, were Lord Sligo, Lady Hester Stanhope, 
and Mr. Bruce. Most of his tune was employed in 
collecting materials for those notes on the state of 
modern Greece, appended to the second canto of 
Childe Harold. Here also he wrote, "Hints liom 
Horace," a satire full of London life, yet, singular 
as it may appear, dated, "Athens, Capuchin Con- 

{ent, March 12, 181P." _ ^ . • . ... n 

He intended to have gone to Egypt, but failing 
o receive expected remittances he » was ;ohliged to 



, n board a Turkish ship of war, to receive expecxeu ™™™%~* ft *"J £" j ~ ft £ thens 

**i. ^"SSttSi X£C£nW severely 



andlanded "at Malta. There he suffered severely 
from an attack of fever, recovering from wtacn, ne 
sailed in the Volage frigate for England. He left 
.'f'suh, wl, led, and, Greece with more feelings of regret than he naa 

i „ l - u • vesa. Jcft his native land, and the memories of his sojourn 
■ NN ... v„... ■. e , a poor bul honest in the Bast, immortabaed in Childe Harold, were 
Byron pressed him \mong the pleasantest that accompanied nun tnrougn 
- life 



CQ lor mm u> auiwiw. ^ muutiu^ b <^ 

. . and, owing to the ignorance of th. 

'. came near being wrecked 

•he wind abated, and drov 

LmU wk«aa fli/.i- l<nwlr»n nnr 



JSlBSnUUl luppiieu ins wiims. xjwih |iiv33i« """ 

to take money in return for his kindness, but he 
refused, with the reply, "1 wish you to love me, 
not to MM ii 

MsdVt a guard of forty or more Albanians, 
tht v nMtd Of Mjh Aearn inia and Btotta to Mis- 

th to Patras, 
and proceed. - land, to Yo-tiz/a, 

where th.-v caught the first glimpse of Mount Par- 
nassus. In a sm.-i'., d to the 
opposite shore of the gulf ; rode on horseback from 
Saiona to Delphi, and after travelling through Liva- 
dia, and making a brief hbs, and other 
places, arrived at Athens on the 2oth of Decem- 

rrmained at Athens between two and three 
months, employing his time in visiting the vast and 
splendid monuments of ancient genius, and calling 



He arrived at London after an absence of just two 
vcars. Mr. Dallas, the gentleman who had super- 
intended the publication of "English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers," called on him the day after his 
arrival ; Lord Byron mentioned having written a 
new satire, and handed the MSS. to him for exami- 
nation. Mr. Dallas was grieved, supposing that 
the inspiring lands of the East had brought from 
his mind no richer poetical works. 

Meeting him the next morning, Mr. Dallas ex- 
pressed surprise that he had, during his absence, 
written nothing more. Upen this, Lord Byron told 
him that he had occasionally written short poems, 
besides a great many stanzas in Spenser's measure, 
relative to the countries he had visited. " They are 
not worth troubling you with," said Byron, "but 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



you shall have them all with you, if you like." 
/fee then took Childe Harold's Pilgrimage from a 
small trunk, and handed it to Mr. Dallas, at the 
game time expressing a desire to have the " Hints 
from Horace put to press immediately. VHe 
undervalued Childe Harold, and overvalued the 
" Hints." He thought the former inferior to the 
latter. As time passed on, he altered his mind in 
reference to this matter. " Had Lord Byron," 
says Moore, " persisted in his original purpose of 
giving this poem to the press, instead of Childe 
Harold, it is more than probable, that he would 
have been lost, as a great poet to the world." 

He finally consented to the publication of Childe 
Harold, yet, to the last, he expressed doubts as to 
its merit, and the reception it would meet with at 
the hands of the public. Doubts and difficulties 
arose as to a publisher. Messrs. Longman had re- 
fused to publish "English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers ; " and it was expressly stipulated with Mr. 
Dallas, to whom Lord Byron had presented the 
eopyright, that Childe Harold should not be offered 
to that house. An application was made* to Mr. 
Miller, but owing to the severity in which a per- 
sonal friend of that gentleman was mentioned, in 
the poem, he declined publishing it. At length it 
passed into the hands of Mr. Murray, then residing 
in Fleet street, who was proud of the undertaking, 
and by whom it was immediately put to press ; — 
and thus was laid the foundation of that friendly 
and profitable connection, between that publisher 
and the author, which continued, with but little 
interruption, during the poet's life.* 

About this time, the fifth edition of his^satire was 
issued, and, soon after, every copy that could be 
found was taken and destroyed. In America, how- 
ever, and on the continent, where the law of Eng- 
land had no power, it continued to meet with an 
unprohibited sale. 

While busily engaged in literary projects, he was 
suddenly called to Newstead, by information of the 
sickness of his mother. He immediately departed, 
and travelled with all possible speed, yet death pre- 
ceded him. When he arrived, he found her dead. 

In a letter, the day after, he says, " I now feel 
the truth of Mr. Gray's observation, 'Ave can only 
have one mother.' " Mrs. Byron had, undoubtedly, 
loved her son, and he her, with a depth of feeling 
hardly supposable by those who had seen them in 
their fits of ungovernable passion. An incident 
that occurred at Newstead, at this time, proves the 
sincerity of his affection. On the night after his 
arrival, the waiting woman of Mrs. Byron, in pass- 
ing the door of the room, where the deceased body 
lay, heard a sound as of some one sighing heavily 
from within ; and, on entering the chamber, found, 
to her surprise, Lord Byron, sitting in the dark, 
beside the bed. On her representing to him the 
weakness of thus giving way to grief, he burst into 



•The following memorandum exhibits the amounts paid by Mr. Murray, 
■t Tarious times, for the copyrights of his poems : 

Childe Harold, 1. 11 600/. 

" HI 1,575 

"IV 2,100 

Giaour, 525 

Bride of Abydos, 525 

Corsair, 525 

Larat 700 

Siege of Corinth 525 

Parisina, 525 

Lament of Tasso 315 

Manfred, 315 

Beppo. 525 

Oon Juan, I. 11 1 525 

" " HI. IV. V 1,525 

Doge of Venice, 1,050 

Bardanapalus, Cain, and Foatari, 1,100 

Mazeppa, 525 

Prisoner of Chillon, 525 

Sundries, 450 

Total, 15.455*. 



tears, and exclaimed, " O, Mrs. By, I had but one 
friend in the world, and she is gone ! " 

He was called at this time to mourn over the loss, 
not only of his mother, but of six relatives and 
intimate friends. 

He returned to London in October, and resumed 
the toils of literary labor, revising Childe Harold, 
and making many additions and alterations. He 
had, also, at this time, two other works in press, 
"Hints from Horace," and "The Curse of Miner- 
va." In January, the two cantos of Childe Harold 
were printed, but not ready for sale until the month 
of March, tfhen " the effect it produced on the 
public," says Moore, "was as instantaneous as it 
has proved deep and lasting. It was electric ; — his 
fame had not to wait for any of the ordinary grada- 
tions, but seemed to spring up, like the palace of a 
fairy tale, in a night." f Byron, himself, in a mem- 
oranda of the sudden and wholly unexpected effect, 
said, "I awoke one morning, and found myself 
famous." 

/It was just previous to this period, that he 
became acquainted with Moore, the poet. The 
circumstance which led to their acquaintance was 
a correspondence caused by a note appended to 
"English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." The ac- 
quaintance thus formed, was continued, with the 
utmost familiarity, through life. Lord Byron was 
personally introduced to Moore at the house of 
Rogers, the poet, where, on the same day, these 
three, together with Campbell, dined 

Among the many tributes to his genius, which 
Lord Byron received, was that of the Prince Re- 
gent. At an evening party he was presented to 
that personage, at the request of the latter. The 
Regent expressed his admiration of Childe Harold 
and entered into a long and animated conversation, 
which continued all the evening. 

In the month of August, 1811, the new theatre in 
Drury Lane was finished, and, after being urgently 
requested, Byron wrote an opening address for the 
occasion. (He now resided at Cheltenham, where, 
in addition (to the address, he wrote a poem on 
"Waltzing." In May, appeared "The Giaour," 
which rapidly passed through several editions. The 
first contained but about four hundred lines, the 
last edition, about fourteen hundred. Many of its 
choicest parts were not in the early copies, yet It 
was received with the greatest favor, and the admir- 
ers of Childe Harold equally admired this new pro- 
duct of the mind of its author. 

In December, 1813, he published "The Bride of 
Abydos." To this, while being printed, he added 
nearly two hundred lines. It met with a better re- 
ception, if possible, than either of his former works 
Fourteen thousand copies were sold in one week ; 
and it was with the greatest difficulty and labor that 
the demand for it could be supplied. In January 
following, appeared the " The Corsair." In April. 
the " Ode to Napoleon," and, during the ensuing 
month, he published "Hebrew Melodies." 

In May, he adopted the strange and singular reso 
lution of calling in all he had written, baying up 
all his copvrijriits, and not writing any more. For 
two years, he had been the literary idol of the peo • 
pie. They had bestowed upon him the highest 
words of praise, and shouted his genius and fame 
to the skies. His name had ever been on the lips, 
his writings in the head, and his sentiments in the 
heart of the great public. This strong popularity 
began to wane, as the excitement caused by the 
sudden appearance of any new thing, always will. 
The papers raised a hue and cry against a few of 
his minor poems. His moral and social character 
was brought into prominency ; all that had occurred 
during his short, but eventful life, and much that 
had never an existence, except in the minds of his 
opponents, was related with minute particularity 
Not only this, but the slight opinion these journal 
ists expressed of his genius, — seconded, as it was 
by that inward dissatisfaction with his own powers* 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



which they, whose standard of excellence is highest, 
are alwavs surest to feel, mortified and disturbed 
him. In" noticing the>i> attacks, he remarks, "I 
am afraid what you call (rash is plaguily to the pur- 

Kse; and, to toll the truth, for some time past, I 
Te been myself much of the same opinion." In 
this state of mind, he resolved upon bidding fare- 
well to the muses, and betaking himself to some 
pursuit. Mentioning this determination to 
Mr. Murray, that gentleman doubted his serious- 
hut on the arrival of a letter, enclosing a 
for the amount of the copyrights, and a re- 
to withdraw all the advertisements, and de- 
stroy all copies of his poems, remaining in store, 
' two of each for himself, all doubts vanished, 
wrote an answer, that such an act 
would be deeply injurious to both parties, and final- 
ly induced him to continue publishing. 

In connection with " Jacqueline," a poem, by Mr. 
Rogers, "Lara" appeared in August. This was 
his last appearance as an author, until the spring 
of 1816. 

On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron pro- 
posed and was accepted in marriage, bv an heiress, 
Miw Milbanke, daughter of Sir Ralph'Milbanke, a 
baronet, in the county of Durham. Her fortune 
was upwards of ten thousand pounds sterling, which 
was considerably increased by the death of her pa- 
-ubsequent to her union with the 
poet. This union cast a shade on his hitherto 
bright career. A twelve-months' extravagance, 
embarrassments, and misunderstandings, dissolved 
it, and the lady retired to the country-seat of her 

Sarents, from the unpleasant scenes of her own 
ome. One child was the result of this marriage, 
Ada Augusta Byron. Previous to the separation, 
xJyrons muse was stimulated to exertion by his 
raat-gathering misfortunes, and he produced the 
Siege of Corinth " and " Parisina." 

:e of their separation, Lord Bvron and 
JSX -£°i n rc " d J d / n , London. He entered into a 
whirlpool of frolicking and unrestrained gai- 
ety, which at length brought upon him great pecu- 
mbarrassments, which so increased, that in 
»ot only obliged to sell his libra- 
-rmture, and even his beds, were seized 

/ .on as the separation took place, the full tide 

hacf^Jr 1011 "* against hil!l ' and those who 
and Ir^A r V**?** coveted his friendship 
hW ?n? KPvs" P ° Sltion ' wcre anion K his dead 
iSr £l a "f d lm mo *f sl *« d '™us vilffiers. "In 

^Thus ?HZ$£' th< ■•>' s " bmitted in s lence.'" ° 
..w »OUi of his newlv 

En«la e n n d ng A S t tr , Cn8th ' B P° n d ^ermined to ea -e^ 

i 



-nd on the 2.5th of April. Hi, 
i<k Vn„ 1 ' hl le - "• ro: "ic • short stay at 



I'- AtGcncvX'., Jlc "; adc « short stay at 

era it tw • Mrs - S helley were 
* the banks of \£ a £ !w' A Was ln this 
..'"to of ..Chil£ Vx^id " at H° fi, V Shed thG 



M. G. Lewis, Mr. Hobhouse and Mr. S. Davies 
with whom he made the excursions previously al 
luded to. It was while here, that he began his prose 
romance of " The Vampire ; " also another, founded 
upon the story of the Marriage of Belphegor, both 
of which he left unfinished. 

*From the commencement of the year 1817, to that 
of 1820, Lord Byron's principal residence was at 
Venice. Soon after reaching that city, he began 
the study of the Armenian language, in which he 
made considerable progress. While there, he pur- 
sued his literary labors with much diligence and 
success. He wrote " The Lament of Tasso," the 
fourth canto of " Childe Harold," the dramas of 
Marino Faliero," and the " Two Foscari; " "Bep- 
po," "Mazeppa," and the first cantos of "Don 
Juan." 

He formed an acquaintance with Madame Guicci- 
oli, which soon grew to a passionate love, and was 
duly reciprocated by her. She was a Romagnese 
lady. Her father was Count Gamba, a nobleman of 
high rank and ancient name, at Ravenna. She had 
been married, when at the age of sixteen, without 
reference to her choice or affection, to the Count 
Guiccioli, an old and wealthy widower. At the 
time Byron was introduced to her, she was about 
twenty ; with fair and delicate complexion, large, 
dark eyes, and a profusion of auburn hair. This 
lady almost entirely governed the movements of 
Bvron, while in Italy; and it was a government 
which he appeared to love, and from which he man- 
ifested no desire to escape. 

a Sh , e ^o°^ eeded ™ th her n «sband to Ravenna, in 
April, 1819, and Lord Byron soon followed. He 
shortly returned to Venice, where he received a visit 
from Moore, in the course of which he presented to 
him a large manuscript volume, entitled, "My Life 
and Adventures." As he handed it to him, he re- 
marked, « It is not a thing that can be published 
during my lifetime; but you may have it, if you 
like,— there, do whatever you please with it; " and 

XW de V T ?,, wi11 make a nice le S™Y for 
my little Tom, who shall astonish the latter days 
of the nineteenth century with it." 

Ihis manuscript was a collection of various iour- 
Si a oL m S W r daS ' *?\ At B y ron ' s request/ Mr. 
s^dSoSn th \?°fy^t to Murray for two thou- 
be n„E a' "2? t ? e st iP ula tion that it was not to 
be published until after the author's decease. When 

Si ™ th* ° CCUri ' ed ^ Mr> Moore returned t0 Mr 
scrint L ?L r ey advan S ed > ^d placed the manu- 
l2 I i Sp ° SalofLord B >~ ron ' s siste '» Mrs. 
Son of W T !f £ eqUes , tj and ' with the accordant 
strove? Th d ? yr °? S best friends > ^ ^s de- 
Whr-™ m ° r e for its destruction is said to 

m.in of tho 11 -^ 1 -" 1 - 1 ] 1 ^ 11688 t0 offend the ^elings of 
many of the individuals mentioned in it. 6 

removo^ to p * d ° Se ° f . the 7 ear 1819 > L °^ Byron 
ecv of D,lt. >' ^q ia ', Where he ™*» " The P^oph^ 
TJa I *?*?,' , Sardanapalus," "Cain," "Heavm 

"Do^ a T th ' » he l hird ' f!)m - th and fifth cantos of 
Don Juan," and "The Vision of Judgment" 

rides, called upon him ° f a f om P an )™g him in his 
of billiards, h P e proceeded ^^1 & game 
stares, in his carri ™J , ' t m , order to avoid 
town, 'where hi ffs me h£ "a^I gateS of the 
he chose for these S-~ h m ' At &*, the route 
Caserne, and of 'the pfe KtW ^f " ° f the 
the sea; but havins ZHa at rea ches towards 

for his 'pistol Sise on thT' "?\ e T^nient 

When arrived a? &%& o^^ £ 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



»f which they were allowed to erect their target, his 
friends and he dismounted, and, after devoting 
about half an hour to a trial of skill at the pistol 
returned, a little before sunset, into the city." 

Leaving Pisa, he removed to Genoa, where he 
remained till his final departure for Greece, in July, 
1823. During this time, he produced "Werner," 
"The Deformed Transformed," "The Island," 
" The Age of Bronze," and the last cantos of " Don 
Juan." 

<fcHe became interested in the struggle of the 
Greeks for freedom, and offered his services in their 
behalf. He obtained the advance of a large sum of 
money, and chartered an English vessel, the Hercu- 
les, for the purpose of taking him to Greece. 

All things being ready, on the 13th of July, he, 
and those who were to accompany him, embarked. 
His suite consisted of Count Pietro Gamba, brother 
of the Countess Guiccioli ; Mr. Trelawny, an Eng- 
lishman ; and Doctor Bruno, an Italian physician, 
who had just left the university, and was somewhat 
acquainted with surgery. He had, also, at his ser- 
vice, eight servants. 

There were on board five horses, arms and ammu- 
nition for the use of his own party, and medicine 
enough for the supply of one thousand men for one 
year. 

On the morning of the 14th of July, the Hercules 
sailed ; but, encountering a severe storm, was obliged 
to put back. On the evening of the 15th, they 
again started, and after a passage of five days, 
reached Leghorn, where they shipped a supply of 
gunpowder, and other English goods. Receiving 
these, they immediately sailed for Cephalonia, and 
reached Argolosti, the principal port of that- island, 
on the 21st of July. He was warmly received by 
the Greeks and English, among whom his presence 
created a lively sensation. 

"Wishing information, in order to determine upon 
the best course for him to pursue, he despatched 
Mr. Trelawny and Mr. Hamilton Browne with a 
letter to the Greek government, in order to obtain 
an account of the state of public affairs. Here, as 
in many other places, he displayed his generosity, 
by relieving the distressed, who had fled from Scio. 

He was delayed at Argolosti about six weeks, by 
adverse winds. At length, the wind becoming fair, 
he embarked on board the Mistico, and Count 
Gamba, with the horses and heavy baggage, in a 
large vessel. 

The latter was brought to by a Turkish frigate, 
and carried, with its valuable cargo, into Patras, 
where the commander of the Turkish fleet was sta- 
tioned. Count Gamba had an interview with the 
Pacha, and was so fortunate as to obtain the release 
of his vessel and freight ; and sailing, reached Mis- 
solonghi on the 4th of January. He was surprised 
to learn that Lord Byron had not arrived-. 

On his Lordship's "departure from Dragomestri, a 
violent gale came on, and the vessel was twice 
driven into imminent danger on the rocks ; and it 
was owing to Lord Byron's firmness and nautical 
skill, that the vessel, several lives, and twenty-five 
thousand dollars, were saved. 

It was while at Dragomestri, that an imprudent 
6ath brought on a cold, which was the foundation 
of that sickness which resulted in his death. 

He reached Missolonghi on the 5th of January, 
and was received with enthusiastic demonstrations 
of joy. No mark of welcome or honor that the 
Greeks could devise, was omitted. 

One of the first acts of Lord Byron, was an at- 
tempt to mitigate the ferocity of war. He rescued 
a Turk from the hands of some sailors, kept him at 
his house a few days, until an opportunity occurred 
to send him to Patras. He sent four Turkish pris- 
oners to the Turkish Chief of Patras, and requested 
that prisoners, on both sides, be henceforward 
toreated with humanity. 

# Forming a corps of Suliotes, he equipped them 
fct his own expense. They numbered about six 



Xlli 

hundred, brave and hardy mountaineers, but wholly 
undisciplined and unmanageable. Of these, having 
obtained a commission, he, on the first of Febru- 
ary, took the command. 

An expedition against Lepanto was proposed ; 
but, owing to some difficulty with the rude and riot- 
ous soldiery, it was suspended. 

Disease now began to prey upon him, and he 
was attacked with a fit of epilepsy on the 15th of 
February, which deprived him, for a short time, of 
his senses. On the following morning, he appeared 
to be much better, but still quite ill. 

On the 9th of April, after returning from a ride 
with Count Gamba, during which they had met a 
violent shower, he was again prostrated with dis- 
ease. He was seized with shuddering, and com- 
plained of rheumatic pains. The following day he 
arose at his accustomed hour, transacted business, 
and rode into the olive woods, accompanied by his 
long train of Suliotes. 

On the 11th his fever increased ; and on the 12th 
he kept his bed all day, complaining that he could 
not sleep, and taking no nourishment whatever. 
The two following days, he suffered much from 
pains in the head, though his fever had subsided. 
On the 14th, Dr. Bruno, finding sudorifics unavail- 
ing, urged the necessity of his being bled. But of 
this Lord Byron would not hear. At length, how- 
ever, after repeated entreaties, he promised that, 
should his fever increase, he would allow it to be 
done. He was bled ; but the relief did not answer 
the expectations of any one. The restlessness and 
agitation increased, and he spoke several times in 
an incoherent manner. On the 17th, it was repeated. 

His disease continued to increase ; he had not, 
till now, thought himself dangerously ill ; but now, 
the fearful truth was apparent, not only in his own 
feelings, but in the countenances and actions of his 
friends and attendants. 

A consultation of physicians was had. Soon 
after, a fit of delirium ensued, and he began to talk 
wildly, calling out, half in English, half in Italian, 
" Forwards ! — forwards ! — courage ! — follow my ex- 
ample ! " &c, &c. 

On Fletcher's asking him whether he should 
bring pen and paper to take down his words, he 
replied : — " Oh, no, there is no time — it is now nearly 
over. Go to my sister — tell her — go to Lady Byron 
— you will see her — and say — " Here his voice fal- 
tered, and became gradually indistinct. He con- 
tinued speaking in a low, whispering tone. " My 
Lord," replied Fletcher, "I have not understood 
a word your Lordship has been saying." "Not 
understood me ! " exclaimed Byron, with a look of 
distress, " what a pity !— then it is too late ;— all is 
over." " I hope not,"" answered Fletcher ; but the 
Lord's will be done!" "Yes, not mine," said 
Byron. He then attempted to say something ; but 
nothing was intelligible, except "my sister— my 
child." 

About six o'clock in the evening of the 19th, he 
said, "Now I shall go to sleep;" and, turning 
round, fell into that slumber from which he never 

The sad intelligence was received by the people 
of Missolonghi with feelings of sorrow, which we 
are unable to describe; and all Europe was in 
mourning over the lamentable event, as its tidings 
spread through its cities, towns, and villages, 
fit was but a short time previous, that the Greeks 
were inspired by his presence, and inspirited by the 
touch of his ever-powerful genius. Now, all was 
over. The future triumphs which they had pictured 
forth for their country's freedom, vanished. Their 
bright hopes departed, and lamentation filled hearts 
lately buoyant with rejoicing. 

iln'vaiious parts of Greece, honors were paid to 
his memory. .,1.1.1 

The funeral ceremony took place in the church oi 
St. Nicholas. His remains were carried on the 
shoulders of the officers of his corps. On his coffin 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



were placed a helmet, a sword, and a crown of laurel. I ble of all extremes of expression, from the most 
The church wai crowded to its utmost extent, dur- [joyous hilarity to the deepest sadness, from the very 

sunshine of benevolence to the most concentrated 

scorn or rage. 
But it was in the mouth and chin that the great 



( *ii the L'l of May the body was conveyed to Zante, 

I salute from the pun's of the fortress. From 

, it was sent in the English brig Florida, in 

hope ; and, being landed under 

of his Lordship's executors, Mr. Hob- 

Hanson, it was removed to the house 

i Knatchbull, where it lay in state dur- 

:d 10th of July. On the 16th of July, 

: duties were paid to the remains of the great 

i depositing them close to those of his mother, 

in the "family vault in the small village church of 

.11, near Xewstead. It is a somewhat singu- 

OB the same day of the same month 

in the preceding year, he said "to Count Gamba, 

.11 we be in another year ? " 

On a tablet of white marble, in the chancel of the 

church of Hucknall, is the following inscription 



IN THE VAULT BENEATH, 

WHERE MANY 01 HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER 

AUK BURLED, 

: ;ii: remains op 
QSORGE (JoiiDON NOEL BYRON, 

LORD *nOW, OF ROCHDALE, 

IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER; 

THE AUTHOR OF 

"CHILDE HAROLD'8 PILGRIMAGE." 

HORN IN LONDON, ON THE 

0* JANUARY, 1788. 

HI DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE 

ins: 19th of April, 1824, 

. V.!.l> IN THE GLORIOU8 ATTEMPT TO 
>RE THAT COUNTRY TO HER 
AN i)OM AND 

RENOWN. 



UI8 8IRTER, THE HONORABLE 

AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, 

PLACED THIS TABLET TO niS MEMORY. 

Thus lived and died the poet Bvron. With a 
mind, blest with an active genius, which but few are 
P" vllt - »i he passed through this world, 

like a comet, on its bright but erratic course, leaving 

.ous trace behind to mark his passage, and 
to keep his memory fresh in the hearts of many fu- 
ture generations. It is not our purpose, in this 
place, to speak of the general tone of his writings 
or of their influence. That he had faults, we are 
ready to admit ; and that he had an inward good- 
• • we are as readv to assert. But few 

th hke temperament and associations with 

ild have pursued a different course. 

ie was five feet eight inches and a half. 
His hands were very white and small. Of his face, 

.ty may be pronounced to have been of the 
flSl? ° r -I r \u aa corabinin g at once regularity of 
feature, with the most varied and interesting ex- 

.. His eyes were of a light gray, and capa- 



beauty of his countenance lay. Says a fair critic of 
his features, " Many pictures have been painted of 
him, with various success ; but the excessive beauty 
of his lips escaped every painter and sculptor. In 
their ceaseless play they represented every emotion, 
whether pale with anger, or curled in disdain, smij^ 
ing in triumph, or dimpled with archness and love. 
This extreme facility of expression was sometimes 
painful, for I have seen him look absolutely ugly — I 
have seen him look so hard and cold that you must 
hate him, and then, in a moment, brighter than tho 
sun, with such playful softness in his look, such 
affectionate eagerness kindling in his eyes, and 
dimpling his lips into something more sweet than a 
smile, that you forgot the man, the Lord Byron, in 
the picture of beauty presented to you, and gazed 
with intense curiosity — I had almost said — as if to 
satisfy yourself, that thus looked the god of poetry, 
the god of the Vatican, when he conversed with the 
sons and daughters of man." 

His head was small ; the forehead high, on which 
glossy, dark-brown curls clustered. His teeth 
were white and regular, and his countenance color- 
less. 
*k# He believed in the immortality of the soul. In 
one of his letters, he said that he once doubted it, 
but that reflection had taught him better. The 
publication of " Cain, a Mystery," brought down 
upon him the severest denunciations of many 
of the clergy, whose zeal took rapid flight and bore 
away their reason and judgment. They called it 
blasphemous. This, Lord Byron denied in the 
most positive terms. The misunderstanding was 
owing to the fact that Byron caused each of the 
characters to speak as it was supposed they would 
speak, judging from their actions, and that these 
fault-finders, who raised such an outcry, understood 
the language to be the belief of the author, than 
which nothing could be more unreasonable. 

At the time of Byron's death many tributes to his 
memory were paid by the most celebrated authors. 
Among them was one from Rogers, from which we 
take the following as best fitted, in closing this 
sketch, to leave on the mind of our readers a just 
view of the strange and eventful life of the poet, 
and at the same time to call forth that charity in 
judgment which it is our duty to bestow :— 

" Thou art gone; 
And be who would assail thee in thy grave, 
Oh, let him pause ! for who among us all, 
Tried as thou wert— even from thy earliest years, 
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a Highland boy- 
Tried as thou wert, and with thy love of fame ; 
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, 
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine, 
Her charmed cup— ah, who amongst us all 
Could say he had no« erred as much and more " 



Ttitl 



WORKS OF LORD BYRON, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



A ROMAUNT. 



L'univers est une espece de livre, dont on n'a In que !a premiere pa^e quand on n'a vu que son pays. J 'en 
ai feuillete un assez erand nombre, que j'ai trouve e'^&lement mauraises. Cet examen ne m'a point e^ infnictueux. 
Je haissaia ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peup!>s divers, parmj lesquels j'ai rexu, m'ont reconcile avec 
elle. duand je u'aurais tir< d'autre benefice de mes voyages que celui-IA, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les 
fatigues. LE COSMOPOLITE. 



PREFACE. 

The following poem was written, for the most 
part, amid the scenes which it attempts to describe. 
It was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to 
Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's 
observations in those countries. Thus much it may- 
be necessary to state for the correctness of the de- 
scriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched 
are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and 
Greece. There for the present the poem stops : its 
reception will determine whether the author may 
venture to conduct his readers to. the capital of the 
East, through Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos 
are merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connexion to the piece ; which, how- 
ever, makes no pretension to regularity. It has 
been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions 
I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, 
"Childe Harold," I may incur the suspicion of 
having intended some real personage : this I beg 
leave, once for all, to disclaim — Harold is the child 
of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In 
some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, 
there might be grounds for such a notion ; but in 
the main points, I should hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the ap- 
pellation "Childe," as " Childe Waters," "Childe 
Childers," &c, is used as more consonant with the 
old structure of the versification which I have 
adopted. The M Good Night," in the beginning of 
the first canto, was suggested by "Lord Maxwell's 
Good Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by 
Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been pub- 
lished on Spanish subjects, there may be found some 
slight coincidence in the first part, which treats of 



the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole 
of this poem was written in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our 
most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. 
Beattie makes the following observation: "Not 
long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of 
Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my 
inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descrip- 
tive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humor 
strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the measure 
which I have adopted admits equally of all these 
kinds of composition." * — Strengthened in my opin- 
ion by such high authority, and by the example of 
some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall 
make no apology for attempts at similar variations 
in the following composition ; satisfied that, if they 
are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execu- 
tion, rather than in the design sanctioned by the 
practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 



ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I have now waited till almost all our periodical 
journals have distributed their usual portion of 
criticism. To the justice of the generality of their 
criticisms I have nothing to object; it would ill bt- 
come me to quarrel with their very slight degree of 
censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind 
they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, 
to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, 
on one point alone shall I venture an observation. 
Among the many objections justly urged to the very 
indifferent character of the "vagrant Childe," 
(whom, notwithstanding many hints to the con- 



is 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



trary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage,) 

it has . that, besides the anachronism, 

he is very xmknirihtly, as the times of the Knights 

:ues of love, honor, and so forth. Now it so 

happens that the good old times, when " l'amour 

du bon vieux tcms l'amour antique" flourished, 

he most profligate of all possible centuries. 

Those who have any doubts on this subject may 

con9U lt EM, and more particularly 

vol. ii., page 69. The vows of chivalry were no 

than any other vows whatsoever ; and 

the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, 

and certainly were much less refined, than those of 

The " Cours d'amour, parlemcns d'amour ou 

de courtosio ct de gentilcsse " had much more of 

IB of courtesy or gentleness. See Holland 

on the same subject with St. Palaye. Whatever 

other objection may be urged to that most unamia- 

ble personage, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly 

knightly in his attributes — "No waiter, but a 

knight templar."* By the by, I fear that Sir 

:i and Sir Lancelot were no better than they 

should be, although very poetical personages and 

true knights "sans peur," though not "sans re- 

proche." If the story of the institution of the 

■: " bt not a fable, the knights of that order 

have for several centuries borne the badge of a 

Countess of Salisbury of indifferent memory. So 

much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted 

that its days are over, though Maria Antoinette was 

quite as chaste as most of those in whose honors 

lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of 
Sir Joseph Banks, (the most chaste and celebrated 
of ancient and modern times,) few exceptions will 
be found to this statement, and I fear a little inves- 
ts not to regret these monstrous 
mummeries of the middle ages. 

M "Childe Harold," to live his day, 
such as he is ; it had been more agreeable, and cer- 
tainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable charac- 
ter. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to 
make him do more and express less, but he never 
was intended as an example, further than to show 
that early perversion of mind and morals leads to 
satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in 
new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, and 
the toning of travel (except ambition, the most 
1 of all excitements) are lost on a soul so 
constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I pro- 
ceeded with the poem, this character would have 
topped as he drew to the close; for the outline 
which I once meant to fill up for him was, with 
some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon 
perhaps a poetical Zcluco. 



TO IANTHE. 



Not in those climes where I have late been 

straying, 
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless 

deem'xl ; 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd : 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could 

they speak ? 

Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri of the West ! — 'tis well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye umoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed. 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours 
decreed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as tua Gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord: nor question why 
To one so young my strain I would commend, 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
My days once number 'd, should this homage past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friend- 
ship less require 5 






CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



CANTO I 



I. 

Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred riill : 
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sigh'd o'er D ehoh i's long deserted shrine, 1 
Where, save that/eeble fountain, all is still ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
Vc grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth. I' 
"Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; /*/ 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.. ' 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight,_ / 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favor in his sight k 
Save concubines and carnal companie, 
And flaunting wassailers of high and lew degree. . 

III. 

Childe Harold was he hight, — but whence his name 
And lineage long, it sujts 'ne nojt to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance -hey were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad logel soils a :*ame for aye, 
However mighty in the oMen time : 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, 
Nor florid prc^e, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

IV. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
Disporting there like any other fly ; 
Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell 
He felt the fulne£3 of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land *~d dwell 
VThicn seem'd t*J hiro more lone thnii Eremite 
cell. 



ite s sa<^ 



For he t.hrmiprb Kin'* 1nr.fr inhyrir.Tr. r,nd riir. , 

Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 
Had si crfr 'd t.njrinriy though he loved but one, 
And thatioye d o n e^-alas ! could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy sbq \ fa) 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste 

VI. 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the s ullen te ar would start, 
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ce : 
Apart he stalk'd h^pvle£s_j;evcrie, 
And from his native land rcsolv'd to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for wo, 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shade* 
below. 

VII. 

The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
Where Superstition once had made her den, 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 
And monks might deem then time was come agen, 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 

VIII. 
Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's 
As if the memory of some deadly feud [brow, 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er his grief mote be, which he could not 
control. 



20 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IX. 



And none did love him— though to hall and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near, 

knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 

• none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care. 
And where these arc light Eros finds a fere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might 
despair. 

X. 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 

tm whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to rvone. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; 
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
v dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to 
heal. 

XI. 

his home, his heritage, his lands, 
I aughing dames in whom he did delight, 
• large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And Ions had fed his youthful appetite ; 

ta brimm'd with every costly wine, 
And all that mote to luxury invite, 

at a sigh he left, to cross the brine, 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's cen- 
tral line. 

XII. 
The sails were fill'd, and at winds blew, 

him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 

red he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sat and wept, 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 

XIII. 
But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
He seized his harp, which he at times could string, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 

'd he no strange 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 

1 his farewell in the deep twilight. 
-el on her snowy win?, 

ht, 
Thus to the i .... p 0ur - d his ^ ;, G 

:.t." 

1. 

/ tKff »hore 

^•soerthewatersblue; 

yinds 8i «h, the breakers roar, 
a na saneks the wild sea-mew. 

<*on these* 
* e follow in his flight; 
Farewell awhile to him and v 
My native Land-Good Night*' 



" A few short hours, and He will rise 

To give the Morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother Earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall 

My dog howls at the gate. 



" Come hither, hither, my little page! 

Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dasli the tear-drop from thine eye , 

Our ship is swift and strong : 
Our fleetest falcon scarce could fly 

More merrily along." 



' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind ; 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love, 
Ant have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and one above. 



1 My father bless'd me fervently, 

Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again.' — 
" Enough, enough, my little lad ! 

Such tears become thine eye ; 
If I thy guileless bosom had, 

Mine own would not be dry. 

6. 
" Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman. 

Why dost thou look so" pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 

Or shiver at the gale ? " 
' Decm'st thou I tremble for my life ? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

7. 
' My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake ; 
And when they on their father call, 

What answer shall she make ? '— 
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, who am of lighter mood. 

Will laugh to flee away. 

8. 
'• For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour ? 
Fresh feres will dry th'e bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near ; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



21 



9. 



" And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea : 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain 

Till fed by stranger hands ; 
But long ere I come back again, 

He'd tear me where he stands. 

10. 

•• With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me too, 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves ! 

And when you fail my sight, 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 

My native Land — Good Night ! " 



XVIII. 



XIV. 



t 



On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics 
reap. 

XV. , 

Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! 
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high] 

command, 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen 

purge. ^J[ 

XVI. 

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
Anfl. to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing 
lord. 

XVII. 

Eut whoso entereth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
For hut and palace show like filthily : 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree- 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
fhough shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, 
unwash'd, unhurt. 



Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes, 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen 
To follow half on which the eye dilates, 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's 
gates ? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 

XX. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
And rest yet at our " Lady's house of wo ; " * 
Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
Arid sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo ! 
Deep in yon cave Honorious long did dwell, 
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a Hell. 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout this purple land where law secures not 
life.3 

XXII. 

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe ; 
Yet ruin'd splendor still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair ; 
There thou too,Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware [done, 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to sun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasur* 

plan, 
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow: 
But now, as if a thing unblcst by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide ; 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supp 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide 



22 



BYRON'S 



XXIV. 

Behold the hall .lure chiefs were late convened ! - 

Oh! dome displeasing unto Bn ish eye '. 

With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 

A little fiend th..: waattj, 

There sits in parchment robe array d and bj 

blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
j^lt. tures adorn the roll, 

Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his 
soul. 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dasli'd to earth the victor's plume, 
And Policy regained what arms had fest ; 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
Wo to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 
Bincc baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania 's coast. 

XXYI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 
And folks in office at the mention fret, 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for 
How will posterity the deed plo claim ! [shame 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
To fit ted of their fame, 

By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
Where Scorn her finger points through many a com- 



ing year f _ 



XXVII. 



So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
Did take hi itary guLse : 

Sweet t soon he thought to flee, 

More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here a while he learned to moralize, 
For meditation fix'd at times on him; 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth misspent in maddest whim ; 
But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 

XXYIII. 

To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul ; 
Again he rouses from his moping tits, 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he flics, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience 
sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 5 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen ; 
And church and court did mingle their array, 
And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
Lordlings and frcres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
But here the Babylonian whore hath built 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, 
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish 
guilt 



WORKS. 

XXX. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race !) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyance fills, [place, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend : 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader 

knows — 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : 
For Spain is,compass'd by unyielding foes, 
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's 

woes. 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 
No barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land 'from 
Gaul. 

XXXIII. 

But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low • 



XXXIV. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendor drest : 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest [strong ; 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts op- 
press'd. 

XXXV. 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd romantic land ! 
"Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd fhe band 
That dyed thy mountain streams'" with Gothic 

gore ? 7 
Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? [pale, 
Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent 
While Afric's echoes thrill' d with Moorish matrons' 

wail. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



23 



XXXVI. 



Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
Ah ! math, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
"When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine 
See how the mighty shrink into a song ! [estate, 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve the great ? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does 
thee wrong ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your,ancient goddess, cries ; 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
N ow on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar 
In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise ! " 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's 
shore ? 

XXXVIII. 

Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death 
The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe, 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the 
shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorchcth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most 
sweet. 

XL. 

By heaven, it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! [lair 
"What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share; 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 



XLII. 



XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain 



There shall they rot— Ambition's honor'd fools ! 
Yes, honor decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass ought that hall 
Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone b? 
bone ? 

XLIII. 

Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! 
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steel, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, [bleed . 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and 
Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
And, tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient 

song ! 

** XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim [good, 
Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's 
And die, that living might have proved her shame ; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud. 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. 

XLV. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : . 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wished-for prey ! 
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour ! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
Is vain, or Dion, Tyre, might yet survive, 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive 

XLVI. 
( But all unconscious of the coming doom, 

The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; 

Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 

Nor bleed these patriots with their country's 
wounds : 

Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds ; 

Here Folly still his votaries inthralls ; 

And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight 

Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, [rounds: 
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 

XLVII. 
Not so the rustic— with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund Castanet: 
Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
SNot in the toils of Glory would ye 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man b« 
happy yet ! 



21 

XLVIII. 

I arols now 1 tcer ? 

Of .is his lay, 

As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
: [ring on the Way ? 
. he chants •' Viva el Rev ! " 8 
And execrate Godoy, 

ittol Charles, and curse the day [boy, 
's queen beheld the black-eyed 
sprang from her adulterate 
joy. 

XLIX. 
On yon long level plain, at distance crown'd 
"With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
■ red hoof-marks d^nt the wounded 
ground ; [vest 

:':re, the greensward's darken'd 
'.hat the foe was Andalusia's guest: 

.-flame, and th^ host, 
tarnt'd the dragon's nest; 
D does he mark it with triumphant boast, 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and 
lost. 

L. 
And whomsoe'er along the path you meet, 

in his cap the badge of crimson hue, L. 

you whom to shun and whom to greet ; i: 
i the man that walks in public view 
■'it of loyalty this toko- 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; 
Gallic i'oeman rue, 
ipt beneath the cloak, 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 
ke. 

LI. 
At every turn Morcna's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 

an compass sight, 
•itzer, the broken road,' 
ling pallisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
Ihc magazine in rocky durance stowed, 
The j bcncath the 8hed Qf th 

Ine ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing ma 

LII. 
Portend the deeds to come :-but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod • 

••■ moment dcigneth to di r wav . 

through these their 
rmst own the Scourger of the world. 
sadwillbethyrcckoning-dav, 

kndt] .-sons in crowds to Hades 

LIU 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

LIV. 

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war I 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, an owlet's 'larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quaka 
to tread. 

LV. 

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, [veil, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful 
chase. 

LVI. 

Her lover sinks— she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
Her chief is slain— she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee— she checks their base career ; 
The foe retires— she heads the sallying host • 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is 
^ Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, [lost ? 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ? " 



Andn,us., !l e ?M?theJ . oung|thcproud|thc 

To swell one bloat v , 

No step between » J°£™ "ign ? 

EK& *&*>' 

Their doom, nor heed th s^T "*"?, 
1^1 that desperate Valo^ ^ ? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zea ' 
The ^et e ran•s skill, Youth's fire ™i\r v , 
heart of steel > ' d Mai *°°<P« 



LYII. 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love : 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as 
great. 

Lyra. 

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his toucn : " 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phcebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous 

clutch ! 
Who round the North for paler dames would seek ? 
How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, 

and weak ! 

LIX. 
Match me, yc climes ! which poets love to laud t 
Match me, ye harams of the land ! where now 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic-must avow: 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, 
Jith Spams dark-glancing daughters-deign to 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, [know 
His ulack-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



25 



LX. 



Oh, thou Parnassus ! 13 whom I now survey, 
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly -rcoo thine Echoes with his string, 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will 
wave her wing. 

LXI. 

Oft have I dream'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
Ana now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee ! 

LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
Which others rave of, though they know it not ? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 

LXIIL 

Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 



LXTI. 



When Paphos fell by time— accursed Time I 
The queen who conquers all must yield to thee— 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To naught else constant, hithi to flee; 

And fix'd her shrine within those walla of white; 
Though not to one dome circumscribetl. 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 

LXVII. 

From morn till night, from night till startled Mcth 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn, 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever n 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by 
turns. 



LXIV. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece was 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, [young, 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung, . 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah ! that to these were give,n such peaceful shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her 
glades. 

LXV. 

Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, [days ; u 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantling who can 'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 



LXVIII. 

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed resf ; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? 
Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast ; 
Hark ! heard you not the forest monarch's roar ? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
Of man and steed, o'erlhrown beneath his horn, 
The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more ; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to 
mourn. 

LXIX. 

The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer : 
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : 
Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 

LXX. 

Some o'er thy Thames row the ribbon'd fair, 
Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Bcetian shades ! the reason why ? 15 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, [sworn. 
In whose dread name both men and maids are 
And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance 
till morn. 

LXXI. 

All have their fooleries — not alike arc thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark bin. 
Soon as the matin bell pioclaimeth nine, 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween^the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen bo ; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same divcrsiol 
share. 



26 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXII. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area clcar'd, 

^led are seated round; 

£ on ., loud trumpet's note is heard, 

1 wight is found: 
lt chiefly dames abound, 
' of a roguish eye, 
or well inclined to heal the wound ; 
None through their cold disdain are doom d to die 
As moonstruck bards complain, by Love, sad 
archery. 

LXXIII. 

llush'd is the din of tongues-on gallant steeds, 
With milk-white crest, gold-spur, and light-poised 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, [lance, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
Ilirh are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
:,ri Z c of better acts, they bear away. 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gam their toils 
repay. 

LXXIV. 

In co*lv sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o er, 
tight unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: 
-.he fights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed- 
Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 

th one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe; 

. there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
ttaek, wide waving to and fro 
\nl ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

LXXVI. 



LXXVIH. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray ; 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: 
Once more through all he bursts his thund'rmg way. 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
Wraps his°fierce eye— 'tis past-he sinks upon the 
sand! 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops— he starts— disdaining to decline : 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle, dies. 
The decorated car appears— on high 
The corse is piled— sweet sight for vulgar eyes- 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 



Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away, 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear: 

, Ol display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; 

•ns from his flank the crimson torrent clear 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bcllowings 
speak his woes. 

LXXVII. 

Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, 

•.he wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man, an i iging arms assail, 

Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One gallair ngled corse ; 

Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, 

i source ; 
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears, 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he 



LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites a 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the 
Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, [foe, 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm 
stream must flow. 

LXXXI. 

But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, 
His wither'd sentinel, Duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage, 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, ^ 
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving 
Queen ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, 
Or dream' d he loved, since Rapture is a dream ; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And lately had he learn' d with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings ; 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom 
flings. 10 

LXXXIII. 



Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes . 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
Fuin would he now have joined the dance, the sor.,_ 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate ? 
ht that he saw his sadness could abate : 
ncc- he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay 
Ho charms as fair as those that soothed his happier 
day. 

TO INEZ. 

1. 
Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 

Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
Vet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain 



27 



LXXXV. 



And dost thou ask, what secret wo 
I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 

And wilt thou vainly seek io know 
A pang, ev'n thou must fail to sooth ? 

3. 

It is not love, it is not hate, 
Nor low Ambition's honors lost, 

That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly from all I prized the most : 



It is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see : 

To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 



It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 

That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 

G. 
t What Exile from himself can flee ? 

To Zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 

The blight of life— the demon Thought. 

7. 
Yet others rapt m pleasure seem, 

And taste of all that I forsake ; 
Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 

And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 

8. 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 

With many a retrospection curst ; 
And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 



What is that worst ? Nay do not ask — 

In pity from the search forbear : 
Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 



Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ? 
When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
First to be free and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye ; 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud : '7 
Here all were noble, save Nobility ; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen 
Chivalry ! 

LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 
They fight for freedom who were never free ; 
A. Kingless people for a nerveless state, 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, 
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery : 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty ; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
War, war is still the cry, "War even to th« 
knife! "is 

LXXXVII. 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, 
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed* 

LXXXVIII. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, [stain, 
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done ; 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyreiv 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 
Nor mortal eye the distant end for 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchaiu'd: • 
Strange retribution ! now Columbia's case 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, 
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder un- 
restrain'd. 

XC. 

Not all the blood at Talavera shed, 
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 
Not Albuera lavish of the dead, 
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight ? 
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil ? 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil 



30 



xxi. 



.shore they still wore free to 

XXII. 
Through Calpc's straits survey the sleepy shore; 
Euro* and Afric on each other gaze 

-ved Maid and dusky Moor 

; )0 held beneath pale Hecate s blaze, 
softly on the Spanish shore she plajs, 

rock, and slope, and forest brown 
.darkeningwithherwaiungphase 

But Maui/. -: hadows frown, 

from mountain cliff to coast descending sombre 
down. 

XXIII. 

'Tis Bignt, when Meditation bids us feel 

ve loved, though love is at end. 
heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a fan* 
Who W** years would wish to bend 

^h. 1 1 survives young Love and J oy . 

1 1 when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not 1 
boy "? 

XXIV. 
Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave reflected sphere, 
Thc Ivor schemes of Hope and Pnde. 

Aim flics unconscious o'er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
X t h laims thc homage of a tear ; 

! of which the weary breast 
IJ still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 



BX RON'S WORKS. 

XXVII 

More blest the life of godly Eremite 



XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 

« things that own not man's dominion dwell 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb thc trackless mountain all unseen, 
"With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
s and foaming falls to lean ; 
tude; 'tis but to hold 

re's charms, and view her store 
unroll' d. 

XXVI. 
But midst the crowd, thc hum, the shock of men, 
' To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, thc world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless. 
ins of splendor, shrinking from distress ! 
that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
If we were not, would seem to smiic the less 
Of all that flattcr'd, follow'd, sought, and sued ; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 



Such as on lonely Athos may be seen 
Witchin" at eve upon the giant heignt, 
Wh i lo°oks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, 
That he who there at such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot , 
Then slowly tear him from the witching scene 
sSch forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind , 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, 
And each well known caprice of wave and wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors fina, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
Tin on some jocund morn-lo, land ! and all is well 

XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles," 
Thc sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, 
And J'er her cliffs a fuitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly 
sigh'd. 

XXX. 

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thme : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, , 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 



XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought ; 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway wai 
o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
Which others hail' d with real or mimic awe, [law; 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, theii 
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims ; 
And much she marvelled ttiat a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarelj 
anger dames. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
A3 long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
Tet never would he join the lover's whining crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
"Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
What careth she for hearts when once possess'd ? 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes : 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk confidence still best with woman copes ; 
Pique her and sooth in turn, soon Passion crowns 
thy hopes. 

XXXV. 

'Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true, 
And those who know it best, deplore it most ; 
When all is won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost ; 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion ! these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 

XXXYI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were read, 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXYII. 

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
Though alway changing, in her aspect mild ; 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
Her never-wean'd, though not her favor'd child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, 
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path ; 
To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 
And sought her more and more, and loved her best 
in wrath. 

XXXYIII. 

Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize : 
Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thet;, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The Cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each city's 
ken. 



XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot 18 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
And onward view'd the mount, not 
The lovers refuge, and the Lesbian 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only Heaven to which Earth's children mav 
aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar ; 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave ■ 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lcpanto, fatal Trafalgar ; 13 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at mar- 
tial wight. 

XLL 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of wo, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 1 * 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow ; 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow, 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid scem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid 
front. 

XLII. 

Morn dawns ; and with it stern Albania's hills, 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robecf half in mist, bedewed with snowy I 
Arrayed in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder m 
And gathering storms around convulse the closing 
year. 

XLIII. 

N$w Harold felt himself at length alone. 
And bade to Christian tongues a long ■ I 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to view : | :' 
His breast was annM 'gainst fate, his want.-, were 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to :,. 
The scene m :ew 5 

This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 
Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed sum- 
mer's heat. 

XLIY 

Here the red en -s is here, 

Though sadly scofTd at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pri r'd priesthood dear; 

Churchman and votary alike 
Foul Superstition ! howsoe'er 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, c: 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal g 
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy 
dross ? 



32 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLV. 



LI. 



Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
D u [ man chief and Asian king 15 

To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! 16 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering: 
imperial anarch*, doubling human woes ! 

\ globe ordain'd for such to win and 
lose? 

XLVI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Kv'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Cbildc Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Ytt in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground, and consecrated most, 
To mutch some spots that lurk within this lowering 
coast. 

XLYII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, 17 

And left the primal city of the land, 

And onwards did his further journey take 

To greet Albania's chief, 1 * whose dread command 

..vless law; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold ; 

re and there some daring mountain band 
.in his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 19 

XLYIII. 

^tic Zitza ! ^ from thy shady brow, 
Though small, but favor'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below* 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
'.'imed cataract doth roll 
■ those hanging rocks, that shock yet please 
the soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hilL 
■ it not for many a mountain nigh 
Bg in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
t well itself be deem'd of dignity, 
The bite walk glisten fair on high : 

1 wells the caloyer, 2I nor rude is he, 

r; the passer by 
■omc still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to 

L. 

t season let him rest, 

*" rcsV - n beneath those aged trees ; 

ill fan his breast, 
From heaven it* ;hale the brccze . 

The plaia <h-oh ! let him seize 

the scorching ray 
t, impregnate with disease ; 
] ilgrim lay, 
And gaze, nntirod, the morn, the noon, the eve 
away. 



Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 22 
Chimera's alps extend from left to right ; 
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; [fit 

Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain 
Nodding above : behold black Acheron ! ** 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon, 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek 
for none ! 

LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Y'eil'd by the screen of hills ; here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
But peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote 24 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 

LIII. 

Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 

Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 

What valley echo'd the response of Jove ? 

What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's 
shrine ? 

All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 

That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 

Cease, fool ! the fate of Gods may well be thine . 

Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink be- 
neath the stroke ! 

LIV. 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale, 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy die ; 
Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn 
trance. 

LY. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 23 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; 2 ^ 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tcpalen, [nigh, 

Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing 
He heard the busy hum of warrior men 

Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthen- 
ing glen. 

LYL 
He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers.'guests, and santons wait ; 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 

Here men of every clime appear to make resort 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



33 



LVII. 



Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide extending court below ; 
Above, strange groups adorn 'd the conidor ; 
And ofttimes through the area's echoing door 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away : 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the 
close of day. 

LYIII. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
"With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see ; 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
And crooked glaive : the lively, supple Greek ; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated. son J 
The bearded Turk that rarely 'deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are 

found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half whisperiug there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solenm sound, 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
" There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo ! God is 

great ! " 

LX. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

LXI. 

Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove ; 
For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion 
shares. 

LXII. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, 
"Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes ; 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with 
disgrace. 
5 



LXIII. 



It is not that yon hoary lengthening beaid 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
So sings the Tcian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth; 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mortU 

span, 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood 

began. 

LXIY. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 
destroys. 

LXY. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature- 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful times of troublous need: 
Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship surft, 
When Gratitude or Yalor bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing o*n where'er their chief may lead 

LXYI. 

Childc Harold saw them in their chieftain's town 
Thronging to war in splendor and success ; 
And after viewed them when, within their power 
Himself, awhile the victim of distress ; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 
When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, 
Andfeilajv-counti-ymen have stood aloof—' 7 
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the 
proof I 

LXYII. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
When all around was desolate and dark : 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more; 
Yet for a while the mariners forbore, 
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : 
At length thev ventured forth, though doubting 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work 

LXVIII. 
Yain fear ! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand, 
Led them o'er ro is swamp, 

Kinder than polish'd - . r h not so bland, 

And piled the h wrung their garment* 

damp, 
And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp, 
And spread their fare ; though homely, all they had ; 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp — 
To rest the weary and to sooth the sad, 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at leait the 

bad. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Si 

LXIX. 

And therefore did he take a trust) Land 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
fa^rJS seasoned, and with labors tann d, 
Till he did ffreet white Achelous tide, 
And from his forthcr bank folia's wolds espied. 

LXX. 

Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And wearv waves retire to gleam at rest. 
How brown the foliage of the S-en lulVs grove : 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
As winds come lightly whispering from the west 

^ n ot milling, the bine deep s serene . - 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest , 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 
For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence 

gkan - LXXI. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed 
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast,- 8 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each Palikar- 3 his sabre from him cast, 
And hounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunccd the kirtled 

clan. 

LXXII. 

Childe Harold at a^ittle distance stood 
And view'd, but not displeased, the rcvelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude ; 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee; 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd, 
Their uible, dark eyes flashing free, 

The long wild locks that to their girdles strcam'd. 
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
scrcam'd : M 

1. 
si Tamhovrgi ! Tambourgi '. * thy 'larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliotc ! 



Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 
And descends to the plain like the stream from the 
rock. 

3. 

Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego i 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 

4. 
Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
fhe 6abre is 6heathcd and the battle is o'er. 



Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by tne waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 



I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hau-, 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 



I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth ; 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 



Remember the moment when Previsa fell, 32 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell, 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared 



I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier : 
Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 



10. 
Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let theyellow-hair'd* Giaoursf view his horse-tail;* 
"with dread; [banks, 

When his Delhis§ come dashing in blood o'er the 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 

11. 

Selictar ! || unsheathe then our chief's scimitar : 
Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no mor» ' 



LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 33 
Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak ThermopyhTo's sepulchral strait — 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurota's banks,, and call thee from th 
tomb? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 3 * 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which no 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish han< 
From birth till death enslaved; in w r ord, in dee< 
unmann'd. 



' Dna;....rr. 



• Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. t Infidel. 

\ Howe-tails are the insignia of a Pacha. 

|Hor»emen, answering to our forlorn hope. J Sword-bearer. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



35 



LXXY 



In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful 
page. 

LXXYI. 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not [blow ? 

Who would be free themselves must strike the 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 



Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye i 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame, i 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 



LXXXI. 



LXXYII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest: 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest ; 35 
Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest 
The 36 prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless 
toil. 

LXXVIII. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin 
That penance which then- holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share ; 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 
Oh Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels Once, for free her tbrong, 
AH felt the common joy they now must feign, 
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song. 
As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they 
lave. 



Glanced many a light caique along the fi 
Danced on the shore th< 

Ne thought had nan or maid of rest or 
While many a languid eye and thrillin.tr hand 
Exchanged the look few bos< n • I . stand, 

Or gently prest, return'd th till : 

Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band, 
Let sage or cynic prattle r* he will, 
These hours, and only these, redeem Life's vcars o* 
ill! 

LXXXII. 

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even through the closest searment half betray'df 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to reecho all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud ( 

LXXXIII. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe thee 

most ! 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde 

LXXXIY. 

When riseth Laccdccmcn's hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
An hour may lay it in the dust : and when 
Can man in shattcr'd splendor renovate, 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate ? 

LXXXY. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of wo, 
Land of lost -gods and-godlike men ! art thou! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills -of snow, 57 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now; 
Thy fame, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough: 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; 88 
Save where Tritoni inc adorns 

Colonna's cliff, W long the wave ; 

Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass, 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and righ 
"Alas!" 



36 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXYII. 



wild : 



«£& 

T her e he blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 

Lbom wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
Apollo still thy Ion-, long summer gilds, 
:1 his beam Mendeli's marbles glare, 
A.; Glory, Freedom bfl, but Nature still is fan, 

LXXXYIII. 

Where'er m tread 'tis haunted, holy ground ;■ 

rt in vulgar mould, 
But , hn of wonder spreads around, 

And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 

, our earliest dreams have dwelt upon 
hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
s the power which crush'd thy temples gone: 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Mara- 
thon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 

■hanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 

lion became a magic word ; ™ 
Which ntttr'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's ca- 

XC. 



XCIII. 

Let such approach this consecrated land, 
And pass in peace along the magic waste ; 
But spare its relics— let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced . 
Not for such purpose were these altars placed; 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear o\ 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! 

XCIY. 
For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days ; 
To such resign the strife for fading bays,— 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise; 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are left to please, when none are left to 
love. 

XCY. 

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me , 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see : 
Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
Would he had ne'er returned, to find fresh cause to 
roam. 

XCYI. 



The flyiiv/ ikaftleii broken bow ; 

.-pear; 
Mouir i% Ocean's plain below, 

. at, Destruction in the reir ! 
g uc h i -e— what now remaineth here ? 

What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 

. m's smile, and Asia's tear ? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courier's hoof, rude stranger ! spmrns 
around. 

XCI. 

Yet tc the remnants of thy splendor pa3t 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied throng ; 
Long shall the voyage. niun blast, 

Hail the bright clime of battle and of *01 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
•AJth thy fame the J ttf a shore; 

ung ! 
b sages venerate, and be 

i the Muse unveil their awful lore. 

XCII. 

The parted 9 to wonted home, 

If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; 

him roam, 
And gaze complacent en earth. 

Greece is • ial mirth. 

But ay abide, 

And 1 of his birth, 

D wandering alow by Delphi's sacred side, 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian 
died. 



Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 
And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. [hast. 
All thou couldst have of mine, stem Death ! thou 
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend ; 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
Hath snatch'd the tfttle joy that life had yet to lend. 

XCYII. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ; 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 

XCYIII. 

What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Ghastener humbly let me bow 
O'er hearts divided, and o'er hopes destroy'd; 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow, 
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, 
Aud with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'cL 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO III. 



* 



•' Afin que eette application tous forcSt de per.ser 4 autre chose ; il n'y a en 
»erite de reraede que eelui-la et le temps."— Utlrt du Hoi de Prusse a 
O'AltmUrt, Sept. 7, 1776. 



Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child '. 
Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
And then we parted,— not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me ; and on hishC 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
.Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone : 
"When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye. £ 

II. 
Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar ! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam 
, Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath; 
prevail. 

IIL MtiL. 

In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark a 
Again I seize the theme then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wi 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I 
The furrows of long thought, and dried- 
Which, ebbing, leave a steril track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower 



VI. 

'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being^niore intense, that we endow 
With form or fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I ? Nothing : but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse earth. 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings* 
dearth. 

VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly:— I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'crwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flu. 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame 
My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late ! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time c an not abate, 
A.nd-i'l'e'u UJ1 lillLer imits without accusing Fate. 



liver as a reed, Wrung with tl 
v the gale, JTet Time, who 

> / In soul and as] 

am to sail I Fire from the r 

npest's breath! And life's enchar 



appears. 



IV. 



i Since my young days of passion— joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
And both may jar ; it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sxmg to sing. 

, Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, 
So that it ween me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall 'seem 

To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 

V. 

He, who grown aged in this world'of wo^ # 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Slill unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted 
cell. 



VIII. 

Something too much of this ;— but now 'tis past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long absent Harold reappears at last ; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er - 
changes all, had alter'd him [heal ; 
aspect as in age : years steal 
mind as vigor from the limb ; 
enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 

IX. 

His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 
Siiiij^mu^him clung invi sibly a cha in 
Which gall'TH fUl euii AJileTing tn<> 
And heavy though it clank'dnot; worn with pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
Entering with every step he took through many a 
scene. 

X. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
And he, as one, might midst the many stand 

log through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ; such a land 

He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's 
hand. 

XI. 

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 
To wear it ? who can ei old 

The smoothness and 1 ^_ '» cheek. 

Nor feel the heart ccn never all grow old ? 
Who can contemplate Fwpe through clouds unfol 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's frnc 1 
prime. 



88 



XII. 



But soon he knew himself the ; most U& 
Ot men la herd vg&Jfei I wW» whom he held 
Sttle untaught to submit [quell d 

•s to others, though Ins soul was 
In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompell d, 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 



To spirit 



whom his own rebell'd ; 



Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
If, to breath without mankind. 



XIII. 



BYRON'S AVOFJvS 

XVIII. 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, thedea djy Watfjd oo ! 
jlo^^nr^^frrr^f^^ gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In " pride of place " > here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; 
Ambition's life and labors all were vain ; 
He wears the shattcr'd links of the world's broken 
chain. 

XIX. 



there to him vn re 



"Where rose the mountains 

frit 
"Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 

v a blue sky, and glowing clime, ext. 
He had the passion and the power to roam; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his hind's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake, 

XIV. 
Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their OW ad earth, and earth-born 

And human frailties, were forgotten quite: [jars, 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
an happy ; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
brink. 

XV. 

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 

1 stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-bom falcon with dipt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
Then cam in, which to o'ercomc, 

As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom cat. 



Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters ;- = bjJjjs r Eaitb^oreJree ? 



Did nations combat to make One submi 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days ? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones ? No : prove before ye 



praise 



XX. 



If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain, years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 

Such as Harmodius* drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

t 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 

Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 

A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 

Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 

And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 3 

a deep sound saikes like a rising 



XVI. 



But hush! Kark 
knell ! 

« ' " XXII. 

^Did ye not hear it ?-No ; 'twas but the wind, 
With nou-ht of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 0r the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
The vr - • > that he lived in vain, i 0n witn the da ™ e ! lct 3 0Y be ^confined ; 

on this side the tomb, No slcc P tm morn > Wflea Youtn and Pleasure meet 

: a smilingncss assume. [ ■< ek To chase tlie glowing Hours with flying feet — 
Which, though 'twere wild,'— as on 1 " 1 V But > haik '-- tnat heaY J r sound breaks in oace more » 

■ »uld madlv meet their doom / As if the douds lts ccho would re P eat 5 

I And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 



With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 

XVII. 

/* 4 Stop ! — For thy -tecaii is. OJi-an^mpire's A 
/ An Earthquake' ulchTelTrJGrosr-r' 

T • ' spot tnark'd with no colossal bust ? 

lumn trophied for triumphal 
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ;— 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ' 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory 



/ A 



Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! 

XXIII. 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with "Death's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
His heart more truly»knew that peal too well 
Which stretch' d his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting fell- 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XXIV. 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
rise? 

XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
"Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
"While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe! They 
come ! they come ! " 

XXVI. 

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills [rose ! 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
"With the fierce native daring which instills 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And 4 Evan's, 5 Donald's fame rings in each clans- 



man s ears 



XXVII. 



And Ardences 6 waves above them her green leaves 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold 
and low. 

XXVIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms,— the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent. 
Rider and horse,— friend, foe,— in one red burial 
blent! J- V 
--XXXX; 

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young 
gallant Howard ! 



m , XXX. 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee. 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live. 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
i With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
iturn'd from all she brought to those she could not 

bring. 7 
' — *~ XXXI. 

I turn 'd -to the.e, to thousan ds, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap"did make ' 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 
Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of 
May for a moment sooth, it cannot slake [Fame 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honor'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, 
The tree will wither long before it fall ; [mourn : 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral ; [sun ; 
The day drags through tho' storms keep out the 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on. 

XXXIII. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In eVeT^ fti rgiilUlll mlllfcrpKes ; and ma kes 
A thousan d images ot one that wa s, 
The same, and still tnc mo roj tl fiprnp™ ^ breaks ; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
Living in shattcr'd guise, and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
Yet withers on till ail without is old, 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 

XXXIV. 



A 



x 

Thpre is _a_ very -life in our despair, \ 

..,— a quick root 
Which' feeds these deadly Branches ; for it wen 
As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
Like to the apples on the s Dead Sea's shore, 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er . 
Such hours 'gainst years m life,— say, would he nanw 
threescore ? 

XXXV. 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man : 
They are enough ; and if thv taie be tru , ,_ 
Thou, who di dst grudge him even that fleeti ng span, 
Afore'llrtfrcno u'j.h, th ou fata l Waterloo!' 
Millions of Wifiguub leeoKTUnxj wid anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say— 
" Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
Our countrymen were warring on that day ! " 
And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 



40 



xxxyi. 

There sunk f . .or the worst of men 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is 



Whose spirit antithetically mixt 

One moment of the mightiest, and agam 

On little objects with like firmness fixt, 

Extreme nail things ! hadst thou been betwxzt, 

Th hrone had still been thine, or never been; 

For daring made thv rise as fall: thou seek st 

Even now to reassume the imperial mien, 
( ake again the world, the Thunderer of the 



XXXVII. 
Conqueror and eaptive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy Wild name 

mow bruited in men's minds than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wcrt 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou did 
assert. 

XXXYIII. 

Oh, more or less than man— in high or low, 
•'.in- with nations, flying from the field; 
making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
than thy meanest soldier taught to yield; 
" An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 

, or deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 
I Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest 
star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide, 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
.i and wormwood to an enemy. 

' host of hatred stood hard by, 
.tch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast 
te and all-enduring eye ;— [smiled 
"When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favorite child, 
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL. 



hell, 
Ind there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul which wall not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Bevond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And but once kindled, quenchless evermore 
Prevs upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
fcatal to Mm who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
Bv their contagion ; Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool; 
Envied, ya*-i*HW unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs!! One breast laid open were a school 
Which woultunteach mankind the lust to shine or 
rule ; 7^ 

/ XLIV. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow aud supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
Which cats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 

XLV. 



He who ascends to mountain-top s, shal l find 
The loftiest pea ks most w^aftirrCTo uas and snow; 
lie who surpasses or subd ues man kind, 
Must look down oh tnTTMlc. ofj hose below. 
Though high above the sun ofglory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits 
led. 

XLVI. 

Away with these ! t rue Wisdom's worl d will be 
Within its own creat ion, or in thine. 
.Maternal Nature ! f or who teems lik e thee, 
"Thus on {lie banks of thy majestic~Rhine ? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells, 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, 

vine, 
And chicfless castles breathing stern farewells 
Bo hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who Trom gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly 



Sagcr than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
Ambition stecl'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn which could contemn 

nd their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 

;rn the instruments thou wcrt to use, 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 

it a worthless world to win or lose ; 



choose. 



XLI. 



If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 

n made to stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
V But men's thoughts were the steps winch paved thy 
\2Wr admiration t b n shone ; [throne. 

part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Dioge nes to mock at men ; 
For sccptreclTynlcTcaitTrwcTe far Ufo wide a den J 8 



dwells. 



XLYII. 



And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they w T ere young and proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
' And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XLVIII. 



41 



Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. [have : 
/ "What want these outlaws 10 conquerors should 
/ But History's purchased page to call them great ? 

J A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 

/ Their hopes were not less warm, then- souls were full 

L # as brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
"With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Baw the discolor'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 



L. 

But Thou, exulting and unbounding river ! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
"With the sharp scythe of eonflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to me, 
Even now what wants thy stream ?— that it should 
Lethe be. 

LI. 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, ' 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks ; 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray ; 
But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they 
seem. 

LII. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear ; 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient 
trace. 



LIII. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed 'hemselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we wo* id coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 



y LIV. 

And he had learned to love,— I know not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood,— 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know; 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 
In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to 
glow. 

LV. 
And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties \ 

Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed I 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, ' 

Had stood the test of mortal enmities I 

Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; | 

But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings 
pour. 

1. 

The castled crag of Drachenfels ] » 

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine. 

Whose breast of waters broadly sv 

Between the banks which bear the vine. 

And hills all rich with blossom'd I . 

And fields which promise com and wine, 

And scatter'd cities crowning these, 

Whose far white walls along them 

Have strew'd a scene which I should see 

With double joy wcrt thou with I 

2. 
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, 
And hands which offer early flow 
Walk smiling o'er this par;... 
Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of - 
And many a rock which steeply 1- 
And noble arch in proud decay, 
Look o'er this vale of vintagc-bov. 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! 

3. 

I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they tcuen, 
I know that they must wither'd be, 
But yet reject them not as such ; 
For I have cherish'd them as dear, 
Because they yet may meet thine eye, '<%* 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
"When thou bchold'st them drooping ni 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhi: 
And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 



The river nobly foams and flows, 

The charm of this enchanted ground, 

And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round : 

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here ; 

Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To nature and to me so dear, 

Could thy dear eyes in following mine 

Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 



42 



BYRON'S WORKS 



LYL 



By Coblen ; >f gentle ground, 

There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; 

hid, 
Ou: - ut let not Tftflt forbid 

' ireeau ! o'er whose early tomb 

. .k'd from the rough soldier's lid, 
;>nd yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 

LVIL 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
. e two hosts, his friends and foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
hi his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was freedom's champion T o ne of those, 
The few in number, who IuhI notoVrstep t 
The charte r to chastise which she p estoy.-s 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him 

w | p tJ 5 " ' — . — ^ - 

LVIII. 

Ilcrc Ehrenbrcitstein, 13 with her shatter'd wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 

bflfWl of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
A tower of victor)' ! from whence the flight 
Of bailled foes was watch'd along the plain ; 
But Peace destroy'd what wax could never blight, 
And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain- 
On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in 
vain. • 

LIX. 



LXII. 



But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
pi cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
A'hc avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
/All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
/ Gather around these summits, as to show 
How eartn may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain 
man below. 

LXIII. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain,— 
J^ipja* ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain , 
Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument ; the Stygian coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each 
wandering ghost. 14 



Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning hosonis, it were here, 

^ture, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 

LX. 
Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu ! 
There can be no larew. like thine; 

The mind i ,. e . 

And if n luctOTfrrthTreycs n 
Their chcrish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine I 
ita the thankful glance of parting praise ; 

Jf°™ ' - !aore Spring shine, 

Uut none unite in one attaching v. 
Ths brilliant, fair, and soft.-the glories of old days. 

LXI. 
The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of com„. ■ the white city's sheen, 

The rolling stream, ft, precipice's gloom, 
TW-n 8t ' Gothic walls between, 

iVm i ir ° Ck / S ^ had turrets been, 

ArTc°e C of e 7 0f r n ' San; a ^ these withal ' 
A race of faces happy as the scene, 
Who se fertile bounties here extend to all, 



LXIV. 

While Waterloo with Cannoe's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entail'd Corruption ; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 

Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconio 
clause. 

LXV. 
By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 

Levell'd'* Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject 
lands. i 

LXVI. 

And there— oh ! sweet and sacred be the name !— 
^■■ J u,Ua~the daughter, the devoted— gave 
Her youth- to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
The life she lived in, but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 
dust. 16 

LXVII. 

But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
forgets her empires with a just decay, fbirth ; 
The ens avers and the enslaved, their death and 
ihe high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survW of its wo, 
And from its immortality l\ok forth 
In the sun's face, like yondlr Alpine snow," 
Impenshably pure beyond all ihings below. 



V 



A ^ake La 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



43 



LXVIII. 



sman woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their fair height and hue 
T here is too much of man here, to look thao ugh 
With a fit mind th e nu^lit^ iiehl behold^ 
Bj it soon in me s hah Loneliness rene 
Thoughts hid, bill nut h.33 LherTsK'oV 
EnTm!TTwT!n 




LXIX. 



ToJiyJrom, need not be to hate, mankind : 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in itsJountajn J .leatit, .overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
Midst a contentious world, striving where none ar»' 
strong. 

LXX. 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears, 
And color things to come with hues of Night ; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that w r alk in darkness : on the sea, 

J he boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
ut there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
I Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er 
I shall be/ 

' S* LXXI. 

Is it not better, thp.n , to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing" 61 the arrowy -Rhone, J 9 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
"Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it rir>+ K^tto-r ■frtricf nut i-'ypfi tn WPf) v j 
Than join the crushing crowd, doora'd to inflict or 

^ bgarj ' " » 

LXXII. 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me : and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshy chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the star,., mingle, and not in vain. 

LXXIII. -v 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life ; 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being 
cling. 



! 



LXXIV. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal lift-, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 

/^Feel all I seedless dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought ? the Spirrnjf-eaeh spot ? 

Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal 
lot; 

^ LXXV. 

/Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
' Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which darp 
not glow ? 

LXXVI. 

But this is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
"Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest, 
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 

LXXVII. 

Herejheself-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who tl. 
Enchantment over passion, and from wo 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched ; yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavcnlyhue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as tWypast 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and 
fast. 

LXXVIII. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; with ethereaj^flame 
Kindled he was, and blastcoTTor t0 Dc 
Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the same 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erilowing t 
Along his burning page, distempcr'd though it seems. 

LXXIX. 

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his would meet ; 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more 1 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek 
possest. 19 



44 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXX. 



HU Ufc was one long ^ar.th soli- cn^f-s, 
Or friends bv him sclf-bamshcd ; for hi, mind 
Sad grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 
•Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
But be vas frensied,-wherefore, who may know : 
Sine! ..bewhich skill could never find, 

Tj ut he was frensied by disease or wo, 
To ^hat worst pitch of all, which .ears a reasoning 

6h0W ' LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him eamc, 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world m flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
Boused up to too much wrath, which follows 
o'ergrown fears ? 

LXXXII. 

They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
The wreck of old opinions— things which grew 
Breathed from the birth of time; the veil they 
And what behind it lay all earth shalHicw. [rent, 
But good with ill they also overthrow, 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew [fill'd, 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour rc- 
As heretofore, because ambition was sclf-will'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But this will nor endure, nor be endured ! [felt 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it 
They might have used it better, but allured 
By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt 
On one another : pity ceased to melt 
"With her once natural charities. But they, 

| ression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; 
What man-el then, at times, if they mistook their 
prey ? 

LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it ; and they who war [bear 
With their own hopes, and have beenvanquish'd, 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 

...n holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years ; none need despair : 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 



LXXXV. 

placid Lcman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
8ounds sweet as if \a sister's voice reproved, 
That I with stem delrghts should e'er have been so 
moved. 



LXXXV1. 

It is the hush of night, and all ^tween • 

Thv margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear 
Mcllow'd and mingling, yet distinctly , Been, 
Pave darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carolmom 

LXXXVIL 

fie is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into a voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dew* 
All silently their tears of love instil^ 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 



LXXXVIIL 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires,— 'tis \o be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to ye great,. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state t 
And claim a kindred with you ; for, ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, hath named them 
selves a star. 



LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are still— though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep ;— 
All heaven and earth are still : From the high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concenter' d in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 




XC. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In sol \ tud ej, ^wTiere~w e^re~^aSralone ; 
Alruth, which through our being then doth melt 
And purifies from self: it is a tone - 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zoae, 
Binding all things with beauty ; — 'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm , 

XCI. 

Not vainly did the early Persian ma&e 
His altar the high places and the peak • 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, 20 and* thus take 
A fit, and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands ( . Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth ox Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r ! 



Y 






CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



45 



XCII. 

The sky is changed !— and such a change ! Oh 
night,* 1 

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as it the light 
Of a_dark_gye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak,*ffie rattling crags among, 
Leaps the live thunder*. Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 

XCIII. 

And this is in the night :— Most glorious nighj 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,- 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the gleo 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 
birth. 

XCIV. 
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way 

between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken- 
hearted ! 
Tho' in their souls, which thus each other thwarted 
Love was the very root of the fond rage [parted : 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de- 
Itself expired., but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to waft* 

xcv. 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand 
For here, not one, but many, make trieirplay, 
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around : of all the band, [fork' d 
The brightest through these parted hills hath 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein 
lurk'd. 
J. XCVI. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! y*o ! 
With night, and clouds, and thunfler, and a soifl 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 

iBut where of yc, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
: do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high 
Y nest ? ^^ 

*"" XCVIL ^ >\ 

Could I embody and unbosom now, * 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, akd thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or 

weak, f 

All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — i»to ope word, 
And that one word were lightning, I would speak ; 
But as it is,«I liveand die unheard, [sword 

With a most voiceless thought, sheathing 



XCVIII. 



The morn is np aga in, the dewy morn, /- * 
WitnTirfcatn all incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb,— 
And glowing into day ; we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. 



XCIX. 



s 




ClariusJ^sweet Clarens, b irth-place of deep Love, 
Thine airislRTJyTJTmgTjrcalh ol passioTTTmrthrmsht ; 
Thy trees take root in Love : the snows above 
The very Glaciers have his colors caught, 
And sunset into rose hues sees them wrought 28 
By rays which sleep there lovingly ; the rocks 
The permanent crags,' tell here of Love, who 

sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, 
then mocks. 



Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
Is a pervading life and light,— so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate 
hour. 

CI. 

All things are here of him ; from the black pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listencth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it 
stood, 
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 

CII. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form'd andmany-color'd things, [words, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of life ; the gush of springs, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which 1 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty cnd. 

CIII. 

ne who hath loved not, hei-e would learn that lore, 
And make his heart a spirit : he who knows 
That tender mystery, ■will love the i 
For this is love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
And the world's waste, have driven him far from 
For 'tis his nature to advance or die ; [those, 

He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which ma 
r ith the immortal lights, in Eta 



4G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



civ. 



ex. 



; on dorful, and deep, and hath a sound 

ht of sweetness: here the Rhone 
:: a couch, the Alps have rear d 
a throne. 

CV. 
Lausanne ! and Ferney I ye have been the abodes" 
Of names which unto you bequeath d a name , 
Morals, Mho sought and found, by dangerous 
tv of fame; L roaa& ' 

.;,, minds, and their steep aim 
„n daring doubts to pile [flame 
Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the 
Of heaven, again assail'd, if heaven the while 
On man and man's research could deign do more 



Italia' too, Italia! looking on thee, 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
\ To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
J Who glorify thy consecrated pages : _ 

Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; still 
/•The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
I Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill. 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial 
hill. 
. CXI. 

Fhus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Ttenew'd with no kind auspices ; to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 

(We are not what we should be,— and to steel 
The heart against itself ; and to conceal 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,— 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,— 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 
Is a stern task of soul:— No matter,— it is taught. 



than smile. 



CYI. 



I! £* was fire and fickleness, a_ child, 
| mutable in wishes, but in mind, 

nous,— gay, grave, sage, or wild,— 
bard, p hilosopher, comb ined; 
; ^ultipIicdlumseTTamoTlgTfiankind, 
The Troteus of their talents ; But his own 

Led most in ridicule,— which, as the wind, 
. where it listcth, laying all things prone,— 
. throw a fool, and now to shake a throne 

CVII. 

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; 

- lnrfl nf irrmy r — t h gdl, [fear, 

Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

CVIII. 

be with their ashes, — for. by them, 
.v is paid i 

—far less condemn ; [made 
The hour must come when such" things shall be 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
•imber, on one pillow, — in the dust, 
h, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd; 
And when it shal l revive, as is our trust, 
Twiirbe (o be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 



CIX. 

But let me quit man's works, again to read 

>, spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 

ms prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 

b< permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
Th« earth to her embrace compels the powers of air, 



CXII. 

And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile,— 
The coloring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth,— but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot f 
I stood and stand alone,— remember'd or forgot. 



<fS****rcin. 



I have not loved the world, nor 4he world me \ 
I have not flatte red its rankbreath; nor bow'd 
T*o its idolatries"lTpaTreTrtrl£nee,— - 
Nor coined my cheek to smiles,— nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such: I stood 
Among them, but not of them : in a shroud [could 
Of thoughts which were not tlreir thoughts, and still 
I a^IjjLaLfiJkd. 2 !, my mind, which thus itself sub- 

~ * dU ^' " ' cx'iv" 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
JBut let us*part fair foes ; I do believe, 
JThough I have found them not, that there may be 
[ Words which aue things,— hopes which will net 
deceive, 
And virtues which £re merciful, nor weave 
' Snares for th6 failing : I would also deem 

O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve : ** 

That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 

That goodness is no name*, and happiness no dream. 

cxv. 

My daughter J with thy name this song begun — 
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none [end — 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend : 
Albeit my-brow thou never should'st behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold, — 
A token and a tope even from thy father's mould. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CXYI. 



To aid thy mind's development — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth,— to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not what is there,Tct something like to this. 

CXYII. 

Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thoifwilt love me ; though my nine 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim ; [same — 
Though the grave closed between us, 'twere the 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
My blood from oflt thy being, were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 
£ till thou would'st love me, still that more than life 
retain. * 

CXVIII. 

The child of love, — though born in bitterness, 
And nurtured' in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet sudh are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall bo more temper'd, and thy hope far higher 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
And from the mountains where I now respire, 
\ Fain would I ^yaft such blessing upon thee, 

< .' As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to 

\/ me? 

y 



CANTO IV. 



/ 



VTsto ho Toscanx, Lombardia, Romagna, 

Q.u.1 Monte che diride, e quel cbe serra 

Italia, e un mare e 1' altro, che la bajna. 

Ariotto, Satin Ui. 

Venice, January 2, 1818. 

TO 

JOHN HOBIIOUSE, ESQ., A.M. F.R.S. 
&c., &c, &c. 

MY DEAR HOBHOUSE, 

After an interval of eight years between the 
composition of the first and last cantos of Childe 
Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be 
submitted to the public. In parting with so old a 
friend, it is not extraordinary that I should recur to 
one still older and better, — to one who has beheld 
the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am 
far more indebted for the social advantages of an 
enlightened friendship, than — though not ungrate- 
ful— I can or could be, to Childe Harold for any | have been, or may 1 t, are 
public favor reflected through the poem on the poet, ' now a matter of pend 
—to one, whom I have known long, and accompa- j on itself, and not en the writer; and the author, 
nied far ; whom I have found wakeful over my sick- who has no resources in his own mind beyond the 
ness,- and kind in my sorrow; glad in mv prosperity, reputation, transient or permanent, which is to 
and firm in my adversity; true in counsel, and trusty ^ arise from his literary rves the fate of 
in peril,— to a friend often tried and never found authors. 



47 
In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in 
dedicating to you in its complete, or at least con- 
cluded state, a poetical work which is t!. 
the most thoughtful and comprehensive of mj 
positions, I wish to do honor to myself by the i 
of many years' intimacy with a man of learning, of 
talent, of steadiness, and of honor. It is not for 
minds like ours to give or to receive flatten- ; vet 
the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted' to 
the voice of friendship ; and it is not for you, nor 
even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not 
elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to 
the encounter of good-will as to withstand the 
shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate 
your good qualities, or rather the advant 
I have derived from their exertion. Even the I 
ence of the date of this letter, the anniversary of 
the most unfortunate day of my pi ,"but 

which cannot poison my future, while I retain the 
resource of your friendship, and of my own facul- 
ties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recollec- 
tion for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this 
my attempt to thank you for a*n indefatigable re- 
gard, such as few men have experienced, and no one 
could experience, without thinking better of his 
species and of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at 
various periods, the countries of chivah 
and fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and I 
and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a 
few years ago, Yenice and Rome have been more 
recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, 
are accompanied me from first to last ; and per 
haps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces 
me to reflect with complacency on a composition 
which in some degree connects me with the spot 
where it was produced, and the object, it would fain 
describe ; and however unworthy it may be do 
of those magical and memorable abodes, however 
short it may fall of our distant conceptions and im- 
mediate impressions, yet, as a mark of respect foi 
what is venerable, and of feeling f! km- 

ous, it has been to me a source of pleasure in the 
production, and I part with it with a kind of regret, 
which I hardly suspected that events could have left 
me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, 
there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any 
of the preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, 
eparated from the author speaking in his own per- 
son. The fact is, that I had becom< 
ing a line which every one seemed 
to perceive: like the Chinese 

izen of the World," whom no •« to 

be a Chinese, itwi 

agined that I had drawn, the 

author and the pilgrim; and the \ y to 

preserve this difference, and disapp> ■'.■ Rnd- 

mg it unavailing, so far crushed my effort^ in the 
composition, that I -to- 

gether—and have done so. ich 



wantiig , — to yourself. 



In the course of the following canto, it was mj 



48 

/• a. „i,^nci I am indebted to 



Sag a few of the shortest, 
yourself, and these were necessanly limited to the 
tionof the text. 

delicate, and no very grateful task, to 
th« literature and manners of a nation 
; and requires an attention and impar- 
, hich would induce us —though perhaps no 
•ivc observers, nor ignorant of the language 
f the people amongst whom we have, 
recently abode,— to distrust, or at least defer our 
judgment, and more narrowly examine our informa- 
tion. The state of literary, as well as political 
:. pears to ran, or to have run, so high, that 
for a stramrer to steer impartially between them is 
next to impossible. It may be enough then, at 
least for my purpose, to quote from their own beau- 
tiful language— "Mi pare che in un paese tutto 
poetico, che vanta la lingua la piu nobile ed insieme 
la piii dolce, tutte tutte le vie divcrsi si possono 
tentarc, e che sinche la patria di Alficri e di Monti 
non ha perduto l'antico valore, in tutte cssa dovrebbe 
La prima." Italy has great names still— 
( , Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, 

, Albrizzi, Mczzophanti, Mai, 
ti, and Yacca, will secure to the 
• generation an honorable place in most of 
partments of Art, Science, and Belles Let 
: . some of the very highest ;— Europe— 

the World— has but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La 
piantn uomo nasce piu robusta in Italia che in qua- 
lunquc altra terra— e che gli stessi atroci dclitti che 
vi si commcttono ne sono una prova." Without 
subscribing to the latter part of his proposition, a 
us doctrine, the truth of which may be dis- 
puted on better grounds, namely, that the Italians 
are in no respect more ferocious than their neigh- 
bors, that man must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly 
heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary 
capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admis- 
oibi ! . Hides, the facility of their acquisi- 

tions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of 
their ir sense of beauty, and amidst all 

the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the des- 
olation of battles, and the despair of ages, their 
still unquenched "longing after immortality," — 
the immortality of independence. And when we 
ourselves, in riding round the walls of Home, heard 
the simple lament of the laborers' chorus, " Roma 
Roma! Roma! Roma non e piu come era prima," 
it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge 
with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation 
still yelled from the London taverns, over the car- 
nage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, 
of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men 
who*e conduct 3 have exposed in a work 

worthy of the better days of our history. For me, 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

omething more than a permanent army andaBU- 
pended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for them to 
look at home. For what they have done abroad, 
and especially in the South, " Ycrily they will have 
their reward," and at no very distant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and 
agreeable return to that country whose real welfare 
can be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to 
you this poem in its completed state ; and repeat 
once more how truly I ajn ever 

Your obliged and affectionate friend, 

BYRON. 



'JIST 



I. 



O v c la turlia di vac ciance aasonla." 

Italy has gained by the late transfer of 
nations, it were use! hmen to inquire, till 

it becomes ascertained that England has acquired 



stood in Yenice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; » 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Yenice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
isles ! 

II. 

She looks a sea-Cybele fresh from ocean 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 2 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers, 
And such she was ; her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and dcem'd their dignity in- 
creased. 

III. 

In Yenice, Tasso's echoes are no more, 3 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone— but beauty still is here— 
States fall, arts fade— but Nature doth not die : 
Nor yet forget how Yenice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy. 

IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierra, cannot be swept or worn away— 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
For us rcpeopled were the solitary shore. 



The be ings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they creat e 
And mu ktply til Us a brighter ra y 
And mor(Tbclovc d existence : that which fate 
ProMMTs to dull lii'e,7n this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



49 



VI. 



Such is the re fug * of our youth and age, 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
/And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye ; 
f Yet there axe things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky,' 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
(O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 




VII. • ~ - — 

I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go — 
They came like truth, and disappear'dlike dreams ; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would ; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound, 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

VIII. 

I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
"Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me cut a home by a remoter sea, 



XII. 



The Saubian sued, and now the Austrian reigno— * 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptered cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt; 
Oh for one hour of blind eld Dandolo ! ? 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foo 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pas 
Are they not bridled t— Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun. 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 



IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well ; and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
"With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 



My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honor'd by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
" Sparta hath many a worthier sou than he." 4 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
I should have known what fruit would spring from 
such a seed. 

XI. 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
St. Mark yet sees his Lion where he stood 5 
Stand, but in mockery of his withcr'd power, 
Over the proud place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 
7 



XIV. 

In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The " Planter of the Lion," 9 which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid I 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger ; empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 10 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely 
walls. i 

XVI. 

"When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fettcr'd thousands bore the yoke of war 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 11 
Her voice their only ransom from afar ; 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands— his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt— he rends his captive's chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and hia 
strains. 

XVII. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
Thy I dd have cut the knot 

Which tics thee to th; :id thy lot 

Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wail 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



60 



XXIV. 



xviir. 

Hov, -.y boyhood-she to me 

tj of the heart, 
r-coluinns from the sea, 
" rn, and of wealth the mart; 

^J° fcffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, 

H .nJAl her image in mo, and even so 
Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
P r hance even dearer in her day of WO, 
rh« when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show 

XIX. 

I can repeoplc with the past-and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chastened down, enough ; 
tnd more, it mav be, than I hoped or sought , 
And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
Within the web of my existence some 
From thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught. 
There are some feelings Time can not benumb, 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and 
dumb. 

But from theix nature will the tannen grow" 
Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks, 
Booted in barrenness, where nought below 

„>rts them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
0f cd | .s ; yet springs the trunk, and 

mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Arc worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bl into life it came, 

And gr tree -—the mind may grow the 

same. 

XXI. 

be borne, and the deep root 
Of lit' '»ce make its firm abode 

In bare and desolate bosoms: mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load, 
And the- wolf dies in silence,— not bestow'd 
In vain should such example be ; if they, 
Thi bl« or of savage mood, 

I shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear,— it is but for a day. 

XXII. . 
AH suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
Even by the sufferer ; and in each event, 
Ends : — Some with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd 
Return to whence they came — with like intent, 
And -weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent, 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb : 

XXIII. 

But ever and unon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; 
And slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside for ever : it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — winch shall 
wound, 



And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
When least wc deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, [anew, 
The cold— the changed— perchance the dead— 
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost— too many !— yet 
h ow few ! ^yS v 

~* ■- *xxv. 

But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which icas the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave— the lords of earth and sea, 

XXVI. 

The. commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome ! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree : 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which can not be defaced. 



ti 



XXVII. 

The Moon is up, and yet it is not night- 
Sunset divides the sky with her— a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air— an island of the blest ! 

V xxvm. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 14 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhtctian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order : — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within 
it glows, 

y xxix. 

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its ■hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin* whom each pang imbues 
With a new color as it gasps away, 



Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly l The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is 

U J . ,. 



bound; 



gray. 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



51 



XXX. 



There is a tomb in Arqua, — rear'd in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover ; here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 15 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

XXXL- 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; 1G 
The mountain-village where his latfer days 
Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride — 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain, 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 

XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
"Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, — 

XXXIII. 

Developing the mountains, leaves and flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours | 
"With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
•fcdlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
p.i from society we learn to live, 
/'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
/ It I ath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
I • ilow aid; alone — man with his God must strive : 



XXXVI. 






XXXIY. 



Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 17 

tx ength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
"Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The t'imb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

^ XXXV. 

Fcrrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
"Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yoie 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power inipell'd, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn 
before 



And Tasso is t: :; d their shame. 

Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
"Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 

XXXVII. 

The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born, 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to 
mourn: 

XXXVIII. 

Thou! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : 
He with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
And Boile.au, whose rash envy could allow 18 [lyre, 
No strain which shamed his country's creaking 
That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire ! 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 
,IaJife and death to be the mark where Wrong 

"" Aim'd with her poison'd arrows, but to m 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song ! 

L ""Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on, 
And not the whole combi ned and countless throng 
Compose a mind like thineJT though all in one 

Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form 
a sun. 

XL. 

Great as thou art, yet paralell'd by those, 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, 
The bards of Hell and Chivalry : first rose 
The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 
Then not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
A new creation with his magi'- line, 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang ladye-lovc and war, romance and knightly 
worth. 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 19 
The iron crown of laurel's mimie'd leaves 
Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves' 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; 
Yet still if fondly Superstition grieves, 
Know, that the lighning sanctifies below 81 
Whate'er it strikes ;— yon head is doubly sacred now 



52 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLII. 



Italia! oh Italia ! thou who hast 22 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by ■tame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; 

XLIII. 
Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untircd, 
Would' not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. 

XLIV. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 23 
The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind, 
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 

Em lay, Pinras on the right, 
And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 

XLV. 

For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 

h only make more mourn'd and more endear d 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
And the crush'd. relics of their vanish'd might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 

■ sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 

XLYI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 

His country's ruin added to the mass 

Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 

A U 'IT in jpsplitinr, ; ;| ]1 thnt HKU 

- ^tTTTTen destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm. 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The Skeleton of her Titanic form, 2 * 

Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 

XLVII. 

Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, nud shall, from side to side ; 
Mother of arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide; 
Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys "of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 



XLYIII. 



But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born. 
And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn, 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills * 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What mind can make, when Nature's self would 
And to the fond idolaters of old [fail ; 

Envy the innate flesh which such a soul could mould : 

L. 

We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there — 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 
Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep- 
herd's prize. 

LI. 

Appear'dst thou not in Paris in this guise ? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War ? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! 26 while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from 
an urn ! 

LII. 

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us : — let it go ! 
We can recall such visions, and create, [grow 

From what has been, or might be, things which 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

LIII. 

Heave to learned fingers, and wise hands, 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisscurship understands 
The graceful bend and the voluptuous swell ; 
Let these describe the undescribable : [stream 
I would not their v$e breath should crisp the 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



LIV. 



53 



In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie *? 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality. 
Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos :— here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 2 * 
The starry Ga Ul ao, with his woes ; 
Here MachiavefliVearth return'd to whence it rose. 29 
mmmmmmtft 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation :— Italy ! [rents 

Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin :— thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
"Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love— where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish' d from our common clay 
In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country's marbles nought to say ? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust ? 



LX. 



LVIL 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 30 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 31 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, V ' 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore ' 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown & 
"Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled— not thine 
own. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd ™ 
His dust, — and lies it now her Great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyama bigot's wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for xchom ! 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust, 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Cresar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more: 
Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire ! honor'd sleeps 
The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and 
weeps. 



What is her pyramid of precious stones ? ** 
Of phorphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are the mausoleums of the muse, ' 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely 
head. 

LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
There be more marvels yet— but not for mind ; 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with Nat ure rather in the fields, 
Than Art in galleries f Though a wbrTTIrTrne 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 

LXII. 

Is of another temper, and I roa m 
By Thrasimene's lake, in I'fte affiles 
gatal to Roman rashness, more at home, 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his sktii-beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore. 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd 
o'er 

LXIII. 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel'd unheedingly away ! 3* 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations 
meet ! 

LXIV. 

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 

Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 

The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 

The motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 

In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe [birds 

Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the 

Plunge in the clouds for refuge and with.: 

From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing 

herds 
Stumbling o'er heaving plains, and m bats 

no words. 

LXV. 

Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lav where their roots aM ; but a brook hath ta'cn - 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain* 
And Sanguinctto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and tnrn'd the unwilling waters 
red. 



54 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXVI. 



LXXII. 



But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dostrear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
Surely that stream was unprofancd by slaughters— 
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daugh- 
ters ! 

LXYII. 

And on thy happy shore a temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scattcr'd water-lily sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bub- 
bling tales. 

LXVIII. 

Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of wear)' life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism,— 'tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters ! fiom the heading height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That girds the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX. 

* And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
With its unempticd cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 
Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf ! and how the giant clement 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn andrent 

With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful 
vent 

LXXI. 

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, [back ! 
With many windings, through the vale :— Look 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread.— a matchless cata- 
ract. 3 ? 



Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering mora, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 3 * 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn ; 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which— had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thundering lauwine— might be worshipp'd 

more : 39 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mount-Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 



Th' 



LXXIV. 

Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 



And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 
For still they soar'd unutterably high ; 
I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
Athos, Olympus, JEtna, Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
All, save the lone Soracte's heights display'd 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word 40 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI. 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath 
My mind to meditate what then it learn' d, [taught 
Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, with the freshness wearing cut before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought 4 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, stili abhor. 

LXXYII. 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so, 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
Nor livelier Satirist the consciencejpierce, 
Awakening without wounding thejjouch'd heart, 
Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



55 



/ 



LXXVIII. 



Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires ! ^nd control 
In their shut hreasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye ! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A. world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX. 

The N iobe of nations ! there she stands 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo, 
An empty urn, within her wither'd hands, 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now; 41 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and 

Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hilPd city's pride ; 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly 

night ? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her, 
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap 
All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap 
But Home is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry " Eureka ! " it is clear — 
When but somi false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
The trebly hundred triumphs ! 42 and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, 
And Livy's pictufed page !— but these shall be 
Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was 
free! 

LXXXIII. 

Oh, thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel, 43 
Triumphant Sylla ! TMlu, who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown— 



LXXXIV. 



The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which mad« 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? 
She who was named Eternal, and array 'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'ercanopied horizon fail'd, 
Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almighty 
hail'd ! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield na 
breath. 

LXXXVI. 

The thud of the same moon whose former coursa 
Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.* 4 
And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
Are in her, eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were hU 
doom. 

LXXXYII. 

And thou, dread statue ! yet exist in 45 
The austerest form of naked majesty, 
Thou who beheld'st 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 

LXXXVIIL 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse oLJJjnfc! 4 * 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art, 
Thou standest :— Mother of the mighty heart, 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's rthcrial dart, 
And thy limbs black with lightning— dost thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge 
forget ? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost ;— but all thy foster babes arc dead— 
The men of iron ; and the world hath rcar'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd, [stcer'd 
And fought and conquer'd, and the same course 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have, 
Nor could, the same supremacy have nrar'd, 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves % 
slave — 



66 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The fool 



^SKfii*-*. 



xc. 

„ dominion— and a kind 

imng him of old > 
equal : for the Roman's nund 
Lai mould, 4 ? 
: wSh j-ct a judgment cold, 

■ immort;a instinct which redeem d 
ThcfrailtUsofaheartsosoft,yet 

i with 
At Cleopatra's feet, -and now 

XCI. 

Andcame-and saw-and conquer'd! But the man 
X would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory. 
With a deaf heart which never seem d to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness— vanity, 
Coquettish in ambition-still he aim d- 
At what? can he avouch-or answer what he 
claim'd ? 

XCII. 
And would be all or nothing— nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Cscsars in his fate 
On whom we tread: For this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow d, 
An universal deluge, which appears 
fflLUBMWlL fUl' fetched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow '.—Renew thy rainbow 

XCIII. 



but 



xcvi. 



ty tyr^nts^n^uer]db e ». ^ 
no cliamplon anc 



I Can tyrants 

And Freedom - 

Such as Columbia saw arise when sue 



such 



God 



Or must such minds be nourish' dm the wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe n= 
shore ? 

___-~~~-* XCVII. 

But France got drunk with blood to vo*ri*crime, 

And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every «ige and clime ; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man' 
second fall. 

xcviii. 

Yet Freedom ! yet thy ba nner, torn, b ut flying, 
Screams like the tlninde^sTonWlT^TW^ the wind ; 
Thrtrtmipct voice, though hrraktm now and dying, 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
But the sag lasts,— and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 



worst — his 



What from this barren being do we reap ? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 43 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale : 
Opinion and Omnipotence, — whose veil 

tics the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 

. n judgments should become too bright, 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have 
too much light. 

XCIV. 

sluggish misery, 
age to age, 
Froud of their trampled nature, and so die, 

athing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
.ins, and rather than be free, 
d gladiator-like, and still engage 
"Within the same arena where they see 
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree 

xcv. 

I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
Man and his Maker,— but of things allow'd, 
Avcr'd and known, — and daily, hourly seen — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 
And shook them from their slumbers (m the throne ; 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done, 



XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days,* 3 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ;— 
What was this tower of strength ? within its cave 
What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ?— A woman's 
grave. 

C. 

But who was she, the lady of the dead, 

Tomb'd in a palace ? was she chaste and fair ? 

Worthy a king's— or more— a Roman's bed ? 

What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir ? 
How lived— how loved— how d^ed she ? Was sha 
So honor' d — and conspicusly there, [uot 

"Where meaner relics mnst not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 

CI. 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of otiiers ? such have been 
Even in the olden tim'e,Ttome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue ? did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affeO 
tions are. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CII. 



Perchance she died in youth : it may he, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites — early death ; yet shed 50 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
"With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 

CIII. 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children— with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
It may be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 

By Rome But whither would Conjecture stray ? 

Thus much alone we know— M^tella died, 
The wealthiest Roman's wife ; belioTd his love or 
pride ! *"■■■■■■■*» 
CIV. 

I know not why— but standing thus by thee, 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms from the flowing wreck which Ruin leaves 
behind; 

CV. 



CVII1. 



^ 



And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle -with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which ru*shes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder' d that was ever dear : 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what 
is here. 

CVI. 

Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness* native site, 
Answering each other on the Palatine, [bright, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty grie fs r— let me not number 
mine. 

CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column 

strown [steep'd 

In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescoes 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, 
Deeming it midnight:— Temples, baths, or halls? 
Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thus the mighty 

falls. 51 
8 



There is the moral of all human tales ; & 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory— when that fails, J 
Wealth, vice, corruption,— barbarism at last. 
And Histo ry, with all 1. 
Hath buro^jja^^^betteTwritten J 
Where gorgeous TyranS yTiaii thwm lass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, •{ 
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask— Away with 
words ! draw near, 

CIX. 

Admire, exult— despise— laugh, weep,— for here 
There is such matter for all feeling :— Man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
Of Glory's gewgags shining in the van 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd ! 
Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared 
to build ? 

CX. 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow ; 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's ? No — 'tis that of Time : 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sub- 
lime, 53 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, 
But yielded back his conquests : — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd, 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name 
adore. 54 

CXII. 

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where th« 
Tarpcian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, [steep 
The promontory whence the Traitor's leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with 
Cicero ! 

CXIII. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
But long before had freedom's face been veil'd, 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes 



58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



alas! too 



L 



cxiy. 

Then turn wc to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
( . nu . r ofdarkcez.tunesofshamc_ 

-hope of Italy- 
Riexiri' last of Romans! While the tree <* 
Sf freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf, 

tor thy tomb a garland let it be- 
The forum's champion, and the people s chief— 
Her new-born Numa thou— with reign, 
brief. 

cxv. 

Egcira ! sweet creation of some heart M _ 
h found no mortal-resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art 
Or wert,— « young Aurora of the air, 
The „ of some fond despair ; 

Or, it might be, a beauty of tfiC-WMtfkr' 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
Ihou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied 
forth. 

CXVI. 

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elyaian water drops ; the face ^ 
Of thy cave-guarded spring , with years unwrinkl 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 

a green, wild margin now no more erase \ 
works j nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
Prison' d in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
Thc rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and 
ivy creep 

CXVII. 

Fantastically tangled; the green hills 
Arc clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in thc soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems color'd by its 
skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 

e far footsteps of thy mortal lover; 
The purple Midnight vcil'd that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
>rer, what befell? 
urelj shaped out for the greeting 
Of - i Goddess, and the cell 

Hair Love — the earliest oracle ! 

CXIX. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 

with a human heart; 
And ; . dies as it was born, in sighing, 

.nsports ? could thine art 
them indeed immortal, and impart 
Thc purity of heaven to earthly joys, 

m and not blunt the dart — 
The dull - . a — 

^d root from out the soul thc deadly weed which 
ch> 



Alas 



cxx. 

our young affections run to waste, 



Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the planf< 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flie:; 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 

/*~ CXXI. 

Oh Love ? no habitant of earth thou art— 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquench'd soul— parch' d-»-wearied-» 
wrung— and riven. 

CXXII. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
And fevers into false creation -.—where, 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men. 
The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom 



CXXIII. 

Who loves, rav es— ' tis y ouj hjsjrenzy— but the cure 
Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwind 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out tihe mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws -us on, . 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize— wealthiest when most 
undone. 

CXXIV. 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away- 
Sick— sick ; unfound the boon— unslak'd the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as wesought at first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same, 
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
I For all are meteors with a different name, 
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the 
flame. 

exxv. 

Few — none — find what they love or could have 

loved, 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have* removed 

thies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all 
have trod. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CXXVI. 



59 



Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 

The harmony of things, — this hard decree., 

This uneradicab le taint of siuT"*"' ' ■■» 

This bjjjiad kgrupas, t his aTFblasting tree, 

"Whose* rUUL Is earth, whose"lea\ r es''and branches be 

The" skies which rain their plagues on men like 

dew — 
Disease, death, bondage— all the woes we see— 
And worse, the woes we see not— which throb 
through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 

CXXVII. 

Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base 57 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought— our last and only place 
Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : 
Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the 
brfnd. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
"Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of the earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower 



CXXXII. 



/ CXXX. 

I Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 

f Adorner of the ruin,, comforter 

\ And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer— 
Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift 

My hands, and eyes, And heart, and crave of thee a 
gift: 

CXXXI. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate, 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years— though few, yet full of fate :— 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
"Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn ? 



And thou, who never yet of hum an w rong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great\$cmesl- 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homageloj 
Thou who didst call the Furies from the abys 1 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss, 
For that unnatural retribution— just, 
Had it but been from hands less near— in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost thou not hear my heart ?— Awake ! thou shalt, 
and must. 

CXXXIII. 

It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 
"With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound ; 
But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; 
To thee I do devote it— tJwu shalt take [found, 
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and 

"Which if I have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass— I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake 

CXXXIV. 

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is suffer'd : let him speak 
"Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse ! 

exxxv. 

That curse shall be Forgiveness.— Have I not— 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven !— 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? 
Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied away ? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy, 



CXXXVII. 



But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
Like the rcmember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 



oquy. 



60 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXXVIII. 

The seal is set.-; $foUE£lfiflme. ftou dread power ! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thec a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the gjot!!'U ,ll-seemg but unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms— on battle^plains or listed spot ? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie : 59 

ins upon- his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout- which hail'd the 
wretch who won. 

CXLI. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far' away. 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
I X/uruwas their Dacian mother,— he, their sire, 

h'd with Ms blob<!*WHB^I8%xpire 
And unavenged ?— Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your 
ire! 

CXLII. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam, 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream ' 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 6 * 
My voice sounds much— and fall the stars' faint rays 
On the arena void— scats crush'd— walls bow'd— 

And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
loud. 

CXLIII. 
A nun— yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities have been rear'd; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
Alas ! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd ; 
It will not bear the brightness of the day,' 

Which sfa-eams too much on all years, man, have 
reft away. 



CXLIV. 



But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of timo, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head; 62 
When the light shines serene but doth not glare 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust yt 
tread. 

CXLV. 

" While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; • 
"When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; 
"And when Rome falls — the World." From our 

own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what 

ye will. / '^ 

CXLVI. V - ^ 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime— ' 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; M 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and tyrant's 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home [rods 

Of art and Piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 

CXLVII. 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 

. Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 

Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts around 
them close. 63 

CXLVIII. 
There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light & 
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! \ 
Two forms are slowly shadow' d on my sight- 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them full and plain— 
An old man,, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar :— but what does she there, 

With her unmantlcd neck, and bosom white and 
bare ? 

CXLIX. 
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart, and from the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pam and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves— 

What may the fruit be yet ?-I know not-Cain waa 
Eve's. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PlLGItlMAGE. 



61 



CL. 



But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift : — it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
"While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide [higher 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises 
Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm 
holds no such tide. 

CLI. 

The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's pur^ty";"iris ; ~-~- 
A constellatio*flPbT"U Sweeter lay, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
"Where sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII. 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high, 67 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 
Colossal copyist of deformity, 
"Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 
To view the huge design which sprung from such a 
birth! 

CLIII. 

But lo ! — the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 68 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and d^ell 
The hyena and the jackall in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 

CLIV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
"Worthiest of God, the holy and the true, " - 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, in his honor piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect I Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 



CLVI. 



CLV. 

Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 



Thou moyest— but increasing with the advance, 
Like climbing somP yitalAIl/ffHtt still doth rise, 
Deceived b» Urn fif.mifl*. '«lpg! tnr , : 
Vastne ss whic h jyow g— -bnt grows to harmonize- 
All musical in its uBmensities ; [flamo 
Rich marbles — rieher painting — shrines where 
The lamps of gold— and haughty dome which vied 
In air with Earth's chief structure, though their 

frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground— and this the cloud* 

must claim. 

CLYII. 

Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must breait 
To seperate contemplation, the.great whole ; 
And as the ocean many bays will make, 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part, 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

CLYIII. 

Not by its fault — but thine : Our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most inten°e 
Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature's littleness, 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of what they contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then pause, and be enlightened ; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could 
The fountain of sublimity displays [plan : 

Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of Tian 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conception! 
can. 

CLX. 

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see y^^, y 
Laoccoon 's tor t' ing pain — 

With an immortal's patience blending : — Vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling s* 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's 
The old man's clench ; the long envenomed chaii 
Rivets the living links,— the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 

CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
"With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might, 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by 
j Developing in that one glance the Deity 



i. 



62 



CLXII. 



( jJi&t in his delicate form-a dream of Love, 
^'Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Lon.'d for a deathless lover from above, 

KKSai'd m th at ywvejmr** 

All (Lat ideal beauty ever bless d 

Brfnd with in its most unearthly mood, 
h conception was a heavenly guest- 
lity— and stood, 
:kc, around, until they gather'd to a god . 

CLXIIL 
And if it be Prometheu s stole from Heaven 
The fire which we^Tlttrre , it was repaid 
him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory— which, if made 
Bv human hands, is not of human thought; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust— nor hath it caught 
K tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 
'twas wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past ? 
.ks he comcth late and tarries long. 
. no more— these breathings are his last, 
Jab wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
• as nothing:— if he was 
ht but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
forms which live and suffer— let that pass— 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 



BYRON'S WOEXS. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 



CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud, 
And spreads the dim and universal pall [cloud 
Through which all things grow phantoms ; and the 
Belwu n us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
Till Glory's self is twilight, anddisplays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
M retched essence ; and to dream of fame, 
And to wipe the dust from off the idle name 
more shall hear, — but never more, 
Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore 

urdcls'of the heart — the heart whose sweat 
waa gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
.tion bleeds 
•id immedicable wound; [ground 
rm and darkness yawns the rending 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 

1 still, though with her head discrow'd. 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe to v*\ova her breast yields no relief 



Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang for ever ; with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill' d the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety.— Can it be, 
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris.— Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort— vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions ! How we did intrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
Like stars to shepherd's eyes :— 'twas but a meteor 
beam'd. 

CLXXI. 

Wo unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its | nell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 69 
Which stumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath 
Against thair blind omnipotence a weight [flung 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or 
late, — 

CLXXII. 



These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 

^Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there I 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppresi 

The land which loved thee so that none could lov« 
thee best. 

CLXXIII. 

70 Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, calm as cherish'a hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snak% 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CLXXIV. 

And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ;— and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprang the Epic war, 
"Arms and the Man," whose reascending star 
Rose o'er an empire :— but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, 
The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bards delight. 71 



63 



S 



J 'j' 



CLXXV. 



But I forget.— My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine 
roll'd 



CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegades : long years— » 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our moral race hath run, 
"We have had our reward — and it is here : 
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if thi.re were no man to trouble what is clear. 



CLXXYII. 

Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted— Can ye not 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot, 



CLXXVIII. 



There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
Who": I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 



CLXXIX. 



CXT 



Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ;— upon the watery plain 



The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
^ ithout a grave, unknell'd, : ;iu d un . 

known. 

CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths,— thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him,— thou dost i 
And shake him from thee : the vile strength he 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy plavful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth :— there let him lay. 



CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the v.alls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war : 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 



CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollout now. 



CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests : in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark -heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sal 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, omleM 

alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee, O my joy 

Of youthful sports was on thy I 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
"Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 't'.vas a pli 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And tnisted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy tnane — as I do here. 



64 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXXXV. 



| . inc — my song hath ccased-my theme 
into an echo; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
Mv midnight lamp— and what is writ, is writ,— 
Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
That which I have been— and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me— and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 



CLXXXVI. 



Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been— 
A sound which makes us linger ;— yet — farewell . 
Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
If such there were— with you, the moral of his strain 



V 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO I. 



Yes 



sigk'd o'er Delphi's long desei'tcd shrine. 
Stanza i. line 6. 



The little village of Castri stands partly on the 

Bite of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, 

from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn 

in and from the rock. " One," said the guide, " of 

is neck hunting." His majesty 

chosen the fittest spot for such an 

acnt. 

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the 

Pythian, of immense depth ; the upper part of it is 

paved, and now a cow-house. 

On the other side of Castri stands a Greek 
monastery ; some way above which is the cleft in 
the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, 
and apparently leading to the interior of the moun- 
tain ; probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned 

I part descend the fountaj 
and the "Dews of Castalie." 



3. 

Throughout this purple land, where law secures not 
life. Stanza xxi. line last. 

It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the 
assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its 
vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to 
their countrymen ; but that Englishmen were daily 
butchered : and so far from redress being obtained, 
we were requested not to interfere if we perceived 
any compatriot defending himself against his allies. 
I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at 
eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were 
not more empty than they generally are at that 
hour, opposite to an open shop and in a carriage 
with a friend ; had we not fortunately been armed, 
I have not the least doubt that we should have 
rned a tale instead of telling one. The crime 
*"sassination is not confined to Portugal; in 
and Malta we arc knocked on the head at a 
some average nightly, and not a Sicilian or 
Maltese is ever punished ! 



nt, I hav 
an- ^fc>rn 

.tlflrfjiU, 



And rest yc at our 



Lady's house of too.*' 

Stanza xx. line 4. 



The Convent of "Our Lady of Punishment," 

Nossa Senora de Pcna* on the summit of the rock. 

Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, 

aoriu8 dug his den, over which is his 

epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty 



•Knee the publication of thu poem, 1 hare been informed of the misappre- 
hension of the term -.Voj.kj Senora de Ptna. It m owing to the wont of 
the tibU, or mark o»er the n, which slim the signification of the word : with 
It, Ptns signifies a rock ; without it, Pcna ha. the tense 1 adopted. 1 do not 
ttjuklt necessary to niter the passage, ... though the common acceptation 
**** * ■■ *» Boek," 1 ;,., r well rusume the other sense 

»r»i -i» weritiei pmctktd there. 



Behold the hall xohere chiefs were late convened! | 
Stanza xxiv. line 1. . 

The Convention of Cintra was signed in the 
palace of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits 
of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies ol 
Cintra. He has, indeed, done wonders; he has 
perhaps changed the character of a nation, recon 
ciled rival superstitions,lnd baffled an enemy who 
never retreated before his predecessors. 



Yet Mafra shall onetmoment claim delay. 

Stanza xxix. line 1. 
The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contains a 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



palace, convent, and most superb church. The six 
organs are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in 
point of decorations ; we did not hear them, but 
were told that their tones were correspondent to 
their splendor. Mafra is termed the Escurial of 
Portugal. 

6. 



6* 



Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the loicest of the low. 
Stanza xxxiii. lines 8 and 9. 
As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized 
them. That they are since improved, at least in 
courage, is evident. 



When Cava's traitor sire first calVd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore. 
Stanza xxxv. lines 3 and 4. 
Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain 
Pelagius preserved his independence in the fast- 
nesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his 
followers, after some centuries, completed their 
struggle by the conquest of Grenada 



No ! as he speeds, he c/iants, " Viv'i el Rey .'" 
Stanza xlviii. line 5. 
"Viva el Rey Fernando !" Long live King Fer- 
dinand ! is the chorus of most of the Spanish 
patriotic songs : they are chiefly in dispraise of the 
•Id king Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of 
Peace. I have heard many of them ; some of the 
airs are beautiful. Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, 
was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, 
and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish 
Guards, till his person attracted the queen's eyes, 
and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, &c. &c. 
It is to this man that the Spaniards universally 
impute the ruin of their country. 



Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, ' 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. 

Stanza 1. lines 2 and 3. 
The red cockade, 
the centre. 



11. 



with " Fernando Septimo" 



The ball-piled pyray 



10. 

id, the ever-blazing match. 
Stanza li. line last. 



All who have seen a battery will recollect the 
pyramidal form in which shot and shells are piled. 
The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile 
through which I passed in my way to Seville. 

11. 
FoiVd by a woman's hand, before a batter d > % 
Stanza hi. line last. 

Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. 
When the author was at Seville she walked daily 
on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by 
command of the Junta. 

12. 
The seal Love's dimpling finger hath imprcss'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch. 
Stanza lviii. lines 1 and 2. 
11 Sigilla in mento impressa Am oris digitulo 
Vestigio demonstrant mpllitudinem."" Avl. 



Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast 

Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days. 

Stanza Ixv. 'lines 1 and 2. 
Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 

lo. 

Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason 

.Stanza lxx. fine 5. 
This was written at Thebes, and consequently in 
the best situation for asking and ans 
question : not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as 
the capital of Boeotia, where the first riddle was 
propounded and solved. 

16. 
Sotne bitter o'er the flowers its bu ' n flings. 

Stanza lxxxii. line last. 
"Medio de fonte leporum 
Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat." 

Luc. 
17. 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud. 

Stanza lx'xxv. line 7- 
Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, 
the Governor of Cadiz. 

18. 
" War even to the knife !" 

Stanza lxxxvi. line iast. 
"War to the knife." Palafox's answer to tht 
French general at the siege of Saragoza. 

. 19. 
And thou, my friend! §c. 

Stanza xci. line 1. 
The Honorable I*. W**. of the Guards, who 
died of a fever at Coinbra. I had known him ten 
years, the better half of his life, and the happiest 
part of mine. 

In the short space of one month I had lost her 
who gave me being, and most of those who had 
made that being tolerable. To me the lines of 
Ytfung are no fiction : 

" Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? 
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, 
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn ." 

I should have ventured a verse to the memory of 
the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of 
Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too 
much above all praise of mine. His powers of 
mind, shown in the attainment of greater honors, 
against the ablest candidates, than those of any 
graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently 
established his fame on the spot where it was 
acquired : while his softer qualities live in the 
recollection of friends who loved him too well to 
envy his superiority. 



Gel. 



13. 
Oh, thou Parnassus ! 

Stanza lx. line 1. 
These stanzas were written in Castri, (Delphos,) 
at the foot of Parnassus, now called. Aiurppa — 
Liakura. 

9 



CANTO II. 



despite of war and wasting fire— — 

Stanza i. line 4. 

Part of the Acropolis waa by the 

explosion of a magazine during the Venetian siege. 



66 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Hut worse than steel and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men irho never felt the sacred gloic 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish d breasts 
bestow. Stanza i. line 6. 

We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with 
which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of 
empires, are beheld ; the reflections suggested by 
such objects arc too trite to require recapitulation. 
But never did the littleness of man, and the vanity 
of his very best virtues of patriotism to exalt, and 
of valor to defend his country, appear more con- 
spicuous than in the record of what Athens was, 
and the certainty of what she now is. _ This theatre 
of contention between mighty factions, of _ the 
struggles of orators, the exultation and deposition 
of tvrants, the triumph and punishment of gen- 
now become a scene of petty intrigue and 
perpetual disturbance, between the bickering agents 
of certain British nobility and gentry. " The wild 
foxes, the owls and serpents in the ruins of Baby- 
lon," were surely less degrading than such inhab- 
itants. The Turks have the plea of conquest for 
their tyranny, and the Greeks have only suffered 
the fortune of war, incidental to the bravest; but 
how arc the mighty fallen, when two painters 
contest the privilege of plundering the Parthenon, 
and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of each 
succeeding firman ^ Sylla could but punish, Philip 
subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens ; but it remained 
fcr the paltrv antiquarian, and his despicable 
agents, to render her contemptible as himself and 
his pursuits. 

The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by 
fire, during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, 
a church, and a mosque. In each point of view it 
is an object of regard : it changed its worshippers ; 
but still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to 
devotion ; its violation is a triple sacrilege. But 

"Man, vain man, 
Drest in a little brief authority, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angeis weep." 



Far on the solitary s/iore he sleeps. 

Stanza v. line 2. 
It was not always the custom of the Greeks to 
burn their dead ; "the neater Ajax, in particular, 
was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became 
gods after their decease ; and he was indeed neg- 
lected, who had not annual games near his tomb, or 
festivals in honor of his memory by his countrymen, 
as Achilles, Brasidas, &c, and at last even Anti- 
nous, whose death was as heroic as his life was in- 
famous. 

4. 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy favorite throne. 
Stanza x. line 3. 
The temple of Jupitur Olympius, of which six- 
teen columns, entirely of marble, yet survive; orig- 
inally there were one hundred and fifty. These 
columns, however, are by many supposed "to bclono- 
to the Pantheon. & 

5. 
And bear these altars o'er the long reluctant brine. 

Stanza xi. line last 
The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 

6. 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, ami Time have spared. 
Stanza xii. line 2. 

fcoMf^ 8 ™ on \ cn V Jan . uar y 3 > 1809 >) Asides what 
bas been already deposited in London, an Hydriot 

EST Thi ^T^T t0 receive ™V Portable 
Wbc Thus, as I heard a young Greek observe, in 



common with many of his countrymen— for, lost t 
they are, they yet feel on this occasion — thus ma 
Lord Elgin boast of havfng ruined Athens. A 
Italian painter of the first eminence, named Lusier 
is the agent of devastation ; and like the Gree 
finder of Verres in Sicily, who followed the sam 
profession, he has proved the able instrument ( 
plunder. Between this artist and the French Cor 
snl Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the remains fc 
his own government, there is now a violent disput 
concerning a car employed in their conveyance, th 
wheel of which — I wish" they were both broken upo 
it — has been locked up by the Consul, and Lusie] 
has laid his complaint before the Waywode. Lor 
Elgin has been extremely happy in his choice c 
Signor Lusieri. During a residence of ten years i 
Athens, he never had the curiosity to proceed as fa 
as Sunium,* till he accompanied us in our secon 
excursion. However, his works, as far as they gc 
are most beautiful ; but they are almost all unfiri 
ished. While he and his patrons confine them 
selves to tasting medals, appreciating cameos 
sketching columns, and cheapening gems, thei 
little absurdities are as harmless as insect or fox 
hunting, maiden speechifying, barouche-driving, c 
any such pastime ; but when they carry away thre 
or four shiploads of the most valuable and mass 
relics that time and barbarism have left to the mos 
injured and most celebrated of cities ; when the 
destroy, in a vain attempt to tear down, those work 
which have been the admiration of ages, I know n 
motive which can excuse, no name which can desig 
nate, the perpetrators of this dastardly devastator 
It was not the least of the crimes laid to the charg 
of Verres, that he had plundered Sicily, in th 
manner since imitated at Athens. The most un 
blushing impudence could hardly go farther than t 
affix the name of its plunderer to the walls of th 
Acropolis ; while the wanton and useless deface 
ment of the whole range of the basso-relievos, i 
one compartment of the temple, will never permi 
that name to be pronounced by an observer withou 
execration. 

On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not 
collector or admirer of collections, consequently n 
rival ; but I have some early prepossession in favo 
of Greece, and do not think the honor of Englan 
advanced by plunder, whether of India or Attica. 

Another noble Lord has done better, because h 
has done less ; but some others, more or less noble 
yet " all honorable men," have done best, because 
after a deal of excavation and execration, bribery t 



* Now Cape Colorma. In all Attica, if we except Athens itself, an 
Marathon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna. To tt 
antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of observ: 
tion and design ; to the philosopher, the supposed scene of some of Plato 
conversations will not be unwelcome ; and the trareller will be struck wit 
the beauty of the prospect over " Isles that crown the JEgcan deep;" but f< 
an Englishman, Colonna has yet an additional interest, as the actual sp< 
if Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten, in the reco 
lection of Falcone* and Campbell : 

" Here in (In dead of night by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 

This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great distance. In tw 
journey, which I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, the view froi 
either side, by land, was less striking than the approach from the isles. I 
our second land excursion, we had a narrow escape from a party of Minotei 
concealed in the caverns beneath. We were told afterwards, by one of thei 
prisoners subsequently ransomed, that they were deterred from attacking u 
by the appearance of my two Albanians: conjecturing very sagaciously, t* 
ialsely, that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts at kind, the 
renamed stauonary, and thus saved our party, which was too small to hav 
opposed any effectual resistance. 
Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates : there 
" The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
And makes degraded nature picturesque." 

(See Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, &c.) 
But there Nature, with the aid of Art, ha. done that for herself. 1 wa 
fortunate enough to engage a very .uperior German artist; and hope t 
renew my acquaintance with tab and many other Levantine Kenes, by th 
arrival of nu performance.. 



Her sons too tccak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains. 
Stanza xii. lines 7 and 8. 

I cannot resist availing myself of the permission 
of my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no 
comment with the public, but whose sanction will 
add tenfold weight to my testimony, to insert the 
following extract from a very obliging letter of his 
to me, as a note to the above lines. 

"When the last of the Metopes was taken from 
the Parthenon, and in moving of it, great part of 
the superstructure with one of the triglyphs was 
thrown down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin 
employed, the Disdar, who beheld the mischief 
done to the building, took his pipe from his mouth, 
dropped a tear, and, in a supplicating tone of voice, 
said to Lusieri, TfAoc t — I was present." 

The Disdar alluded to was the father of the pres- 



67 

a ?o d its ddS PyiThuS t0 thc list ' in s P e aking of his ex- 
Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country 
.within sight of Italy is less known than the inte- 
rior ot America. CircnmBt*nr>j**i nf l,'f*i„ 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

the Waywode, mining and countermining, they have 
done nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, and wine- 
shed, which almost ended in bloodshed ! Lord E 's 
u pri g »_ see Jonathan Wild for the definition of 
" priggism "—quarrelled with another, Gropius* bv 
name, (a very good name too for his business,) and 
muttered something about satisfaction, in a verbal 
answer to a note of the poor Prussian : this was 
stated at table to Gropius, who laughed, but could 
eat no dinner afterwards. The rivals were not 
reconciled when I left Greece. I have reason to re- 
member their squabble, for they wanted to make me 
their arbitrator. 

7. 



ent Disdar. 



ft. 



Where teas thine JEgis, Pallas ! that appalVd 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way f 

Stanza xiv. lines 1 and 2. 
According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles 
frightened Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others 
relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischiev- 
ous as the Scottish peer.— See Chandleh. 



America. Circumstances, of little conse- 
quence to mention, led Mr. Hobhouse and myself 
into that country before we visited any other part 
of the Ottoman dominions; and, with the exception 
of Major Leake, then officially resident at Joannina, 
no other Englishmen have ever advanced bevoiid 
the capital into the interior, as that gentleman Terr 
lately assured me. Ali Pacha was at that time (Oc- 
tober, 1S\)9), carrying on war against Ibrahara 
Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, a strong for- 
tress which he was then besieging : on our arrival 
at Joannina we were invited to Tepoleni, his hieh- 
ness's birthplace, and favorite Serai, only one day's 
distance from Berat ; at this juncture the Vizier 
had made it his head-quarters. 

After some stay in the capital, we accordingly 
followed ; but though furnished with every accom- 
modation, and escorted by one of the vizier's secre 
tanes, we *ere nine days (on account of the rains> 
m accomplishing a journey which, on our return', 
barely occupied four. 

On our route we passed two cities, Argvrocastrc 
and Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina 
in size ; and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to 
the scenery in the vicinity of Zitza and Delvinachi, 
the frontier village of Epirus and Albania Proper. 

On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling 
to descant, because this will be done so much better 
b 



the netted canopy. 

Stanza xviii. line 2. 
The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from 
falling on deck during action. 

10. 
But not in silence pass Calypso's isles 

Stanza xxix. line 1. 
Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 

11. 
Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 

Stanza xxxviii. lines 5 and 6.» 
Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illvria, 
Chaonia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish 
word for Alexander ; and the celebrated Scander- 
berg (Lord Alexander) is alluded to in the third and 
fourth lines of the thirty-eighth stanza. I do not 
know whether I am correct in making Scanderbcrg 
the countryman of Alexander, who was born at 
Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gibbon terms him so, 



* This Sir Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for the sole purpose of 
sketching, in which he excels ; but 1 am sorry to say, thai he has, through 
the abused sanction of that most respectable name, t>-en treading at humble 
distance in the steps of Sr. Lusieri. A shipfull of his trophies was detained, 
and 1 believe confiscated, at Constantinople, in 1810. I am most happy to 
be now enabled to state, that " this was not in his bond; " that he w=s 
employed solely as a painter, and thai his noUe patron disavows all connex- 
ion with him, except as an artist. If the error in tlie first and second edition 
of Uiis poem has given the noble lord a moment's pain I am very sorry for it ; 
Br. Gropius has assumed for years the name of his agent : and though I can- 
not much condemn myself for sharing in the mistake of so many, 1 am 
h*ppy in being one of the first to be undeceived. Indeed, I have a* much 
pleasure in contradicting this as I felt regret a stating it 



y my fellow-traveller, in a work which may proba> 
ly precede this in publication, that I as little wish 
to follow as I would to anticipate him. But some 
few observations are necessary to the text. 

The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by 
their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, 
in dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very 
mountains seemed Caledonian, with a kinder cli- 
mate. The kilt, though white; the spare, active 
form ; their dialect, Celtic in its sound, and their 
hardy habits, all carried me back to Morven. No 
nation are so detested and dreaded by their neigh- 
bors as the Albanese ; the Greeks hardly regard 
them as Christians, or the Turks as Moslems ; and 
in fact thej r are a mixture of both, and sometimes 
neither. Their habits are predatory — all arc armed ; 
and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montenegrins, 
Chimariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous ; the others 
differ somewhat in garb, and essentially in charac- 
ter. As far as my own experience goes, I can speak 
favorably. I was attended by two, an Infidel and a 
Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other part 
of Turkey which came within my observation; and 
more faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, 
are rarely to be found. The Infidel was named Ba- 
silius, the Moslem, Dervish Tahiri ; the former a 
man of middle age, and the latter about my own. 
Basili was strictly charged by Ali Pacha in person 
to attend us ; and Dervish was one of fifty who ac- 
companied us through the forests of Acarnania to 
the banks of Achelous, and onward to Messalonghi 
in iEtolia. There I took him into mv own ser- 
and never had occasion to repent it till the moment 
of mv departure. 

When, in 1810, after the departure of my friend 
Mr. II. for England, I was seized with a severe fever 
in the Morea, these men saved my life by frighten- 
ing away my phvsician, whose throat they threat- 
ened to cut if I was not cured within a given time. 
To this consolatory assurance of posthumous retri- 
bution, and a resolute refusal of Dr. Romanelli's 
prescriptions, I attrib ute d my recovery. I had left 
mv last remaining Bnglifth servant at Athens ; my 
dragoman was as ill as myself, and my poor Ar« 
naouts nursed me with an attention that would 
have done honor to civilization. 

Thev had a variety of adventures ; for the Mos- 
lem, Dervish, being a remarkably handsome man, 
was always squabbling with the husbands of Athens 



68 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



insomuch that four of the principal Turks paid me 
aVisit of remonstrance at the Convent, on the sub- 
ject of his having taken a woman from the bath— 
'whom he had lawfully bought, however-a thing 
auite contrary to etiquette. 

Basifi, also,' was extremely gallant among his own 
persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the 
church, mixed with the highest contempt of church- 
men whom he cuifedupon occasion m a most het- 
erodox manner. Yet he never passed a church 
without crossing himself; and I remember the risk 
he ran in entering St. Sophia, in Stambol, because 
it had once been a place of his worship. On remon- 
strating with him on his inconsistent proceedings, 
iriabiy answered, "our church is holy, our 
priests are thieves ; " and then he crossed himself 
as usual, and boxed the ears of the first "papas " 
who refused to assist in any required operation, as 
was always found to be necessary where a priest had 
any influence with the Cogia Bashi of his village. 
In deed, a more abandoned race of miscreants can- 
not exist than the lower order of the Greek clergy. 

"When preparations were made for rrfy return, my 
Albanians were summoned to receive their pay. 
Basili took his with an awkward show of regret at 
my intended departure, and marched away to his 
quarters, with his bag of piastres. I sent for Der- 
vish, but for some time he was not to be found ; at 
last he entered, just as Signor Logotheti, father to 
the ci-devant Anglo-consul of Athens, and some 
other of my Greek acquaintances, paid me a visit. 
h took the money, but on a sudden dashed it 
to the ground; and clasping his hands, which he 
raised to his forehead, rushed out of the room, 
weeping bitterly. From that moment to the hour 
of my embarkation, he continued his lamentations, 
and all our elibrts to console him only produced this 
answer, " ltt^wM,*' " He leaves me." Signor Lo- 
theti, who never wept before for anything less than 
- of a para,* melted ; the padre of the con- 
vent, my attendants, my visitors — and I verily be- 
lieve that even Sterne's " foolish fat scullion " 
would have left her " fish-kettle," to sympathize 
with the unaffected and unexpected sorrow of this 
barbarian. 

For my own part, when I remembered that, a 
time before my departure from England, a 
noble and most intimate associate had excused him- 
self from taking leave of me because he had to attend 
a relation " to a milliners," I felt no less surprised 
than humiliated by the present occurrence and the 
past recollection. " 

That Dervish wmld leave me with some regret 
was to be expected; when master and man hav 
been scrambling over the mountains of a dozen 
provinces together, they are unwilling to separate ; 
but his present feelings, contrasted with his native 
ferocity, improved my opinion of the human heart. 
I believe this almost feudal fidelity is frequent 
them. One day, on our journey over Par- 
Inglishman in my sen-ice gave him a 
. some dispute about the baggage, which 
he unluckily mistook for a blow ; he spoke not 
ling his head upon his hands 
>< quences, we endeavored to ex 
plain away the affront, which produced the follow- 
ing answer :— I have been a robber ; I am a soldier 
• m ever struck me; you are my master, I 
uVi t0n J ronr hmid > but bv that br ead! (an usual 
oathl had it been otherwise, I would have stabbed 
the dog your servant, and gone to the mountains." 
So the affair ended, but from that dav forward he 

■ the thoughtless fellow 
who insulted him. ° 

• \* xs 'f\ e * celled in l »e dance of his country, con- 
jectured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic: be 

!-lii\ US t!"-' :t 1S v :inl >'' and requires 'wonderful 
agilitj. It , s very distinct from the stupid Ro- 



maika, the dull round-about of the Greeks, of whica 
our Athenian party had so many specimens. 

The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cul- 
tivators of the earth in the provinces, who have 
also that appellation, but the mountaineers), have 
a fine cast of countenance ; and the most beautiful 
women I ever beheld, in stature and in features, we 
saw levelling the road broken down by the torrents 
between Delvinachi and Libochabo. Their manner 
of walking is truly theatrical ; but this strut is 
probably the effect of the capote, or cloak, depend- 
ing from one shoulder. Their long hair reminds 
you of the Spartans, and their courage in desultory 
warfare is unquestionable. Though they have some 
cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw a good 
Arnaout horseman ; my own preferred the English 
saddles, which, however, they could never keep 
But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue. 

12. 

-and pass' 'd the barren 



Where sad Penelope o'er look' d the wave. 

Stanza xxxix. lines 1 and 2. 
Ithica. 

13. 

Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. 

Stanza xl. line 5. 

Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. 
The battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and consid- 
erable, but less known, was fought m the Gulf of 
Patras. Here the author of Don Quixote lost his 
left hand. 

14. 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. 

Stanza xli. line 3. 

Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promon- 
tory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have 
thrown herself. 

15. 

many a Roman chief and Asian king. 

Stanza xlv. line 4. 
It is said, that on the day previous to the battle 
of Actium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. 

16. 
Look where the second Ccesar's trophies rose ! 
Stanza xlv. line 6. 
Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at 
some distance from Actium, where the wall of the 
Hippodrome survives in a few fragments. 

17. 
Archerusid's lake. 



Pare, about the fourth rf i 



(arching. 



Stanza xlvii. line 1. 
i According to Pouqueville the lake of Yanina; 
but Pouqueville is always out. 

18. 
To greet Albania's chief. 

Stanza xlvii. line 4. 
The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary 
man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's 
Travels. 

19. 
let here arid there some daring mountain band 
Disdain his power, and- from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 
Stanza xlvii. lines 7, 8 and 9. 
Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in 
the castle of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Alba- 
nians for eighteen years 8 , the castle at last was 
taken by bribery. In this contest there were several 
acts performed not unworthv of the better days of 
Greece. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



20. 
Monastic Zitza, §c. 

Stanza xlviii. line 1. 
The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' 
Journey from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of 
the Pachalick. In the valley of the river Kalamas 
(once the Acheron) flows, and not far. from Zitza 
forms a fine cataract. The situation is perhaps the 
finest in Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi 
and parts of Acarnania and ^Etolia may contest the 
palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even 
Cape Colonna and Port Raphti, are very inferior ; 
as also every scene in Ionia, or the Troad ; I am 
almost inclined to add the approach to Constanti- 
nople; but from the different features of the last 
a comparison can hardly be made. 



21. 



69 



As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect 
of the Illyric, I here insert two of their most pop- 
ular choral songs, which are generally chanted m 
dancing by men or women indiscriminately. Tho 
first words arc merely a kind of chorus without 



Here dwells the caloyer. 

Stanza xlix. line 6. 



The Greek monks are so called. 



22. 



Xature's volcanic amphitheatre. 

Stanza li. line 2. 
The Chimariot mountains appear to have been 
volcanic. 



Now called Kalamas. 



-behold black Acheron ! 

• Stanza li. line 



24. 



Albanese cloak. 



•in his ichite capote. 

Stanza lii. line 7. 

25. 



The sun had sunk behind vast Tomer it. 

Stanza lv. line 1. 
Anciently Tomarus. 

26. 
And Law wide and fierce came roaring by. 

Stanza lv. line 2. 
The river Laos was full at the time the author 
passed it ; and immediately above Tepalen, was to 
the eye as wide as the Thames at Westminster ; at 
least in the opinion of the author and his fellow- 
traveller, Mr. Hobhouse. In the summer it must 
be much narrower. It certainly is the finest river 
in the Levant ; neither Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, 
Schamander, nor Cayster, approached it in breadth 
or beauty. 

27. 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof. 

Stanza lxvi line 8. 
Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall 



28. 



meaning, like 
languages. 

1. 
Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
Naciarura, popuso. 



Xaciarura na civin 
Ha penderini ti hin. 



Ha pe uderi escrotini 
Ti vin ti mar servetini. 



Caliriote me surme 
Ea ha pe pse dua tive. 



Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
Gi egem spirta esimiro. 



some m our own and all other 



1. 
Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; 
be thou silent. 

2. 

I come, I run ; open the 

door that I may enter. 



Open the door by halves, 
that I may take my tur- 
ban. 

4. 

Caliriotes* with the dark 
eyes, open the gate that 
I may enter. 

5. 

Lo, Lo, I hear thee, my 
soul. 



Caliriote vu le funde 
Ede vete tunde tunde. 



-the red wine circling fast. 
Stanza lxxi. 



line 2. 

The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from 
wine, and indeed very few of the others. 

29. 
Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. 

'Stanza lxxi. line 7. 
Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single 
person from TlaXiKapt t a general name for a soldier 
nmongst the Greeks and Albanese who speak 
Romaic — it means properly "a lad." 



30. 



While thu* in concert, %c. 

Stanza lxxii.dine last. 



Caliriote me surme 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. 



Se ti puta citi mora 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. 



Va la ni il che cadale 
Celo more, more celo. 

10. 
Plu hari ti tirete 
Plu huron cia pra seti. 



An Arnaout girl, in costly 
garb, walks with grace- 
ful pride. 

Caliriot maid of the dark 
eyes, give me a kiss. 

8. 

If I have kissed thee,what 
hast thou gained ! My 
soul is consumed with 
fire. 

9. 

Dance lightly, more gent- 
ly, and gently still. 

10. 

Make not so much dust 
to destroy your era 
broidcrcd hose. 

The last stanza would puzzle a commentator ; the 
men have certainly buskins of the most beautiful 
texture, but the ladies (to whom the above is sup- 
posed to be addressed) have nothing under their 
little yellow boots and slippers but a well-turned 
and sometimes very white ankle. The Arnaout girls 
are much handsomer than the Greeks, and their 
dress is far more picturesque. The] their 

shape much longer also, from being always in the 
open air. It is to be observed, that the Arnaout is 
not a written language; the words of this song, 
therefore, as well as the one which follows, are 
spelt according to their pronunciation. T&y are 
copied by one who speaks and understands the 
dialect perfectly, and who is a native of Athens. 

1. 1. 

Xdi sefda tinde ulavossa I am wounded by thy love, 
Vettimi upri vi lofsa. and have loved but to 

scorch myself. 

2. 2. 

Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse Thou hast consumed me ' 
Si mi rini mi la vosse. Ah, maid ! thou hast 

struck me to the heart. 



The Albanese, particularly the worn 
;" fur what reMon I inquired in rain. 



are frequently termed " CaM 



70 



Uti tasa roba stua 
Sitti eve tulati dua. 



Roba stinori ssidua 
Qu mi sini vetti dua. 



Qurraini dua civileni 
Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. 



Ultara pisa vaisisso me 

simi riu ti hapti 
Eti mi bire a piste si gui 

dendroi tiltati. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



3. 
said I 



have said I wish no 
dowry, but thine eyes 
and eve-lashes. 



The accursed dowry I 
want not, but thee 
only. 

5. 

Give me thy charms, and 
let the portion feed the 
flames. 

6. 

I have loved thee, maid, 
-with a sincere soul, but 
thou hast left me like 
a withered tree. 

7. 



Udi vura udorini udiri ci- If I have placed my hand 
cova cilti mora on thy bosom, what 

Udorini talti hollna u ede have I gained ? my 
caimoni mora. band is withdrawn, but 

retains the flame. 

I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a 
different measure, ought to belong to another bal- 
\:i idea something similar to the thought in 
the last lines was expressed by Socrates, whose arm 
I'ome in contact with one of his " vtokoAtioi," 
Critobulus or Cleobodus, the philosopher com- 
plained of a shooting pain as far as the shoulder for 
\s after, and therefore very properly resolved 
to teach his disciples in future without touching 
them. 

31. 
Tambourgi! Tambourgi ! thy la rum afar, 8$c. 

Song, Stanza' i. line 1. 
These Stanzas are partly taken from different 
Albanese songs, as far as I was able to make them 
out by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic 
and Italian. 

32. 

Remember the moment when Previsafell. 

Song, Stanza viii. line 1. 
It was taken by storm from the French. 

33. 

Fair Greece I sad relic of dejmrted worth, %c. 
Stanza lxxiii. liqp 1. 

Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the 
subjoined papers. 

34. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on PhyWs brow 
Thou sat st with Thrasybulus and his train. 
Stanza lxxiv. lines 1 and 2 
, which commands a beautiful view ol 
s still considerable remains; it .. 
seized by Thrasybulus previous to the expulsion of 
the Thirty. 

K. 

Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest. 

Stanza lxxvii. line 4 
When taken by the Latins, and retained for 
»*Ycral years.— Sec Gibbox. 



36. 
The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. 

Stanza lxxvii. line 6. 
Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by 
•he \Y ahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 



37. 



Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow — 
Stanza lxxxv. line 3. 

On manv of the mountains, particularly Liakura, 
the snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding 
the intense heat of the summer ; but I never saw it 
lie on the plains, even in winter. 

38. 
Save where so?ne solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. 

Stanza lxxxvi. lines 1 and 2. 
Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble 
was dug that constructed the public edifices of 
Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. 
An immense cave formed by the quarries still 
remains, and will till the end of time. 

39. 
When Marathon became a magic word. 

Stanza lxxxix. line 7. 
' Siste Viator — hnroa calcas ! " was the epitaph 
on the famous count Merci ; — what then must be 
our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the 
two hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The 
principal barrow has recently been opened by Fau- 
vel; few or no relics, as vases, &c, were found by 
the excavator. The plain of Marathon was offered 
to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand 
piastres, about nine hundred pounds ! Alas !— 
" Expende, — quot librae in duce summo — inve- 
nies ! " — was the dust of Miltiades worth no more ? 
It could scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight. 



PAPERS REFERRED TO BY NOTE 33. 
I. 

Before I say any thing about a city of which every 
body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to 
say something, I will request Miss Owenson, when 
she next borrows an Athenian heroine for her four 
volumes, to have the goodness to marry her to 
somebody more of a gentleman than a " Disdar 
Aga," (who by the by is not an Aga,) the most im- 
polite of petty officers, the greatest patron of lar- 
ceny Athens ever saw, (except Lord E.) and the 
unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a handsome 
annual stipend of 150 piastres, (eight pounds sterl- 
ing,) out of which he has only to pay his garrison, 
the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regulated 
Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I 
was once the cause of the husband of " Ida of 
Athens " nearly suffering the bastinado ; and be- 
cause the said " Disdar "is a turbulent husband and 
beats his wife ; so that I exhort and beseech Miss 
Owenson to sue for a separate maintenance in behalf 
of " Ida." Having premised thus much, on a 
matter of such import to the readers of romances, 
I may now leave Ida, to mention her birthplace. 

Setting aside the magic of the name, and all 
those associations which it would be pedantic and 
superfluous to recapitulate, the very situation of 
Athens would render it the favorite of all who have 
eyes for art or nature. The climate, to me at least, 
appeared a perpetual spring ; during eight months 
I never passed a day without being as many hours 
on horseback ; rain is extremely rare, snow never 
lies in the plains, and a cloudy day is an agreeable 
rarity. In Spain, Portugal, and every part of the 
-hast which I visited, except Ionia and Attica, I 
perceived no such superiority of climate to our own; 
and at Constantinople, wnere I passed Mav, June, 
and part of July, (1810,) you might « damn the 
climate, and complain of spleen," five days out of 
seven. ' 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, 
out the moment you pass the Isthmus in the direc- 
tion of Megara the change is strikingly percepti- 
ble. But I fear Hesiod will still be found correct in 
his description of a Boeotian winter. 

_ We found at Livadia an " esprit fort " in a Greek 
bishop, of all free thinkers ! This worthy hypocrite 
rallied his own religion with great intrepidity, (but 
not before his flock,) and talked of a mass as a 
" coglioneria." It was impossible to think better of 
him for this ; but, for a Boeotian, he was brisk with 
all his absurdity. This phenomenon (with the ex- 
ception indeed of Thebes, the remains of Clueronca, 
the plain of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its 
nominal cave of Trophonius) was the onlv remarka- 
ble thing we saw before we passed Mount" Cithieron. 
The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least my 
companion (who resolving to be at once cleanly and 
classical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the foun- 
tain of Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth 
whde may contradict him. At Castri we drank of 
half a dozen streamlets, some not of the purest, be- 
fore we decided to our satisfaction which was the 
true Castalian, and even that had a villanous twang, 
probably from the snow, though it did not throw us 
into an epic fever, like poor Dr. Chandler. 

From Fort Phyle of which large remains still ex- 
ist, the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymettus, the 
-SIgean, and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at 
once ; in my opinion, a more glorious prospect than 
even Cintra or Istambol. Not the view from the 
Troad, with Ida, the Hellespont, and the more dis- 
tant Mount Athos, can equal it, though so superior 
in extent. 

I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but ex- 
cepting the view from the monastery of Megaspelion, 
(which is inferior to Zitza in a command of country,) 
and the descent from the mountains on the way from 
Tripolitza to Argos, Arcadia has little to recom- 
mend it beyond the name. 



71 



" Sternitur, et dulccs moriens reminiscitur Argos. 

Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none 
but an Argive, and (with reverence be it spoken) it 
does not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices 
of Statius, " In mediis audit duo litora campis," 
did actually hear both shores in crossing the isth- 
mus of Corinth, he had better cars than have ever 
been worn in such a journey since. 

" Athens," says a celebrated topographer, "is 
still the most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it 
mav be of Greece, but not of the Greeks ; for Joaunina 
in Epirus is universally allowed, among themselves, 
to be superior in the wealth, refinement, learning, 
and dialect of its inhabitants. The Athenians are 
remarkable for their cunning ; and the lower or- 
ders are not improperly characterized in that prov- 
erb, which classes them with " the Jews of Salonica, 
and the Turks of the Negropont." 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, &c, there 
was never a difference of opinion in their estimate of 
the Greek character, though on all other topics 
they disputed with great acrimony. 

Mr Fauvel the French consul, who has passed 
thirty years principally at Athens, and to whose 
talents as an artist and manners as a gentleman 
none who have known him can refuse their testimo- 
ny, has frequently declared in my hearing, that the 
Greeks do not deserve to be emancipated; reason- 
ing on the grounds of their "national and individual 
depravity ;" while he forgot that such depravity is 
to be attributed to causes which can only be remov- 
ed by the measure he reprobates. 

Mr. Roque, a French merchant of respectability 
long settled in Athens, asserted with the most 
amusing gravity, " Sir they are the same canaille 
that existed in tlie days of Themistocles .'" an alarm- 
ing remark to the " Laudator temporis acti." The 



ti^TtedT Roque: tliUS great men have ever been 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and 
most ol the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, &c of 
passage came over by degrees to their opinion) on 
much the same grounds that a Turk in England 
would condemn the nation by wholesale, because he 
was wronged by his lacquey, and overcharged by 
his washerwoman. 6 ' 

Certainly it was not a little staggering when the 
Sienrs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest dema- 
gogues ot the day, who divide between them the 
power of Pericles and the popularity of Cleon, and 
puzzle the poor Way wode with perpetual differences, 
agreed in the utter condemnation, " nulla virtute 
redemptum," of the Greeks in general, and of the 
Athenians in particular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to haz- 
ard it, knowing, as I do, that there be now in 
no less than five tours of the first magnitude and of 
the most threatening aspect, all in typographical 
array, by persons of wit, and honor, "and regular 
common-place books ; but, if I may say this without 
offence, it seems to me rather hard to declare so posi- 
tively and pertinaciously, as almost every body has 
declared, tiiat the Greeks, because they are very 
bad, will never be better. 

Eaton and Sonnini have led us astray by their 
panegyrics and projects ; but, on the other hand, De 
Pauw and Thornton have debased the Greeks be- 
yond their demerits. 

The Greeks will never be independent ; they will 
never be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid 
they ever should ! but they may be subjects with- 
out being slaves. Our colonies are not independent, 
but they are free and industrious, and such may 
Greece be hereafter. 

At present like the Catholics of Ireland and the 
Jews throughout the world, and such other cudgelled 
and heterodox people, they sutler all the moral and 
physical ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is 
a struggle against truth ; they are vicious in then- 
own defence. They are so unused to kindness, that 
when they occasionally meet with it they look upon 
it with suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps at 
your fingers if you attempt to caress him. " They 
are ungrateful, notoriously, abominably ungrate- 
ful !" — this is a general cry." Now, in the name of 
Nemesis ! for what are they to be grateful ? Where 
is the human being that ever conferred a benefit on 
Greek or Greeks ? They are to be grateful to the 
Turks for their fetters, and to the Franks for their 
broken promises and lying counsels. They are to be 
grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, and 
to the antiquary who carries them away; to the 
traveller whose janissary flogs them, and to the 
scribbler whose journal abuses them ! This is the 
amount of their obligations to foreigners. 

II. 

Franciscan Content, Athens, January 2?>, 1811. 

Among the remnants of the barbarous policy of 
the earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet 
exist in different countries ; whose inhabitants 
however divided in religion and manners, almost all 
agree in oppression. 

The English have at last compassionated their 
Negroes, and under a less bigoted government, may 
probably one day release their Catholic brethren : 
but the interposition of foreigners alone can eman- 
cipate the Greeks, who otherwise, appear to have as 
small a ohance of redemption from the Turks, as 
the Jews have from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough; 
at least the younger men of Europe devoted much 
of their time to the study of the Greek writers and 
history, which would be more usefully spent in mas- 
tering their own. Of the moderns, we are perhaps 
more neglectful than they deserve ; and while every 



ancients banished Themistocles, the moderns cheat 'man of any pretensions to learning is tiring out rvi 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



routh, and often his age, in the study of the lan- 
guage and of the harangues of the Athenian dem- 
agogues in favor of freedom, the real or supposed 
descendants of these sturdy republicans are left to 
anny of their masters, although a very 
required to strike off their chains. 
;k, as the Greeks themselves do, of their 
rising again to their pristine superiority, would be 
ridiculous ; as the rest of the world must resume its 
barbarism, after reasserting the sovereignty of 
Greece : but there seems to be no very great obsta- 
pt iu the apathy of the Franks, to their 
ireful dependency, or even a free state 
...per guarantee ; — under correction, howev- 
er, be it spoken, for many and well-informed men 
doubt the practicability even of this. 
The Greeks have never lost their hope, though 
now more divided in opinion on the subject 
of their probable deliverers. Religion recommends 
. but they have twice been deceived 
adoned by that power, and the dreadful les- 
y received after the Muscovite desertion in 
■ a has never been forgotten. The Trench 
llike; although the subjugation of the rest 
of Europe will, probably, be attended by the deliv- 
of continental Greece. The islanders look 
to the English for succor, as they have very late- 
ly possessed themselves of the Ionian republic, 
Corfu excepted. But whoever appear with arms in 
their hands will be welcome ; and when that day ar- 
I awn have mercy on the Ottomans, they 
• expect it from the Giaours. 
But instead of considering what they have been, 
and speculating on what they may be, let us look 
at them as they are. 
And here it is impossible to reconcile the con- 
of opinions : some, particularly the mer- 
ing the Greeks in the strongest lan- 
others, generally travellers, turning periods 
v, and publishing very curious specula- 
tions grafted on their former state, which can have 
ton their present lot, than the exist- 
ence of the Incas on the future fortunes of Peru. 

igenious person terms them the "nat- 
ural allies of Englishmen ;" another, no less ingen- 
11 not allow them to be the allies of anybody, 
nies their very descent from the ancients ; a 
more ingenious than either, builds a Greek 
dan foundation, and realizes (on 
..11 the chimeras of Catherine II. As to the 

a-i of their descent, what can it import whe- 
:u ' r t: - re the lineal Laconians or not ; 

aians as indigenous as the bees 
aettus, or as the grasshoppers, to which they 
once likened themselves ? What Englishman cares 
if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Trojan 
blood? or who, except a Welshman, is afflicted with 
descended from Caractacus ? 
1 he poor Greeks do not so much abound in the 
good thing! of this world, as to render even their 
■ ■ antoquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel, 
in Mr. Ihornton to disturb them in the 
• on of all that time has left them : viz. their 
Which they are the more tenacious, as 
t hey can cull their own. It would be worth 
publish together, and compare, the works 
lornton and De l>auw. Eton and Son- 
other 1>a \?r V 1 ? Ue Side ' and F e J udi ce on the 
SSLJa T1 \ ornton conceives himself to have 

the public confidence from a fourteenvears' 

1 f&fiL****** ***** on the sun ect of 
Stoth *i 18 r CUU ferive hinino morc insist 
San t , r! UtC ° f Greece and he r inhabitants, 

r.-oks o Const u.tinople live in Fanal ; and 
h an his brother ^ n0t K ° ft ? ner «oss the Golden Horn 



sert of himself, with an air of triumph, that he had 
been but four times at Constantinople in as many 
years. 

As to Mr. Thornton's voyage in the Black Sea with 
Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece 
as a cruise to Berwick in a. Scotch smack would of 
Johnny Grot's house. Upon what grounds, then, does 
he arrogate the right of condemning by wholesale a 
body of men, of whom he can know little ? It is 
rather a curious circumstance that Mr. Thornton, 
who so lavishly dispraises Pouqueville, on every oc- 
casion of mentioning the Turks, has yet resource 
to him as authority on the Greeks, and terms him an 
impartial observer. Now Dr. Pouqueville is as little 
entitled to that appellation, as Mr. Thornton tc con- 
fer it on him. 

The fact is, we are deplorably in want of informa- 
tion on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular 
their literature, nor is there any probability of our 
being better acquainted, till our intercourse becomes 
more intimate, or their independence confirmed : the 
relations of passing travellers are as little to be de- 
pended on as the invectives of angry factors ; but 
till something more can be attained, we must be 
content with the little to be acquired from similar 
sources.* 

However defective these may be, they are prefera 
ble to the paradoxes of men who have read super- 
ficially of the ancients, and seen nothing of the 
moderns, such as De Pauw ; who when he asserts 
the British breed of horses is ruined by Newmarket, 
and that the Spartans were cowards in the field, be- 
trays an equal knowledge of English horses and 
Spartan men. His "philosophical observations " 
have a much better claim to the title of "poeti- 
cal." It could not be expected that he who liber- 
ally condemns some of the most celebrated institu- 
tions of the ancient, should have mercy on the 
modern Greeks : and it fortunately happens, that 
the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers 
refutes his sentence on themselves. 

Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies 
of De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there 
is a reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of 
men, who, whatever may be the errors of their re- 
ligion and policy, have been amply punished by three 
centuries and a half of captivity. 

• III. 
Athens, Franciscan Convent, Mar. 17, 1811. 

" 1 must have some talk with this learned Theban." 

Some time after my return from Constantinople to 
this city, I received the thirty-first number of the 
Edinburgh Review as a great favor, and certainly 
at this distance an acceptable one, from the captain 
of an English frigate off Salamis. In that number, 



• A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pouqueville, who 
have been guilty between them of sadly clipping the Sultan's Turkish. 

Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swallowed corrosive 
sublimate in such quantities that he acquired the name of " Suleyman 
Yeytn," i. e. quoth the Doctor "Suleyman, the eater of corrosive sublir 
mate." "Aha," thinks Mr. Thornton, (angry with the Doctor for the 
fiftieth time,) « have 1 caught you ? "-Then, in a note twice the thickness of 
the Doctor's anecdote, he questions the Doctor's proficiency in the Turkish 
tongue, and his veracity in his own.-'' For," observes Mr. Thornton, (after 
mulcting on us the tough participle of a Turkish verb,) "It means notfuug 
more than Suleyman the eater," and quite cashiers the supplementary 

euLimate. Now both are right, and both are wrong. If Mr. Thornton, 
■rta he n,xt resides "fourteen years in the factory," will consult hi. 
I urkuh -kenonary, or ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he will 
discover that " Suleyman yeyen," put together discreetly, mean the " Sval- 
lower of sublimate" without any « Suleyman" in the case: " Suleyma" 
signifying ''corrosive sublimate," and not being a proper name on this 
•mate, although it be an orthodox name enough with the addition of n. 
After | Mr. Thornton's frequent hints of profound Orientalism, he might haT« 
found this out before he sang such pawns over Dr. Pouqueville 
.u Af !l r ^ ' *2* " Travellers Be ™<* fetors -' shall be our motto, though 
the above Mr. Thornton has condemned "hoc genus omne," for mistake and 
murepre^ntauon. " Ne Sutor ultra crepidam," " No merchant beyond hi. 
brie..' N. B. For the benefit of Mr. Thornton, "Su:«r" is not a prope, 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Art. 3. containing the review of a French transla- 
tion of Strabo, there are introduced some remarks 
on the modern Greeks and their literature, with a 
short accounfrof Coray, a co-translator in the French 
version. On those remarks I mean to ground a few 
observations, and the spot where I now write will I 
hop be sufficient excuse for introducing them in a 
work in some degree connected with the subject. 
Coray, the most celebrated of living Greeks, at least 
among the Franks, was born at Scio, (in the Review 
Smyrna is stated, I have reason to think, incorrect- 
ly,) and, besides the translation of Beccariaand oth 
er works mentioned by the Reviewer, has published 
a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may trust the 
assurance of some Danish travellers lately arrived 
from Paris ; but the latest we have seen here in 
French and Greek is that of Gregory Zolihogloou.* 
Coray has recently been involved in an unpleasant 
controversy with M. Gail,f a Parisian commentator 
and editor of some translations from the Greek 
poets, in consequence of the Institute having 
awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates 
"Utpl vdaTov," Sec, to the disparagement, and con- 
sequently displeasure of the said Gail. To his ex- 
ertions literary and patriotic great praise is un- 
doubtedly due, but a part of that praise ought not 
to be withheld from the two brothers Zosimado, 
(merchants settled in Leghorn,) who sent him to 
Paris, and maintained him for the express purpose 
of elucidating the ancient, and adding to the mod- 
ern, researches of his countrymen. Coray, how- 
ever, is not considered by his countrymen equal to 
some who lived in the two last centuries ; more par- 
ticularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic 
writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks that 
Meletius terms him, ,f Merd top QovkvSiSiiv xal Itvo- 
<t>a>pra mftmrt 'EXXfjvuv" (P. 224 Ecclesiastical His- 
torv, vol. 4.) 

P^anagiotes, Kodrikas, the translator of Fonte- 
nelle, and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lu- 
canus on the Universe into French, Chris todoulus, 
and more particularly Psalida, whom I have con- 
versed with in Joannina, are also in high reput 
among their literati. The last-mentioned has pub- 
lished in Romaic and Latin a work on " True Hap- 
piness," dedicated to Catherine II. But Polyzois, 
who is stated by the Reviewer to be the only mod- 
ern except Coray who has distinguished himself by 
a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Polvzois Lam- 
panitziotes of Yanina, who has published a number 
of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less 
than an itinerant vender of books ; with the con- 
tents of which he had no concern beyond his name 
on the title-page, placed there to secure his prop- 
erty in the publication; and he was, moreover, a 
man utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements. 
As the name, however, is not uncommon, some 
other Polyzois may have edited the Epistles of Aris- 
taenetus. 

It is be regretted that the system of continental 
blockade has closed the few channels through which 
the Greeks received their publications, particularly 
Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars 
for children are become too dear for the lower orders. 
Amongst their original works the Geography of 
Meletius, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude 
of theological quartos and poetical pamphlets, are 
to be met with ; their grammars and lexicons of 
two, three, and four languages, are numerous and 
excellent. Their poetry is in rhyme. The most 
singular piece I have lately seen is a satire in dia- 



73 

logue between a Russian, English, and French 
traveller, and the Waywode of Wallachia, (or 
Blackbey, as they term him,) an archbishop, a mer- 
chant, and Cogia Bachi, (or primate,) in succes- 
sion ; to all of whom under the Turks, the writer 
attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs 
are sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes 
generally unpleasing to the ear of a Frank : the 
best is the famous " Acute r«2&f twv 'EXXiivwv " Dy 
the unfortunate Riga. But from a catalogue of 
more than sixty authors, now before me, only fif- 
teen can be found who have touched on any theme 
except theology. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek of 
Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrange- 
ments, if possible, for printing in London a to 
lation of Barthelemi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he 
has no other opportunity, unless he despatches the 
MS. to \ icnna by the Black Sea and Danube. 

The Reviewer mentions a school established at 
Hecatonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of 
Sebastiani : he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, 
Haivali ; a town on the continent, where that insti- 
tution for a hundred students and three professors 
still exists. It is true that this establishment was 
disturbed by the Porte, under the ridiculous pretext 
that the Greeks were constructing a fortress instead 
of a college ; but, on investigation, and the pay- 
ment of some purses to the Divan, it has been per- 
mitted to continue. The principal professor, named 
Ueniamin, (i. e. Benjamin,) is stated to be a man 
of talent, but a free thinker. He was born in Les- 
bos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, 
Latin, and some Frank languages ; besides a smat- 
tering of the sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter farther on 
this topic than may allude to the article in question, 
I cannot but observe that the Reviewer's lamenta- 
tion over the fall of the Greeks appears singular, 
when he closes it with these words : "The cliangc is 
to be attributed to their misfortunes rather tJian to 
any 'jihysical d-egredation/" It may be true that 
the Greeks are not physically degenerated, and tha. 
Constantinople contained, on the day it changed 
masters, as many men of six feet and upwards as in 
the hour of prosperity ; but ancient hi.story and 
modern politics instruct us that something more 
than physical perfection is Decenary to preserve a 
state in vigor and independence ; and the Greeks, 
in particular, are a melancholy example of the near 
connection between moral degredation and national 
decay. 

The Reviewer mentions a plan u %ce believe " by 
Potemkin for the purification of the Romaic, and I 
have endeavored in vain to procure any tidings or 
of its existence. There was an academy in 
St. Pctcrsburgh for the Greeks ; but it was sup- 
1 by Paul, and has not been revived by his 
successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a 
slip of the pen, in p. 58, No. 31, of the Edinburgh 
Review, where these words occur: — "Wa are told 
that when the capital of the East 3 S >ly- 

man " — it may be presumed that this last word will, 
in 



a future edition, be altered to Mahomet II.*— 



• 1 hare in my possession an excellent Lexicon ' TpiyXtocraov ' which 1 

received in exchange from S. G , Esq., (of a small gem : my antiquarian 

friends have never forgotten it, or forgiven me. 

t In Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of " throwing the insolent 
Helleniste out of the windows." On this a French critic exclaims, " Ah, my 
God ! throw an Helleniste out of the window ! what sacrilege ! " It certainly | 

would be a serious business for those authors who dwell in the attic* : but 1 ' parallel passage in my own case irresistibly propeilcd me to hint how much 
have quoted the passage merely to prove the similarity of style among the | easier it is to be critical than correct. The gentlemen, having enjoyed many 
controversialists of all polished countries ; London or Edinburgh could hardly j a triumph on such victories, will hardly begrudge me a • 'ght ovaion for the 
UraJlel this Paris* > ebullition. | paesenl. 

10 



• In a former number of the Eiinburgh Review, 1808, it h observed 1 
Lord Byron passed some of his early years in Scotland, where he might 
have learned that pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, any more than duet 
means & fiddle." Query,— Was it in Scotland that the young gentlemen of 
the Edinburgh Review learned that Solyman means Mahomet II. any moss 
ncans infallibility ?-4»il thus it is, 
Csxlimus inque vicem pnebemos crura sagiuk." 
The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen (from the great tmi- 
larity of the two words, and the total absence of error from the former 
pages of the literary leviathan) that 1 should have passed it over as in the 
text, had I not perceived in the Edinburgh Review much facetious exultation 
on all such detections, particularly a recent one, where words and syllable! 
subjects of disquisition and transposition; and the abov 



74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the "ladies of Constantinople," it seems, at thatl" Auchinleck MS." with or without a grammar or 
period spoke a dialect, "which would not have (lis- 1 glossary; and to most apprehensions it seems 



graced the lips of an Athenian " I do not know- 
how that might be, but am sorry to say the ladies 
ral, and the Athenians in particular, are 
much altered ; being far from choice either in their 
dialeet or expressions, as the whole Attic race are 
Oarbarous to a proverb : 

" fl Atfijva Ttporri x^P a 
T« yatSapuvi ror^tij 7topa." 

In Gibbon, vol. x. page 161, is the following sen- 
tence:— "The vulvar dialect of the city was gross 
and barbarous, though the compositions of the 
church and palace sometimes affected to copy the 
of the Attic models." Whatever may be as- 
>n the subject, it is difficult to conceive that 
. ulies of Constantinople," in the reign of the 
last Caesar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna Com- 
nena wrote three centuries before : and those royal 
i re not esteemed the best models of composi- 
tion, although the princess yXurrau eixcv AKPIBJI2 
ArTtKi^ovaav. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the 
best Greek is spoken : in the latter there is a flour- 
ishing school under the direction of Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who 
is making a tour of observation through Greece : he 
is intelligent, and better educated than a fellow- 
commoner of most colleges. I mention this as a 
proof that the spirit of inquiry is not dormant 
among the Greeks. 

The Reviewer mentions Mr. Wright, the author 
of the beautiful poem " Horae Ionicae," as qualified 
so give details of these nominal Romans and de- 
generate Greeks, and also of their language; but 
Mr. Wright, though a good poet and an able man, 
has made a mistake where he states the Albanian 
dialeet of the Romaic to approximate nearest to the 
ic : for the Albanians speak a Romaic as no- 
toriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aberdeenshire, or 
.iian of Naples. Yanina, (where, next to 
il, the Greek is purest,) although the capi- 
Mi Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania but 
. and beyond Delvinachi in Albania proper, 
aatro and Tcpaleen, (beyond which I 
did not advance,) they speak worse Greek than even 
was attended for a year and a 
half by two of these singular mountaineers, whose 
mother tongue is Illyric, and I never heard them or 
their countrymen (whom I have seen not only at 
at to the amount of twenty thousand in the 
army of Velv Pacha), praised for 'their Greek, but 
often laughed at for their provincial barbarisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-five letters 
among which some from the Bev of Corinth writ- 
ten to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others 
by the dragoman of the Cairaacam of the Morea, 
(which last governs in Yely Pacha's absence,) are 
said to be favorable specimens of their epistolary 
■1 MUM at Constantinople from 
written in a most hyperbolical 
it in the true ajitique character. 
,/ lhl proceeds, after some remarks 

.he tongue in its past and present state, to 

at mischief of the knowl- 
wn language has done to Coray, who 
it seems, is tew likely to understand the ancient 
t'E k A r aU >-° hc , \ s , perfect master of thc modern ! 
int in v i ^V 0110 "' 8 , a Paragraph, recommend- 
^f'power'ul -tudy of the Romaic, as 

perplexed w,th " Sir Trist™™ <> L -_ uia , De 



on 
para 



evident that none but a native can acquire a com- 
petent, far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete 
idioms. We may give the critic credit for his 
ingenuity, but no more believe him than we do 
Smollet's Lismahago, who maintains that the 
purest English is spoken in Edinburgh. That 
Coray may err is very possible ; but if he does, the 
fault is in the man rather than in his mother 
tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest 
aid to the native student. — Here the Reviewer pro- 
ceeds to business on Strabo's translators, and here 
I close my remarks. 

Sir W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aber- 
deen, Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. 
Walpole, and many others now in England, have 
all the requisites to furnish details of this fallen 
people. The few observations I have offered I 
should have left where I made them, had not the 
article in question, and above all the spot where I 
read it, induced me to advert to those pages, which 
the advantage of my present situation enabled me 
to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 

I have endeavored to waive the personal feelings, 
which rise in despite of me in touching upon anv 
part of the Edinburgh Review; not from a wish 
to conciliate the favor of its writers, or to cancel 
the remembrance of a syllable I have formerly pub- 
lished, but simply from a sense of the impropriety 
of mixing up private resentments with a disqusition 
of the present kind, and more particularly at this 
distance of time and place. 



ADDITIONAL NOTE, OX THE TURKS. 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been 
much exaggerated, or rather have considerably 
diminished of late years. The Mussulmans have 
been beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very 
comfortable to voyagers. 

It is hazardous to say much on the subject of 
Turks and Turkey; since it is possible to live 
among them twenty years without acquiring infor- 
mation, at least from themselves. As far as my 
own slight experience carried me I have no com- 
plaint to make ; but am indebted for many civilities, 
(l might almost say for friendship,) and much 
hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son Yeli Pacha of the 
Morea, and several others of high rank in the 
provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor of Athens, 
and now of Thebes, was a bon vivant, and as social 
a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a table. 
During the carnival, when our English party were 
masquerading, both himself and his successor were 
more happy to "receive masks" than any dowager 
m Grosvenor square. 

On one occasion of his supping at the convent, 
his friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was 
earned from table perfectly qualified for any club in 
SShS. tk worthy Waywode himself 

evorf;;l!T?i ney + t - aUSac 1 tions with tlie Moslems, I 
esterw,/ \ e st I lctest honor > the hi £ hest ^sinter* 
tberi n U tr , an * actili S business with them, 

r " no »\ of those dirty peculations, under 
missu, ?\J ;«~S «»wni of exchange, com- 
m is,ion, &c &c, uniformly found in applying to a 

in Sa SUl ° CaSh billSj eVen of the ^ house * 
In the capital and at court the citizens and 



adlyj courtiers ar xe school with those 

not exist a mor« 



any other giveu'of Christianity; 'but thS do£ 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



uenorable, friendly, and high spirited character 
than the true Turkish provincial Aga, or Moslem 
country gentleman. It is not meant here to desig- 
nate the governors of towns, but those Agas who, 
by a kind of feudal tenure, possess lands and houses, 
of more or less extent in Greece and Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as 
the rabble in countries with greater pretensions to 
civilization. A Moslem, in walking the streets of 
our country-towns, would be more incommoded in 
England than a Frank in a similar situation in 
Turkey. Regimentals are the best travelling dress. 

The best accounts of the religion, and different 
sects of Islamism, may be found in D'Ollison's 
French ; of their manners, &c, perhaps in Thorn- 
ton's English. The Ottomans, with all their 
defects, are not a people to be despised. Equal, at 
least, to the Spaniards, they are superior to the 
Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce what 
they are, we can at least say what they are not : 
they are not treacherous, they are not cowardly, 
they do not burn heretics, they are not assassins, 
nor has an enemy advanced to their capital. They 
are faithful to their sultan till he becomes unfit to 
govern, and devout to their God without an inquisi- 
tion. Were they driven from St. Sophia to-morrow, 
and the French or Russians enthroned in their 
stead, it would become a question, whether Europe 
would gain by the exchange ? England would cer- 
tainly be the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance, of which they are 
so generally, and sometimes justly accused, it may 
be doubted, always excepting France and England, 
in what useful points of knowledge they are 
excelled by other nations. Is it in the common 
arts of life ? In their manufactures ? Is a Turkish 
sabre inferior to a Toledo ? or is a Turk worse 
clothed or lodged, or fed and taught, than a Span- 
iard ? Are their Pachas worse educated than a 
Grandee ? or an Effendi than a Knight of St. Jago. 
I think not. 

I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
asking whether my fellow-traveller and myself were 
in the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now 
this question from a boy of ten years old proved that 
his education had not been negleeted. It may be 
doubted if an English boy at that age knows the 
difference of the Divan from a College of Dervises ; 
but I am very sure a Spaniard does not. How little 
Mahmout, surrounded, as he had been entirely by 
his Turkish tutors, has learned that there was such 
a thing as a Parliament it were useless to conjecture, 
unless we suppose that his instructors did not con- 
fine his studies to the Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established, 
which are very regularly attended ; and the poor are 
taught without the church of Turkey being put into 
peril. I believe the system is not yet printed ; 
(though there is such a thing as a Turkish press, 
and books printed on the late military institution of 
the Nizam Gedidd ;) nor have I heard whether the 
Mufti and the Mollas have subscribed, or the Caima- 
cam and the Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the 
ingenious youth of the turban should be taught not 
to " pray to God their way." The Greeks also — a 
kind of Eastern Irish papists — have a college of 
their own at Maynooth — no, at Haivali ; where the 
heterodox receive much the same kind of counte- 
nance from the Ottoman as the Catholic college from 
the English legislature. Who shall then affirm that 
the Turks are ignorant bigots, when they thus 
evince the exact proportion of Christian charity 
which is tolerated in the most prosperous and ortho- 
dox of all possible kingdoms ? But, though they 
allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to 
participate in their privileges ; no, let them fight 
their battles, and pay their haratcii, (taxes,) be 
drubbed in this world, and damn^u in the next. 
And shall we then emancipate our Irish Helots ? 
Mahomet forbid ! We should then be bad Mussul- 



75 

mans, and worse Christians ; at present we unite the 
best of both-— Jesuitical faith, and something not 
much inferior to Turkish toleration. 



APPENDIX. 

Among an enslaved people, obliged to have re- 
course to foreign presses even for their books of re- 
ligion, it is less to be wondered at that we find so 
few publications on general subjects than that we 
find any at all. The whole number of the Greeks, 
scattered up and down the Turkish empire and 
elsewhere, may amount, at most, to three millions ; 
and yet, for so scanty a number, it is impossible to dis- 
cover any nation with so great a proportion of books 
and their authors, as the Greeks of the present 
century. " Ay," but say the generous advocates of 
oppression, who, while they assert the ignorance of 
the Greeks, wish to prevent them from dispelling it, 
" ay, but these are mostly, if not all, eclesiastical 
tracts, and consequently good for nothing." Well, 
and pray what else can they write about ? It is 
pleasant enough to hear a Frank, particularly an 
Englishman, who may abuse the government of his 
own country ; or a Frenchman, who may abuse ev- 
ery government except his own, and who may ran^e 
at will over every philosophical, religious, scientific, 
skeptical, or moral subject, sneering at the Greek 
legends. A Greek must not write on politics, and 
cannot touch on science for want of instruction ; if 
he doubts, he is excommunicated and damned ; 
therefore his countrymen are not poisoned with 
modern philosophy ; and as to morals, thanks to 
the Turks ! there are no such things. What then 
is left him, if he has a turn for scribbling ? Relig- 
ion, and holy biography : and it is natural enough 
that those who have so little in this life should look 
to the next. It is no great wonder then that in a 
catalogue now before me of fifty-five Greek writers, 
many of whom were lately living, not above fifteen 
should have touched on any thing but religion. 
The catalogue alluded to is contained in the twen- 
tv-sixth chapter of the fourth volume of Meletius's 
Ecclesiastical History. From this I subjoin an ex- 
tract of those who have written on general sub- 
jects ; which will be followed by some specimens of 
the Romaic. 



LIST OF KOMAIC AUTHORS.* 

Neophitus Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, 
has published an extensive trammer, and also some 
political regulations, which last were left unfinished 
at his death. 

Prokopius of Moscopolis, (a town in Lpirus,) has 
written and published a catalogue of the learned 
Greeks. , , , 

Seraphin, of Pcriclea, is the author of many 
works in the Turkish language, but Greek charac- 
ter ; for the Christians of Carainaiua, who do not 
speak Romaic, but read the character. 

Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a phj 
made the tour of England for the purpose of study 
•xdpiv nadfiacui) : but though hii numer- 

ated, it is not stated that he has written any thing. 

Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantino- 
ple : many poems of his are extant, and also prose 
tracts, and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last 
taking of Constantinople. 

Anastasius Maccdon, of Naxos, member of the 
royal academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. 



• H to to be obKrred, that the name* giren are not in < 
but eonaiit oC tome ielecteu at a. Tenuire froqj- among thow wbo ftooitoheC 
from the taking of Constantinople to the time of Meletiu*. 



76 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Moscopolitc, has written 



Demetrius Pamperes, a Aloscopoiitc, nas wmaei 

,larly " A Commentary on He 

"and two hundred tales, 

(of what is I ■' and has published his 

eompoadenee with the celebrated George of Trebi- 

tttemporary. 

tiiis, a celebrated geographer ; and author ot 

the book from whence these notices are taken. 

heus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philoso- 
lenic works are in great repute, and, 
'. by the modems (I quote the words 

tills) 1'cra rov OovicvtiSnv Kal s-Evoipcovra dpiS~os 

Id further, on the authority of a well- 
informed Greek, that he was so famous among his 
countrymen, that they were accustomed to say, if 
Thucvilidcs and Xcnophon were wanting, he was 
capable of repairing the loss. 

Marinus Count Thurbourcs, of Cephalonia, pro- 
fessor of chemistry in the academy of Padua, and 
of that academy, and those of Stockholm 
Mtl. He has published, at Venice an ac- 
count of some marine animal, and a treatise on the 
properties of iron. 

as, brother to the former, famous in mechan- 
ics. He has removed to St. Petersburg the immense 
rock on which the statue of Peter the Great was 
fixed in 170'J. See the dissertation which he pub- 
lished in Paris, 1777. 

George Constantino has published a four-tongued 
lexicon. 

.tote; a lexicon in French, Italian, 
and Romaic. 

There exist several other dictionaries in Latin 
and Romaic, French, &c, besides grammars in 
modern language, except English. 

g the living authors the following are most 
celebrated : — * 

Athanasius Paiios has written a treatise on rhet- 
oric in Hellenic. 

Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in 
Vienna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. 

,'iotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic 

tor of Fontcnelle's "Plurality of Worlds," 

. -Itc work amongst the Greeks,) is stated to 

be a teacher of the Hellenic and Arabic languages 

in Paris ; in both of which he is an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on 
rhetoric. 

- unodos, of Cephalonia, has written 
" tit t6 neooHapSaoov," on logic and physics. 

John Kamarascs, a Byzantine, has translated 
into French Ocellus on the Universe. He is said 
to be an excellent Hellenist, and Latin scholar. 
Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a 

feographical work: he has also translated several 
I printed his versions at Venice. 
Of Coray and Psalida some account has been 
already given. 



GREEK WAR SONG.f 

1. 

AEY TE, iraiitf rdv 'EXXfiwv, 

b icaipds riji 6b%r)s fiXOcv, 
Af tpavuipev a^ioi Ikcivmv 

to» pas iuaav ttjv apx^iv 
Aj irarficDptv dviocitof 

rdv t^vydv rrji rvpavviSof. 
'Ejt^dtijffwj/cj/ irarpiiof 

Ka8c oVt«5o$ aioxpfo. 

Ta oirXa aj XdGupEV 

Ttatiti 'EXXrjywi/, ayupev. 

llorapiSdv IxOpdv T q alpa 
<*S rpi(r) vird iroiuv. 



I not taken from anj publication. 
of Uu roc will U found among the imaUer 



OOev elaOe t&v 'EXXfivaiv 

K6stKa\a dvSpcuopiva ; 
Tlvevpara ioKopmcpiva, 

Twpa XdSsre tivofiv ; 
2 7t]v <pd)vi]v rns aaXmyyos jtot> 

cvvaxQiiTC oXa opov. 
Triv iirrd'Xixpov ^reTre, 

Kal vikSte npo iravrov 
Td o~Xa as \a6wpev, etc 

3. 

S-dpra, "Z^dpra, r( icoipaoai 

v-vov Xijdapyov, fiadvv; 
\v~vr](jov, Kod^c Adrivas, 

avppaxov iravroTEtvtjv. 
'Evdvpfjaov AeojvlSov 

flpcjog rov taxovrov, 
tov dvSpvs kiratvEpEVov, 

ipoSepov Kal rpopepov, 
Td o~Xa Bf XdScopev, etc 

4. 

r O ~ov si's Tag QcppoirvXat 

n6Xcpov airos Kportl, 
koI tovs Hipaas d<pavi{,Ei 

kcu avrdv KaraKpareT. 
M£ rpiaKocriovs av6pa$, 

£t$ TO KEVTQ0V WpOX^pEl, 
Kal, Wff Xe(OV SvpWpEVUS, 

els to alpd tu)v PovteT. 
Td oirXa as XdSojpev, etc 



ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 

Pwo-coj, 'AyyXos, Kal TdXXos Kapvovres tijv Tr£pir\yr]crtt 
rfjs 'EAAdc5oj> Kal PXettovtes Tt\v dOXiav ttjv KCtrdaTaaiv 
cipiorrjcrav Karapxd-S Eva TpaiKov (piXeXXriva Sia vb. pddovt 
tiiv airiav, pET avrov 'iva pr]rpoiroXiTriv, slra '£va 0\dx* 
uttit)v, EXEiTa Eva TtpaypaTEVTTjv Kal 'iva TrposcT&TO. 

Eltte pas, w <piX£XXr)va, ttws <p£peis tt]v OKXaSiav 
Kal T?]i> dnapr]y6priTov T<jji> ToipXcov Tvpavviav, 
litis TaTs ^vXa'is nal vSpio-povs Kal ai6r]po8Eapiav 
rraid'ov, irapQivwv, yvvaiKcov dvfjKOvaTov (pOopeiatu 
Atv e1X9' hails diroyovoL EKEivotv tcov 'EWrjvwv 
tcov iXEvdepuv Kal ooty&v Kal twp (j)iXoiraTpi6(ov t 
Kal nws ekeivoi a7ri9vr)(TK0v yia Hiv iXevdepiav. 
Kal Toipa laEis vt:6kei(xQe ei$ TEroiav Tvpavviav, 
Kal ttoXov yivos u>S eoeTs Eorddr] (pwTiapivov 
eis tt)v o^fav, Siivapiv, sis k' oXa ^aKOvapivov 
reus vvv EKaraaTnaaTE t^v <pu>Tivr)v EAAdc5a. 
@a6a! wj Iva okeXeQpov, uj vkotciviiv XapirdSav 
OpiXEi, (piXrarE TpaiKE, eijte pas ttjv aW:av 

pt) KpiVTTJS TITTOTES fiptOV, Xv£ Tr)V CLTTopiaV 



*0 ^IAE'AAIINOS 

'Vucc-ayyXo-ydXXoi, 'EXXas, Kal o X t aAAot, 

Vtov, us Xete, ttoltov p£ydXr\. 

vvv 6e adXia, koi dva^ia 

a<p ov dpxio-Ev fi dpadia. 

Sit' lipiropovaav va tt\v fuTrvrjo-n 

tovt^ Eiri to X^POV Tf]v bSriyovo-l. 

avrii arEvd^Ei, T a riKva Kpd&i, 

cto vd vpoKOTTTovv oXa npoard^ci, 

ko1 t6t' eXti i{,ei on KapSi^Ei 

thpEiv ekeivo irov t>ji/ (pXoyifyi. 

Ma oa~is ToXpfi<rei vd rr}v ^vjrj'/jcrjj 

xdyEi o-tov aSfjv x^ph Tiva Kpioiv 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



The above is the commencement of a lou^ dra- 
matic satire on the Greek priesthood, princes, and 
gentry: it is contemptible as a composition,' but 
perhaps curious as a specimen of their rhyme ; I 
have the whole in MS. but this extract will be found 
sufficient. The Romaic in this composition is so 
easy as to render a version an insult to a scholar ; 
but those who do not understand the original will 
excuse the following bad translation of what is 
itself indifferent. 



77 



TRANSLATION. 

A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchman making 
the tour of Greece, and observing the miserable 
state of the country, interrogate, in turn, a Greek 
Patriot, to learn the cause ; afterwards an Arch- 
bishop, then a Vlackbey,* a Merchant, and Cogia 
Bachi or Primate. 

Thou friend of thy countrv ! to strangers record 

Why bear ye the yoke of the Ottoman Lord ? 

Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely display'd, 

The wrongs of the matron, the stripling, and 'maid? 

The descendants of Hcllas's race are not ye ! 

The patriot sons of the sage and the free, 

Thus sprung from the blood of the noble and brave, 

To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave ! 

Not such were the fathers your annals can boast, 

Who conquer'd and died for the freedom you lost ! 

Not such was your land in her earlier hour, 

The day-star of nations in wisdom and power ! 

And still will you thus unresisting increase, 

Oh shameful dishonor ! the dar.kness of Greece ? 

Then tell us, beloved Achaean ! reveal 

The cause of the woes which you cannot conceal. 

The reply of the Philellenist I have not trans- 
lated, as it is no better than the question of the 
travelling triumvirate; and the above will suffi- 
ciently show with what kind of composition the 
Greeks are now satisfied. I trust I have not much 
injured the original in the few lines given as faith- 
fully, and as near the 

" Oh, Miss Bailey ! unfortunate MLs Bailey 1 " 

measure of the Romaic, as I could make them. 
Almost all their pieces, above a song, which aspire 
to the name of poetrv, contain exactly the quantity 
of feet of } ' 

" A captain bold of Halifax, who lived in country quarters," 

which is in fact the present heroic couplet of the 
Romaic. 



"OAOI 

„ nA.\. 

iivOp cone, 
tis airous 
[Ilpos TOV AovX 



Hi ;?j, va J£ 
Airdi c? v ai b 5vSp ai pov xoy.tc 5XXo. KaAJ 
K'pe pov ttjv xapl* va pi cvvrpotpivcnts dndvul 
A t d<pevTadcs, bnoii StAw vd rovs nrff* mtn 



SCENE FROM 'O KAiENE's 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF QOLOOXI, 
BY SrEEIDIOX VLANTI. 

2KHNH KT. 

IlAATZlAA f('c rhv n6prav Toij xon>tov, kui ol uvojQsv. 

IIAA. T fl Qei ! and to naouOvpi pov ifydvr] va duovcru) 
ttjv (pcovrjv rov dvSpds pov av avros cilvai iiui, tipQaoa ci 
Kaipov va tov ^evrponidoco. [Evyaivti iva% SnvXus and 
rd ipyavTfipi.] YlaXiKapt, jrtc pov, at napaKaXco, roioc 
t7vat £ksi £('s ikc'ivovs tov$ dvrdSes ; 

AOYA. TptTc xpvctpoi avSpcg. Evas b trip Eiylviot 
b aXXog b kvp Mupmos NtairoAtroj/oc, K al b rpiroi 8 Kip 
K6vre Aiav6no$ ApSivrw. 

IIAA. Avdpeoa etc airnis 8iv elia, b QXapivios, a 
Sp(x)S te* a\\a?£v ovopa. 

ABA, Ndt^ifcftM rvxrj tov Kip Evytiiov. [nivcov 
raj. | 



VTackbey, Prince of WalluchU. 



x J\ ?JL tatl6i ° a *' (<">"l9lVnl»0» iWUlW TWV rJotK 

pi a" v t " *"*>" ** Td hr*°TWi rov KaiyviStoiiA 
flA. Kapha, Ka pith % Kdpere kuX^v KapSidv, 8iv clvai 
Tt-ores. ^ [tlp6 5 r#> Birr6p,av.] 

BIT. 'Eyoj aioBdvopai ttgjc dnsQairu. [Zi'.-tpytra. tic 
rov tavrdv njf.] ™* 

f Ard to. naodOvpa ru» dvrdScov (fialvovrai oXoi, bnoi 
Wdpuprai and to Tpanc^i cvyxiopivn, 6ta t6v 
^viopdv tov Acdvtpov PXinoovrac n!,v nAdrfiJo, 
Kaifoarl avrdc 8d X va ttcjc 5i\u va ri), 6ovcvcr,A 
EiT. Oxt, o-TaOrjre. 

MAP. Mijv KapvtTC 

AEA. S/'/voj, <pCye air' cSco. 

nAA. B«fjfl e «a, 0oij6eta. [<pevyet drfi T r,v aK ^av, h 
AcavSpos ZeXci va Tr,v dKoXovOncr, pi r 6 ciraoQl, gal b Evy- 

TOV fiiKTTa.] 

TPA. [Mi Iva TridTo pi (f>ay\ tic piav Wtr^tr* irnia dxo 
to -rrapaOvpt, *ai <pevyet tit t6v Ka<ptvi.] 

[IIAA. Evyaivet and to ipyaorfjot tov naiyviiiov rpe- 
Xwvras, Kai (pevyet tic T d x*vt.~\ 

[EXT. Mi appara tig to xipi- *f*i tiaQivTCvatv r»J< 
ITAdr^KJac, evavriov tov AcdvSpov, dnov rfjv KaTaTpixsu] 

[MAP. Evyaivsi *-at atrig aya aiya and rd ipyaci-fjpi, 
Kai (bcvyei \iyurrar Rumores fuge.] [Por/irfptj t^tvyt.]* 

[OiAovXoi and rd hpyaaTT\pi dncpvovv tic to xdvi, Kai 
kXciovv ttjv ndprav.] 

[BIT. Uhfil cis tov Kafcvi (iorjOripivr] and rdv Pii6X- 
<t>ov.] 

AEA. ASaeTC t6vov StAcj va zpSoj va IpSwcli Uuvo 
to x«vt. [Mi to cnadi t«c to xtpi ivavriov tov Evytviov.} 

EYT. "O^t, pri yivoiTO noTV tlaai 'ivag OKXripoKapSof 
evavTiov r^c yvvatrfs gov, koX iyoj StAct tijv Sia^cvTncoy 
<*>$ £1^ TO vorepov oil pa. 

AHA Sov Kapvu) SpKov nns SiXci to ptTavoiucns. 
[Kvvriyii tov Evyivi'iv pi to anaOi.] 

Err. Aiv cl (}>o6ovpai. [KaraTpcxtt rov Aiavipov % 
Kai ndv 0ta$£i yd avpdr, onioo) rdaov, bnov evpio-Koivraf 
dvoiKTdv to ottTiti rns x°pcirptas, tpSaivn «c aird, ku\ 
odoverai.] 

TRANSLATION. 

Platzida from the Boor of the Hotel, and the Others. 

Pla. Oh God ! from the window it seemed that I 
heard my husband's voice. If he is here, I have 
arrived in time to make him ashamed. [A Servant 
enters from the Shop.] Boy, tell me, pray, who are 
in those chambers. 

Serv. Three gentlemen : one, Signor Eugenio ; 
the other, Signor Martio, the Neapolitan ; and the 
third, mv Lord, the Count Leander Ardcnti. 

Pla. Flaminio is not among these, unless he has 
changed his name. 

Leander. [Within, drinking.] Long live the good 
fortune of Signor Eugenio. 

[The whole Company, Long live, &c] (Literally. 
N« £j, va C>?, May he live.) 

Pla. Without doubt that is my husband. [To 
the Serv.] My good man, do me the favor to ac- 
company me above to those gentlemen ; I have 
some business. 

Serv. At your commands. [Aside.] The old 
office of us waiters. [He goes out of the Gaming- 
Hovse.] 

Jlidolpho. [To Victoria on another part of the 
stage.] Courage, courage, be of good cheer) it is 
nothing. 

ria. I feci as if about to die. [Leaning on 
him as if fainting.] 

[From the windows above all within arc seen 
rising from table in confusion : Leander star* 



* Aoyos Aann«dc, bnui StXci vd cinjj' Qtvyc rai( cvy 



7s 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



at the siahtofVl^,and appears by his 
gjuns to threaten her life.] 

No, stop 

■io. Don't attempt — - 

^L^Po,o ,cm ** ~«* Eugen.0 

1 / "'! 1 '^ ;t. n nlntP of meat leaps over the bal- 
^^^ai^ns £to the Coffee- 

"n'htlula rum out of the Gaming-House, ami 
" Yvtl^ZL in the Coffee^e assisted by 

; :.;-^Sev ? cause to repent this. 

'•;; f feaf yoT^I [He attach Leander, 
aldtatsL ^JZcTso Jiuch, that finding the 
Ztofthc dating girVs house open, Lender es- 
capes 'through, and so finishes.] * 



AlA'Aoroi OI'KIAKOI'. Familiar Dialogues. 



Aid hi ^Tficrji cva irpaypa. 
i, a«aX<j, 66acH pt 5i 

QLperi pt. 

baviiotri pE. 

tlriyaivcrc va ^rjrfiacrc. 

Two a evdvi. 

Q dxpi6i, pov Kvpic, wkftH 

pc avrtir r^v X a P lv ' 
Eyw true rapaKaXai. 

E)d> «rdf rd ijrjrcj <5id X^P** 
Yirox.fltwff£r^ /*£ tif r6<rov. 

\6yta ipuTiicii, 7) dyaTtris. 

Z(t»'l pov. 

Axpi6r\ pov rpvxv- 
Ayarrnri pov, dupiSL ftov. 

. I ftOV. 

A) iff/7 ftov. 

Aid va ci'xaoiarniTji, va «ra/ir}; 
xcpuroi'ijo-tj, *ai duXitfafc 
&(tu>crfc. 

Eyu <raj cux". ' "™* 
Xdc y»wpi^oj x a P lv ' 

'.hi ht4xp€0( KaravoX 
Xd. 



To ask for any thing. 

I pray you, give me if you 

please. 
Bring me. 
Lend me. 
Go to seek. 
Now directly. 
My dear Sir, do me this 

favor. 
I entreat you. 
I conjure you. 
I ask it of you as a favor. 
Oblige me so much. 

Affectionate expressions. 

My life. 
My dear soul. 
My dear. 
My heart. 
My love. 



Ej/w SeAw rd Kipci psra xa 

m bXr\v pov Ti\v xapdiav. 
Me KaMv P»v xap8(av. 
£d$ clpai iffdxptoc. 
Elpat 8Xos 16ik6s crag. 
El pai SovXSs o-as. 
Tanetv6raT0i JotJXoj. 

ElcTCKara iroXXa wycvirts. 
UoXXa neipd^Oe. 

To £%w <5ca x a P av P ov "" cSs 

SovXevcw. 
EIc-ts evyeviKOS xal Evirpoct- 

fiyopoi. 
Avrd tlvai irpinov. 
Tl 5 £ Acre ; 
Tibpi^crs; 
2aj napaKaXd va pi psra- 

Xtipi&o-Oe eXcvOepa. 
Xwpif wpwofijffty. 
Say dya-Q) ££ bXris pov xap- 

6ia;. 
Kai iyto hpoiioi. 
Tipfjo-tTE pi tuis irpoo-rayaTs 

crag. 
"Ex£T£ t'iitotcs va pi irpooTO.- 

\m ; 
UpocrdlEre tov SovXov aag. 
Upotrpivoi ras npoaayds crai. 
Mt Kupven peydXrjv Tipi'iv. 
iOavovvr] Trcpi-oinoti aas, 

TTupaxaXw. 
Upo(JKVvi}atTt U pepovg pov 
tov apxovra, Tj tov Kvptov. 

Be6ai6o-ere. tov nm tov iv 

Ovpovpai. 
BcBaiwo-eH tov 7rd5s tov dya- 

Aiv SeXot Xciipei va tov to 

£iVc5. 
Y[poGKVvt\paTd pov tit Tt]V 

dpx^vTiaaav. 
Ylriyaivere ipirpooOa koi aas 

aKoXovdw. 
H^eupw »caXard XP^°i l i0V - 
HJrfpa) rd Eivai pov. 
Me KapvETE va ivrpcirupai pi 

TOii rdcraij (ptXotypuavvais 

crai. 
QeXete Xoitov va Kotpo) piav 
dxpEi^TtjTa. 

Yndyo) ipirpoaQa <5)a va cas 

vnaKovffO). 
Aia vaKd/iW rfjv TrpooTayf\v 



I will do it with pleasure 

With all my heart. 
Most cordially. 
I am obliged to you. 
I am wholly yours. 
I am your servant. 
Your most humble serv 

ant. 
You are too obliging. 
You take too much 

trouble. 
I have a pleasure in serv 

ing you. 
You are obliging and kind 



To thank, pay compl. 
ments, and testify re- 
gard. 

I thank you. 
I return you thanks. 
• I am much obliged to you, 



-at—" finiihe* "— «wkwanlly enough, but it is the literal trans- 
lation of the Romaic The original of this comedy of Goldoni's 1 never read, 
bnt k (tow not appear one of his best. " II Bugiarrio " is one of the most 
U»ely ; but I do not think it lus been translated into Romaic : it is much 
more amusing than our own " liar," by Foote. The character of Lelio is 
tetter drawn than Young Wilding. Goldoni's comedies amount to fifty ; 
i the best in Europe, and others the worst. His life is also one 
i of autobiography, and, as Gibbon has observed, " more 
i than any of bis plays." The above scene was selected as contain- 
Kg some of the most familiar Romaic idioms, not for any wit which it displays, 
tea* there is more done than said, the greater part consisting of stage 



The original U one of the few comedies by Goldoui which 
vtt out rV WToooery at the speaking Harlequin. 



That is right. 
What is your pleasure ? 
What are your commands? 
I beg you will treat me 

freely. 
Without ceremony. 
I love you with all my 

heart. 
And I the same. 
Honor me with your com- 
mands. 
Have you any commands 

for me ? 
Command your servant. 
I wait your commands. 
You do me great honor. 
Not so much ceremony I 

beg. 
Present my respects to 
the gentleman, or his 
lordship. 
Assure him of my remem- 
brance. 
Assure him of my friend- 
ship. 
I will not fail to tell him 

of it. 
My compliments to her 

ladyship. 
Go before, and I will fol- 
low you. 
I well know my duty. 
I know my situation. 
You confound me with 60 
much civility. 



Would you have me then 
be guilty of an incivil- 
ity ? 

I go before to obey you. 

To comply with your com 
mand. 

I do not like so much cer- 
emony. 

I am not at all ceremoni- 
ous. 

This is better. 

So much the better. 

You are in the right. 



oa$. 

Aiv dj-affoj rdo-aij -Epmoi- 
rjff£j. 

Aiv Eipai T£/f£tO)C TTEpiTTOiriTl- 

«<5s. 
Airs) £?i'at t6 KaXf)TEpov. 
Tdcrov to xaXfiTtpov. 
"Exete X6yov, e\zte 6i<aiov. 

Aid va /jEoatwo-rjc, vd dpvn- To affirm, deny, consent, 

vao-vyKaTavcvffTjt,KTX. &c. 

Elvai dXriOivdv, (Ivat dA'j- It is true, it is very true. 

Oeototov. 

Aid va o-dj £in-'o rrtv dXfi- To tell you the truth. 

0£tai'. 
Oi-tojc, ET^n Elvai. Really it is so. 

Yloiog dp<pi6dXXEi ; s Who doubts it ? 

Aiv Elvai roc-die dp$i6oXia. There is no doubt. 
To ■sioTtvix), iiv to irioTEvw. I believe it, I do not be 
lieve it. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



79 



Alyoi ro vai I say yes. 

Acyw rd o"*t. I say no. 

BdAAw ffTixrin't on clvai.^ I wager it is. 
BJAAgj (ttixiha on 6iv clvai I wager it is not so. 

Nat, pa rhv nionv p.ov. Yes, by my faith. 

Ei'j ri]v <Tvvci6t)o-iv ftov. In conscience. 

Mi Ttjv ^(ofiu fiov. By ray life. 

Nil, ods 6n»vw. Yes, I swear it to you. 

Has dfivvio wow rtftrifici'os I swear to you as an hon 

avQpuiros. est man. 

Ha; dpvvoi cndvoi cis rqv n- I swear to 

Y-fiv f^ov. honor. 

UuTcvatri ftc. Believe me. 

H^toow pi ads to /3c$aiwau. I can assure you of it. 
HdcXa jJiXf cTixnpa 6, n I would lay what bet you 

ScXcte 6ta tovto. please on this. 

M'7 Tvxy ical d<jTci$£adc (x°- You jest by chance ? 

ca.Ttie.rc) ; 
OpiXclrc pi to. SXa aas ; Do you speak seriously ? 
Eyd) ads bpiXti pi to. 5Xa I speak seriously to you, 

tiov, Kal aai Xiyu tt) v dX>'i- and tell you the truth. 

Qciav. 



you on my 



I assure you of it. 
You have guessed it. 
You have hit upon it. 
I believe you. 
I must believe you. 
This is not impossible. 



E) oj aai to 0z6atojvo). 
To cnpu<prirsvacre. 
To cxitcvxctc 

Hds KIVTCVOJ. 

Tlpcnci va ads ntarcvao). 
Avto oiv clvai dSovarov. 
To Xomdv is clvai pi KaXrjv Then it is very well. 

wo a v. 
KaXd, nmXk Well, well. 

Alv clvai dXr)Qiv6v. It is not true 

Elvai rpcvdcS' It is false. 

Aiv clvai TiiTOTCs and aiiro. There is nothing of this. 
EtVat Iva \J/zv6os, fiia airdr//. It is a falsehood, an im- 
posture. 
Ev w daTCi^opovv (ixopaTCva) I was in joke. 
Eyib to clnaSid va ycXdaoj. I said it to laugh. 
Trj dXrjQcia. Indeed. 

Mi dpicci Karii noXXd. It pleases me much. 

HvyKaravcvoj cis tovto. I agree with you. 

Alio) rhv xpn<p6v ftov. I give my assent. 

\'cv dvTK7TCKop.ai cis tovto. I do not oppose this. 
tiipai avft<p<i>vos, ck ovp.<poj~ I agree. 

vov. 
Eyu 6iv OiXcj. I will not. 

Eyd ivavriojvopai cis rouro. I object to this. 

Aid va o-vjj6ovXc/j9t)s, va oto- To consult, consider, or 



XaatiT,s, r\ va dnotyaaiayS' 
Tt np'cnci va Kapupcv ; 
Tt Sd Kdp.oip.cv ; 
Tt pi o-vufiovXcvcTC va Kapoi 

'Oiroiov TpSnov ScXopcv pcra- 

XctpiaOtj fipcis i 
'"Ay xapoipcv ct^tj. 

Ei fat KaXf\Tcpov iyu) va 

YTaQrjTC dXiyov. 
Aiv lficXcv clvai 



resolve. 

What ought we to do ? 
What shall we do ? 
What do you advise me 

to do? 
What part shall we take 



Let us do this. 

It is better that I 

Wait a little. 
tcaXfjTtpov Would it not be better 

vd ; that 

Eyoj dyair-vva KaXfircpa. J wish it were better. 

Q'zXctc Kdpci KaXnTcpa dv — You will do better if 

'Affiacri tic Let me go. 

A» npow cis tov tSttuv aas, If I were in your place 

cyw I 

EtWt t6 Uiov. It is the same. 



The reader by the specimens beloic will be enabled to 
compare the modern with the ancient tongue. 

PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST. JOHN'S GOSPEL. 
Ncnv. Av0cvtik6v. 

K.c<*>dX. d. Kti^iX. d. 

1. EI'S t*v dpx>lt> nTOv 6 1. 'EN dpxv J* ° *°V°$» 
h6yo$' koX o X6yos t)tov pcra *rat 6 X6yos r)v wpoj tov Ocov, 
6eot»- rat Qcos tJtov b X6yos. Kal Qcos nv b X6yos» 



dpU)7TU)V. 

5. Kal 



^ 2. 'EroCroj Qthv cis r;iv S. Ovros rjv iv dpxy xpd 
doxnv pcrd Ocov. T 6v Qco* 

3. »OX« [rd wfinyptara] ,':d 3. nd^ra ii airov iylvCTo- 
p'coou tov [X6yov] cyivriaav, Kal x^pij itirov cyiicro oicl 
Kal xo>pls aiiTdv iiv lytpt ci , <5 yiyovcv. 
Kaviva citi zyivc. 

^ 4. E;'j avTov vtov £«#• irai 4. 'Ev avroi $b>r) »}>/, <,ti ,' 
h $0)r) r)rov to 0ws tuv dv- s<0'/ 'If ro fds ruv dvOpoy- 
niov. 
to ,p^s cis rhv o-ko- 5. Kat rd 0w? tv t7j ckot'vi 
Ttiav Qiyyci, Kal r) oKOTcia <paivct, Kal ,) cKoria aird oi 
Scv to KUTdXaSc. KariXaScv. 

6."Eyivcv cvas ivQponros 6. 'E; ivcro aiOpioiros n'T- 
drco-TaXpcvos and tov Qcdv, ccraXpivos napd Ocov, ovopa 
to ivipa tov lu)divr)s. airu, ^oiavvrjs. 



THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENUS. 
• FROM MELETIUS. 

'OPXOMENOS, koivus HKptnov, noXis totc nXovoioy 
TaTri Kal io-xvpiOTdrr;, naSrcpov KaXovpivrj BjnoTiKal 'AOq- 
vat, cis tt)v bnoiav rjrov b Nadf r<3* XapiTwv, cis rdv bxoiot 
i-XfifUiivov TtXri ol Qnfiaior, ovtivos rd cdaQos dvc<TKd<pOr\ 
iroTC vno tojv AvnaXdyKMV. 'EnarifyiptCov cis adriiv tijp 
ttoXiv rd XapiTijo-ia, tov bnoiov dydvos cvpov cmypatids &» 
cti)Xuis tvSov tov KTicOivTos vaoij £-' ovdpaTi Ti)s QcotSkov, 
vno tov npojroo-naOapiov Acovtos, cnl twv (taoiXiuv Baat- 
Attov, AcovtoSi Kal KcovoravTivov, £\ovo-aj otrwj* iv p.lp 
art pia koivws- 

" OttJf cviKiov tov dydva rdv Xapirrjaioiv. 

"LaXniarfis. 
Mrjvts 'AnoXXojviov 'Avtiox^vs dno lilaiivSpov. 

Ki)pv$. 
ZdiiXos Zcj'tAov lldiplOS. 

Paip-o66s. 
~Sovpr)vios Xuv/irjviov 'AOrjvaTos- 

TLoirirrjs cnwv. 
'Ap'.vias Ar/poKXcovs OnSaTos. 

AiXr/Tfls. 
'AnuXXdtoTos 'Ano\Xo66Tov Kofis. 

AiXooSSs- 
Yoiinnos PoSinnov 'Apyrjos. 

Ktdapto-Tjjs. 
<t>avias 'AnuXXoSorov roi> ^artou AioXcvs *to Kv^tfi 

KiOapcoSos. 
Ar/prJTpios TlappcviOKOV KaXxiddvios. 

Tpa) aoos. 
InnoKpdrris 'Aoio-Topivovs PoJtoy. 

KwpMS6s. 
KaXXiorparos 'Efa<f£arov 0r/^aToj. 

IJoiririis Harvpiov. 
'Apr\vias AripoKXcovs QnSaios. 

'TnoKpirfjs. 
Aiooddcos Atooodcov TapavTtv6s' 

TiotilTTtS TpayroClotv. 
Su^okA/Jj Ho(poKXiuvs 'AOn'.'aiog. 

■Yn >koitt)s. 
KaSiptxos Qco6iopov Qr/SaTos. 
lIoirjTTis KoJp'oStav. 
'AXc^avSpi's WoiffTtovus 'AB'tvaXo^ 

'Xzokoiti'is- 
"ArraXos 'ArrdXov 'AOrjvaios. 
OlSc iviKOJv rdv vfjpnrov dyuva ruv bpuiunat 

Ilatfaf aiXqcrds. 
AtOKXrJs KaXXipnS'V Qntaujs. 

Ilatras >',}Cu6vas. 
Hrnarivos EiviKov QnSaioS' 
"AvSpas ai'Ajja-rdj. 
AiokXhs KaXXifjfiSiv QriSatos. 

IS i;\Cp6vaS' 
PiViTroj Vx'irnov 'ApycTos. 

'l-moKpirr^ Woioto^cvovs P^'of 
Ko)uo)i6s. 



80 



K«AAf<rrparoj 'E^icrov »,*-** 

T.i kwUK* Ka i rd Iffc 

KwottoJv TloiriTfji. 

'Ev A ry irfp? owpt/cwj. 
T^« U TOf avcdvoOfrtoiroj rd 

Xapirfi'na. 

♦i'AikoJ ♦iAiVu) 'AfldKioj. 

Kdpovg. 
EiWaj Xo«pdri0j Ga'^iof. 

n«£irdj. 
Mrjorwp Mijaropos *owfata'j. 

P<n//£V<5dj. 

Kpdrwv KAtwi'Oj OufoioJ- 

Ai'Aardj. 
Rtpiytvtls Hpa K \iiSao Kov$iKr)v6s. 

AvXazi'86s. 
Aaptverof TXavKta'Apyios- 

Kidtiotordj. 
Td/iarpoj 'Apa\u>a> Aio\ei>s and Movpivas- 

Tpaya£V(5dj. 
'A<™Aair«5cV»oJ n»»e«do Tapavrivdj. 

I u<5d j. • 
Ni*d<rrparoj <t>tXflffTpdrM Gct'Seioj. 

Ta fayfatui Ktijwwt' 

K-yputvtvs" 

'Ec aXX<o Xiflw. 

• |mm nuX^odrovj 'Iapcon>po S tooylrfciiros i^.owcri 
x .poy«'«ro»r«« mrdaams fJiovvaov iMftfMf rtpwoj up- 
Xovroi aiXiovros kXLos acWroj dXKioOivios." 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

t 6kov <pcpZr« Spa X pa 5 .ja S p* **™«* "&" 



. „ K i, IpvpaKTOS Uto tov tp X optviov. 
>Ev aXXois Ai'floi?. 

NOKYES. 



'Ev Iriptp XiOoi. 



E* 



•$wdpx w ap\ovroi, peivos SziXovOla, ip%u...*>i 

6o>Xi dpxttip'J <j>i»*zia 5j diricWa dird raj o-owy 

>P a0w Hi* tuv xoXtpapxw, *n riBh> «aro7rrda»', dv£Ad- 
pMf t'ij a«v) j pa^wj rdj KipeVaj trip zv^p6va, kt) QiSia* 

*f) traouXziv rt r<pdp£ceov <£a)K£taj, Kf) ^a/*')T£X£ti 

i i, k>) ciovvcov Ka$tootu)u> Xfpwvaa «dr rd ipacpio 
pa ru> ca/iu. 

MW/ET>D1 

Svrrtpxw dpxovroj, pnvdj dXaXicopfffcj F dpv&v, noXv- 
nXnoi ra/u'aj diridurc £vSwXu dpxzSapo) #«*£i7 diro raj 
<rovyypa#(2> rd iraraXcnov kolt t6 rpaftcpa rw <5upw, dvz- 
X6piv<s r<ij aov^yprt^wj raj Kipcvas nap owtpiXov, Kt] 
tfypo*n (>to*£aj. Ki) irap cuojkvirioj' KaifnaoSdJpoi xfP w "^ a J 
c?> XvaiSapov lapoTtXtos ni8a rdv noXzpdpx<>*v, kij rajv 
*aro-- 



-Dj fv Ipxoptvd Swapx™, pzvvs 'AXaXKOpzvioi 

IXarfq Maoi'ruo 'A/'xrAato peivos rpdrw. 'Opo- 

I Aari'r;, o «f^ rp ffdAi £px , ' , /i£viwv. 'EvciSf] 

\'ij rap r^j 7rdXio$ rd 6'ivetov airav kolt 

raf bfitXoyiai raj riOiffaf Svvdpxu apX' )VT '">i /'i">ds 

CtiAof^'i \irr\ at'rd) i"rt oidiv Trap rav T'iXii', 

m ircoi xovtoj, Kh dnnSc^6av0i r?i 7rdA( t<5 

i\o»t£{ raj SpoXayi'aj, £t pif Tni tic6<ipivov xP^wtv 

i i-« i-opiaj P £*n dirtrrapa flovcatri ffuin (rr-rij jia 

garths Ft nan irnuiarvf auvv Fj; t>j X £| Ai'/J dpx' Tfd X. 0( ^ , ' w 

o cviaordj 6 ^trit 0uvapxov 2px"vra ipxopevios dznyoa- 

^c»^7 ci EC/iajXii/ nar' £i/iavTd»/ rwac:^^ 7rup rdv rufiiav 

til riv v6h<i>v a* nirt <cafyara rtaj/ jrpwWran', »cr/ T&v 

i , vr; AT-iriva d^apatoj*' 

5i«rn rd rXtrOnj /i£t dro> pa^cco Zee -Xi»va ro~>v ytypap- 

' ?l ffou>xup£i»i 9 knris „...., T a £vi/o'ptov 

— XtJ run ipxupr.viuv dpyovpiw 

•^rapiKovra EvSwXv kclO' Uaarav iuavrov, kij 



u' AvoMpa aivtbopov xriP* " »«■>***■ ^^ XA ' r f r °' 
Tltvpa, i 81 k&* Uoypd^v, ol hM irpo«yp«0o,. 
Kai rd tffe 



The following is the prospectus of a translation 
of Anacharsis into Romaic, by my Romaic master, 
Marmarotouri, who wished to publish it in England. 

EIAH2IS TYnOrPA-flKH. 

npdj tovs iv (piXoyevecs Kai <pi\s\Arivas. 

"OSOI £tj 0i8Xia iravToSana ivTpvQwaiP, tifrvpovv tt6<jov 
dim to xpr'mpov rilJ 'laropias, Si' avrrjs yap i^vpitrKerai 
i ^A£o, waKpvtrptn wAairfrw, Kai teupfprat wj £ v *a- 
rdrrpta «0fl, itpdfs«5 ^ai SiotKfjoeis ttoXXuv Kai^opuv 
idpuvKal yewpwrhv pvf,p.r,v Sucrwararo *cai oiatrcocru i, 
'hrroptKii AifiyWi ^ ai " va rdv « 7ravra ' 

Mia «roia &rtirr«pi? r?^ai £va>rdKr»jr j, Kai iy rair(J 
oj^eXip^, n Kfxt-rre, tltsb dmyKaia- iiarl XoiirdvJpeiS 
u6voi va riii> voTcpovpeQa, pt] ftevpovres ovt£ raj dpxai rah 
xpoy6vov paj, ir69ev rrdre «ai jt<5$ evptOriaav si'j raj irarpi- 
<5aj paj, ot!r£ ra r}0r/, ra KtiTopOapaTa Kai n> StoiK^aiv 
rwv ; Av lp«rt>»p» rovj dAXo^wrj, ^Jriipowv va jiaj <5oj- 
o-ovk oxi pdvoi/ ivToptKbis rhv dpxhv Kai rhv npdoSov t&v 
irpoy6vuv pas, dXXa K al ToiroypaipiKus pas Seixvovv raj 
SfcreiS T$* varptSuv pas, xal olovel xsipaywyoi yivdpsvot 
pi tovs yco)ypa<t>iK»vs rw TriVa^aj, fl asXeyovv, £<5w t?r«1 at 
'ASrjvai, iSib h araprij, **«* «' ef/Sai, rdaa ardiJia 5) pi'Xia 
dT£X£i ^ pia ZKapxia drrd TnvaXXnv. Tovtos oiKoSopriaeHjv 
/xiav ~6\iv,iK€ivos r>> aAA^r, <cai rA. Ilpoireri av £pa>r?J(70> 
tf £vairovsrouja^EAA>jvajx£tpaytd}'oi5jMaj,ird'9£i/£n-apaKi- 
i/^0^o-av i/d ifep«y^aot>» dpxaj rtfcoj' TraAaiaj, avvnoajoXois 
uas diroKpivovrai pi avrovs tovs Xdyovj. " Ka0wj o ek "2kv~ 
dias 'Avdxap<r<S,avti)> bfcpUpxfiTQ rd iravevQpocvva iiceTva 
(tXipara Wj 'EXXd^oj, Sk (Jei; in<popziTO tu dfiaipara, ra 
»j9t *cai tovs vdpovj ruv 'EXA^a)i/, ij9£A£ «cfrj SkvOijj «ai 
rd ovopa itui to nnaypa' ovtw Kal b f/p£r£poj iarpos, ov 6iv 
ipavQavz to. Tov'lmroicpaTovs, Siv ISivaro va. irpox^pfl^ 
US tiiv Ttxvnv tov. Av b iv fipTv voftoOcTris Siv i^CTa^e rd 
rov SdXwvoj, AvKoipyov, Kal IliTTaKov, &iv iSivaro va. pv- 
Bpr\<jri Kal va KaXupyi\crri rd r,Qt) Ttav bpoyeviov tov Av b 
Pijrtop 8iv dirnvQi^tro raj zixppaMas Kal tovs x a P^VTia- 
poijj tov Ar)pooQivovs, Siv ivcpyovatv els raj i^vxdj tup 
UKpoaruv tov Av b Nzos Avdxapais, b Kvpios 'ASSas 
TiapdoXopaTos Siv dveyipwaice pi peydXr,v itipoviiv Kal o-ki- 
xptv tovs ttXzov iyKOiTovs avyy partis twv 'EXXr\voiv, z\z- 
pzvvwv avrovs KaTa.0a.9os znl TpiaKovra Svco ztz, 8zv ijdzXrv 
ilvfyavij tovttiv tiiv tteoI 'EXXnvuv hropiav tov, //nj IIsp^ 
r')v£<T(j tov tizov 'Avaxapozu>s nap' ovTt>vnpo(Tu>vopa<T9r),Kai 
£i'j 6'Xaj raj £vpw7raiAfaj SiaXzKTovs pzTSyXwTTioBr).'" Kai 
zv ivl X'Jjyu, ol vz&TZpoi, av Ssv znzpvav Sta bSriyuvs tovs 
-ooyovvs pas, rjyEXav io-coj vzpiBzpwvTai paraiojj pzxP 1 
tov vvv. Avra 8iv zlvai X6yia ivBovaiacrpzvov oia to <JiAo- 
}£i'£j TpaiKOV, £ivai 8i o)iAaXrj0ouj Tzppavov, ojrij £p£rd- 
ippaaz tov ~Scov 'Av&xapaiv and tov TuXXikov zls to Tzp^ 
uavii<6v. 



Av Xotnov Kal iiptis SrzXiopzv va p.eBi\Mp.zv rrjs yvwazus 
twv Xajinptov KaTnpdoipaTwv bruij zkuvuv ol SavpaaTOi 
ZKEtvot npopdronis fipiov, av znt9vpwvzv va jiaBoipzv r>/r 
roSoSov Kal av\i)niv twv zls raj r^aj Kal Ivtirrfipat Kal 
£ij »cdfl£ dXAo £i^oj paBfioeoiS, av zx^pzv wtptipyztav va 
yvojpiowpzv no9cv KaraydpzOa, Kal bnoiovs Savpaarovs Kai 
pty&Xovs iivSpas, zl xai npoy6vovs hpo>v, (f>zv, hpz~S Siv 
yvaptjopsv, zls Kaipov bnov ol dXXoyzvzis Savpd^ovffiP 
avrovs, Kal wj jrarloaj navToiaaovv pa9f\azuis ciBovrai, dj 
<rt)vcpdpwp£i» airavr£j npoBvpws £ij ttjv zkSooiv tov Savpa* 
aiov tovtov avyypappaTOs tov Neou 'Aj/axdpo-£ojj. 

Hp£tj ovv ol vnoyzypappivoi SiXopzv zktzXzo-zi. npo9vp0S 
ln)v peTadpaaiv tov BiSAiod pi Trjv /card to cvvutov hpi* 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



81 



*aXi> (ppdcriv rrjs vvv xa9' fipas bpiXias, xal zko6vtls tovto 
sit tvttov, StXopzv to xaXXtoiriazi pi rovi yzoypatpixovs 
r.ivaxas pi d-Au$ Vwpa'Cxds Xz\zis iyKZ\apaypzvovs cis 
(dixa pas ypappara, xpocTidivres 3, ri aXXo xp^o~ l , u ov * a i 
apfiootov tis tijv loTopiav. 

"O\ov to avyypaupa SzXzi y'zvti zis r6povs 6c36zxa *aru 
pipriciv r;7s 'IraA(«'7s txSdaeoJS. H Tiph bXov tov avyypdp- 
paros clvat <ptopivia ozxac^rj r»7j Biivveg Sta Ttjv vpno-drjxriv 
to5j/ yecoypapuciov ntvaxiov. 'O tpiXoyr.vtjS ovv ovv6popr)TTis 
vptirzi vd 7t\t]p(0(jTi tic, kiiOe r6pov iptoplvt eva xal Kap.avra- 
via zXxoai rfji Bizvvrjs, xal tovto %a>/>i? xappiav irpooooiv, 
dXX' evOis birov QtXci iro> irapaSodTj b Tupos Tvirwpcvos xal 
oUpivos. 

'"Eppajpzvoi xal tv&aipovts ciaSiuoire, 'EXXtivojv vaTSzs. 
Trjs ipCTZpas dyaTrrjs z^TipTj)pzvixi, 

'lu)<ivv)]S MappapoToi'prji. 

Arififirpios Bcvtiprjs. 

"LitvpiSuv HozSctos. 
'Ev TpiscTih), tij wparrg 'OxTioSpiov, 1799. 



THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 



y Sl ITATE'PA pas bnov cleat eis tovs ovpavovs, as uyiaa. 
0jJ to b*vopd (tov. Aj cXdrj r\ (3a.Gi.Xzia aov. Aj yzvr) to $cXr\pd 
aov, xaOchs tis tov oipavuv, (r£j| ical tig t)<v yi\v. To \paipi 
fiat to xaQrjuzptvov, cog pas to af\pzpov. Kai rvyxupfiai 
pas tii XPtl P a S> *a&£s xal cpeTs o~v\xoipovpzv tovs xpco- 
<f>siX(.Tas pas. Kai pf\v pas <pipz tis irztpaapdv, dXXd zXzv- 
dkpoiai pas a-ro Toy rrovripov. "On iStxfj gov clvat fj (Jacn- 
Xcia c~z, h Sivapir;, xal f) Jdfa, tis tovs aiojvas. 'Apfjv. 

IN GREEK. 

IIA'TEP fiptiv, b iv tois ovpavols, dyiaaOoTO) to Spo pa 
gov. 'EXBctco r, (iaaiXcia cov ycvrjO^roj to SiXiju't c ,-■, U{ 
iv ovpavw, xal ztti r.}j y?s. Tdv dpTov iipdv tov brilitrtm 
ids flpiv afipzoov. Kai otitis hpTv tu b^aX/ipaTa hp'^v, a>s 
rat rjpzis dipizpev rotj dipe-Xirais hp&v. Kai pn eiocviy>crj<. 
fipas tis nzipaapov, dXXd pvcat f]pds and tov vovruwv. 
*Oti gov zcttIv i) Sao-iXiia, xal fj dviapis, xal f) So^a, tii 
rots aiuivas. 



G. 




CANTO III. 



l. 



In "pi-ide of place" here last the eagle fur. 
Stanza xv'iii.'line -5. 
'Pride of place" is a term of fulconrv, and 
means the highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth, ftc 

" An Eagle towering in his prt le of pUce 
Wax by a mousing 0»M hawkevi at uiJ killtil. 



Such as Harmodius dreic on Athmu* tyrant lord. 
Stanza xx. line 9. 

See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogi- 
ton. — The bost English translation is in Eland's 
Anthology, by Mr. Denman. 

" With myrtle my iwonl will I wp nthe," Sec 

3. 
And all went merry as a marriaye-bell. 

Stanza xxi. line 8. 
On the night previous to the action, it is said 
that a ball was given at Brussels. 

4,5. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rintjs in each chnis- 
man's ears* Stanza xxvi. line 9. 

Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, 
the " gentle Lochiel" of the " forty- five."' 
11 



And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 
Stanza xxvii. line 1. 

The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a rem- 
nant of the " forest of Ardennes," famous in 
Boiardo's Orlando, and immortal in Shakspeare's 
"As You Like It." It is also celebrated in Tacitus 
as being the spot of successful defence by the Ger- 
mans against the Roman encroachments.— I have 
ventured to adopt the name connected with nobler 
associations than those of mere slaughter. 

7. 
/ tum'd from all she brought, to those she could 
not bring. Stanza xxx. line 9. 

My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field 
seemed intelligent and accurate. The place where 
Major Howard fell was not far from two tall and 
jolitary trees (there was a third cut down or shivered 
" attle) which stand a few yards from each 
a pathway's side. — Beneath these he died 
buried. The body has since been removed 
land. A small hollo>v for the present marks 
where it lay, but will probably soon be effaced ; the 
plough has been upon it, and' the grain is. 

After pointing out the different spots where 
Picton and other gallant men had perished, the 
guide said, "here Major Howard lay; I was near 
him when wounded." I told him my relationship, 
and he seemed then still more anxious to point out 
the particular spot and circumstances. The place 
is one of the most marked in the field from the 
peculiarity of the two trees above mentioned. 

I went on horseback twice over the field, com- 
paring it with my recollection of similar scenes. 
As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the 
scene of some great action, though this may be 
mere imagination : I have viewed with attention 
those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Cha?ro- 
nea, and Marathon ; and the field around Mont St. 
Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but a 
better cause, and that indefinable but impressive 
halo which the lapse of ages throws around a cel- 
ebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or all ot 
these, except perhaps the last mentioned". 

8. 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore. 

Stanza xxxiv. line 6. 

The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake 
Asphaltes were said to be fair without, and within 
ashes. — Vide Tacitus, Histor. 1, 5, 1. 



For sceptcred cynics earth icercfar too wide a den. 
•za xli. line last. 

The great error of Napoleon, "if we have writ 
our annals true," was a continued obtrusion on 
mankind of his want of all community of f 
or with them; perhaps i re to human 

vanity than the active cruelty of more trembling 
and suspicious tyranny. 

Such were his speeches to public assemblies as 
well as individuals ; and the single expression which 
he is said to haw osed OB returning to Paris after 
[an winter I I hii army, rubbing 

his hands over a I • r than 

Moscow," would pr< • re favor from 

hia canse than the <h>truction and reverses which 
led to the remark. 

What want these outlaws conquerors should 

/.d xlviii. lin<' 6. 

•• Wtvit wiuiti that ItnaTe 
That a king shouUl In* 

was King James's question on meeting Johnny 
Armstrong and his followers in full accoutrements. 
— ^ee the Ballad. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 






82 



11. 



The castle of Drachenfels steads 
Jnmit of "the seven Mountains, 



ThecastledcragofDrac^.^^ 

on the highest 
over the Rhine 

couSe of the Rhine on both sides is very great, and 
their situations remarkably beautitul. 

The monument of the young and lame nted^*! 
eral Marceau (killed by a rifle ball at Altc^ 
on the last day of the fourth year of th 
republic) still remains as described. 

The inscriptions on his monument are rather too 
long, and not required: his name was enough; 
_ B ' , i __j %,„.. lamias .nrhmrcd : botn 



whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of £•»*** 
rendered them in great request. Of ™*« * e »cs 
ventured to bring away as much as maj hive made 
i quarter of a hero, for which the sole excuse i*, 
thatlf I had not, the next passer by might h.w 
erted them to worse uses than 



nervertca mem iu »ua»v- ""~" ,, 
Reservation for which I intend for them. 



the care-Nil 



preserv 



15. 



his death was 



France adored, and her enemies admired 
wept over him.-His funeral was attended by the 
generals and detachments from botn armies In 
the same grave General Hoche is interred, a gal an 
o in every sense of the word; but though 
he distinguished himself greatly m battle, he had 
not the good fortune to die there- ' 
attended bv suspicions ol poison. 

A scperate monument (not over 
is buried bv MaivMu's) » raised for him near 
Andernach,* opposite to which one _ of his most 
memorable exploits was performed, m throwing a 
bridge to an island on the Rhine. The shape and 
style are different from that of Marceau's, and the 
inscription more simple and pleasing. 

" The Army of the Sambre and Meuse 

to its Commander in Chief 

lloche." 

This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was 
esteemed among the first of France's earlier gen- 
erals before Bonaparte monopolized her triumphs. 
He was the destined commander of the invading 
army of Ireland. 

J 13. 

Here Ehrcnbreitstcin , with her shatter' d wall. 
Stanza lviii. line 1. 

Ehrcnbreitstein, i. e. "the broad stone of Honor," 
one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was 
dismantled and blown up by the French at the 
truce of Leoben. — It had been and could only be 
reduced bv famine or treachery. It yielded to the 
former, aided by surprise. After having seen the 
fortifications of" Gibraltar and Malta, it did not 
BMch strike by comparison, but the situation is 
commanding. "General Marceau besieged it in vain 
for some time, and I slept in a room where I was 
ihown a window at which he was said to have been 
■tar, I ing the progress of the siege by 

moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below it. 



LevelVd Aventicum hath streic'd her subject land*. 
-^ Stanza lxv. line last. 

Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital 
of Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 

16. 

ind held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 

dusL Stanza lxvi. line last. 

Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess died 

soon afteifcfm endeavor to save her father, con- 

#fodeath as a traitor by Aulius Csecma. 

pitaph was discovered many years ago;— it is 

Julia Alpinula 

Hie jaceo 

Infelicis patris, infelix proles 

Dese Aventia? Sacerdos ; 

Exorare patris necem non potui 

Male mori in fatis ille erat. 

Yixi annos xxm. 




I know of no human composition so effecting as 

I this, nor a history of deeper interest These are 

his body, which the names and actions which ought not to perish 

fj him norland to which we turn with a true and healthy 

tenderness, from the wretched and glittering detail 

of a confused mass of conquests and battles, with 

which the mind is roused for a time to a false and 

feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at_ length 

with all the nausea consequent on sucii intoxication. 

17. 
In the suti's face, like yonder Alpine snmo. 

Stanza lxvii. line 8. 

This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc, (June 
3, 1816,) which even at this distance dazzles mine. 

(July 20th.) I this day observed for some time 
the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont 
Argentierre in the calm of the lake, which I was 
crossing in my boat ; the distance of these moun- 
tains from their mirror is sixty miles. 

18. 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. 

Stanza lxxi. line 3. 

The color of the Rhone at Geneva is Mue, to a 
depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in 
water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean 
and Archipelago. 

19. 

Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek posscst. 

Stanza lxxix. line las^. 

This refers to the account in his "Confessions" 

of his passion for the Countess d'Houdetot, (the 

mistress of St. Lambert,) and his long walk every 

morning for the sake of the single kiss which was 

the common salutation of French acquaintance. — 

Rousseau's description of his feelings on this occa- 

sion may be considered as the most passionate, yet 

The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of not i mpure description and expression of love that 

bones diminished to a small number by the Bur- ever kindled into words ; which after all must be 

gundian legion in the service of France, who f e i t) f rom t h e ; r verv f orce> t0 b e inadequate to the 

anxiously effaced this record of their ancestors' less delineation— a painting can give no sufficient idea 



11. 
Untepulchred they roam'd, and .shriek' 'd each wander- 
ing ghost. Stanza lxiii. line last. 



successful invasions. A few still remain, notwith 
standing the pains taken by the Burgundians for 
ages, (all who passed that way removing a bone to 
their own country,) nnd the less justifiable larcenies 
of the Swiss postillions, who carried them off to 
sell for knife-handles, a purpose for which the 



of the ocean. 



9Q. 



Of earth-6' er gazing mountains. 

Stanza xci. line 3. 

It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



and impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of 
Christianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but 
»n the Mount. 

To waive the question of devotion, and turn to 
human eloquence,— the most effectual and splendid 
specimens were not pronounced within walls. 
Demosthenes addressed the public and popular 
assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this 
added to their effect on the mifid of both orator 
and hearers, may be conceived from the difference 
between what we read of the emotions then and 
there produced, and those we ourselves experience 
in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing to 
read the Iliad at Sigocum and on the tumuli, or by 
the springs with Mount Ida above, and the plain 
and river and Archipelago around you ; and another 
to trim your taper over it in a snug library — this I 
know. 

Were the early and rapid progress of what is 
called Methodism to be attributed to any cause 
beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement 
faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I 
presume neither to canvass nor to question) I 
should venture to ascribe it to the practice of 
preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and 
extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. 

The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at 
least in the lower orders) is most sincere, and 
therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat their 
prescribed orisons and prayers, wherever they may 
be at the stated hours — of course frequently in the 
open air, kneeling upon a light mat, (which they 
carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as re- 
quired:) the ceremony lasts some minutes, during 
which they are totally absorbed, and only living in 
their supplication : nothing can disturb them. On 
me the simple and entire sincerity of these men, 
and the spirit which appeared to be within and 
upon them, made a far greater impression than any 
general rite which was ever performed in places of 
worship, of which I have seen those of almost every 
persuasion under the sun ; including most of our 
own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the 
Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Ma- 
hometan. Many of the negroes, of whom there 
are numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, 
and have free exercise of their belief and its rites : 
some of these I had a distant view of at Patras, 
aud from what I could make out of them, the} 
appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and 
not very agreeable to a spectator. 

21. 
The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh night. 
Stanza xcii. line 1. 
The thunder-storm to which these lines refer 
occurred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. 
I have seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of 
Chimari several more terrible, but none more 
beautiful. 

22. 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought. 
Stanza xcix. line o. 

Rousseau's Heloise, Lettre 17, part 4, no1 
" Cesmontagnes sont si hautcs qu'une demi-heij 
apres le soleil couche, leurs sommets sont enc^ 
eclaires de ses rayons ; dont le rouge forme sur 
cimes blanches tine belle cauleur de rose qu' 
appercoit de fori loir 



83 

Lcs Confessions, livre 



This applies 
over Mcillerie. 

" J'allai a Ve 
jours que j'y res< 
cette ville un ai 
voyages, let qui 
mon roman. J 
du gout et qui so 




particularly to the 

er a la Clef, et pcudanj 

s voir personne, je pri4 

ui m'a suivi bans tou\ 

it etablir enfiii les h<i 

volontiers a ceux qi 

nsibles ; allez a Vevai — \\ 



mais ne les y chcrchez pas." 
iv. page 306, Lyons ed. 1796. 

Iu July, IS!' | voyage round the Lake 

of Geneva; and as far as my own observations have 
led me, in a not uninterested nor inattenth • 
of all the scenes most celebrated by 
his " Iloioise," I can safely tar, that in this there 
is no exaggeration. It would be difficult 
Clarens, (with the seenos around it, Vcvay, Chillon, 
Bdveret, St. Gingo, Meilleric, Eivan," and the 
entrances of the Rhone,) without being forcibly 
struck with its peculiar adaptation to 
and events with which it has been peopled. But 
this is not all : the feeling with which all around 
Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meilleric, is 
invested, is of a still higher and more comprehen- 
sive order than the mere sympathy with individual 
passion ; it is a sense of the existence of love in its 
most extended and sublime capacity, and of our 
own participation of its good and of its glorv : it is 
the great principle of the universe, which is there 
more condensed, but not less manifested : and of 
which, though knowing ourselves a part, we lose 
our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the 
whole. 

If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the 
same associations would not less have belonged to 
such scenes. He has added to the interest of his 
works by their adoption ; he has shown his sense 
of their beauty by the selection; but they have 
done that for him which no human being could do 
for them. 

I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to 
sail from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) 
to St. Gingo during a lake storm, which addeu to 
the magnificence of all around, although occasion- 
ally accompanied bv danger to the boat, which was 
small and overloaded. It was over this very part 
of the lake that Rousseau has driven the boat of 
St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to Meillerie for 
shelter during a tempest. 

On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that 
the wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down 
some fine old chestnut trees on the lower part of 
the mountains. 

On the opposite height of Clarens is a chateau. 
The hills are covered with vineyards, and inter- 
spersed with some small but beautiful woods ; one 
of these was named the " Bosquet de Julie," and it 
is remarkable that, though long ago cut down by 
the brutal selfishness of the monks of St. Bernard, 
(to whom the land appertained,) that the ground 
might be enclosed into a vineyard for the miserable 
drones of an exiled superstition, the inhabitants of 
Clarens still point out the spot where its trees 
stood, calling it by the name which consecrated and 
survived them. 

Rousseau has not been particulany fortunate in 
the preservation of the " local habitations " he hag 
given to "airy nothings." The Prior of Great St. 
Bernard has cut down some of his woods for t 
of a few casks of wine, and Bonaparf 
a part of the rocks of Meilleric in impro\. 
road to Simplon. The road is an excellent < i 
I cannot quite agree with a remark which I heard 
made, that " La' route vaut miscux que les sou- 
venirs." 

23. 



Lausarttic 
Voltaire and Gibbon 



and Ftrncy ! ye have been the abodes. 
/.a cv. line 1. 



24. 



Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdues. 
Stanza cxiii. fine last. 



le pays, examinez les sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, 
et dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pom- 



pas 
une Jelie, poui une Claire et pour un St. Preux ; 



Tor Baiiquu'i iMtM bare \JOed my iuuhI 

25. 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve. 
Stanza cxiv. line 7 



84 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



It is said by Rochefoucault that « there is always 
8 ome\hinginthe misfortunes of men's best friends 
not displeasing to them. 



CANTO IV. 



1 stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on each hand. 

Stanza i. lines 1 and 2. 

The communication between the ducal palace 

and the prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or 

covered gallon-, high above the water, and divided 

by a stone wall into a passage and a cell. The 

state dungeons, called "pozzi," or wells, were sunk 

in the thick walls of the palace ; and the prisoner 

when taken out to die was conducted across the 

gallon to the other side, and being then led back 

into the other compartment, or cell, upon the bridge, 

was there strangled. The low portal through which 

the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled 

up ; but the passage is still open, and is still known 

bv the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi 

are under the flooring of the chamber at the foot of 

the bridge. They wore formerly twelve, but on the 

first arrival of the French, the Venetians hastily 

blocked or broke up the deeper of these dungeons. 

You may still, however, descend by a trapdoor, 

and crawl down through holes, half choked by 

rubbish, to the depth of two stories below the first 

If you arc in want of consolation for the 

extinction of patrician power, perhaps you may 

find it there ; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into 

the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the 

places of confiement themselves are totally dark. 

A small hole in the wall admitted the damp air of 

the passages, and served for the introduction of the 

id. A wooden pallet, raised a foot 

from the ground, was the only furniture. The 

conductors tell you that a light was not allowed, 

The cells are about five paces in length, two and a 

half in width, and seven feet in height. They are 

directly beneath one another, and respiration is 

somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only one 

prisoner was found when the republicans descended 

into those hideous recesses, and he is said to have 

been confined sixteen years. But the inmates of 

the dungeons beneath had left traces of their 

repentance, or of their despair, which are still 

visible, and may perhaps owe something to recent 

ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to have 

offended against, and others to have belonged to, 

the sacred body, not only from their signatures, 

but from the churches and belfries which they have 

scratched upon the walls. The reader may not 

object 1 imen of the records prompted by 

io torririe a solitude. As nearly as Jhey could be 

by more than one pencil," three of them are 

tie a« f jilows : 

1. 

NON TI FIDAR AD ALCUNO PIMA C TACI 
8E FEQIR VUOI DE SPIONI INSIDIE e LACCI 
IL FENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA OIOVA 
MA EEN DI VALOR TVO LA VERA PR0VA 

1607. ADI 2. GENARO. EULRE 
TENTO I»' LA Jil.STir.MMA p' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UH MORTO 

iacomo . GRirrr . scrisse 



V KLAR POCHO et 
NEGARE PRONTO et 
XTS PENSAR AL FINE PVO DARE LV VITA 

A no: altri meschini 

1605 



EGO IOHN BAPTISTA AD 
ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS 



DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIO 

DE CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDARO 10 

A 

TA H A NA 

V. LA S . C . K . R. 

The copyist has followed, not corrected the 
solecisms ; some of which are however not quite sc 
decided, since the letters were evidently scratched 
in the dark. It only need be observed, bestemmia 
and mangiar may be read in the first inscription, 
which was probably written by a prisoner confined 
for some act of impiety committed at a funeral : 
that Cortellarius is the name of a parish on terra 
firma, near the sea ; and that the_ last initials 
evidently are put for Viva la santa Chiesa Kattolica 
Romana. 

2. 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean. 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers. 

Stanza ii. lines 1 and 2. 

An old writer, describing the appearance _ ot 
Venice, has made use of the above image, which 
would not be poetical were it not true. 

" Quo fit ut qui superne urbem contempletur, tur- 
mtam telluris imaginem medio Oceano fguratam se 
putet inspicere." * 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 

Stanza iii. line 1. 

The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alter- 
nate stanzas from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with 
the independence of Venice. Editions of the poem, 
with the original on one column, and the Venetian 
variations on the other, as sung by the boatmen, 
were once common, and are still to be found. The 
following extract will serve to show the difference 
between the Tuscan epic and the " Canta alia 
Barcariola." 

ORIGINAL. 

Canto 1' arme pietose, e '1 capitano 
Che '1 gran Sepolcro liber6 di Cristo, 

Molto egli opro col senno, e con la mano 
Molto soffri nel glorioso acquisto ; 

E in van V Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vane 
S' arm6 d' Asia, e di Libia ii popol misto, 

Che il Ciel gli die favore, esotto a i Santi 

Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 

VENETIAN. 

L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 
E de GofYredo la immortal braura 

Che al In '1 ha libera co strassia, e dogia 
Del nostro buon Gesu la Sepoltura 

De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 
Missier Pluton non F ha bu mai paura : 

Dio I ha agiuta, e '1 compagni sparpagnai 

Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 

Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take 
up and continue a stanza of their once familiar 
bard. 

On the 7th of last January, the author of Childe 
Harold, and another Englishman, the writer of this 
notice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of 
whom was a carpenter, and the other a gondolier. 
The former placed himself at the prow, the latter 
at the stern of the boat. A little after leaving the 
quay of the Piazzetta, thev began to sing, and 
continued their exercise until^we arrived at the 
island. They gave us, amongst other essays, the 
death of Clorinda, and the palace of Armida ; and 



Murcl Antonu Sabelli de Venetsc Urbis situ narratio, edit. Taurin. 1537 
i. fol. 308. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



did not sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. 
The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer of 
the two, and was frequently obliged to prompt his 
companion, told us that he could translate the 
original. He added, that he could sing almost 
three hundred stanzas, but had not spirits (morb 



85 



ing up and down between them botb, so as always 
to leave him who was to begin his part. I frequent- 
ly stood still and hearkened to the one and to the 
other. 

Here the scene was properly introduced. The 



tnree nunorea stanzas but bad not spirits (morbin strong declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking 
Z^lVT^^fJ': *?£LZS> 5.? £* 2H* -* the ~ h» te> -ul called forth the at? 



what he already knew : a man must have idle time 
on his hands to acquire, or to repeat, and, said the 
poor fellow, "look at my clothes and at me ; I am 
starving." This speech was more affecting than 
his performance, which habit alone can make 
attractive. The recitative was shrill, screaming, 
and monotonous, and the gondolier behind assisted 
his voice by holding his hand to one side of his 
mouth. The carpenter used a quiet action, which 
he evidently endeavored to restrain; but was too 
much interested in his subject altogether to repress. 
From these men we learnt that singing is not con- 
fined to the gondoliers, and that, although the 
chant is seldom, if ever, voluntary, there are still 
several amongst the lower classes who are acquainted 
with a few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the per- 
formers to row and sing at the same time. Al- 
though the verses of the Jerusalem are no longer 
casually heard, there is yet much music upon the 
Venetian canals ; and upon holydavs, those strang- 
ers who are not near or informed enough to dis- 
tinguish the words, may fancy that many of the 
gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. 
The writer of some remarks which appeared in the 
Curiosities of Literature, must excuse his being 
twice quoted; for, with the exception of some 
phrases a little too ambitious and extravagant, he 
has furnished a very exact, as well as agreeable, 
description. 

" In Venice, the gondoliers know by heart long 
passages from Ariosto and Tasso, and "often chant 
them with a peculiar melodv. But this talent 
seems at present on the decline :— at least, after 
taking some pains, I could find no more than two 
persons who delivered to rne in this way a passage 
from Tasso. I must add, that the late Mr. Berry 
once chanted to me a passage from Tasso, in the 
manner, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. 

"There are always two concerned, who alternate- 
ly sing the strophes. We know the melody event- 
ually by Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed ; it 
has properly no melodious movement, and is a sort 
of medium between the canto fermo and the canto 
figurato ; it approaches to the former by recitativical 
declamation, and to the latter by passages and course, 
by which one syllable is detained and embellished. 

" I entered a gondola by moonlight: one singer 
placed himself forwards and the other aft, and thus 
proceeded to St. Georgio. One began the song; 
when he had ended his strophe, the other took up 
the lay, and so continued the song alternately. 
Throughout the whole of it, the same notes invari- 
ably returned, but, according to the subject matter 
of the strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller 
stress, sometimes on one, and sometimes on another 
note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the 
whole strophe as the object of the poem altered. 

" On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse 1 
and screaming : they seemed, in the manner of all | 
rude uncivilized men, to make the excellency of j 
their singing in the force of their voice : one seem- { 
ed desirous of conquering the other by the strength 
of his lungs ; and so far from receiving delight from 
this scene, (shut up as I was in the box of the gen- 
dola,) I found myself in a very unpleasant situation. 
" My companion, to whom I communicated this 
circumstance, being very desirous to keep up the 
credit of his countrymen, assured me that this sing- 
ing was very delightful when heard at a distance. 
Accordingly we got out upon the shore, leaving one 
of the singers in the gondola, while the other went 
to the distance of some hundred paces. They now 
began to sing against one another, and I kept walk- 



tention ; the quickly succeeding transitions which 
necessarily required to be sung in a lower tone, 
seemed like plaintive strains succeeding the vocif- 
erations of emotion or of pain. The other, who 
listened attentively, immediately began where the 
former left off, answering him in milder or more 
vehement notes, according as the purport of the 
strophe required. The sleepy canals, the loftv 
buildings, the splendor of the moon, the deep shad- 
ows of the few gondolas that moved like spirits 
hither and thither, increased the striking pecu- 
liarity of the scene ; and amidst all these Circum- 
stances, it was easy to confess the character of this 
wonderful harmony. 

'* It suits perfectly well with an idle, solitary mari- 
ner, lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of 
these canals, waiting for his company, or for a fare, 
the tiresomeness of which situation is somewhat 
alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he has 
in memory. He often raises his voice as loud as he 
can, which extends itself to a vast distance over the 
tranquil mirror, and as all is still around, he is, as 
it were, in a solitude in the midst of a large and 
populous town. Here is no rattling of carriages, no 
noise of foot passengers ; a silent gondola glides 
now and then by him, of which the splashings of 
the oars are scarcely to be heard. 

"At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly 
unknown to him. Melody and verse immediately 
attach the two strangers : he becomes the respon- 
sive echo to the former, and exerts himself to be 
heard as he had heard the other. By a tacit con- 
vention they alternate verse for verse ; though the 
song should last the whole night through, they en- 
tertain themselves without fatigue : the hearers, 
who are passing between the two, take part in the 
amusement. 

" This vocal performance sounds best at a great 
distance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it 
only fulfils its design in the sentiment of remote- 
ness. It is plaintive but not dismal in its sound, 
and at times it is scarcely possible to refrain from 
tears. My companion, who otherwise was not a 
very delicately organized person, said quite unex- 
pectedly : ' c singolare come quel canto inteneriscc, 
e molto pin quando lo cantano meglio.' 

" I was told that the women of Libo, the long 
row of islands that divides the Adriatic from the 
LagOffhs,* particularly the women of the extreme 
districts of Malamocco and Palestrina, staff in like 
manner the works of Tasso to these and similar 
tunes. 

"They have the custom, when their husbands aio 
fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the 
evenings, and vociferate : continue 

to do so with great violence, till each of them can 
distinguish the responses of her own husband at a 
distance."! . 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all 
I of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful 
sons of Italy. The city itself can occasionally fur- 
nish respectable audiences for two and even three 
opera-houses at a time ; and there are few events in 
private life that do not call forth a printed and cir- 
culated sonnet. I ! ■ ian or a L.wver take 
his degree, or a clergyman preach his maiden ser- 
mon, has a surgeon performed an operation, would 
a harlequin announce his departure or his benefit, 
are you to be congratulated on a marriage, or a 



• The writer meant Lido, which it not a long row of ialand*, hut a loaf 
bland : Hthu, the shore. 

t Curioaitieaof Literature, toL i. p. 15«, edit. 1807; a; / Appendix xad*. 
to Black 'i Life of Taaao. 



86 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



birth, or a lawsuit, the Muses are invoked to fur- 
nish the same number of syllables, and the individ- 
ual triumphs blaze abroad in virgin white or party- 
colored Placards on half the corners of the capital. 
- 1 curtesy of a favorite " prima donna brings 
down a shower of these poetical tributes from those 
upper regions, from winch, in our theatres, nothing 
but cupias and snow-storms are accustomed to de- 
scend. There is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, 
which, in its common course, is varied with those 
changes so re commendable to fiction, 
out so different from the sober monotony of north- 
ern existence ; amusements arc raised into duties, 
duties are softened into amusements, and every ob- 
ject being considered as equally making a part of 
the business of life, is announced and performed 
with the same earnest indifference and gay assidu- 
itv. The Venetian gazette constantly closes its 
columns with the following triple advertisement. 

Outrode. 



Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the 
church of St. 



Theatres. 

St. Moses, opera. 

St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 

St. Luke, repose. 

When it is recollected what the Catholics believe 
their consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think 
it worthy of a more respectable niche than between 
poetry and the play-house. 



Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. 

Stanza x. line 5. 
The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the 
itrangers who praised the memory of her son. 

5. 

his lion ichere he stood 

Stand, Stanza xi. line 5. 

The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the 
Invalides but the gospel which" supported the paw 
that is now on a level with the other foot. The 
horses also are returned to the ill-chosen spot 
whence they set out, and are, as before, half hidden 
under the porch of St. Mark's church. 

Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been 
satisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts 
of Erizzo and Xanctti, and lastly, of the Count Le 
opold Cicognara, would have given them a Roman 
extraction, and a pedigree not more ancient than 
the reign of Nero. But M. de Schlegel stepped in 
to teach the Venetians the value of their own treas- 
ures, and a Greek vindicated, at last and for ever, 
the pretension of his countrymen to this noble pro- 
duction.* Mr. Mustoxidi has not been left without 
a reply ; but, as vet, he has received no answer. It 
should seem that the horses are irrevocably Chian, 
and were transferred to Constantinople by Theodo- 
•ius. Lapidary writing is a favorite play of the 
Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than 
one of their literary characters. One of the best 
specimens of Bodoui's typography is a respectable 
volume of inscriptions, all written by his friend Pac- 
ciaudi. Several were prepared for the recovered 
horses. It is to be hoped the best was not selected, 
when the following words were ranged in gold let- 
ters above the cathedral porch. 



QV ATCOR • EQT70RTTM ■ SIGN A A ' ' VENETIS * BY 
ZANTIO * CAPTA ' AD ■ TEMP * D ' MAR ' A ' R * S 
MCCIV * POSITA ' Q.VM ' HOSTILIS ' CTJPIDITA8 " A * 
MDCCIIIC ' ABSTULERAT ' FRANC ' I - IMP ' PACIS * 
ORBI * DAT.E • THOriI.i:UM • A * MDCCCXV ' VICTOR* 
REDUXIT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be 
permitted to observe, that the injustice of the Ven- 
etians in transporting the horses from Constantino- 
ple was at least equal to that of the French in car- 
rying them to Paris, and that it would have been 
more prudent to have avoided all allusions to either 
robbery. An apostolic prince should, perhaps, have 
objected to affixing over the principal entrance of 
a metropolitan church an inscription having a refer- 
ence to any other triumphs than those of religion. 
Nothing less than the pacification of the world can 
excuse such a solecism. 



The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns— 

An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt. 
Stanza xii. lines 1 and 2. 

After many vain attempts on the part of the Ital- 
ians entirely to throw off the yoke of Frederic Bar- 
barossa, and as fruitless attempts of the emperor to 
make himself absolute master throughout the whole 
of his Cisalpine dominions, the bloody struggles of 
four and twenty years were happily brought to 
a close in the city of Venice. The articles of a 
treaty had been previously agreed upon between 
Pope Alexander III. and Barbarossa, and the for- 
mer having received a safe conduct, had already ar- 
rived at Venice from Ferrara, in company with the 
ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the consuls 
of the Lombard league. There still remained, how- 
ever, many points to adjust, and for several days 
the peace was believed to be impracticable. At this 
juncture it was suddenly reported that the Emperor 
had arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the 
capital. The Venetians rose tumultuously, and in- 
sisted upon immediately conducting him to the city. 
The Lombards took the alarm, and departed towards 
Treviso. The Pope himself was apprehensive of 
some disaster if Frederic should suddenly advance 
upon him, but was reassured by the prudence and 
address of Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Several em- 
bassies passed between Chioza and the capital, until, 
at last, the Emperor relaxing somewhat of his pre- 
tensions, "laid aside his leonine ferocity, and put 
on the mildness of the lamb." * 

_ On Saturday, the 23d of July, in the year 1177, 
six Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great 
pomp, from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile 
from Venice. Early the next morning the Pope, 
accompanied by the Sicilian ambassadors, and by 
the envoys of Lombardy, whom he had recalled 
from the main land, together with a great 
concourse of people, repaired from the patri- 
archal palace to St. Mark's church, and solemnly 
absolved the Emperor and his partisans from the 
excommunication pronounced against him. The 
Chancellor of the Empire, on the part of his mas- 
ter, renounced the anti-popes and their schismatic 
adherents. Immediately the Doge, with a great 
suite both of the clergy and laity, got on board the 
galleys, and waiting on Frederic, rowed him in 
mighty state from the Lido to the capital. The 
i Emperor descended from the galley at the quay of 
I the Piazetta. The Doge, the patriarch, his bish- 
I ops and clergy, and the people of Venice with their 
(crosses and their standards, marched in solemn pro- 
, cession before him to the church of Saint Mark. 
Alexander was seated before the vestibule of the 
basilica, attended by his bishops and cardinals, by 



AnJrea Muaoxidi CoitW. P«Jua per Bettonie compag. . . 1S16. 



duibus a^ditis, impcrator, operante co, qui corda principum sicut vuK 
et quando vult humiliter inclinat, Ieonina feritate deposita, ovinam man- 
roetudmem indut." Romualdi Salernitani Chronicon. apud Script. Rrr 
"r. VII. p. 229. 



tat. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



thfi »atri*4«^ of Aquileja, by the archbishops and 
bfa*L ps *» Jxmibardy, all of them in state, and 
clot vad m their church robes. Frederic ap- 
pro&Jiei— 'moved by the Holy Spirit, venerating 
the Ahu-.g\ty in the person of Alexander, laying 
asids hin rrnperial dignity, and throwing off his 
mantle, Ce prostrated himself at full length at the 
feet ȣ -ihe P:>pe. Alexander, with tears in his 
eyes, raised Mm benignantly from the ground, 
kissed him, blessed him ; and immediately the 
Germans of the train sang, with a loud voice, '"We 
praise thee, O Lord.' The Emperor then taking 
the Pope by the right hand, led him to the church, 
and having received his benediction, returned to the 
ducal palace." * The ceremony of humiliation was 
repeated the next day. The Pope himself, at the 
request of Frederic, said mass at St. Mark's. The 
Emperor again laid aside his imperial mantle, and, 
taking a wand in his hand, officiated as verger, driv- 
ing the laity from the choir, and preceding the pon- 
tiff to the altar. Alexander, after reciting the gos- 
pel, preached to the people. The Emperor put 
himself close to the pulpit in the attitude of listen- 
ing ; and the pontiff, touched by this mark of his 
attention, for he knew that Frederic did not under- 
stand a word he said, commanded the patriarch of 
Aquileja to translate the Latin discourse into the 
German tongue. The creed was then chanted. 
Frederic made his oblation and kissed the Pope's 
feet, and, mass being over, led him by the hand to 
his white horse. He held the stirrup, and would 
have led the horse's rein to the water side, had not 
the Pope accepted of the inclination for the per- 
formance, and affectionately dismissed him with his 
benediction. Such is the substance of the account 
left by the archbishop of Salerno, who was present 
at the ceremony, and whose story is confirmed bv 
every subsequent narration. It would be not worth 
bo minute a record, were it not the triumph of lib- 
erty as well as of superstition. The states of Lom- 
bardy owed to it the confirmation of their privi- 
leges ; and Alexander had reason to thank the 



87 



tied together, and a drawbridge or ladder let down 
from their higher yards to the walls. The Doge wa. 
one of the first to ruah into the city. Then was 
completed, said the Venetians, the prophecy of the 
hrythnean sibyl "A gathering together of the 
powerful shall be made amidst the waves of the 
Adriatic, under a blind leader; they shall beset the 
goat— they shall profane Byzantium— they shall 
blacken her buildings— her spoils shall be dispersed; 
a new goat shall bleat, until they have measured 
half'-* 1UU ° Ver fifty " four fcet > n " ic inches > and a 
Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, hav 
mg reigned thirteen years, six months, and five 
davs, and was buried in the church of St. Sophia, 
at Constantinople. Strangely enough it must sound, 
that the name of the rebel apothecary who received 
the Doge's sword, and annihilated the ancient gov 
ernment, in 1796-7, was Dandolo. 

8. 

But it not Doria's menace come to pass t 
Are they not bridled? 

Stanza xiii. lines 3 and 4. 
After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the 
taking of Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by 
the united armament of the Genoese and Francesco 
da Carrara, Signor of Padua, the Venetians were 
reduced to the utmost despair. An embassy was 
sent to the conquerors with a blank sheet of paper, 
praying them to prescribe what terms they pleased, 
and leave to Venice only her independence. The 
Prince of Padua was inclined to listen to these pro- 
posals, but the Genoese, who after the victory at 
Pola, had shouted " to Venice, to Venice, and long 
live St. George," determined to annihilate their 
rival, and Peter Doria, their commander in chief, 
j returned this answer to the suppliants : " On God's 
I faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace 
| from the Signor of Padua, nor from our commune 
of Genoa, until we have first put a rein upon those 



Almighty, who had enabled an infirm, unarmed old ! unbridled ho ™es of yours, that are upon the porch of 



man, to subdue a terrible and potent sovereign.f 



Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
Th' octogenarian chief Byzantium's conquering foe. 
Stanza xii. lines 8 and 9. 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of the 
Highlander, Oh, for one hour of Dundee I Henry 
Dandolo, when elected Doge, in 1192, was eighty- 
five years of age. When he commanded the Vene- 
tians at the taking of Constantinople, he was con- 
sequently ninety-seven years old. At this age he 
annexed the fourth and a half of the whole empire 
of Romania,^ for so the Roman empire was then 
called, to the title and to the territories of the Ven- 
etian Doge. The three-eighths of this empire were 
preserved in the diplomas until the dukedom of Gi- 
ovanni Dolfino, who made use of the above desig- 
nation in the year 1357.$ 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in per- 
son : two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were 



• lt>X. p. 231. 

t fee the above 'ited Romuald of Salerno. In a second sermon which 
Alexander preached on the first day of August, before the Emperor, he 
compared Frederic to the prodigal son, and himself to the forgiving father. 

\ Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important a, ami has written Romani 
instead o( Romani*. Decline and Fall, cap. Ixi. note 9. But the title 
mcquired by Dandolo runs thus in the chronicle of his — inrwrtn, the Doge 
Andrew Dandolo. Ducali tiluto aididil, " Quarta pirtis el dimidia totius 
imperii Iiomattia." And. Dand. Chroiucon. cap. iii. pars xxxvii. ap. 
Script. Rer. ltal. torn. xii. page 331 And the Romania: is observed in the 
subsequent acts of the Doges. Indeed the continental possessions of the 
Greek empire in Europe were then generally known by the name of Romania, 
and that appellation is tt& seen in the maps of Turkey as applied to Thnoe. 

§ See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, ibkl. page 498. Mr. 
Gibbon appears not to include Dolfino, following Sanudo, wl«o says, " ii 
qual tiiolo si uso Jin aX Doge Giovanni Dolfino. See Viie de' DucU di 
Veaeoa. ap. Script. Rer. ItaL torn. xxii. 530. 641. 



your evangelist St. Mark. When we have 'bridled 
them, we shall keep you quiet. And this is the pleas- 
ure of us and of your commune. As for these my broth- 
ers of Genoa, that you have brought with you to give 
up to us, I will not have them : take them back ; for, 
in a few days hence, I shall come and let them out 
of prison myself, both these and all the others." f 
In fact, the Genoese did advance as far as Mala- 
mocco. within five miles of the capital ; but then- 
own danger and the pride of their enemies gave 
courage to the Venetians, who made prodigious ef- 
forts, and many individual sacrifices, all of them 
carefully recorded by their historians. Vettor Pi- 
sani was put at the head of thirty-four galleys. The 
Genoese broke up from Malamocco, and retired to 
Chioza in October ; but they again threatened Ven- 
ice, which was reduced to i At this 
time, the 1st of January, 1380, arrived Carlo Zeno, 
who had been cruising on the Genoese coast with 
fourteen galleys. The Venetians were now strong 
enough to besiege the Genoese. Doria was killed 
on the 22d of January by a stone bullet one hun- 
dred and ninety-five pounds weight, discharged 
from a bombard called the Trevisan. Chioza was 
then closely invested: five thousand auxiliaries, 
among whom were some English Condottieri, com- 
manded by one Captain Ceceho, joined the Vcne- 



" FUt potentium in aqais Adrialicis congrtga&o, crtco product, Hlr- 
cum ambigtnt, Byzantium prophanabunt, rvfifiria rUnigrabunt ; sp oMm 
dispergentur, Hircut notns balabU ueaue dum I.1V pedee ei IX pollicts, 
el semis pramensurati discurrant." [Chsonicon, ibid, pars xxxiv.] 

f " Alia ft di Dio, Signori Veneziani, non haverete mat pact dal SUg- 
nore di Pa.Jo>ia, ne dal nostro commune di Genova, te primierarrumtt non 
mettemo te briglit a quelli vostri cavalH s/renad, che tono tu la Rtza del 
Vottro Evangelista S. Marco. Tmbrtnati che gii hacrtmo, or faremt 
slare in buona pace. E ipiesta e la intrnzione nostra, e del vottro commune . 
Quesd miei fratelti Geneoosi che havrtc menad con rxn per domard, non k 
vogiio ; rimanetegli in dietro perche io intendo da qui a pochi giomi u e nm 
gli a ritcuoter, dalle lostrt pngioni, t loro f gtt altri." 



88 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The Genoese in their turn, prayed for con- 
ditions, but none were granted, until at last, they 
surrendered at discretion; and, on the 24th of June, 
te Doge Contarini made his triumphal entry 
into'Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen 
. many smaller vessels and barks, with all 
■mnition and arms, and outfit of the expedi- 
U into the hands of the conquerors, who, 
had it not been for the inexorable answer of Dona, 
would have gladlv reduced their dominion to the 
rity of Venice. An account of these transactions 
is found in a work called the War of Chioza, written 
I v Daniel Chinazzo, who was in Venice at the time.* 



The " Planter of the Lion." 

Stanza xiv. line 3. 

Plant the Lion— that is, the Lion of St. Mark, 
the standard of the republic, which is the origin of 
the word Pantaloon— Piantelone, Pantaleon, Pan- 
taloon. 

10. 

Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthralls. 

Stanza xv. lines 7 and 8. 
The population of Venice at the end of the seven- 
teenth century amounted to nearly two hundred 
thousand souls. At the last census, taken two years 
ago, it was no more than about one hundred and 
three thousand, and it diminishes daily. The com- 
ind the official employments, which were to 
be the unexhausted source of Venetian grandeur, 
have both expired.f Most of the patrician man- 
sions are deserted, and would gradually disappear, 
had not the government, alarmed by the demolition 
of seventy-two, during the last two years, expressly 
forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many rem- 
nants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered 
and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the 
banks of the Brenta, whose palladian palaces have 
sunk, or are sinking in the general decay. Of the 
14 gentiluomo Veneto," the name is still known, 
and that is all. He is but the shadow of his former 
self, but he is polite and kind. It surely may be 
pardoned to him if he is querulous. Whatever may 
nave been the vices of the republic, and although 
• iral term of its existence may be thought by 
foreigners to have arrived in the due course of mor- 
-nly one sentiment can be expected from the 
Venetians themselves. At no time were the sub- 
: the republic so unanimous in their resolu- 
tion to rally round the standard of St. Mark, as when 
it was for the last time unfurled ; and the cowardice 
and the treachery of the few patricians who recom- 
mended the fatal neutrality were confined to the per- 
sons of the traitors themselves. The present race can- 
not be thought to regret the loss of their aristocrat 
ical forms, and too despotic government ; they think 
only on their vanished independence. They pine 
■ the remembrance, and on this subject sus- 
pend for a moment their gay good humor. Venice 
may be said in the words of the Scripture, " to die 
daily; " and so general and so apparent is the de- 
cline, as to become painful to a stranger, not recon- 
ciled to the sight of a whole nation expiring as it 
were before his eyes. So artificial a creation, having 
lost that principle which called it into life and sup- 
ported its existence, must fall to pieces at once, and 
sink more rapidly f « it rose. The abhorrence of 
which drove the Venetians to the sea, has, 
since their disaster, forced them to the land, where 
they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd 
of dependants, and not present the humiliating 



pectacle of a whole nation loaded with recent 
chains. Their liveliness, their affability, and that 
happy indifference which constitution alone can 
give, for philosophy aspires to it in vain, have not 
sunk under circumstances ; but many peculiarities 
of costume and manner have by degrees been lost, 
and the nobles, with a pride common to all Italians 
who have been masters, have not been persuaded to 
parade their insignificance. That splendor which 
was a proof and a portion of their power, they 
would not degrade into the trappings of their sub- 
jection. They retired from the space which they 
had occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizens ; 
their continuance of which would have been a symp- 
tom of acquiescence, and an insult to those who 
suffered by the common misfortune. Those who 
remained in the degraded capital might be said 
rather to haunt the scenes of their departed power, 
than to live in them. The reflection, " who and 
what enthralls," will hardly bear a comment from 
one who is, nationally, the friend and the ally of the 
conqueror. It may, however, be allowed to say thus 
much, that to those who wish to recover their inde- 
pendence, any masters must be an object of de- 
testation ; and it may be safely foretold that this 
unprofitable aversion will not have been corrected 
before Venice shall have sunk into the slime of her 
choked canals. 

11. 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse ! 

Stanxa xvi. line 3. 
The story is told in Plutarch's life of Nicias. 

12. 

A)id Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shaksijeare 's art. 
Stanza xviii. line 5. 
Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; the 
Ghostseer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice ; 
Othello. 

13. 
But from their nature will the tannen grow 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter' d rocks. 

Stanza xx. lines 1 and 2. 
Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir pe- 
culiar to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky 
parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourish- 
ment can be found. On these spots it grows to a 
greater height than any other mountain tree. 

14. 
A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven. 

Stanza xxviii. lines 1 and 2. 
The above description may seem fantastical or 
exaggerated to those who have never seen an Orien- 
tal or an Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly 
sufficient delineation of an August evening (the 
eighteenth) as contemplated in one of many rides 
along the banks of the Brenta near La Mira. 

15. 

t J Y? t ® r ' in 9 Me tree which bears his lady's name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
Stanza xxx. lines 8 and 9. 
Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, 
we now know as little of Laura as ever.* The dis- 
coveries of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his 
sneers can no longer instruct or amuse.f We must 
not, however, think that these memoirs are as 
much a romance as Belisarius or the Incas, although 



pp. 899 to 804. 

t" NooouUorum h nobilitate rmmenw .urn ope*, adeo ut rix astimari 
po-.nl: id quod triUa e reb-» oritur, par.imo.da, eominereio, atque riz 
ndomenli^q.,. h*y*. percipiunt, qu* hanc ob cauaam diuturna fore 
awdm."— See de Prwcrpatibua Italia, Tractatua edit. 16J1. 



See an Historical and Critical Essay on the Life and Character of 
Petrarch; and a Dissertation on an Historical Hypothesis of the Abbe de 
Sade: the first appeared about the year 1784; the other is inserted in tha 
fourth rolurne of the Transaction, of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and 
both have been incorporated into a work, published under the first title hr 
Ballantyne in 1810. 

t Memoires pour la Vie di Petrarque. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



89 



we are told so by Dr. Beattie, a great name, but a 
little authority.* His "labor" has not been in 
vain, notwithstanding his "love" has, like most 
other passions, made him ridiculous. f The hypoth- 
esis which overpowered the struggling Italians, and 
carried along less interested critics in its current, is 
*un out. We have another proof that we can be 
never sure that the paradox, the most singular, and 
therefore having the most agreeable and authentic 
air, will not give place to the reestablished ancient 
prejudice. 

It seems, then, first, that Laura was born, lived, 
died, and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the 
country. The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets 
of Cabritres, may resume their pretensions, and the 
exploded de la Bastie again be heard with compla- 
cency. The hypothesis of the Abbe had no stronger 
props than the parchment sonnet and medal found 
on the skeleton of the wife of Hugo de Sade, and 
the manuscript note to the Virgil of Petrarch, now 
in the Ambrosial library. If these proofs were both 
incontestable, the poetry was written, the medal 
composed, cast, and deposited within the space of 
twelve hours : and these deliberate duties were per- 
formed round the carcass of one who died of the 
Elague, and was hurried to the grave on the day of 
er death. These documents, therefore, are "too 
decisive : they prove not the fact, but the forgery. 
Either the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a 
falsification. The Abbe cites both as incontestably 
true ; the consequent deduction is inevitable — they 
are both evidently false.J 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a 
haughty virgin rather than that tender and prudent 
wife, who honored Avignon by making that town 
the theatre of an honest French passion, and played 
off for one and twenty years her little machinery of 
"alternate favors and refusals $ upon the first poet 
of the age. It was, indeed, rather too unfair that a 
female should be made responsible for eleven chil- 
dren upon the faith of a misinterpreted abbreviation, 
and the decision of a librarian. || It is, however, 
satisfactory to think that the love of Petrarch was 
not platonic. The happiness which he prayed to 
possess but once and for a moment was surely not 
of the mind, II and something so very real as a 
marriage project, with one who has been idly 
called a shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected 
in at least six places of his own sonnets.** The 
love of Petrarch was neither platonic nor poetical ; 
and if in one passage of his works he calls it 
" amore veementeissimo ma unico ed onesto," he 
confesses, in a letter to a friend, that it was guilty 



• Lire of Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes, t. ii. p. 106. 

\ Mr. GWxjn called his memoirs "a labor of love," (See Decline and 
Fall, cap. lxi. note 1,) ami followed him with confidence and delight. Tlie 
compiler of a very voluminous work must take much criticism upon trust ; 
Mr. Gibbon has done so, though not as readily as some other authors. 

% The sonnet had before awakened the suspicions of Mr. Horace Walpolc. 
Bee his lettr to Wharton in 1763. 

J " Par ce petit manege, cette alternative de faveurs et de rigueurs bien 
•nenagee, une femme tendre et sage amuse, pendant vingt et on ans, le plus 
grand poiSte de son siecle, sans faire la moindre hreche a son honeur." 
Mem. pour la Vie de Petrurque, Pre/ace aux Frangals. The Italian editor 
of the London edition of Petrarch, who has translated Lord Woodhouselee, 
renders the "femme tendre et sage," "rajfinata civeWi." Riflessioni- 
intorno a madonna Laura, p. 234, vol. iii. ed. 1811. 

| In a dialogue with St. Augustin, Petrarch has described Laura as having 
a body exhausted with repeated ptube. The old editors read and printed 
ptrturbationibut ; but Mr. Capperon'ur, librarian to the French king in 1762, 
who saw the MS. in the Paris library, made an attestation that " on lit ct 
tu'on doit lire, partubus exhaustum." De Sade joined the names of 
llessre. Boudot, and Bejot with Mr. Capperonier, and in tlie whole discussion 
en this ptubs, showed himself a downright literary rogue. See Riflessioni, 
Ac, p. 267. Thomas Aquinas is called in to settle whether Petrarch's mis- 
tress was a chaste maid or a continent w;f •. 

fl '* Pigmalion, quanto lodar ti del 
Dell' imagine tua, se mille volte 
N' avesti quel ch' i' sol una vorrji." 

Sonnettn 58 quando giunte a Simon I' alto concetto, 
Le Rime, 4c. par i. pag. 189, edit. Ven. 1756. 

•• See Riflessioni, &c, p 291. 

12 



and perverse, that it absorbed him quite and 
mastered his heart.* 

In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed 
for the culpability of his wishes; for the Abbe de 
Sade himself, who certainly would not have been 
scrupulously delicate if he could have proved his 
descent from Petrarch as well as Laura, is forced 
into a. stout defence of his virtuous grandmother. 
As far as relates to the poet, we have no security 
for the innocence, except perhaps in the constancy 
of his pursuit. He assures us in his epistle to pos- 
terity, that, when arrived at his fortieth year, he 
not only had in horror, but had lost all recollection 
and image of any " irregularity, "f But the birth 
of his natural daughter cannot be assigned earlier 
than his thirty-ninth year ; and cither the memory 
or the morality of the poet must have failed him, 
when he forgot or was guilty of this slip, t The 
weakest argument for the purity of this love has 
been drawn from the permanence of effects, which 
survived the object of his passion. The reflection 
of Mr. de la Bastie, that virtue alone is capable of 
making impressions which death cannot efface, is 
one of those which everybody applauds, and every- 
body finds not to be true, the moment he examines 
his own breast or the record of human f< 
Such apothegms can do nothing for Petrarch or for 
the cause of morality, except with the very weak 
and the very young.' He that has made even a 
little progress beyond ignorance and pupila 
not be edified with anything but truth. What is 
called vindicating the honor of an individual or a 
nation, is the most futile, tedious, aud uninstructive 
of all writing; although it will always meet with 
more applause than that sober criticism, which is 
attributed to the malicious desire of reducing a 
great man to the common standard of humanity. 
It is, after all, not unlikely, that our historia: 
right in retaining his favorite hypothetic salvo, 
which secures the author, although it scarcely save3 
the honor of the still unknown mistress of Petrarch. 3 

1G. 
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died. 

Stanza xxxi. line 1. 

Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his re- 
turn from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban 
V. at Rome, in the year 1370. and, with the excep- 
tion of his celebrated visit to Venice, in company 
with Francesco Novcllo da Carrara, he appears to 
have passed the four last years of his life between 
that charming solitude and Padua. For four months 
previous to his death he was in a state of continual 
languor, and in the morning of July the 19th, in 
the year 1374, was found dead in his library chair, 
with his head resting upon a book. The chair is 
still shown among the precious relics of Arqua, 
which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has 
been attached to every thing relative to this great 
man from the moment of his death to the present 
hour have, it may be hoped, a better chance of au- 
thenticity than the Shaksperian memorials of Strat- 
ford upon Avon. 

Arqua (for the last syllable is accented in pro- 
nunciation, although the analogy of the English 
language has been observed in the \ R clv» 

miles from Padua, and about three miles on the 
ri°-ht of the high road to Rovigo, in the bosom of 



• "QuMlarcae perversa possione che solo tutto mi oecupavae mi rognasm 
nel cuore." 

t Azion diehoneeta are his words. 

J " A questa confession*- cosi sincere diede lone oceasinne una nuova cad- 
uta ch' d fece." Tlraboschi, Sloria, $ c. torn. t. lib. iv. par. B. pag. 482. 

§ " 11 n't/ a que la tertu nult qui toti capable de fair* dee imprettion* 
que la mart n'rface pat." M. de Bimard, Baron de la Bastie, in the Mem- 
oiresde lMeademiedes Inscriptions et Belles Lctlres for 1740 and 1731. See 
also Riflessioni, ftc., p. 295. 

] " And if the virtue or prudence of Liura was inexorable, he enjoyed 
and might boast of enjoying the nymph of poetry." Decline and Fa'.l. cap 
Ux. p. 327, vol. xii. oct. Perhaps the if is here meant tut aJA 9ug\. 



50 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the Euganean hills. After a walk of twenty min- 
. flat, well- wooded meadow, you come to 
a little blue lake, clear, but fathomless, and to the 
foot of a succession of acclivities and hills, clothed 
with vineyards and orchards, rich with fir and pome- 
granate trees, and every sunny fruit shrub. From 
the banks of the lake the road winds into the hills, 
and the church of Arqua is soon seen between a 
here two ridges slope towards each other 
and nearly enclose the village. The houses are 
scattered at intervals on the steep sides of these 
summits ; and that of the poet is on the edge of a 
little knoll overlooking two descents, and com- 
manding a view not only of the glowing gardens in 
the dales immediately beneath, but of the wide 
plains, above whose low woods of mulberry and 
willow, thickened into a dark mass by festoons of 
VilMS, tall single cvpresses, and the spires of towns 
are seen in the distance, which stretches to the 
mouths of the Po and the shores of the Adriatic. 
The climate of these volcanic hills is warmer, and 
the vintage begins a week sooner than in the plains 
of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot be said 
to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red marble, raised 
on four pilasters on an elevated base, and preserved 
from an association with meaner tombs. It stands 
conspicuously alone, but will be soon overshadowed 
by four lately planted laurels. Petrarch's fountain, 
for here every thing is Petrarch's, springs and ex- 
pands itself beneath an artificial arch, a little below 
the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest 
season, with that soft water which was the ancient 
wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be more 
attractive, were it not, in some seasons, beset with 
hornets and wasps. No other coincidence could 
assimilate the tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. 
The revolutions of centuries have spared these se- 
ll valleys, and the only violence which has 
been offered to the ashes of Petrarch was prompted 
not by hate, but veneration. An attempt was made 
to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, and one of 
the arms was stolen by a Forcntine through a rent 
which is still visible. The injury is not forgotten, 
but has served to identify the poet with the country 
where he was born, but where he would not live. A 
• boy of Arqua being asked who Petrarch 
phed, " that the people of the parsonage 
knew all about him, but that he only knew that he 
1 lorentine." 

I orsyth* was not quite correct in saying that 
h never returned to Tuscany after he had 
once quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass 
through Horence on his way from Parma to Rome 
and on his return in the year 1350, and remained 
there long enough to form some acquaintance with 
its most distinguished inhabitants. A Florentine 
gentleman, ashamed of the aversion of the poet for 
lus native country, was eager to 



point out this trivial 
error in our accomplished traveller, whom he knew 
and respected for an extraordinary capacity, exten- 
sive erudition, and refined taste, joined to that en- 
gaging simplicity of manners which has been so 
frequently recognized as the surest, though it is 
certainly not an indispensable, trait of superior ge- 

footstep of Laura's lover has been anxious- 

,M^r- a £ d record ? d - ™e house in which he 

Ar^ " Sh ? WQ ln A cni( ' ( "- ThG ^habitants of 

bot^± in t ^ eT - t0 dcvide the ancient controversy 

between their city and the neighboring Ancisa, 

^ElSSfrS^* 6 * when seven months old 
ed . bj a long inscription the snot where their Jreat 
hiri 7n p UZen WaS b ? rn - A «kf has been raised o 
E5&!J» * th ? <*apel Of St. Agatha, a the 



society, and was only snatched from his intended 
sepulture in their church by a foreign death. Anoth- 
er tablet with a bust has been erected to him at 
Pavia, on account of his having passed the autumn 
of 1368 in that city, with his son-in-law Brossano. 
The political condition which has for ages pre- 
cluded the Italians from the criticism of the living, 
has concentrated their attention to the illustration 
of the dead. 

17. 
Or, it may be, tcith demons. 

Stanza xxxiv. line 1. 

The struggle is to the full as likely to be with 
demons as with our better thoughts. Satan chose 
the wilderness for the temptation of our Saviour. 
And our unsullied John Locke preferred the pres- 
ence of a child to complete solitude. 

18. 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire; 
And Boileau, whose rash envy, §c. 

Stanza xxxviii. lines 6 and 7. 

Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates 
Tasso, may serve as well as any other specimen to 
justify the opinion given of the harmony of French 
verse. 

A Malerbe ■ Racan, prefere Theophile, 

Et le clinquant ciu Tasse a tout Tor de Virile. 

Sat. ix. vers. 176. 

The biographer Serassi,* out of tenderness to the 
reputation either of the Italian or the French poet, 
is eager to observe that the satirist recanted or ex- 
plained away this censure, and subsequently allowed 
the author of the Jerusalem to be a " genius, sub- 
lime, vast, and happily born from the higher flights 
of poetry." To this we will add, that the recanta- 
tion is far from satisfactory, when we examine the 
whole anecdote as reported by Olivet.f The sen- 
tence pronounced against him by BohoursJ is re- 
corded only to the confusion of the critic, whose 
palinodia the Italian makes no effort to discover, 
and would not perhaps accept. As to the opposi- 
tion which the Jerusalem encountered from the 
Cruscan academy, who degraded Tasso from all 
competition with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, 
the disgrace of such opposition must also in some 
measure be laid to the charge of Alfonso, and the 
court of Ferrara. For Leonard Salviati, the princi- 
pal and nearly the sole origin of this attack, was, 



cathedral.f because he 



was an archdeacon of that "J'enai 



Parentibus praclaris genera perantiquo 

Ethices Christiana scriptori eixmio 

Roman* lingua: restitutori 

Etrusca priucipi 

Africa ob carmen hac in urbe peractum regibus acclto 

S. P. Q,. R. lauiea douata. 

Tanti Viri. 

Juvenilium jinrenis senilium senex 

Studiossissimus. 

Comes Nicolaus Canonicus Cicograrua 

Marmorea proxima ara excitata. 

Ibique condito 

Eira Januaria cruento corpora 

H. M. P. 

Sufiectnm 

Sed infra merkum FrancUci sepulchre 

Summa hac in arte efferri mandantia 

Si Parma occumberet 

Extera morte heu nobis crepti. 

» fait de k, talens, j'aurois muntrc , 
dX T.ne domine chez lui," p. lb.!. 



* La Vit 



*> Italy, p. 95, n. • 
t D. 
Franckca Petrarcha 
Patwensi Archidiicono 



que le bon sens n'est pas toujours ce qui 
p. «B. Boileau said he had not changed his opinion: 
peu change, dit-il," & c ., p. 181 

iWSfiKrvfi; San ass -r f 1 "- - "• 

• But Bohours "*™ to speak in Eudoxus, who closes with 
" Fanes valoire le Tasse MM qu'il vous pWra, > 
*c Ibid. p. 102. 



the uiiMird comparison 
m'en tiens pour moi a Virrile 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



91 



there can be no doubt,* influenced by a hope to ac-i these words: " Qui nacque Ludovico Ariosto il 
quire the favor of the House of Este; an object \giorno 8 di Settcmbre dell' anno 1474." But the 



•which he thought attainable by exalting the repute 
tion of a native poet at the expense of a rival, then 
a prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts of Sal- 
viati must serve to show the cotemporary opinion 
as to the nature of the poet's imprisonment ; and 
will fill up the measure of our indignation at the 
tyrant jailer, f In fact, the antagonist of Tasso 
was not dissappointed in the reception given to his 
criticism ; he was called to the court of Ferrara, 
where having endeavored to heighten his claims to 
favor bv panegyrics on the family of his sovereign,! 
he was in turn "abandoned, and expired in neglected 
poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans was 
brought to a close in six years after the commence- 
ment of the controversy ; and if the academy owed 
its first renown to having almost opened with such 
a parodox,$ it is probable that, on the other hand, 
the care of his reputation alleviated rather than ag- 
gravated the imprisonment of the injured poet. 
The defence of his father and of himself, for both 
were involved in the censure of Salviati, found em- 
ployment for many of his solitary hours, and the 
captive could have been but little embarassed to 
reply to accusations, where, amongst other delin- 
quences, he was charged with invidiously omitting, 
in his comparison between France and Italy, to 
make anv mention of the cupola of St. Maria del 
Fiore at "Florence. || The late biographer of Ariosto 
seems as if willing to renew the controversy by 
doubting the interpretation of Tasso's self-estima- 
tionlf related in Serassi's life of the poet. But 
Tiraboschi had before laid that rivalry at rest,** by 
showing, that between Ariosto and Tasso it is not a 
question of comparison, but of preference. 

19. 
The lightning rent from Ariosto' s bust 
The iron croicn of laurel's mimic' d leaves. 

Stanza xli. lines 1 and 2. 
Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from 
the Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, 
his bust, which surmounted the tomb, was struck by 
lightning, and a crown of iron laurels melted away. 
The event has been recorded by a writer of the last 
century.ft The transfer of these sacred ashes on 
the 6th of June, 1801, was one of the most brilliant 
spectacles of the short-lived Italian Republic ; and 
to consecrate the memory of the ceremony, the 
once famous fallen Intrepidi were revived and re- 
formed into the Ariostean academy. The large 
public place through which the procession paraded 
was then for the first time called Ariosto Square. 
The author of the Orlando is jealously claimed as the 
Homer, not of Italy, but Ferrara. ++ The mother of 
Ariosto was of Reggio, and the house in which he 
was born is carefully distinguished by a tablet with 



Ferrarese make light of the accident by which their 
poet was born abroad, and claim him exclusively for 
their own. They possess his bones, they show his 
arm-chair, and his inkstand, and his autographs. 



; Hie illiii 

Hie currus fuit . . 



delle lodi 



• La Vita, *c., lib. iii. p. 90, torn. ii. The English reader may tee an 
account of the opposition of the Crusea to Tasso, in Dr. Cluck, Life, &c., 
Cftp. xvii. vol. ii. 

t For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, Chat Tasso was neilhei more 
nor less than a prisoner of state, the reader is referred to " Historical Illus- 
tration* of the TVth Canto of Childe Harold," paf. 5 and following, 

J Orazioni funebri . . . delle lodi Don Luigi Cardinal d 
li Donno Alfonso d'Este. See La Vita, lib. iii. p. U7. 

§ It was fouuded in 1582, and the Cruscan aruwer to Pellegrino's Caraffa 
or epica poesia was published in 1584. 

| "Cotanto pole sempre in lui il veleno della sua pessiina rolonti contro 
alle nazion Fiorentina." La Vita, lib. iii. p. 96, 98, torn. ii. 

fi La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, scritta dall* Abate Giorlamo BaroJuldi Giun- 
iore, &c, Ferrara, 1807, lib. iii. p. 262. See Historical Illustrations, &c., 
p. 26 



The house where he lived, the room where he 
died, are designated by his own replaced memorial,* 
and by a recent inscription. The Ferrarese are 
more jealous of their claims since the animosity of 
Denina, arising from a cause which their apologists 
mysteriously hint is not unknown to them, ventured 
to degrade their soil and climate to a Bucotian inca- 
pacity for all spiritual productions. A quarto vol 
ume has been called forth by the detraction, and 
this supplement to Barotti's Memoirs of the illus- 
trious Ferrarese has been considered a triumphant 
reply to the " Quado Storico Statistico dell' Alta 
Italia." 

20. 

For the true laurel-icreath which Glory weaves 

Is of the tree ?io bolt of thunder cleaves. 

Stanza xli. lines 4 and 5. 

The eagle, the sea calf, the laurel, f and the 
white vine, J were among the most approved pre- 
servatives against lightning ; Jupiter chose the first, 
Augustus Caesar the second, § and Tiberius never 
failed to wear a wreath of the third when the sky 
threatened a thunder-storm. || These superstitions 
may be received without a sneer in a country where 
the magical properties of the hazel twig have not 
lost all their credit ; and perhaps the reader may 
not be much surprised to find that a commentator 
on Suetonius has taken upon himself gravely to 
disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of I ibe- 
rius, by mentioning that a few years before he wrote 
a laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome.H 

21. 

Know that the lightning sanctifies below. 

Stanza xli. line 8. 

The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the 
Forum, having been touched by lightning, were 
held sacred, and the memory of the accident was 
preserved by nputeal or altar, resembling the mouth 
of a well, with a little chapel covering the cavity 
supposed to be made by the thunderbolt. Bodies 
scathed and persons struck dead were thought to 
be incorruptible ;** and a stroke not fatal conferred 
perpetual dignity upon the man so distinguished by 
heaven.ft , . 

Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a 
white garment, and buried where they fell. Ine 
superstition was not confined to the worshippers of 
Jupiter ; the Lombards believed in the omens fur- 
nished by Hgktning, and a Christian priest confesses 
that, bv "a diabolical skill in interpreting thunder, a 
seer foretold to Agilulf, Duke of Turin, an event 
which came to pass, and gave him a queen and a 
crown.it There was, however, something 
cal in this sign, which the ancient inhabitants of 
Rome did not always consider propitious : and as 
the fears are likely to last longer than the consoia- 



** Storia della Lett. &c., lib. iii. torn. vii. par. 



in. p. 



ct. 4. 

fulmine nella 



ft "Mi raccoutarono que' monaci, ch' essendo caduto un 
toro chi-sa schiantb esso dalle tempie la coronna di lauro a quell" immortalc 
poeta." Op di BUnconi, toI. iii. p. 176, ed. Milano, 1802 ; lettera a! Signor 
Guido Sarini Arcifisiocritico, sull' indole di un fulmine caduto In Dresda l'anno 

11 " Appassionato ammiratore ed inritto apologista deU' Omero Ferra- 
r*m:> The title was first given by Taaeo, and i. quoted to the confusion of 
the Tatsuti, lib. ii. pp. 262, 265, La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, ftc. 



• » Parra sed apta mihi, sed nuffi obooxia, sed non 
Sordida, porta meo sed tamen ire domus." 
t Aquila, ritulu. marinua, et Urnm, falmine non feriunter. Plin. Nat 

Hist. Iii). ii. cap- '♦• 

J Columella, Bb. x. 

§ Sueton. in V*. August, cap. xe. 

■ Sueton. in Viu Tiberii, cap. lxix. 

H Note 2, p. 409, edit Lugd. Bat. 1667. 

| . C. BuUenger, de Terra: Motu ct Fulrainib, lib. v. cap H. 

ft Oi'icls KcpavvuOcit irt^oc i<rrt, oOtv xai u»c $ed{ rt- 
u'lrat. Plut. Sympoa. TkL J. C Bullfny. ulsup. 

XX Paul! Diaconi, de Gertfe Langobard. lib. EL cap. xnr. to. 15, edit. 
Taurin. 1527. 



92 



BYROXS WORKS. 



tions of superstition, it is not strange that the Ro- 
mans of the age of Leo X. should have been so 
much terrified at some misanterpreted stoma as to 

require the exhortations of a scholar, who arrayed 
all the learning on thunder and hgh rang to prove 
the omen favorable ; beginning with the Hash which 
struck the walls of Velitnv and including that 
which plai-cd upon a gate at I lorence, and foretold 
the pontificate of one of its citizens.* 

22. 

Italia ! oh Italia ! §c. 

Stanza xlii. line 1. 

The two stanzas, XLII. and XLIIL, are, with 
the exception of a line or two, a translation of the 
famous sonnet of Fillicaja: 

"Italia, Italia, tu cui feo la tone." 

23. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 

The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind. 
Stanza xliv. lines 1 and 2. 

The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicus to 
Cicero on the death of his daughter describes it as 
it then was, and now is, a path which I often traced 
in Greece, both by sea and land, in different jour- 
neys and voyages. 

" On my return from Asia, as I was sailing from 
JEgina towards Mcgara, I began to contemplate the 
• of the countries around me : JEgina was 
behind, Megara before me ; Pirsus on the right, 
Corinth on "the left ; all which towns, once famous 
and flourishing, now lie overturned and buried in 
their ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but think 
presently within myself, Alas ! how do we poor 
mortals t'ret and vex ourselves, if any of our friends 
happen to die. or to be killed, whose life is yet so 
short, when the carcasses of so many noble cities lie 
here exposed before me in one view. 5 ' f 

24. 

And tee pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form 

Stanza xlvi. lines 7 and 8. 
It is Poggio who, looking from the Capitoline 
hill upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the excla- 
mation, M Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prdstrata 
star gigantci cadaveris corrupti atque un- 
dique exesi." t 

2-5. 
There, too, the Goddess loves in stone. 

Stanza xlix. line 1. 
The view of the Venus of Medecis instantly sug- 
gests the lines in the Seasotis, and the comparison 
of the object with the description proves not only 
the correctness of the portrait, but the peculiar- 
turn of thought, and, if the term may be used, the 
sexual imagination of the descriptive poet. The same 
conclusion may be deduced from another hint in the 
same episode of Musidora ; for Thomson's notion of 
the privileges of favored love must have been either 
nitive, or rather deficient in delicacy, when 
he made his grateful nymph inform her discreet 
Damon that in some happier moment he might 
perhaps, be the companion of her bath : 

" The time may come you need not fly." 

The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the 
Life of Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Flor- 
entine gallery without a word on the Whettcr. It 



•1. P. Valeriana de fulminura aignificationibu. declamatio, ap. Gr 
JJja^Bom. U*n. t. p. 593. The declamation U addrewd to Julian of 

t Dr. MWoktoft-lltory f the Life of M. Tulliu. Cicero, sect. * p. 
;J71, toI. li. ' v 



seems strange that the character of that disputed 
statue should not be entirely decided, at least in the 
mind of any one who has seen a sarcophagus in the 
vestibule of the Basilica of St. Paul without the 
walls, at Rome, where the whole group of the fable 
of Marsyas is seen in tolerable preservation ; and 
the Scythian slave whetting the knife is represented 
exactly in the same position as the celebrated master- 
piece. The slave is not naked ; but it is easier to 
et rid of this difficulty than to suppose the knife 
in the hand of the Florentine statue an instrument 
for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi supposes, 
the man is no other than the barber of Julius Caesar. 
Winkelmann, illustrating a bas relief of the same 
subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agostini, 
and" his authority might have been thought conclu- 
sive, even if the resemblance did not strike the 
most careless observer.* 

Among the bronzes of the same princely collec- 
tion is still to be seen the inscribed tablet copied 
and commented upon by Mr. Gibbon. f Our histo- 
rian found some difficulties, but did not desist from 
his illustration : he might be vexed to hear that his 
criticism has been thrown away on an inscription 
now generally recognized to be a forgery. 

26. 
His eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sicect cheek. 

Stanza li. lines 6 and 7. 

'0<pOa)>fiovs eariav. 

" Atque oculos pascat uturque suos." 

Ovid. Amor. lib. I. 

27. 
In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie. 

Stanza liv. line 1. 
This name will recall the memory, not only of 
those whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into 
the centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of 
her whose eloquence was poured over the illustrious 
ashes, and whose voice is now mute as those she 
sung. Comnna is no more ; and with her should 
expire the fear, the flattery, and the envy, which 
threw too dazzling or too dark a cloud round the 
march of genius, and forbade the steady gaze of 
disinterested criticism. We have her picture em- 
bellished or distorted, as friendship or detraction 
has held the pencil: the impartial portrait was 
hardly to be expected from a contemporary. The 
immediate voice of her survivors will, it is probable, 
be far from affording a just estimate of her singular 
capacity. The gallantry, the love of wonder, and 
the hope of associated fame, which blunted the 
edge of censure, must cease to exist. — The dead 
have no sex ; they can surprise by no new miracles ; 
they can confer no privilege; Corinna has ceased 
to be a woman — she is only an author : and it may 
be foreseen that many will repay themselves for 
former complaisance, by a severity to which the ex- 
travagance of previous praises may perhaps give the 
color of truth. The latest posterity, for to the 
latest posterity they will assuredly 'descend, will 
have to pronounce upon her various productions ; 
and the longer the vista through which they are 
seen, the more accurately minute will be the object, 
the more certain the justice, of the decision. She 
will enter into that existence in which the great 
writers of all ages and nations are, as it were, asso- 
ciated m a world of their own, and, from that supe- 
rior sphere, shed their eternal influence for the con- 
trol and consolation of mankind. But the individ- 
ual will gradually disappear as the author is more 
distinctly seen : some one, therefore, of all those 
whom the charms of invaluntary wit, and of easy 



• See Monim. Ant. bed. par. i. cap. xvit. n. xliii. pag. 50; and I 
: detli Arti, ftc., lib. xi. cap. 1. torn. ii. pag. 314, not. B. 
I t Nomina gentesque Antiqua Italia, p. 204, edit oeC 



tfOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S FILGIUMAGE. 



95 



hospitality, attracted within the friendly circles of j 
Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those virtues ; 
which, although they are said to love the shade, j 
are, in fact, more frequently chilled than excited by | 
the domestic cares of private life. Some one 
should be found to portray the unaffected graces 
with which she adorned those dearer relationships, 
the performance of whose duties is rather discov- 
ered among the interior secrets, than seen in the 
outward management, of family intercourse ; and 
which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of genuine 
affection to qualify for the eye of an indifferent 
spectator. Some one should be found, not to cele- 
brate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an 
open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, 
and alwavs pleased, the creator of which, divested 
of the ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone 
forth only to give fresh animation to those around 
her. The mother tenderly affectionate and tenderly 
beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, but still 
esteemed, the charitable patroness of all distress, 
cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, 
and protected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the 
most where she was known the best ; and, to the 
sorrows of very many friends and more dependants, 
may be offered the disinterested regret of a stranger, 
who, amid the sublimer scenes of the Leman lake, 
received his chief satisfaction from contemplating 
the engaging qualities of the incomparable Corinna. 

28. . 
Here repose 
Angela's, Alfieri 1 s bones. 

'Stanza liv. lines 6 and 7- 
Alfieri is the great name of this age. The Ital- 
ians, without waiting for the hundred years, con- 
sider him as " a poet good in law."— His memory 
is the more dear to them because he is the bard of 
freedom ; and because, as such, his tragedies can 
receive no countenance from any of then 1 sovereigns. 
They are but very seldom, and but very few of 
them, allowed to be acted. It was observed by 
Cicero, that nowhere were the true opinions and 
feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at the 
theatre.* In the autumn of 181*6, a celebrated im- 
provisatoire exhibited his talents at the opera-house 
of Milan. The reading of the theses handed in for 
the subjects of his poetry was received by a very 
numerous audience, for the most part in silence, or 
with laughter; but when the assistant, unfolding 
one of the papers, exclaimed, " The Apotheosis of 
Victor Alfieri, " the whole theatre burst into a 
shout, and the applause was continued for some 
moments. The lot did not fall on Alfieri ; and the 
Signor Sgricci had to pour forth his extemporary 
common-places on the bombardment of Algiers. 
The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite so 
much as might be thought from a first view of the 
ceremony ; and the police not only takes care to look 
at the papers beforehand, but in case of any pru- 
dential afterthought, steps in to correct the blind- 
ness of chance. The proposal for deifying Alfieri 
was received with immediate enthusiasm, the rather 
because it was conjectured there would be no oppor- 
tunity of carrying it into effect. 

29. 
Here MachiavellVs earth returned to whence it rose. 
Stanza liv. line 9. 



• The free expression of their honest sentiments survWed tl>cir liberties. 
Titius, the friend of Antony, presented them » iih games in the theatre of 
Pompey. They did not suffer the brilliancy of the spectacle to efface frt.ni 
their'memory (bat the man who furnished them with the entertainment had 
raurder:d the son of Pompey ; they drore him from the theatre with curses. 
The moral sense of a populace, spontaneously e * | 

Even the soldiers of the triumvirs joined in the execration of (lie citizens, by 
■JkMtfng round the chariots of Lepidns and PUncis, who had proscribed 
their brothers, De Germmmt non de GWZit duo triumphant Conru'ti ; » 
•ayin" worth a record, were* it nothing but a good pun. [C. V-U. F tfttcota 
Hist Uh B ca r Uxix. paf. 78, oft. BaMr, Wa : "■"•J 



The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscrip- 
tions, which so often leaves us uncertain whethel 
the structure before us is an actual depository, or a 
cenotaph, or a simple memorial not of death but 
life, has given to the tomb of Maehiavelli no in- 
formation as to the place or time of the birth or 
death, the age or parentage, of the historian. 

TANTO KOMIXI NVLLVM FAR ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS MACIIIAVKLLI. 

There seems at least no reason why the name should 
not have been put above the sentence which alludes 
to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudices 
which have passed the name of Maehiavelli into an 
epithet proverbial of iniquity, exist no longer at 
Florence. His memory was persecuted as bis life 
had been, for an attachment to liberty incompatible 
with the new system of despotism, which succeeded 
the fall of the free governments of Italy. He was 
put to the torture for being a "libertine," that is, 
for wishing to restore the republic of Florence ; and 
such are the undying efforts of those who are in- 
terested in the perversion not only of the nature of 
actions, but the meaning of words, that what was 
once patriotism, has by degrees come to signify de 
baucA. "We have ourselves outlived the old mean- 
ing of " liberality," which is now another word for 
treason in one country and for infatuation in all. It 
seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse the 
author of the Prince, as being a pander to tyranny ; 
and to think that the Inquisition would condemn 
his work for such a delinquency. The fact is that 
Maehiavelli, as is usual with those against whom 
no crime can be proved, was suspected of, and 
charged with, atheism ; and the first and last most 
violent opposers of the Prince were both Jesuits, 
one of whom persuaded the Inquisition "benche 
fosse tardo," to prohibit the treatise, and the other 
qualified the secretary of the Florentine republic as 
no better than a fool. The father Possevin was 
proved never to have read the book, and the father 
Lucchesini not to have understood it. It is clear, 
however, that such critics must have objected not 
to the slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed 
tendency of a lesson which shows how distinct are 
the interests of a monarch from the happiness ot 
mankind. The Jesuits are reestablished in Italy, 
and the last chapter of the Prince may again call 
forth a particular refutation, from those who are 
emploved once more in moulding the minds of the 
rising'generation, go as to receive the imp] 
of despotism. The chapter bears for title, " Esor- 
tazione a liberare la Italia dai Barbari," and con- 
cludes with a libertine excitement to the future re- 
demption of Italy. " Non si deve adunque lasctar 
pa-snare questa occasione, aeeiocchi la Itai 
dopo tanto tempo appaire vn svo redentore. Ifi 
posso esprhnere con qi/al a more ti fuete net 
tnttc quelle provinric, che hanno jxiiito per qucste 
illuvioni esternc, con qual scte d con che 

ostvuda fede, con che larrimr. '' te J^J> 

terrerebenot Q lobbeat- 

enza ' Qm le Italian* li nefhereibe I osscguioT ad 

OGNUXO rt-ZZV UUKSTO BAABABO DOMINIO. 

30. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar. 

J Stanza lvn. line 1. 

Dante was born in Florence in the year 1261. He 
fought in two battles, was fourteen times ambassa- 
dor'' and once prior of the republic. When trie 
party of Charles of Anjou triumphed over the Bi- 
ancbi. he was absent on an embassy to Pope Boni- 
face VIII., and was condemned to two years' ban- 

• II Prmcirv ■ Niccolb MachiaTelli, ftc, con la prerajtoiw e si note ■*» 
:■* di Mr. Amelot de la Houasaye e I' eaaw 
open. . . .'• Caamopoli, 1769. 



94 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ishment and to a fine of eight thousand lite ; on non- 
Kyment of whlbh he was further punished by the 
ration of all his property. The republic 
hSreVer, was not content with this satisfaction, for 
in 177^ ",ts discovered in the archives at Florence a 
in which Dante is the eleventh of a list of 
fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt alive ; Pahs 

■v igne comburatur sic qitod monatur. Ihe 
pretext for' thN judgment was a proof of unfair 
barter, extortions, and illicit gains. Jiaractcrmruni 

m, extorsionum, et illicitorum Uicrorum* 
and with such an accusation it is not strange that 
Dante should have alwavs protested his innocence, 
and the injustice of his fellow-citizens. His appeal 
to Florence was accompanied by another to the 
Emperor Henry ; and the death of that sovereign 
in 1313, was the signal for a sentence of irrevocable 
banishment. lie had before lingered near Tuscanv 
with hopes of recall ; then travelled into the north 
of Italy, where Verona had to boast of his longest 
residence ; and he finally settled at Ravenna, which 

■ idinarv but not constant abode until his 
death. The refusal of the Venetians to grant him 
a public audience, on the part of Guido Novello da 

. his protector, is said to have been the 

I cause of this event, which happened in 

Y';l\. ' lie was buried ("in sacra minorum rcde ") 

ana, in a handsome tomb, which was erected 

-tored by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, 

■ r that republic which had refused to hear 
.in restored by Cardinal Corsi in 1692, and 
I by a more magnificent sepulchre, con- 
I iii 1780, at the expense of the Cardinal 

denti Gonzaga. The offence or misfortune 
of Dante was an attachment to a defeated party, 
his least favorable biographers allege against 
i great a freedom of speech and haughtiness 
of manner. But the next age paid honors almost 
divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in 
vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, 
crowned his image in a church,f and his picture "is 
still one of the idols of their cathedral. They 
struck medals, they raised statues to him. The 
cities of Italy, not being able to dispute about his 
own birth, contended for that of his great poem, 
and the Florentines thought it for their honor to 
prove that he had finished the seventh canto before 
they drove him from his native city. Fifty-one 
-th, they endowed a professorial 
nding of his verses, and Boccac- 
appointcd to this patriotic employment. 
cample was imitated by Bologna and Pisa, 
nnd the commentators, if they performed but little 
service to literature, augmented the veneration 
which beheld a sacred or moral allegory in all the 
if his mystic muse. His birth and his in- 
>re discovered to have been distinguished 
above those of ordinary men; the author of the De- 
cameron, his earliest biographer, relates, that his 
mother was warned in a dream of the importance of 
her pregnancy : arid it was found, by others, that at 
irs of age he had manifested his precocious 
for that wisdom or theology, which, under 
ime of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a 
itial mistress. When the Divine Comedy 
i recognized as a mere mortal production, 
and at the distance of two centuries, when criticism 
and competition had sobered the judgment of Ital- 
ians, Dante was seriously declared superior to 
Homer : + and, though the preference appeared to 
*>me casuists « an heretical blasphemy worthy of 
the flames,'' the contest was vigorously maintained 
For nearly fifty years. In later times it was made a 
question which of the Lords of Verona could boast 



of having patronized him,* and the jealous skepti- 
cism of one writer would not allow Ravenna the 
undoubted possession of his bones. Even the crit- 
ical Tiraboschi was inclined to believe that the poet 
had foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries of 
Galileo. — Like the great originals of other nations, 
his popularity has not always maintained the same 
level. The last age seemed inclined to undervalue 
him as a model and a study ; and Bettinelli one day 
rebuked his pupil Monti, for poring over the harsh 
and obsolete extravagances of the Commedia. The 
present generation, having recovered from the Gal- 
lic idolatries of Cesarotti, has returned to the an- 
cient worship, and the Danteggiare of the northern 
Italians is thought even indiscreet by the more 
moderate Tuscans. 

There is still much curious information relative 
to the life and writings of this great poet which has 
not as yet been collected even by the Italians ; but 
the celebrated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this 
defect, and it is not to be regretted that this notional 
work has been reserved for one so devoted Tt> his 
country and the cause of truth. 

31. 

Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
Thy factions, in their loorse than civil war, 
Proscribed, §c. 

Stanza lvii. lines 2, 3, and 4. 

The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was 
not buried at Liternuwi, whither he had retired to 
voluntary banishment. This tomb was near the 
sea-shore, and the story of an inscription upon it, 
Ingrata F 'atria, having given a name to a modern 
tower, is, if not true, an agreeable fiction. If he 
was not buried, he certainly lived there. f 

In eosi angusta e solitaria villa 

Era '1 grand' uomo che d'Africa s'appella 

Pcrche prima col ferro al vivo aprilla.J 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar 
to republics ; and it seems to be forgotten that for 
one instance of popular inconstancy, we have a 
hundred examples of the fall of courtly favorites. 
Besides, a people have often repented — a monarch 
seldom or never. Leaving apart many familiar 
proofs of this fact, a short story may show the dif- 
ference between even an aristocracy and the multi- 
tude. 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at 
Potolongo, and many years afterwards in the more 
decisive action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled 
by the Venetian government, and thrown into 
chains. The Avvogadori proposed to behead him, 
but the supreme tribunal was content with the sen- 
tence of imprisonment. Whilst Pisani was suffer- 
ing this unmerited disgrace, Chioza, in the vicinity 
of the capital^ was, by the assistance of the Signor 
of Padua, delivered into the hands of Pietro Doria. 
At the intelligence of that disaster, the great bell 
of St. Mark's tower tolled to arms, and the people 
and the soldiery of the galleys were summoned to 
the repulse of the approaching enemy; but they 
protested they would not move a step, unless Pisani 
were liberated and placed at their head. The great 
council was instantly assembled ; the prisoner was 
called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Conta- 
nn l' i nformed nim of the demands of the people 
and the necessities of the state, whose only hope of 
safety was reposed on his efforts, and who implored 
him to forget the indignities he had endured in her 
service. " I have submitted," replied the magnan- 
imous republican, "I have submitted to your delib- 



l«H!. kaL (OCT). T. 



• lib. iii. j» r . 2, p. 448. Tir.iboschi is incor- 
j«. the date, of ,he three decreet again* Dante are A. D. 1308, 1314, and 

mlt^ W * m 'T- rtr0rae U " nk "* «**««« »** an allcgorv. See 
Btona, Ac, ut s-.ip. p. 453. c ' 

J« Bjr sI"£ W, \ W " ErCOl:Vn0 - T,W C «**™V continued from 1570 to 
Vl«. See Stona, Ac, torn, vii lib. iii. p,. r . iii. p. 1280 



• Gio. Jacopo Dionisi Canonico cli Verona. Serie di Anedotto, n. 2. See 
Stona, &c, torn. r. lib. i. par. i. p. 24. 

t Vitam Litem! egit sine desideio urbis. See T. Liv. Hist. lib. xxxviSi. 
Livy report* that some said he was buried at Liternum, other, at Rome lb 
cap. It. 

J Trionfo c'.ella Cat tita. 

§ See note 8, page 62. 



NOTES TO CIIILDE HAROLD'S I'lLGKI.MAGE. 

?^-r^M£i££3! E^&LSl " ,ri -- d itt -^ ch " rch ° f St - > : 

inflicted at your command: this is no time' to in 
quire whether I deserved them— the good of the re- 
public may have seemed to require it, and that 
which the republic resolves is always resolved wisely. 
Behold me ready to lay down my life for the preser- 
vation of my country." Pisani was appointed gen- 
eralissimo, and by his exertions, in conjunction with 
those of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon recovered 
the ascendancy over their maritime rivals. 

The Italian communities were no less unjust to 
their citizens than the Greek republics. " 



unes, at Oertaldo, a small town in the 
valdeUa, which was by some supposed the place of 
his bn-th. rhere he paseed the latter part of his 
life ma course J laborious study, ■ u , ncd 

^ ? U 'V V$ t!u ' re mi - ht his t»en 

secure, if not of honor, at least of i lt the 

'hyama bigot* " ef Certoldo tore up the tombstone 

of Boccaccio, and ejected it from the holy precincts 

of St. Michael and St James. The occasion, and, 
it may be hoped, the excuse, of this ejectment was 
the making oi a new floor for the church ; 

^ *£*i -^nd_the.ot] er,; S e ^itl^Z^nl^t^^. "* *" 



Liberty, 



been a national, not an individual object: and, not 
withstanding the boasted equality before the laws, 
which an ancient Greek writer* considered the 
great distinctive mark between his countrymen and 
the barbarians, the mutual rights of fellow-citizens 
seem never to have been the principal scope of the 
old democracies. The world mav have not yet seen 
an essay by the author of the Italian Republics, in 
which the distinction between the liberty of former 
states, and the signification attached to that word 
by the happier constitution of England, is ingeni- 
ously developed. The Italians, howevei, when they 
had ceased to be free, still looked back with a sigh 
upon those times of turbulence, when every citizen 
might rise to a share of sovereign power, and have 
never been taught fully to appreciate the repose of 
a monarchy. Sperone Speroni, when Francis Maria 
II. Duke of Rovere proposed the question, " which 
•was preferable, the republic or the principality— the 
perfect and not durable, or the less perfect and not 
so liable to change," replied, "that our happiness 
is to be measured by its quality, not by its duration ; 
and that he preferred to live for one day like a man, 
than for a hundred years like a brute," a stock, or a 
stone." This was thought, and called, a magnificent 
answer, down to the last days of Italian servitude.f 

32. 

And the crown 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely icore, 
Upon a far and, foreign soil had groicn. 

Stanza lvii. lines 6, 7, and 8. j 
The Florentines did not take the opportunity of 
Petrarch's short visit to their city in 1350 to revoke 
the decree which confiscated the property of his 
father, who had been banished shortly after the 
exile of Dante. His crown did not dazzle them ; 
but when in the next year they were in want of his 
assistance in the formation of their university, they 
repented of their injustice, and Boccaccio was sent 
to Padua to entreat the laureate to conclude his 
wanderings in the bosom of his native country, 
where he might finish his immortal Africa, and 
enjoy with his recovered possessions, the esteem of 
all classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him 
the option of the book and the science he might 
condescend to expound : they called him the glory 
of his country, who was dear, and would be dearer 
to them ; and they added, that if there was anything 
unpleasing in their letter, he ought to return among 
them, were it only to correct their style.J Petrarch 
Bcemed at first to listen to their flattery and to the 
entreaties of his friend, but he did not return to 
Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to the tomb of 
Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 



33. 
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
His dost. Stanza lviii. lines 1 and 2. 



n V.l th ! 8m Wlth bl '"° tr >'- Jt would hc Painful 

to relate such an exception to the devotion of the 
Italians for their great names, could it not h 
compamed by a trait more honorably conformable to 
the general character of the nation. The principal 
person i of the district, the last branch of the house 
Of Medicis, afforded that protection to the memory 
oi the insulted dead which her best anci 
dispensed upon all cotemporary merit. The Mar- 
chioness Lenzoni rescued the tombstone of Boccac- 
cio from the neglect in which it had some time lain, 
and found for it an honorable elevation in her own 
mansion. She has done more : the house in which 
the poet lived has been as little respected as his 
tomb, and is falling to ruin over the head of one 
indifferent to the name of its former tenant. It 
consists of two or three little chambers, and a low 
tower, on which Cosmo II. affixed an inscription. 
Inis house she has taken measures to purchase, 
and proposes to devote to it that care and consider- 
ation which are attached to the cradle and to the 
roof of genius. 

This is not the place to undertake the defence of 
Boccaccio; but the man who exhausted his little 
patrimony in the acquirement of learning, who was 
among the first, if not the first, to allure the sci- 
ence and the poetry of Greece to the bosom of 
Italy;— who not only invented a new style, but 
founded, or certainly fixed, a new language ; who, 
besides the esteem of every polite court of Europe, 
was thought worthy of employment by the predom- 
inant republic of his own country, and, what is 
more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who lived the 
life of a philosopher and a freeman, and who died 
in the pursuit of knowledge, — such a man might 
have found more consideration than he has met with 
from the priest of Ccrtaldo, and from a late English 
traveller, who strikes ofl'his portrait as an odious, 
temptible, licentious writer, whose impure remains 
should be suffered to rot without a record.* That 
English traveller, unfortunately for those who have 
to deplore the loss of a very amiable person, is be- 
yond all Criticism; but the "mortality which did not 
protect Boccaccio from Mr. Eustace, must not de- 
fend Mr. Eustace from the impartial Judgment of 
his successors. — Death may canonize his virtues, not 
his errors ; and it may be modestly pronounced that 
he transgressed, not* only as an author, but as a 
man, when he evoked the shad LO in com- 

pany with that of Aretine, amidst the sepulchres 
of Santa Croee, mi I with indignity. 

As far as respects 

" II ftafeUe. de' v 
II Divio Pletro Aretino," 



• The Gnvk 'x>ast/-<l 1'iat he was towvd^ioc. See the last chaj ter of the 
first book of Dionysius of Halicarnaasns. 

* " E intorno alia magn^fica mpotla," &e. Scrnssi Vita del Tasso, Ub. 
UL pag. 149, torn. ii. edit. 2. Bergamo. 

J " Accingiti innoltie, so ci * lecito ancor l'eaortarti, a eompire l'lmmortal 
lua Africa. . . . Se ti aTrientM d'iiicoolrare nel nostra stile coaa che ti diajH- I recognized 
accia, cio debt)' essere un altro motivo ad eaaudire i desiderj dcila tua patria. 
Etorio ieUa IjeO. had. torn. ». par. L Ub. I. pas;. 70. 



• Chunicd Tour, cap. in. vol. ii. p. 33\>, edit. 3d. " Of Boccaccio, the 
Raodm P'-tronhu, we *ay nothing; the abuse of g-uins U more oliou* and 
more contemptible than ii» ahaenee ; ami it imporu little where the impure 
remain* of a lic'ui!""* author are Consigne ! to j|,. i r kindred dint. FW the 
same reason the traveller inny pasts un.iotic.-d die tomb of the malgwani 
AreUiw. " 
This dubious phrase is liar.lljr enough to save th<- tourist from the tuapkioo 
5 the burial-place of Amine, whose ton. I 
the cUureh of St. I.tike at Venice, and gave ris- so Itsl famous coutT' • 
which some notice is t dceo . of Mr. Eustace would 

lead m to think t'.ie tomb was at Florence, or at least was to be somewhere 
Whether the inscription so much disput^l was erer written oo 
the tomb cannot new be decid-d, for ail memorial of this author ha* disap 
peared from the church of St. Luke. 



9G 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



it is of little import what censure is passed upon a 
coxcomb who owes his present existence to the 
above burlesque character given to him by the poet 
whose amber has preserved many other grubs and 
: but to classify Boccaccio with such a per- 
son, and to excommunicate his very ashes, must of 
itself make us doubt of the qualification of the 
J tourist for writing upon Italian, or, indeed, 
upon any other literature ; for ignorance on one 
point may incapacitate an author merely for that 
particular topic, but subjection to a professional 
prejudice must render him an unsafe director on all 
is. Any perversion and injustice may be 
made what is vulgarly called " a case of con 
science," and this poor excuse is all that can be 
for the priest of Certaldo, or the author of 
the Classical Tour. It would have answered the 
purpose to confine the censure to the novels of Boc 
caccio, and gratitude to that source w T hich supplied 
the muse of Dryden with her last and most harmo 
nious numbers might perhaps have restricted that 
censure to the objectionable qualities of the hun- 
dred tales. At any rate the repentance of Boccaccio 
might have arrested his exhumation, and it should 
have been recollected and told, that in his old age 
he wrote a letter to his friend to discourage the 
reading of the Decameron, for the sake of modesty, 
and for the, sake of the author, who would not have 
an apologist always at hand to state in his excuse 
that he wrote it when young, and at the command 
of his superiors.* It is neither the licentiousness 
of the writer, nor the evil propensities of the reader, 
which have given to the Decameron alone, of all the 
works of Boccaccio, a perpetual popularity. The 
establishment of a new and delightful dialect con- 
ferred an immortality on the works in which it was 
first fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch were, for the 
same reason, fated to survive his self-admired Africa, 
the "favorite of kings." The invariable traits of 
nature and feeling with which the novels, as well as 
the verses, abound, have doubtless been the chief 
source of the foreign celehrity of both authors; but 
Boccaccio, as a man, is no more to be estimated by 
that work, than Petrarch is to be regarded in no 
other light than as the lover of Laura. Even, how- 
ever, had the father of the Tuscan prose been known 
only as the author of the Decameron, a considerate 
writer would have been cautious to pronounce a 
sentence irreconcilable with the unerring voice of 
I ad nations. An irrevocable value has 

never been stamped upon any work solely recom- 
mended by impurity. 

The true source of the outcrv against Boccaccio, 
which began at a very early period, was the choice 
of his scandalous personages in the cloisters as well 
as the courts; but the princes onlv laughed at the 
gallant adventures so unjustly charged upon queen 
lheodeknda, whilst the priesthood cried shame 
upon the debauchees drawn from the convent and 
the hermitage ; and most probably for the opposite 
namely, that the picture was faithful to the 
I WO Of the novels arc allowed to be facts use- 
fully turned into talcs, to deride the canonization of 
and laymen. Ser Ciappelletto and Marcelli- 
cited with applause even by the decent Mu- 
The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in 
that a new edition of the novels was 
i. Of which the expurgation consisted in 
words "monk" and "nun," and 
' the immoralities to other names. The lit- 
erary ^history of Italy particularizes no such edition; 
hn LT* ' l0n ? H 6 " tUe whole of Europe had 
Son of S ,I11< S 0f thG D «* me «>a: and the absolu- 
\ \a * \ heauth " tve been 

tied at least a hundred 






a point set- 
On se feroit 






siffler si Ton pretendoit convaincre Boccace de 
n'avoir pas ete honnete homme, puis qu'il a fait le 
Decameron." So said one of the best men, and 
perhaps the best critic, that ever lived — the very 
martyr to impartiality.* But as this information, 
that in the beginning of the last century one would 
have been hooted at for pretending that Boccaccio 
was not a good man, may seem to come from one of 
those enemies who are to be suspected, even when 
they make us a present of truth, a more acceptable 
contrast with the proscription of the body, soul, and 
muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words 
from the virtuous, the patriotic cotemporary, who 
thought one of the tales of this impure "writer 
worthy a Latin version from his own pen. " / have 
remarked elsewhere," says Petrarch, writing to 
Boccaccio, " that the book itself has been worried by 
certain dogs, but stoutly defended by your staff and 
voice. Nor was I astonished, for I have had proof 
of the vigor of your mind, and I knoio you have 
fallen on that unaccommodating incapable race of 
■mortals who, whatever they either like not, or knoio 
not, or cannot do, are sure to reprehend in others ; 
and on those occasion* only put on a show of learning 
and eloquence, but otherwise are entirely dximb." f 

It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do 
not resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them 
who did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would 
not lose the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to 
his memory. Bevius, canon of Padua, at the be- 
ginning of the sixteenth century, erected at Arqua, 
opposite to the tomb of the Laureate, a tablet, in 
Avhich he associated Boccaccio to the equal honors 
of Dante and of Petrach. 

34. 
What is her pyramid of preciotts sto?ies? 

Stanza lx. line 1. 
Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo 
and expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure 
only at the source ; and it is in search of some me- 
morial of the virtuous republicans of the family that 
we visit the church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. 
The tawdry, glaring, unfinished chapel in that 
church, designed for the mausoleum of the Dukes 
of Tuscany, set round with crowns and coffins, gives 
birth to no emotions but those of contempt for the 
lavish vanity of a race of despots, whilst 'the pave- 
ment slab, simply inscribed to the Father of his 
Country, reconciles us to the name of Medici.+ It 
was very natural for Corinna § to suppose that the 
statue raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella 
de' depositi was intended for his great namesake ; 
but the magnificent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a 
coffin half hidden in a niche of the sacristy. The 
decay of Tuscany dates from the sovereignty of the 
Medici. Of the sepulchral peace which succeeded 
to the establishment of the reigning families in 
Italy, our own Sidney has given us a glowing but a 
faithful picture. " Notwithstanding all the sedi- 
tions of Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, the 
horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and 
tfianchi, nobles and commons, they continued popu- 
lous, strong, and exceeding rich ; but in the space 
ot less than a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable 
reign of the Medices is thought to have destroved 
nine parts in ten of the people of that province. 
Among other things it is remarkable, that when 
iruhp the Second of Spain gave Sienna to the 
JJuke of Florence, his ambassador then at Rome 
lent him word, that he had given away more than 



Eclairtisscrncnt, &c, &c, p. G38, edit. Basle, 1741, in the Supplement 
to Bayle's Dictionary. "■ 

t '' Animadvert! alicubi librum ipsum eanum dentlbus iacessitum, tuo Ume» 
bnculo cgregii tuSque roce defensam. Nee mirutu. sum : nam et rirea U> 
jren. l tmnov.,etsc,o expurtu. C8seg hominum genus incolen. et ignarim., 
qu, qmcquul ,ps. rel uolunt v.el nesciun|, ve! non possunt, in aliis reprehend.mt ; 
ad hoc unum docti et ar S wti, sed elin-rues ad reliqua." . . . En*. Joaa. Boo 
catio, Opp. torn. i. p. 540, edit. Basil 



X Cosmus Medices, Decreto Publico, Pater Patri*. 
§ Connne, lir. xviii. cap. iii. vol. iii. page 243. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



97 

650,000 subjects ; and it is not believed there are (round tower close unon tht trot™-. ,.j +1 a 
now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and territory, latin? h lis narttaH? cov^d S* ~1 undu ' 
Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and other towns H t"«! if S„ C< ^^ d ,. ,U ^ Vood '. amo ^ 
that were then good and populous, are in the like 
proportion diminished, and Florence more than any. 
When that city had been long troubled with sedi- 
tions, tumults, and wars, for the most part unpros- 
perous, they still retained such strength, that when 
Charles VIII. of France, being admitted as a friend 
with his whole army, which soon after conquered 
the kingdom of Naples, thought to master them, 
the people, taking arms, struck such a terror into 
him, that he was glad to depart upon such condi- 
tions as they thought fit to impose. Machiavel re- 
ports, that in that time Florence alone, with the 
Val d'Arno, a small territory belonging to that 
city, coyld, in a few hours, by the sound of a bell, 
bring together, 135,000 well-armed men ; whereas 
now that city, with all the others in that province, 
are brought to such despicable weakness, emptines 



which the road winds, sink bv degrees into the 
marshes near to this tower. Lower than the road 
down to the right amidst these woody hOlookJ 
xiannibal placed his horse,* in the jaws of or rather 
above the pass, which was between the lake and 
the present road, and most probably close to Bor- 
ghetto, just under the lowest of the " tumuli " + 
On a summit to the left, above the road, is an old 
circular rum which the peasants call "the Tower 
of Hannibal the Carthaginian." Arrived at the 
highest point of the road, the traveller lias a partial 
view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him 
as he descends the Gualandra. He soon finds him- 
self in a vale enclosed to the left and in front and 
behind him by the Gualandra hills, bending round 
m a segment larger than a semicircle, and running 
down at each end to the lake, which obliques t 
right and form the chord of this mountain arc. 
poverty, and baseness, that they can neither resist The position cannot be guessed at from the plains of 



the oppressions of their own prince, nor defend him 
or themselves if they were assaulted by a foreign 
enemy. The people are dispersed or destroyed, and 
the best families sent to seek habitations in Venice, 
Genoa, Rome, Naples, and Lucca. This is not the 
effect of war or pestilence ; they enjoy a perfect 
peace, and suffer no other plague" than the govern- 
ment they are under." * From the usurper Cosmo 
down to "the imbecile Gaston, we look in vain for 
any of those unmixed qualities which should raise 
a patriot to the command of his fellow-citizens. 
The Grand Dukes, and particularly the third Cos- 
mo, had operated so entire a change in the Tuscan 
character, that the candid Florentines, in excuse for 
some imperfections in the philanthropic system of 
Leopold, are obliged to confess that the sovereign 
was the only liberal man in his dominions. Yet 
that excellent prince himself had no other notion of 



Cortona, nor appears to be so completely enclosed 
unless to one who is fairly within the hills." It then, 
indeed, appears " a place made as it were on pur- 
pose for a snare," locus insidiisnatus. " Borghetto 
is then found to stand in a narrow, marshy pass 
close to the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no 
other outlet at the opposite turn of the mountains 
than through the little town of Passignano, which 
is pushed into the water by the foot of a high rocky 
acclivity." J There is a woody eminence branching 
down from the mountains into the upper end of the 
plain nearer to the side of Passignano, and on this 
stands a white village called Torre. Polybius seems 
to allude to this eminence as the one on which Han- 
nibal encamped and drew out his heavy-armed Af- 
fricans and Spaniards in a conspicuous position. § 
From this spot he despatched his Balearic and light- 
armed troops- round through the Gualandra heights 



a national assembly, than of a body to represent to the right, so as to arrive unseen and form an 



the people. 



the wants and wishes, not the will 

35. 
An earthquake reeVd unhecdedly away. 

Stanza lxiii. line 5. 

" And such teas their mutual animosity, so intent 
were they t(pon the battle, that the earthquake, which 
overthrew in great part many of the cities of Italy ', 
which turned the course of rapid streams, poured 
back the sea upon the rivers, and tore down the very 
mountains, tras not felt by one of the combatants.'" j 
Such is the description of Livy. It may be doubted 
whether modern tactics would admit of such an ab- 
straction. 

The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be 
mistaken. The traveller from the village under 
Cortona to Casa di Piano, the next stage on the 
way to Rome, has for the first two or three miles, 
around him, but more particularly to the right, that 
flat land which Hannibal laid waste in order to in- 
duce the Consul Flaminius to move from Arczzo. 
On his left, and in front of him, is a ridge of hills 
bending down towards the lake of Thrasimene, 
called by Livy " montes Cortonenses," and now 
named the Gualandra. These hills he approaches 
at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries pretend to 
have been so denominated from the bones found 



ambush among the broken acclivities which the 
road now passes, and to be ready to act upon the 
left flank and above the enemy", whilst the horse 
shut up the pass behind. Flaminius came to the 
lake near Borghetto at sunset ; and, without send- 
ing any spies before him, marched through the pass 
the next morning before the day had quite broken, 
so that he perceived nothing of the horse and light 
troops above and about him, and saw only the 
heavy-armed Carthaginians in front on the hill of 
Torre. I| The consul began to draw out his army 
in the fiat, and in the mean time the horse in am- 
bush occupied the pass behind him at Borghetto. 
Thus the Romans were completely enclosed, hav- 
ing the lake on the right, the main army on the hill 
of Torre in front, the Gualandra hills filled with 
the light-armed on their left flank, and being pre- 
vented from receding by the cavalrv, who, the farther 
they advanced, stopped up all the outlets in the 
rear. A fog rising from the lake now spread itself 
over the army of the consul, but the high lands 
were in the sunshine, and all the d pi in 

ambush looked towards the hill of Torre for the 
order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and 
moved down from his post on the height. At the 
same moment all his troops on the eminences be- 
hind and in the flank of Flaminius, rushed foi ■ 
there; but there have been no bones found there, las it were with one accord into the plain. The Ro- 
and the battle was fought on the other side of j mans, who were forming their array in the mist, 
the hill. From Ossaja the road begins to rise a 
little, but does not pass into the roots of the moun- 
tains until the sixty-seventh milestone from Flo- 
rence. The ascent thence is not steep but perpetual, 
and continues for twenty minutes. The lake is 
soon seen below on the right, with Borghetto, a 



• On Government, chip. ii. sect, xxvi. pag. 208, edit. 1751. Sidney is, 
together with Locke and Hoadley, one of Mr. Hume's " dtsyicaV.e " writers. 

t " Tantusque ftiit ardor animomm, eado intentus pujrn e 
terra motnm qui multarum uri/mm Italic magna* par. 

eursu rapido amnes mare fiuminibm mrexit, monte* Unrj IngWMi 1 1 : u) ** **• *_^2 

nemo pugnantium senserit." . . . Tit Liv. lib. xxu. cap. xii. 

13 



suddenly heard the shouts of the enemy among 



sad ip*u faucc* «altui tumuli* apte tegentibut local." T. LrrS 
lib. xx ii. cap. >»• 
f " L'U maxime monte* Cortonenees Tiira»inienui »uUu" IL* !. 
J "In.le eotiea *?- 



§ Tdv n'tv Kara rpotrioznv rvj wtpciaf Ad^y airds xart^ 
\at> r ro, *<ii ror, t\w «*' airov 

Karcrrpor «*• ^- Tl,: acCl " m in Po, r«» ■ 

not so easily reconcil^Ne with present appearance* a* that in Liry ; he tali* 
of hill* to the right and left of the pa*« and valley ; but wi 



| ■ A tergo e: wiper caput d.-c-pere Unii*.' 



98 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



them on every side, and before they could fall into 
IS "ranks, or draw their swords, oc see by whom 



they were attacked, felt at once that they were sur- 

^Ttreare'twf little rivulets which run from the 
Gualandra into the lake. The traveller crosses the 
first of these at about a mile after he comes into the 
plan, and this divides the Tuscan from the papal 
territories. The second, about a quarter of a mile 
further on, is called " the bloody rivulet, and the 
neasants point out an open spot to the left between 
Sanguinetto " and the hills, which, they 
sav, was the principal scene of slaughter. Ihe 
other part of the plain is covered with thick set 
olive-trees in corn grounds, and is nowhere quite 
level except near the edge of the lake. It is, in- 
deed, most probable, that the battle was fought near 
this end of the vallev, for the six thousand Ro- 
mans, who, at the beginning of the actiou, broke 
through the enemy, escaped to the summit ol an 
eminence which must have been in this quarter, 
otherwise they would have had to traverse the whole 
plain and to pierce through the main army of Han- 
nibal. , . . 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours, 
but the death of Flaminius was the signal for a gen- 
eral dispersion. The Carthaginian horse then burst 
in upon the fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about 
Borghetto, but chiefly the plain of the Sanguinetto 
and the passes of the Gualandra, were strewed with 
dead. Near some old walls on a bleak ridge to the 
left above the rivulet, many human bones have been 
repeatedly found, and this has confirmed the pre- 
tensions and the name of the " stream of blood." 

district of Italy has its hero. In the north 
some painter ic the usual genius of the place, and 
the foreign Julio Romano more than divides Man- 
tua with her native Virgil.* To the south we hear 
of Roman names. Near Thrasimene, tradition is 
still faithful to the fame of an enemy, and Hanni- 
bal the Carthaginian is the only ancient name re- 
membered on the banks of the Perugian lake. 
Flaminius is unknown ; but the postillions on that 
road have been taught to show the very spot where 
II Console Romano was slain. Of all who fought 
and fell in the battle of Thrasimene, the historian 
himself has, besides the generals and Maharbal, pre- 
served indeed only a single name. You overtake 
the Carthaginian again on the same road to Rome. 
The antiquary, that is, the hostler, of the posthouse 
at Spoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the vie 
torious enemy, and shows you the gate still called 
Porta di Annibale. It was hardly worth while to 
remark that a French travel writer, well known by 
the name of the President Deputy, saw Thrasimene 
in the lake of Bolsena, which lay conveniently on 
his way from Sienna to Rome. 



either from above or below, it is worth aL the cas- 
cades and torrents of Switzerland put togetner : 
the Staubach, Reichenbach, Pisse Vache, fall of Ar- 
penaz, &C, are rills in comparative appearance. Of 
the fall of Schaffhausen I cannot speak, not yet 
having seen it. 

38. 



An iris sits amidst the infernal surge .^ 

Stanza lxxii. line 3. 

Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of 
iris the reader may have seen a short account in a 
note to Manfred. The fall looks so much like " the 
hell of waters," that Addison thought the descent 
alluded to bv the gulf in which Alecto plunged into 
the infernal regions. It is singular enough that 
two of the finest cascades in Europe should be ar- 
tificial—this of the Velino, and the one a*t Tivoli. 
The traveller is strongly recommended to trace the 
Velino, at least as high as the little lake called Pie' 
di Lup. The Reatine territory was the Italian 
Tempe,* and the ancient naturalist, among other 
beautiful varieties, remarked the daily rainbows of 
the lake Velinus. f A scholar of great name has 
devoted a treatise to this district alone. % 



The thundering lauwine. 

Stanza lxxiii. line 5. 

In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanches 
are known by the name of lauwine. 

40. 
I abhorred 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The drill d dull lesson, forced doien word by word. 

Stanza lxxv. lines 6, 7, and 8. 
These stanzas may probably remind the reader 
of Ensign Northerton's remarks: "D — n Homo, 
&c., but the reasons for our dislike are not exactly 
the same. I wish to express that we become tired 
of the task before we can comprehend the beauty ; 
that we learn by rote before we can get by heart ; 
that the freshness is w r orn away, and the future 
pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed, by 
the didactic anticipation, at an age when we can 
neither feel nor understand the power of composi- 
tions which it requires an acquaintance with life, as 
well as Latin and Greek, to relish, or to reason 
upon. For the same reason we never can be aware 
of* the fulness of some of the finest passages of 
Shakspeare, ("To be, or not to be," for instance,) 
from the habit of having them hammered into us at 
eight years old, as an exercise not of mind but 
of memory : so that when we are old enough to en- 



36. 
But thou, Clitumnus. 

Stanza lxvi. line 1. 
No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on 
the temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and 
Spoleto, and no site, or scenery even in Italy, is 
more worthy a description. For an account of the 
dilapidation of this temple, the reader is referred to 
Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of 
Childe Harold. 

37. 
Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cat 
aract. Stanza lxxi. line 9. 

I saw the " Cascata del marmore " of Terni 
twice, at different periods ; once from the summit 
of the precipice, and again from the valley below. 
Ihe lower view is far to be preferred, if the traveller 
has tune for one only ; but in any point of view, 



joy them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. 
In some parts of the Continent young persons are 
taught from more common authors, and do not read 
the best classics till their maturity. I certainly do 
not speak on this point from any pique or aversion 
towards the place of my education. I was not a 
slow, though an idle boy ; and I believe no one could, 
or can be more attached to Harrow than I have al- 
ways been, and with reason ; — a part of the time 
passed there was the happiest of my life ; and my 
preceptor (the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was the best 
and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings 
I have remembered but too well, though too late— 
when I have erred, and whose counsels I have but 
followed when I have done well or wisely. If ever 
this imperfect record of my feeling towards him 
should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who 
never thinks of him but with gratitude and venera 
tion— of one who would more gladly boast of hav- 



1 f^ *• IBk ! dk! ° f *' XUlh cen,ur y lhe «*» of Mantua ^re on one 
Um W M MiMH, 4c, par. A. 2. Millm. torn. ii. m*. 2W. Paris. 1817. 



p>g. 2»J, Paris, 1817. 



* " Reatini me ad sua Tempe duxerunt." Cicer. epist. ad Attic, xr. 
Jb. it. o 

t " In eodem lacu nullo non die apparere arcus." Plin. Hist. Nat. Hb. ii. 
cap. Uii. 

X Aid. Manut. de Reatina urbe agroque, ap. Saliengre, Thesaur. torn. i. 
p. 773. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



ng been his pupil, if, by more closely following bis 
njunctions, he could reflect any honor upon his in- 
structor. 

41. 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes noic. 

Stanza lxxix. line 5. 
For a comment on this and the two following 
stanzas, the reader may consult Historical Illustra" 
tions of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 

42. 

The trebly hundred triumphs. 

Stanza lxxxii. line 2. 
Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the 
number of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius ; 
and Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and the modern writ- 
ers. 

43. 
Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel, &c. 

Stanza lxxxiii. line 1. 
_ Certainly were it not for these two traits in the 
life of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should re- 
gard him as a monster unredeemed by any admira- 
ble quality. The atonement of his voluntary resig- 
nation of empire may perhaps be accepted by us, as 
it seems to have satisfied the Romans, who,"if they 
had not respected must ha\e destroyed him. There 
could be no mean, no division of opinion ; they 
must have all thought, like Eucrates, that what 
had appeared ambition was a love of glory, and 
that what had been mistaken for pride was a real 
grandeur of soul.* 

44. 

And laid him with the earth 's preceding clay. 

Stanza lxxxvi. line 4. 

_ On the third of September, Cromwell gained the 

victory of Dunbar ; a year afterwards he obtained 

"his crowning mercy" of Worcester; and a few 

years after, on the same day, which he had ever 

esteemed the most fortunate for him, died. 

45. 
And thou, dread statue ! still existent in 
The aasterest form of naked majesty. 

Stanza lxxxvii. lines 1 and 2. 
The projected division of the Spada Pompey has 
already been recorded by the historian of the De- 
cline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon 
found it in the memorials of Flaminius Vacca, f 
and it may be added to his mention of it that Pope 
Julius III. gave the contending owners five hun- 
dred crowns for the statue ; and presented it to Car- 
dinal Capo di Ferro, who had prevented the judg- 
ment of Solomon from being executed upon the 
image. In a more civilized age this statue was ex- 
posed to an actual operation : for the French who 
acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the Coliseum, re- 
solved that their Caesar should fall at the base of 
that Pompey, which was supposed to have been 
sprinkled with the blood of t the original dictator. 
The nine-foot hero was therefore removed to the 
arena of the ampitheatre, and to facilitate its trans- 
port suffered the temporary amputation of its right 
arm. The republican tragedians had to plead that 
the arm was a restoration : but their accusers do not 
believe that the integrity of the statue would have 

Erotected it. The love of finding every coincidence 
as discovered the true C?esarian ichor in a stain 
near the right knee ; but colder criticism has re- 
jected not only the blood but the portrait, and as- 
signed the globe of power rather to the first of the 
emperors than to the last of the republican masters 



99 

of Rome. Winklemann * is loath to allow an he- 
roic statue of a Roman citizen, but the Grimani 
Agrippa, a cotemporary almost, is heroic; and 
naked Roman figures were only very rare, not abso- 
lutely forbidden. The lace accords mut -h better 
with the " homtnem integrum ■ , m » + 

than with any of the busts of Augustus; and is too 
stem for him who was beautiful, savs Suetonius, at 
all periods of his life. The pretended likeness to 
Alexander the Great cannot be discerned, but the 
traits resemble the medal of Pompev. t The objec- 
tionable globe may not have been an ill-applied flat- 
ten-to him who found Asia Minor the boundary and 
It VU? ^ centre of the Roman empire. It seems 
that VYinkelmann has made a mistake in thinkine 
that no proof of the identitv of this statue, with 
that which received the bloody sacrifice, can be de- 
rived from the spot where it was discovered. 5 Fla- 
minius 'S acca says sotfo urn cantinn, and this can- 
tina is known to have been in the Vicolo de' Leutari 
near the Cancellavia, a position corresponding ex- 
actly to that of the Janus before the basilica of 
Pompey 's theatre, to which Augustus transferred 
the statue after the curia was eitber burnt or taken 
down. || Part of the Pompeian shade, f the porti- 
co, existed in the beginning of the XVth century, 
and the atrium was still called Satrum. So says 
Blondus.** At all events, so imposing is the stern 
majesty of the statue, and so memorable is the 
story, that the play of imagination leaves no room 
for the exercise of the judgment, and the fiction, it 
a fiction it is, operates on the spectator with an ef- 
fect not less powerful than truth. 

46. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! 
Stanza lxxxviii. line 1. 

Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded 
most probably with images of the foster-mother of 
her founders, but there were two she-wolves of whom 
history makes particular mention. One of these, 
of brass in ancient icork, was seen by Dionvsiusff 
at the temple of Romulus, under the" Palatine, and 
is universally believed to be that mentioned by the 
Latin historian, as having been made from the money 
collected by a fine on usurers, and as standing un- 
der the Ruminal fig-tree JJ The other was that 
which Cicero ££ has celebrated both in prose and 
verse, and which the historian Dion also records as 
having suffered the same accident as is alluded to 
by the orator. |||| The question agitated by the anti- 



• " Seigneur, tous changez Unites met idies de la facon dont )e tous rois 
%ga. Je croyoU qne tous aTiez de l'ambition, mail aucun amour pour la 
fioire : je Toyois bien que Totre ame emit haute ; mais je ne soupeonnoia r*» 
nu'elle rut grandee." — Dialogue de Sylla etd'Eucrate. 

t Memorie, num. ML pag. 9, ap. Montfaucon, Darium ltalkuro 



• Storia rlclle Aril, &c, lib. ix. cap. 1, pag. 32!, 322, torn. ii. 
f Cicer. Epist. ad. Atlicum, xi. 6. 
X Published by Caiueui in his Museum Romanum. 
§ Storia d<-lle Arti, &c. 1'uid. 

| Stutr.n. iii vit. A'iyo-t. c*p. 31, and inrit. C. J. Cssar, cap. 83. Appiaa 
says it was burnt down. See a note of Pitiscus to Suetonius, pay. 221. 
*T " Tu modo P txrjpefc lonta spati.ire sub umbra." 

OTid. Ar. Aman. 
** Roma instaurata, lib. ii. fo. 31 

tt X.iX*£a irmfinara iraXaiuf inyaaia<;. Antiq. Rom. lib I. 
\\ "Al fiuun Rumiiwlern siiiiubri inl.ii.ti .in i" .nditorum urbk to* 
uberibu* lups post.erunt." IJt. At, lib. x. cap. Ms. This was in the 
year L T . C. 455, or 457. 

"Turn st*ua Natt-T, turn simulacra DeoTum, Romulusque et Remus 

altrice bellua vi lulininus ictis concWenmt." De DiTinat. U. 80. "Tac- 

tus est i!le cti im qui hanc urlx-m con<IMrt Romiilm, quern inauratum In Capi- 
tolio parrum aiqoe lactantcm, uberibua lupinis inhiantom firiase memtatefc." 
In Catilin. iii. 8« 

" Hie silTestris erat Romani nominii altrix 
Martia, quar parros Mavortk seminc natos 
Uberlbus gravidis Titali rore rigebat 
Qua turn cum purris flammato fulminis icta 
Concidit, atque aTuIsa pedum Testigia liquit." 

De Conaulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i. de DiTinat. cap. %.) 

Si 'Ev yap r'2 Ka-rriroXit) dv<'oiavrt$ ri roXXoi vvd Ktpmv- 
vdv avvtxwvtvOriaav, nal' ayaXfuiTa uXXa re, koX ±iu$ i~i 
Ktovos lSpvp£vov,tiK<jjv ri rt$ Xvxahns ovvirt rot'Pdfta nai 
avv rut 'VuuvXt.t ISpvitipr) iwearj. Dion. Hist. lib. xxxrii. paf. 87. 
edit. Rob. Sti'ph. 1548. He goes on to mention that the letteri of the column* 
on which the laws were written were liquefied and become dpvSpik. 
AM thai tin Romani did tu to erect a large atatue to /offer, looJnaf 



100 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



queries is, whether the wolf now in the consen atoi> 
p lace is that of Livy and Dionysius or that of Cice- 
ro or whether it is neither one nor tiie other The 
earlier writers differ as much as the moderns s Lucius 
Faunas * savs, that it is the one alluded to by both, 
which is impossible, and also by Virgil which may 
be F ulvius Ursinus f calls it the wolt of Dionys- 
| Marlianus* talks of it as the ^ one men- 
tioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius tremblingly 
" Nardini is inclined to suppose it may be 
one of the manv wolves preserved in Ancient Rome ; 
but of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian 
statue. II Montfauconll mentions it as as a point 
without doubt. Of the latter writers the decisive 
Winkelmann ** proclaims it as having been found 
at the church of Saint Theodore, where, or near 
where, was the temple at Romulus, and consequent- 
ly makes it the wolf of Dionysius. His authority 
is Lucius Faunus, who, however, only says that it 
teas placed, not found, at the Ficus Rummalis, by 
the Comitium, by which he does not seem to allude 
to the church of Saint Theodore. Rycquius was 
the first to make the mistake, and Winkelmann 
followed Rycquius. 

Flaminhis Yacca tells quite a different story, and 
says he had heard the wolf with the twins was 
found ft near the arch of Septimius Severus. The 
commentator on Winkelmann is of the same opin- 
ion with that learned person, and is incensed at 
Nardini for not having remarked that Cicero, in 
speaking of the wolf struck with lightning in the 
Capitol, makes use of the past tense. But, with 
the Abate's leave, Nardini does not positively assert 
the statue tc be that mentioned by Cicero, and, if 
he had, the assumption would not perhaps have 
been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate himself 
is obliged to own that there are marks very like the 
scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the pres- 
ent wolf; and, to get rid of this, adds, that the 
wolf seen by Dionysius might have been also struck 
oy lightning, or otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the 
words of Cicero. The orator hi two places seems 
to particularize the Romulus and the Remus, espe- 
cially the first, which his audience remembered 
to have been in the Capitol, as being struck with 
lightning. In his verses he records that the twins 



mention is afterwards made of the wolf. This happened 
RS9. The Abate Fea, In noticing this passage of Dion (Storia 
tlrlle Arti, Ac, torn. i. pag. 202, note x.) says, Aon ostante, aggiunge 
Dione, the /one ben fermata (the wolf) by which it is clear the Abate trans- 
lated the Xykuit!ro-I,eunclavian version, which puts junnU* slabUita for the 
original livpivn, a won! that doea not mean ben fermeta, but only raised, 
as may be distinctly seen from another passage of the same Dion : > JJ S„ v \fj. 
On iiiv ovf 6 'Aypbrwmt xal rov Avyovtrrov ivravOa ISpvaai. 
Hist, lib. Ivi. Dion says that Agrippa " wished to raise a statue of Augustus 
in the PonuVon.' 1 

• " In eadem porticu asnea lupa, cujus oberibui Romulus ac Remus Iactan- 
trt inhiant, tonspicitur : (U luc Cic.-roet VirgUiua semper intellexere. Livius 
hoc lignum ab j&iilihus ex pecuniis quibus mulctati essen fanvratores, rxxsitum 
inmrit. Ante* in Comhiis ad rn, quo loeopueri fwerant ex- 

poBti locatum pro certo est." Luc. ' rb. Rom. lib. ii. cap. 

m. i. p. 217. In his XVI Ith chapter he repeats that the 
•Slues were there, bnt not that they w ere found there, 
t Ap. Nar iini Roma Vitus, lib. t. cap. iv. 

Rom. Topograph, lib. ii. cap. ix. Ko, mentions another 
Wdf and twins in the Vatican, lib. v. cap. xxj. 

$ "Non desunt qui banc ipsam esse puteal, quam adpinximus, qua! e 
Hasllicam, Lateranum, cim ijonr.'l'is a'.iis atitiqniutum rcliquiis, 
"' I hinc in Capitofinm postea Hata sit, quamvis Marli.mus antiquam Cap- 
am eese malnit a Tullio descripeim, cui ut iu re nimis dubia, trepfcM ad- 
wntimur." Just. Ryequii do Capk. Roman. Comm. cap. xxiv. pa?. 230, 
MSL Lugd. Bat 1696. ' ^ 8 ' 

| Nanlini Roma Vetus, Kb. v. cip. iv. 
l Jf" U '" ■ TWtijfio fulminis quo 

ksam narr.it Cicero." Diari'im Italic. ; rm. i. p. 174. 

••atom delle Arti, Ac, I noto 10 Winkelmann has 

.nad- a Strang* Won iiyi ^ CUaJronian w0 „- WM „,,, ;„ 

On Capitol, and that Dion was wrong in saying so. 

„ ft !!*?? , Ulre ' che VKnj]0 cii >»«■». ehe oggi si trora nella sala di 
Cjmrpalo|bo, fa trovato nel foro Romano appre«o l'arco di Settimio 
trorara anche la tupa di bronzo che a Hata Romoio e Retno e 
." Flam. Vacca, M.mori-, num. iii. pag. 



and wolf both fell, and the latter left behind the 
marks of her feet. Cicero does not say that the 
wolf was consumed ; and Dion only mentions that 
it fell down, without alluding, as the Abate has 
made him, to the force of the blow, or the firmness 
with which it had been fixed. The whole strength, 
therefore, of the Abate's argument hangs upon the 
past tense ; which, however, may be somewhat di- 
minished bv remarking that the phrase only shows 
that the statue was not then standing in its former 
position. Winkelmann has observed, that the 
present twins are modern ; and it is equally clear 
that there are marks of gilding on the wolf which 
might therefore be supposed to make part of the 
ancient group. It is known that the sacred images 
of the Capitol were not destroyed when injured by 
time or accident, but were put into certain under- 
ground depositories called favisscp.* It may be 
thought possible that the wolf had been so deposit- 
ed, and had been replaced in some conspicuous sit- 
uation when the Capitol was rebuilt by Vespasian. 
Rycquius, without mentioning his authority, tells 
that it was transferred from the Comitium to the 
Lateran, and thence brought to the Capitol. If it 
was found near the arch of Severus, it may have 
been one of the images which Orosius f says was 
thrown down in the Forum by lightning when Ala- 
ric took the city. That it is of very high antiqui- 
ty the workmanship is a decisive proof ; and that 
circumstance induced Winkelmann to believe it the 
wolf of Dionysius. The Capitolene wolf, however, 
may have been of the same early date as that at the 
temple of Romulus. Lactantius $ asserts that in 
his time the Romans worshipped a wolf; and it is 
known that the Lupercalia held out to a very late 
period § after every other observance of the ancient 
superstition had totally expired. This may account 
for the preservation of the ancient image longer 
than the other early symbols of Paganism. 

It may be permitted, however, to remark, that 
the wolf was a Roman symbol, but that the wor- 
ship of that symbol is an inference drawn by the 
zeal of Lactantius. The early Christian writers are 
not to be trusted in the charges which they make 
against the Pagans. Eusebius accused the Ro- 
mans to their faces of worshipping Simon Magus, 
and raising a statue to him in the island of the Ty- 
ber. The Romans had probably never heard of 
such a person before, who came, however, to play a 
considerable, though scandalous part in the church 
history, and has left several tokens of his aerial 
combat with St. Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding 
that an inscription found in this very island of the 
Tybcr showed the Simon Magus of Eusebius to be 
a certain indigenal god, called Semo Sangus or 
Fidius. |j 

Even when the worship of the founder of Rome 
had been abandoned, it was thought expedient to 
humor the habits of the good matrons of the city 
by sending them with their sick infants to the 
church of Saint Theodore, as they had before car- 



Dlar. ItaL i 



e rofu 
nella Loggia 
3. ap. Montfaucon, 



* Luc. Faun. Ibid. 

t See note to stanza Ixxx. in Historical UluBtrations. 

J " Romuli nutrix Lupa honoribus est affecta divinis, et ferrem si animal 
ipsum fuisset, cujus flguram gerit." Lactant. de Falsa Religione, lib. 1, cap. 
xx. pag. 101, edit, varior, 1660 : that is to say, he would rather adore a wolf 
than a prostitute. His commentator has observed that the opinion of Livy 
concerning Laurentia being figured in this wolf was not universal. Strabo 
thought so. Rycquius is wrong in saying that Lactantius mentions the wolf 
was in the Capitol. 

§ To A. D. 496. " Quia credere possit," says Baronius [Ann. Eccles. 
torn. viii. p. 602, in. an. 4961, " viguisse adhuc Roma: ad Gelassii tempora, 
qua fuere ante exordia urbis allata in Italiam Lupercalia ? " Gelasius wrote 
a letter which occupies four folio pages to Andromachus the senator, and 
others, to show that the rites should be given up. 

| Eusebius has these words: K ai drfpt&VTi Trap' ip.iv cuff Stdf 
reTiprjTai, tv rw Ti/3epi norapw p.£Ta£v ruv cvo yetivptiv, 
f.XW iittypatyhv 'Pw/zat *?)» tuvtw, "Zipwvi 6eu> H'^kto. 
Eccles. Hist. lib. ii. cap. xffi. p. 40. Justin Martyr has told the' story jefore 
but Baronius himself was ch'-ged to detect this fable. See Nardini Ron* 
Vat. lib. vii. cop. xii. 



NOTES TO CH1LDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



101 



ried them to the temple of Romulus.* The practice 
is continued to this day ; and^he site of the above 
church seems to be thereby identified with that of 
the temple ; so that if the wolf had been really 
found there, as Winkelmann says, there would be 
no doubt of the present statue being that seen by 
Dionysius.f But Faunus, in saying that it was 
at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, is only 
talking of its ancient position as recorded by Pliny ; 
and even if he had been remarking where it was 
found, would not have alluded to the church of 
Saint Theodore, but to a very different place, near 
which it was then thought the Ficus Ruminalis 
had been, and also the Comitium ; that is, the three 
columns by the church of Santa Maria Liberatrice, 
at the corner of the Palatine looking on the Forum. 
It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image 
was actually dug up, \ and perhaps, on the whole, 
the marks of the gilding, and of the lightning, are 
a better argument in favor of its being the Cicero- 
nian wolf than any that can be adduced for the con- 
trary opinion. At any rate, it is reasonably selected 
for the text of the poem as one of the most inte- 
resting relics of the ancient city, § and is certainly 
the figure, if not the very animal to which Virgil 
alludes in his beautiful verses : 

" Gcminos huic libera circum 
Ludere pendente* pueros, et lambere matrern 
Impavidas : illam tereti cervice reflexam 
Mulcere alternos, et corpora fmgere lingua." || 

47. 
For the Roman's mind 
Was modelVd in a less terrestrial mould. 

Stanza xc. lines 3 and 4. 
It is possible to be a very great man, and to be 
still very inferior to Julius Caesar, the most complete 
character, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. 
Nature seems incapable of such extraordinary com- 
binations as composed his versatile capacity, which 
was the wonder even of the Romans themselves. 
The first general — the only triumphant politician — 
inferior to none in eloquence — comparable to any in 
the attainments of wisdom, in an age made up of 
the greatest commanders, statesmen, orators, and 
philosophers, that ever appeared in the world — an 
author who composed a perfect specimen of military 
annals in his travelling carriage — at one time in a 
controversy with Cato, at another writing a treatise 
on punning, and collecting a set of good sayings — 
fightingIT and making love at the same moment, 



• " In essa gli antichi pontefici per toglier la memoria de' giuochi Luper 
cali istituiu in onore di Romolo, introdussero l'uso di portarvi Bambini 
oppress! da infermiti occulte, accid si liberino per i'interceseione di questo 
Santo, come di continuo si sperimenta." Rione xii. Ripa accurata e suo 
cincta descrizione, &c, di Roma Moderna dell' Ab. Rulalf, Venuti, 1766, 

f Nardini, lib. v. cap. 11, convicts Pomponius Lstus cratsi erroris, in 
putting the Rumiual fig-tree at the church of Saint Theodore : but as Livy 
■ays the wolf was at the Ficus Ruminalis, and Dionysius at the temple of 
Romulus, he is obliged (cap. iv.) to own that the two were close together, as 
well as the Lupercol care, shad d, us it were, by the fig-tree. 

J " Ad comitium ficus olim Ruminalis germinabat, sub qua lups rumam, 
hoc est, mammam, doceute Varrone, suxerant olim Romulus et Remus; uon 
procul a templo hodie D. Maris Liberatricis appellate ubi forsan inventa 110- 
bilis ilia eenea statua lup.-e geminos puerulos lactantis. qua hodie in capitolio 
ridemus." Clai Borrichii Antiqua Urbi9 Romanse Facte*, cap. x. See also 
cap. xii. Borrichius wrote after Nardini in 1687. Ap. Grev. Antiq. Rom. 
torn. iv. p. 1522. 

§ Douatus, lib. xi. cap. 18, gives a medal representing ou one side the wolf 
Sj the same position as that in the Capito! ; and in the reverse the wolf with 
the head not reverted. It is of the time of Antoninus Pius. 

| ./En. viii. 631. See Dr. Middleton, in his letter from Rome, who in- 
slines to the Ciceronian wolf, but without examining the snbJccL 

fl In his tenth book, Lucan shows him sprinkled with the blood of Pharsalia 
n the arms of Cleopatra, 

Sanguine Thessalici cladis perfusus adulter 
Admisit Venerem curis, et miscuh armis. 

Alter feasting *ith his mistress, he sits up all night to converse with the 
Egyptian sages, *jd ttll* Achorcus, 

Spes sit mihi cert* ridendi 
Niiiacos footes, bellurn civile relinquam. 



and willing to abandon both his empire and his mis- 
tress for a sight of the Fountains of the Nile. Such 
did Julius Cesax appear to his cotemporaries and to 
those of the subsequent ages, who were the most 
inclined to deplore and execrate his fatal genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his 
surpassing glory, or with his magnanimous, his 
amiable qualities, as to forget the decision of his 
impartial countrymen : 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIX.* 

48. 
What from this barren being do we reap? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail. 

Stanza xciii. lines 1 and 2. 
". . . . omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, 
nihil percepi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt ; angustos 
sensus ; imbecillos animos, brevia curricula vita;; in 
profundo yeritatem demersam ; opinionibus et insti- 
tutis omnia tcneri ; nihil veritati relinqui : dcinceps 
omnia tenebris circumfusa esse dixerunt." f The 
eighteen hundred years which have elapsed sinco 
Cicero wrote this have not removed any of the im- 
perfections of humanity : and the complaints of the 
ancient philosophers may, without injustice or affec- 
tation, be transcribed in a poem written yesterday. 

49. 
There is a stem round tower of other days. 

Stanza xcix. line 1. 
Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called 
Cape di Bove, in the Appian Way. See Historical 
Illustrations of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold. 

50. 
Prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites — early death. 

Stanza cii. lines 5 and 6. 

'Ov ol $e.ol (piXovaiv, dnodvfiaicti viog. 

To yap Savctp ovk aiaxpov ciAA' acVxpoje SaveTv. 

Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poetae 
Gnomici, p. 231, edit. 1784. 

51. 

Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thus the migldy falls. 
Stanza cvii. line 9. 
The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on 
the side towards the Circus Maximus. The very 
soil is formed of crumbled brick-work. Nothing 
has been told, nothing can be told, to satisfy the 
belief of any but a Roman antiquary. See Histor- 
ical Illustrations, page 206. 

52. 
There is the moral of all human tales : 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory, %e. 

Stanza cviii. lines 1, 2, and 3. 
The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of th© 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and 
his cotemporary Romans, has the following eloquent 



" Sic velut in ti:ta sccuri pace trabebant 
Nocusiternv-: 
Immediately afterwards, lie is fighting again and defending every position. 
" Sed adest defensor ubiq/je 
Cesar et hos aditus giadiis, ho* ignib u areet 

ueca nocte carina 

Irutililit Cassar semper fcliciter usos 
Praecipiti curtu bellorum et tempore rapto." 
• "Jure C.TSUS existimetur," says Seutonius, after a fair estimation of hi* 
charact/T, and making use of a phrase which was a formula m Livy's lime. 
" Melium Jure arsum pronuntiavit, etiam Fi rcgui erimine insotn furru . " 
[Hb. Iv. cap. 48,] and which was continued in the legal judgments pro- 
nounced in justifiable homicide*, such as killing housebreakers. See Suetoo 
in vit. C. J. Cisar, with toe eommenury of Pitiscus, p. l$i 
t Aeadem. 1, 13. 



102 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



passage : " From their railleries of this kind, on the 
barbarity and misery of our island, one cannot help 
prising fate and revolutions of 
kingdoms ; bow Rome, once the mistress of the 
world, ; . irts, empire, and glory, now lies 

sunk in sloth, ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to 
the mot* cruel as well as the most contemptible of 

u, and religious imposture 
while this remote country, anciently the jest and 
contempt of the polite Romans, is become the hap 
•' of liberty, plenty, and letters; flourishing 
in all the arts and refinements of civil life ; yet 
running perhaps the same course which Rome it- 
self had run before it, from virtuous industry to 
wealth ; from wealth to luxury ; from luxury to an 
impatience of discipline, and corruption of morals ; 
till, by a total degeneracy and loss of virtue, being 
grown ripe for destruction, it fall a prey at last to 
some hardy oppressor, and, with the loss of liber- 

S' , losing everything that is valuable, sinks gradu- 
ly again into its original barbarism."* 



56. 



53. 
And apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime 
Stanza ex. lines 8 and 9. 
The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter ; 
that of Aurelius by St. Paul. See Historical Illus- 
trations of the IVth Canto, &c. 

54. 

Still we Trajan's name adore. 

Stanza cxi. line 9 
Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman 
princes ; f and it would be easier to find a sovereign 
uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than 
one possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to 
this emperor. "When he mounted the throne," 
says the historian Dion,} "he was strong in bodv, 
he was vigorous in mind ; age had impaired none of 
his faculties ; he was altogether free from envy and 
from detraction ; he honored all the good, and he 
advanced them ; and on this account they could not 
be the objects of his fear, or of his hate ; he never 
listened to informers ; he gave not way to his anger : 
he abstained equally from unfair exactions and°un- 
just punishments ; he had rather be loved as a man 
than honored as a sovereign ; he was affable with 
his people, respectful to the senate, and universally 
beloved by both ; he inspired none with dread but 
the enemies of his country." 

55. 
llicnzi, last of Romans. 

Stanza cxiv. line 5. 
The name and exploits of Rienzi must be famil- 
iar to the reader of Gibbon. Some details and ined- 
lted manuscripts relative to this unhappy hero will 
be seen in the Illustrations to the IVth Canto 



The History of the Life of M. Tulliu 



Interesting Fact* relating to 
usque ad nostram statem 



Cicero, sect. vi. vol. ii. p. 102 
Tte contra* hw been reversed i„ a late extraordinary Instance. A ^ule- 
m«n *ai thrown Into prison at Paris ; oflbrU were mad, far hi, r, 
French mmwer continued to detain him, under the pretence that he was 
»n Engushman, but only a Roman. See 
Joachim Mom," png. 139. 
t "Huju. tjuuum memori. dclatiim e« 

MEL OR 1 " raUAwl?? Mcla ™""> »K FELICIOR . AVGVSTO . 
MEUOR . TRAJANO .» Eutrop. Brer. Hist. Rom. lib. viii. cap. r. 

tiovXoiro. tS? „ SU T S SJ fe"** *"> **\ ^^ 



Egeria ! sweet ovation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast. 

Stanza cxv. lines 1, 2, and 3. 
The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca 
would incline us to believe in the claims of the Ege- 
rian grotto.* He assures us that he saw an inscrip- 
tion in the pavement, stating that the fountain was 
that of Egeria, dedicated to the nymphs. The in- 
scription is not there at this day : but Montfaucon 
quotes two lines f of Ovid from a stone in the Villa 
Giustiniani, which he seems to think had been 
brought from the same grotto. 

This grotto and valley were formerly frequented 
in summer, and particularly the first Sunday in May, 
by the modern Romans, who attached a salubrious 
quality to the fountain which trickles from an ori- 
fice at the bottom of the vault, and, overflowing the 
little pools, creeps down the matted grass into the 
brook below. The brook is the Ovidian Almo, 
whose name and qualities are lost in the modern 
Aquataccio. The valley itself is called Valle di 
Caffarelli, from the dukes of that name who made 
over their fountain to the Pallavicini, with sixty 
ubbia of adjoining land. 

There can be little doubt that this long dell is the 
Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of 
Umbritus, notwithstanding the generality of his 
commentators have supposed the descent of the sat 
irist and his friend to have been into the Arician 
grove, where the nymph met Hippolitus, and where 
she was more peculiarly worshipped. 

The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban 
hill, fifteen miles distant, would be too considera- 
ble, unless we were to believe in the wild conjecture 
of Vossius, who makes that gate travel from its 
present station, where he pretends it was during the 
reign of the kings, as far as the Arician grove, and 
then makes it recede to its old site within the 
shrinking city.J The tufo, or pumice, which the 
poet prefers to marble, is the substance composing 
the bank in which the grotto is sunk. 

The modern topographers § find in the grotto the 
statue of the nymph and nine niches for the Muses, 
and a late traveller || has discovered that the cave 
is restored to that simplicity which the poet re- 
gretted had been exchanged for injudicious orna- 
ment. But the headless statue is palpably rather a 
male than a nymph, and has none of the attributes 
ascribed to it at present visible. The nine Muses 
could hardly have stood in six niches ; and Juvenal 
certainly does not allude to any individual cave.1T 



* " Poco lontano dal detto luogo si scende ad un casaletto, del qualen e 
sono Padroui Ii CatUrelli, che cbn quosto nome • chiamato il luogo ; ri e una 
fontana sotto una gran volta antica, che al presente si gode, e li Romani ri 
var.no Testate a ricrearsi ; nel pavimento di essa fonte si legge in un epitaffio 
esscrc quella la fonte di Egeria, dedicata alle ninfe, e questa dice l'epitamo, 
MMto la medesima fonte in cui fu convertita." Memorie, &c., ap. Nardiui, 
pag. 13. He does not give the inscription. 

t " In villa Justiniana ex tat ingons lapis quadratus solidus in quo »ulpta 
hsc duo Ovidii carmina sunt: 

Egeria est qua praAet aquas dea grata CamoenU 
Ilia Numa: conjunx consiliumque fuit. 

Qui lapis videtur ex eodem Egeria fonte, aut ejus vicinia isthuc comportatus.' , 
Dianum Italic, p. 153. 
| De Magnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Grav. Ant. Rom. torn. iv. p. 1507. 
§ Lchmarl, Descrizione di Roma e dell' agro Romano, corretto dall' Abate 
Venuu, m Roma, 1750. They believe in the grotto and nymph, 
cro di qunto fonte, essendovi sculpite le acque a pie di esso." 
t Classical Tour, chap. vi. p. 217, vol. ii. 
IT "Substitit ad veteres arcus, madidamque Capenam, 
Hie uh nocturna; Numa constituebat arnica. 
Nunc sacri fontis nemus, et delubra locantur 
Judaas quorum cophinum faenamque supellex. 
Omnis emm populo mercedem pendere jussa eat 
Arbor, et ejectis mendicat silva Camcenis. 
In rallem Egeria descending, et speluncas 
Dissinules veres: quanto prastantius esaet 
Numen aqua, riridi si margine clauderet undas 
Herba, nee togeiiuum violarent marmora tophum." 

Sat in. 



NOTES TO CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



103 



Nothing can be collected from the satirist but that (not thus that our fathers maintained it in the bnll- 
BOmewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in iant periods of our history. Prejudice may be 
which it was supposed Numa held nightly consulta- trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of 
tions with his nymph, and where there was a grove time while reason slumbers in the citadel ; but i 



and a sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated 
to the Muses ; and that from this spot there was a 
descent into the valley of Egeria, where were sev 
eral artificial cave3. It is clear that the statues of 
the Muses made no part of the decoration which 
the satirist thought misplaced in these caves ; for he 
expressly assigns other fanes (delubra) to these di 
vinities above the valley, and moreover tells us 
that they had been ejected to make room for the 
Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called that of 
Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to the 
Muses, and Nardini* places them in a poplar 
grove, which was in his time above the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position 
that the cave now shown may be one of the " arti 
ficial caverns," of which, indeed, there is another i 
little way higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder 
bushes : but a single grotto of Egeria is a mere mod 
era invention, grafted upon the application of the 
epithet Egerian to these nymphea in general, and 
which might send us to look for the haunts of Numa 
upon thebanks of the Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mis 
translation by his acquaintance with Pope : he care 
fully preserves the correct plural — 

" Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
Tlie Egerian groU ; oh, how unlike the true. 

The valley abounds with springs,f and over 
these springs, which the Muses might haunt from 
their neighboring groves, Egeria presided; hence 
she was said to supply them with water ; and she 
was the nymph of the grottos through which the 
fountains were taught to flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of 
the Egerian valley have received names at will, 
which have been changed at will. Venuti % owns 
he can see no traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, 
Juno, Venus, and Diana, which Nardini found, or 
hoped to find. The mutatorium of Caracalla's cir- 
cus, the temple of Honor and Virtue, the temple of 
Bacchus, and, above all, the temple of the god Redi- 
culus, are the antiquaries' despair. 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of 
that emperor cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the 
reverse shows a circus, supposed, however, by some 
to represent the Circus Maximus. It gives a very 
good idea of that place of exercise. The soil has 
been but little raised, if we may judge from the 
small cellular structure at the end of the Spina, 
which was probably the chapel of the god Comus. 
This cell is half beneath the soil, as it must have 
been in the circus itself, for Dionysius £ could not 
be persuaded to believe that this divinity was the 
Roman Neptune, because his altar was under 
ground. 

57. 
Yet let us ponder boldly. 

Stanza exxvii. line 1. 

" At all events," says the author of the Academi- 
cal Questions, '• I trust, whatever may be the fate 
of my own speculations, that philosophy will regain 
that "estimation which it ought to possess. The 
free and philosophic spirit of our nation has been 
the theme of admiration to the world. This was 
the proud distinction of Englishmen, and the lumi- 
nous source of all their glory. Shall we then for- 
get the many and dignified sentiments of our an- 
cestors, to prate in the language of the mother or 
the nurse about our good old prejudices ? This is 
not the way to defend the cause of truth. It was 



the latter sink into a lethargy, the former will 
quickly erect a standard for herself. Philosophy, 
wisdom and liberty, support each other ; he who 
1 not reason is a bigot ; he who cannot, is a fool ; 



Preface, p. xiv 



and he who dares not, is a slave. 
xv. vol. i. 1805. 

58. 

Great Nemesis ! 

Here, where the amicntpaid thee homage long. 
Stanza exxxii. lines 2 and 3. 

We read in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a 
warning received in a dream,* counterfeited, once 
a year, the beggar, sitting before the gate of his 
palace with his hand hollowed and stretched out for 
charity. A statue formerly in the Villa Borghese, 
and which should be now at Paris, represents the 
Emperor in that posture of supplication. The ob- 
ject of this self degradation was the appeasement 
of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on good for- 
tune, of whose power the Roman conquerors were 
also reminded by certain symbols attached to then- 
cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and 
the crotalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis 
of the Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the 
above statue pass for that of Belisarius : and until 
the criticism of Winkelmannf had rectified the 
mistake, one fiction was called in to support another. 
It was the same fear of the sudden termination of 
prosperity' that made Amasis, king of Egypt, warn 
his friend Polycrates of Samos, that the gods loved 
those whose lives were checkered with "good and 
evil fortunes. Nemesis was supposed to lie in wait 
particularly for the prudent ; that is, for those whose 
caution rendered them accessible only to mere acci- 
dents : and her first altar was raised on the banks 
of the Phrvgian iEsepus by Adrastus, probably the 
prince of that name who killed the son of Crcesus 
by mistake. Hence the goddess was called Adras- 
tea.+ 

The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august. 
there was a temple to her in the Palatine under the 
name of Rhamnusia : § so great indeed was the 
propensity of the ancients to trust to the revolution 
of events, and to believe in the divinity of Fortune, 
that in the same Palatine there was a temple to the 
Fortune of the day.j| This is the last superstition 
which retains its hold over the human heart ; and 
from concentrating in one object the credulity so 
natural to man, has always appeared strongest in 
those unembarrassed by other articles of belief. 
The antiquaries have supposed this goddess to be 
synonymous with Fortune and with Fate ; U but it 
was in her vindictive quality that she was worship- 
ped under the name of Nemesis. 



• Lib. in. cap. iii. 

t " Undique e solo aque scaturiunt." Nardini, lib. 

j Echinard. 4c., Cic. cit. p. 297, 298. 

S Aatiq. Bom. lib. ii. cap. rxxL 



* Sucton. in Vit. Augusti, cap. 91. Caasaubon, in the note, rrfm to Plu- 
tarch's Liv.-s of Camillus and iEiniiius Paulus, and also to his apothegms 
for the character of this deity. The lullow-d hand i 
degree of depredation ; and when the dead body of the prefect I 
borne about in triumph by the people, the indignity wae increased by putting 
his hand in that position. 

t Su.ria delta Arti, Ac., Hb. xii. cap. iii. torn. ii. p 422. VTaconu calls the 
statue, however, a fTjrtinJB HU jfireu in Or- Museo Pio-Clemcnt, I 
40. The Abate Pea (Sriegaoone dei Rami. Storia. 4c, torn. in. p. 513), calls 
it a Chrisippus. 
J Diet, de Bayle, article Adraateo. 
§ It is enumerated by the regionary Victor. 
| Fortuna: htijusce diei. Cicero mentions her»He Legib. Kb. ii. 
«r DEAI NF.MKSl 

SIVE POtTSKAE 
P1STOR1VS 
RVG1ANVS 
V. C. I.EuAT. 
LEG. XI1T. G. 
CORD. 

I See Q,uestiones Roman:", &c, ap. Grasv. Antiq. Roman, torn. t. p. 943. Sea 
also Muratori, Nov. Thesaur. Inscrrp. Vet. torn. !. p. 88, 89, where there ar 
three Latin and one Greek inscription to Nemesie, and others to Fate. 



104 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



59. 



I see before me the Gladiator lie. 

Stanza cxl. line 1. 



W i.tlu-r tnc wonderful statue which suggested 
this imago be a laquearian gladiator, which, m spite 
Slmann's criticism has been .stoutly main- 
tained,* or whether it be a Greek herald as that 
mat antiquary positively asserted, T or whether it 
E to be thought a Spartan or barbarian shield- 
bearer, according to the opinion of his Italian edit- 
or + it must assuredly seem a copy of that master- 
niece of Ctesilaus which represented " a wounded 
man dying who perfectly expressed what there re- 
mained of life in him." § Montfaucon || and Maf- 
foiH thought it the identical statue; but that 
statue was of bronze. The gladiator was once in 
the villa Ludovizi, and was bought by Clement ill. 
The right arm is an entire restoration of Michael 
Angelo.** 



He, their sire, 
Butcher' d to make a Roma?i holiday. 

Stanza cxli. lines 6 and 7- 

Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and vol- 
untary ; and were supplied from several conditions : 
from slaves sold for that purpose ; from culprits ; 
from barbarian captives either taken in war, and, 
after being led in triumph, set apart for the games, 
or those seized and condemned as rebels ; also from 
free citizens, some fighting for hire (auctorati), 
others from a depraved ambition : at last even 
knights and senators were exhibited, a disgraceof 
which the first tyrant was naturally the first in- 
ventor.ft In the end, dwarfs, and even women 
fought; an enormity prohibited by Severus. Of 
the most to be pitied, undoubtedly, were the 
barbarian captives ; and to this species a Christian 
writer %% justly applies the epithet " innocent," 
to distinguish them from the professional gladiators 
Aurelian and Claudius supplied great numbers of 
unfortunate victims; the one after his tri- 
umph, and the other on the pretext of a rebellion.^ 
No war, says Lipsius,|||j was ever so destructive to 
the human race as these sports. In spite of the 
laws of Constantino and Constans, gladiatorial 
shows survived the old established religion more 
than seventy years ; but they owed their final ex 
tinction to the courage of a Christian. In the year 
ihe kalends of January, they were exhibit- 
shows in the Flavian amphitheatre before 
d immense concourse of people. Almachius 
or Telemachus, an eastern monk, who had travelled 
to Koine intent on his holy purpose, rushed into 
the midst of the arena, and endeavored to separate 
the combatants. The praetor Alypius, a person in- 



• By the Abate Bracei, dissertazionc supra un c'.ipco voiivo, &c. Preface, 
pag. 7, who account* for the cord round t!ie neck, but not for the horn, which it 
*ue» not appear U>e gladiators themselves ever used. Note A, Stori.i delle 
p. 205. 
PoUfoniM, herald of Lotus, killed by (Edipvis ; or Cepreas, herald 
tl Euritheus, killed by the Athenian* when lie endeavored to drag die Hera- 
tlkUs from the altar of rncrcy, and in whose honor they instituted annual 
games, continued to the time of Hadrian ; or Anthemocrims, the Athenian 
herald, killed by the Mcgarenses, who never recovered the impi.-tv. See 
Stork dalle Ani, *c, torn. B. p. 203, 2M, 205, 206, 207, lib. ix. cap. ii. 

J Storia, He., torn. ii. p. 207. Not. (A.) 

*, " Vnlneralum deftcientem fecit in quo possit inlelligi quantum restat 
wdmae." Pii„. N. vl . HUt. lib. xxxiv. cap. ii. 

I Antiq. torn. Hi. par 2, sab. 155. 
T. Race stat. tab. 84. 

* • M m, Capitol, torn. iB. p. 154, edit. 1755. 
tt Julius C*«ar, who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, brought Funus 

Leptinu* and A. CaJentis upon the aren*. 

; Tertulian, " certe qnidera et Innocente* gladwtores in ludem veniunt, c 
voloptatis public* bwtc ftant." Just. Lip*. Saturn. Sermon, lib. ii. cap. iii. 
M Vf>i H. and in vit. Claud. Ibid. 

II "Credo imo scio nullum helium tantam cladem vastitiemque generi 
aomaoo btuQiae, quam bos ad volnrtatem ludos." J u *. Lip.. Ibid. lib. i 
tap. xtt. ^ 



crediblv attached to these games,* gave instant or- 
ders to' the gladiators to slay him ; and Telemachus 
"■ained the crown of martyrdom, and the title of 
saint, which surely has never either before or since 
been awarded for a more noble exploit. Honorms 
immediately abolished the shows, which were never 
afterwards revived. The story is told by Theodore f 
and Cassiodorus, J and seems worthy of credit not- 
withstanding its place in the Roman martyrology. § 
Besides the torrents of blood which flowed at the 
funerals, in the amphitheatres, the circus, the forums, 
and other public places, gladiators were introduced 
at feasts, and tore each other to pieces amidst the 
supper tables, to the great delight and applause of 
the guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself to sup- 
pose the loss of courage, and the evident degenera- 
cy of mankind, to be nearly connected with the abo- 
lition of these bloody spectacles. || 

61. 

Here, where the Roman million'' s blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 

Stanza cxlii. lines 5 and 6. 
When one gladiator wounded another, he shout- 
ed, "he has it," "hoc habet," or "habet." The 
wounded combatant dropped his weapon, and ad- 
vancing to the edge of the arena, supplicated the 
spectators. If he had fought well, the people saved 
him ; if otherwise, or as they happened to be in- 
clined, they turned down then- thumbs, and he was 
slain. They were occasionally so savage that they 
were impatient if a combat lasted longer than ordi- 
nary without wounds or death. The emperor's 
presence generally saved the vanquished ; and it is 
recorded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, that 
he sent those who supplicated him for life, in a 
spectacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people ; mother 
words, handed them over to be slain. A similar 
ceremony is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. 
The magistrate presides ; and after the horsemen 
and piccadores have fought the bull, the matadore 
steps forward and bows to him for permission to 
kill the animal. If the bull has done his duty by 
killing two or three horses, or a man, which last is 
rare, the people interfere with shouts, the ladies 
wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. 
The wounds and death of the horses are accompa- 
nied with the loudest acclamations, and many ges- 
tures of delight, especially from the female portion 
of the audience, including those of the gentlest 
blood. Everything depends on habit. The author 
of Childe Harold, the writer of this note, and one 
or two other Englishmen, who have certainly in 
other days borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, 
during the summer of 1809, in the governor's box 
at the great amphitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite 
to Cadiz. The death of one or two horses com- 
pletely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman 
present, observing them shudder and look pale, no- 
ticed that unusual reception of so delightful a sport 
to some young ladies, who stared and smiled, and 
continued their applauses as another horse fell 
bleeding to the ground. One bull killed three 
horses off his oicn horns. He was saved by accla- 
mations, which were redoubled when it was 'known 
he belonged to a priest. 

An Englishman, who can he much pleased with 



Augustinus (lib. vi. confess, cap. viii.) "Alipium suum gladiatori spectaculS 
inhiatu incredibilitet abreptum," scribit. ib. lib. i. cap. xii. 

t Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v. 

J Cassiod, Tripartita, 1. x. c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 

§ Baronhu, ad. aim. et in notis ad Martyrol. Rom. 1, Jan. See Maran- 
goni delle memorie sacre e profane dell' Anfiteatro Flavio, p. 45, edit. 1746. 

II "Quod? non tu Lipsi momentum aliquod habuisse censes ad virtutcm I 
Magnum. Tempora nostra, nosque Ipsos videamus. Oppidum ecce unura 
alterumve captum, direptum est : tumultus circa nos, non in nobis : et tamen 
eoncidimus et turbamur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per annos meditata sapientia 
studia? ubi ille animus qui possit dicere, si fractus illabatur orUtV &c 
Ibid. lib. ii. cap. xxvi. The prototype of Mr. Windham's panegyric oo 
bull-baiting. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



seeing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot 
bear to look at a horse galloping round an arena 
with his bowels trailing on the ground, and turns 
from the spectacle and the spectators with horror 
and disgust. 

62. 
Like Laurels on the baldjirst Caesar's head. 
Stanza cxliv. line 6. 
^ Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was par- 
ticularly gratified by that decree of the senate, 
which enabled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all 
occasions. He was anxious not to show that he 
was the conqueror of the world, but to hide that he 
was bald. A stranger at Rome would hardly have 
guessed at the motive, nor should we without the 
help of the historian. 

63. 
While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand. 
Stanza cxlv. line 1. 
This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Ro- 
man Empire ; and a notice on the Coliseum may be 
seen in the Historical Illustrations to the Ivth 
Canto of Childe Harold. 



101 



69. 



The strange fate 
WJnch tumbles mightiest sovereigns. 

Stanza clxxi. lines 6 and 7. 
Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 
heart; Charles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bank- 
rupt m means and glory; Cromwell of anxiety; 
and, "the greatest is behind," Napoleon lives a 
prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but superflu- 
ous list might be added of names equally illustrious 
and unhappy. 

70. 
Lo, Nemi, navelVd in the woody hills. 

Stanza clxxiii. line 1. 
The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat 
of Egeria, and from the shades which embosomed 
the temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its 
distinctive appellation of The Grove. Nemi is but 
an evening's ride from the comfortable inn of Al- 
bano. 

71. 



64. 
Spared and blest by time. 

Stanza cxlvi. 



line 3. 



m " Though plundered of all its brass, except the 
ring which was necessary to preserve the aperture 
above; though exposed to repeated fires, though 
sometimes flooded by the river, and always open to 
the rain, no monument of equal antiquity is so 
well preserved as this rotunda. It passed with lit- 
tle alteration from the Pagan into the present wor- 
ship ; and so convenient were its niches for the 
Christian altar, that Michael Angelo, ever studious 
of ancient beauty, introduced their design as a 
model in the Catholic church." — Forsyth's Re- 
marks, &c, on Italy, p. 137, sec. edit. 



Go. 



Arid they who feel for genius may repose 
TJieir eyes on honored forms, whose busx 
t/iem close 



forms, whose busts around 
Stanza cxlvii. lines 8 and 9, 



The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the 
busts of modern great, or, at least, distinguished, 
men. The flood of light which once fell through 
the large orb above on the whole circle of divinities! 
now shines on a numerous assemblage of mortals, 
some one or two of whom have been almost deified 
by the veneration of their countrymen. 



There is a dungeon, in whose dim, drear light. 

Stanza cxlviii. line 1. 
This and the three next stanzas allude to the 
story of the Roman daughter, which is recalled to 
the traveller by the site, or pretended site, of that 
adventure, now shown at the church of St. Nicho- 
las in carcere. The difficulties attending the full 
belief of the tale are stated in Historical Illustra- 
tions, &c. 

67. 
Turn to the Mole, which Hadrian rear'd on high. 

Stanza clii. line 1. 
The castle of St. Angelo. See— Historical Illus- 
trations. 

. 68. 
Stanza cliii. 
This and the six next stanzas have a reference to! turn up into Valle Rustic*, to the left, about' an 
the church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of hour from the villa, is a town called Yicovaro, 
the comparative length of this basilica, and the another favorable coincidence with the I 'aria of the 
other great churches of Europe, see the pavement poet. At the end of the valley, towards the Anio, 
of St. Peter's, and the classical Tour through Italy, there is a bare hill, crowned with a little town called 
vol. ii. page 125, et seq. chap. iv. iBardela. At the foot of this hill the rivulet of Li- 



And afar 
The Tiber tcinds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast, §c. &;c. 

Stanza clxxiv. lines 2, 3, and 4. 
The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unri- 
valled beauty, and from the convent on the highest 
point, which has succeeded to the temple of the La- 
tian Jupiter, the prospect embraces all the objects 
alluded to in the cited stanza ; the Mediterranean ; 
the whole scene of the latter half of the iEneid, 
and the coast from beyond the mouth of the Tiber 
to the headland of Circteum and the Cape of Terra- 
cina. 

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either 
at the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince 
Lucien Bonaparte. 

The former was thought some years ago the ac- 
tual site, as may be seen from M'iddleton's Life of 
Cicero. At present it has lost something of its 
credit, except for the Domenichinos. Nine monks 
of the Greek order live there, and the adjoining 
villa is a cardinal's rammer-house. The other vil- 
la, called Rufinella, is on the summit of the hill 
above Frascati, and many rich remains of Tuscu- 
lum have been found there, besides seventy-two 
statues of different merit and preservation, and 
seven busts. 

From the same eminence are seen the Sabine 
hills, embosomed in which lies the long valley of 
Rustic*. There are several circumstances which 
tend to establish the identity of this valley with the 
"Ustica" of Horace; and it seems possible that 
the mosaic pavement which the peasants uncover by 
throwing up the earth of a vineyard may belong to 
his villa. Rustica is pronounced short, net accord- 
ing to our stress upon M Ustica! cubantis." — It is 
more rational to think that we are wrong than that 
the inhabitants of this secluded valley have changed 
their tone in this word. The addition of the 
sonant prefixed is nothing : yet it is necessary to be 
aware that Rustica may be a modern name which 
the peasants mav have caught from the antiquaries. 
The villa, or "the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a 
knoll covered with chestnut trees. A stream runs 
down the valley, and although it is not fan 
in the guide books, that this stream is called Licen- 
za, yet there is a village on a rock at the head of 
the valley which is so denominated, and which may 
have taken its name from the Digcntia. Licenza 
contains seven hundred inhabitants. On a peak a 
little way beyond is Civitclla, containing three hun- 
dred. On the banks of the Anio, a little before you 



106 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ccnza flows, and is almost absorbed in a wide sandy 
bed before it reaches the Anio. Nothing can be 
more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whether in 
a metaphorical or direct sense : 

v us mWi goBta Digentia rivu», 

Quern MumioU biUl riigosiis frigore pagus." 

The stream is clear high up the valley, but before 
hill of Bardcla looks green and yel- 
low like a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half 
nn hour's walk from the vineyard where the pave- 
ment is shown, does seem to be the site of the 
fane of Yaeuna, and an inscription found there tells 
that this temple of the Sabine Victory was repaired 
isian.* With these helps, and a position 
i tiding exactly to everything which the poet 
. oa of his retreat, we may feel tolerably se- 
cure of our site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called 
Campanile, and by following up the rivulet to the 
pretended Bandusia, you come to the roots of the 
higher mountain Gennaro. Singularly enough, the 
only spot of ploughed land in the whole valley is on 
the knoll where this Bandusia rises. 

" . . . . tu frigus amabile 
Pessis voinere tauris 
Prabes, et pecori vago." 

The peasants show another spring near the mo- 
saic pavement, which they call " Oradina," and 
which flows down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, 
and then it trickles over into the Digentia. 

But we must not hope 

" To trace the Muses upwards to their spring," 

by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange 
that any one should have thought Bandusia a foun- 
tain of the Digentia — Horace has not let drop a 
word of it ; and this immortal spring has in fact 
been discovered in possession of the holders of 
many pood things in Italy, the monks. It was at- 
tached to the church of St. Gcrvais and Protais 

omsaa, where it is most likely to be found.f 
We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller in find- 
ing the or, usicnal pine still pendant on the poetic 

i iiere is not a pine in the whole valley, but 
there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or 
mistook, for the tree in the ode.+ The truth is, that 
the pine is now. as it was in the days of Virgil, a 
garden tree, and it was not at all likelv to be found 
m the craggy acclivities of the valley of Rustica. 
Horace probably had one of them in the orchard 
close above his farm, immediately overshadowing 
his villa, not on the rocky heights at some distance 
from his abode. The tourist may have easily sup- 
posd himself to have seen this pine figured in the 
above cvpresscs, for the orange and lemon trees 
which throw t.uch a bloom over his description of 
the royal gardens at Naples, unless thev have been 
since displaced, were assuredly onlv "acacias and 
other common garden shrubs. 6 The extreme dis- 
appointment experienced by choosing the Classical 
Tourist as a guide in Italy must be allowed to find 
vent in a few observations, which, it is asserted 
without fear of contradiction, will be confirmed 
bv every one who has selected the same conductor 
through the same country. This author is in fact 
one of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers 



* IMP. (JKSAR VKSPASIANVS 

P NTIFF.X MAXIMVS. T RIB 

POTEST. CENSOR. iEDEM 

VICTORIA. VKTVSTATK U.I.APSAM 

8VA. 1MPENRA, RKSTITVIT 

! f!! " U, ° riC * 1 ,I,u * ratk ' n * of «>* fWft Canto, p. *43. 

t See Cluneal Tonr, &c, ch.p. if. p. yso rol \\ 



that have in our times attained a temporary reputa 
tion, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he 
speaks of objects which he must be presumed to 
have seen. His errors, from the simple exaggera- 
tion to the downright misstatement, are so frequent 
as to induce a suspicion that he had either never 
visited the spots described, or had trusted to the 
fidelity of former writers. Indeed the Classical 
Tour has every characteristic of a mere compila- 
tion of former notices, strung together upon a very 
slender thread of personal observation, and swelled 
out by those decorations which are so easily supplied 
by a systematic adoption of all the common places 
of praise, applied to everything, and therefore sig- 
nifying nothing. 

The style which one person thinks cloggy and 
cumbrous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of 
others, and such may experience some salutary ex- 
citement in ploughing through the periods of the 
Classical Tour. It must be said, however, that 
polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation of 
value. It is amongst the pains of the damned to 
toil up a climax with a huge round stone. 

The tourist had the choice of his w r ords, but there 
was no such latitude allowed to that of his senti- 
ments. The love of virtue and of liberty, which 
must have distinguished the character, certainly 
adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace, and the gentle- 
manly spirit, so recommendatory either in an au- 
thor or his productions, is very conspicuous through- 
out the Classical Tour. But these generous quali- 
ties are the foliage of such a performance, and may 
be spread about it so prominently and profusely as 
to embarrass those who wish to see and find the fruit 
at hand. The unction of the divine, and the exhor- 
tations of the moralist, may have made this work 
something more or better than a book of travels, 
but they have not made it a book of travels ; and 
this observation applies more especially to that en- 
ticing method of instruction conveyed by the per- 
petual introduction of the same Gallic Helot to reel 
and bluster before the rising generation, and terrify 
it into decency by the display of all the excesses of 
the revolution. An animosity against atheists and 
regicides in general, and Frenchmen specifically, 
may be honorable, and may be useful as a record ; 
but that antidote should either be administered in 
any work rather than a tour, or, at least should be 
served up apart, and not so mixed with the whole 
mass of information and reflection as to give a bit- 
terness to every page : foi who would choose to have 
the antipathies of any man, however just, for his 
travelling companions ? A tourist, unless he as- 
pires to the credit of prophecy, is not answerable 
for the changes which may take place in the country 
which he describes ; but his reader may very fairly 
esteem all his political portraits and deductions as 
so much waste paper, the moment they cease to as- 
sist, and more particularly if they obstruct his ac 
tual survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any govern 
ment or governors, is meant to be here offered ; but 
it is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the 
change operated, either by the address of the late 
imperial system, or by the disappointment of every 
expectation by those who have succeeded to the 
Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so 
apparent, as not only to put Mr. Eustace's antigal- 
lican philippics entirely out of date, but even to 
throw some suspicion upon the competency and can- 
dor of the author himself. A remarkable example 
may be found in the instance of Bolonga, over 
whose papal attachments, and consequent desola- 
tion, the tourist pours forth such strains of condo- 
lence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed 
trumpet of Mr. Burke. Now Bolonga is at this mo- 
ment, and has been for some years, notorious 
amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to 
revolutionary principles, and was almost the only 
citv which made any demonstrations in favor of the 
unfortunate Murat. This change may, however 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



107 



have been made since Mr. Eustace visited this coun- 
try ; but the traveller whom he has thrilled with hor- 
ror at the projected stripping of the copper from the 
cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find 
that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or 
any other plunderers, the cupola being covered with 
lead* 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics 
had not given considerable currency to the Classical 
Tour, it would have been unnecessary to warn the 
reader, that however it may adorn his library, it 
will be of little or no service to him in his carriage ; 
and if the judgment of those critics had hitherto 



• "What, then, will be the astonishment, or rather the horror of my 

reader, when I inform him the French committee 

turned iu attention to Saint Peter's, and employed a company of Jews to 
estimate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze that adorn the inside of 
the edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults and dome on the 
•utside." Chap. ir. p. 130, toI. Si. The rtory about the Jews is positively 
MHsllM. 



been suspended, no attempt would have oecn made 
to anticipate their decision. As it is, those who 
stand in the relation of posterity to Mr. Eustace 
may be permitted to appeal from cotemporary 
praises, and are perhaps more likely to be just in 
proportion as the causes of love and hatred are the 
farther removed. This appeal had, in some measure, 
been made before the above remarks were written ; 
for one of the most respectable of the Florentine 
publishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated 
inquiries of those on their journey southwards to 
reprint a cheap edition of the Classical Tour, was, 
by the concurring advice of returning travellers, in- 
duced to ^abandon his design, although he had al- 
ready arranged his types and paper, and bad struck 
off'one or two of the first sheets. 

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like 
Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the 
Cardinals, but he does not think it necessary to ex- 
tend the same discreet silence to their humble par- 
tisans. 



THE GIAOUR; 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE 



One fatal remembrance-one sorrow that throws 
IU bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes— 
To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hath uo balm, and affliction no sting. 

MUUnli 



TO 



SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ 



AS A BLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, RESPECT FOE 

HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED 

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

BYRON. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The Talc which these disjointed fragments pre- 
sent, is founded upon circumstances now less com- 
mon in the East than formerly ; either because the 
ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden 
time ; " or because the Christians have better for 
tune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, 
contained the adventures of a female slave, who was 
thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for 
infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her 
lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed 
by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Ar 
naouts were beaten back from the Morea, which 
they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the 
Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, 
on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the 
abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desola 
tion of the Morea, during which the cruelty exer 

cised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals 

of the faithfuL 



THE GIAOUR. 

No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb ' which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain : 
When shall such hero live again ? 



Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Collona's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the Eastern wave ; 
And if, at times, a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odors there . 
For there — the rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the nightingale, 2 
The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden q\ieen, his rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by Nature given, 
In softest incense back to heaven ; 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragant sigh. 
And many a summer flowpr is there, 
And many a shade that love might share, 
And many a grotto, meant for rest, 
That holds the pirate for a guest ; 



THE GIAOUR. 



Whose bark in sheltering cove below 

Lurks for the passing peaceful prow 

Till the gay mariner's guitar 3 

Is heard, and seen the evening star 

Then stealing with the muffled oar, 

Far shaded by the rocky shore, 

Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 

And turn to groans his roundelay. 

Strange — that where Nature lov'd to trace 

As if for gods, a dwelling place, 

And every charm and grace hath mix'd 

Within the paradise she fix'd, 

There man, enamor'd of distress, 

Should mar it into wilderness, 

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 

That tasks not one laborious hour ; 

Nor claims the culture of his hand 

To bloom along the fairy land, 

But springs as to preclude his care, 

And sweetly woos him — huA^^are ! 

Strange — that where alj|H Hbeside 

There passion riotj^^jS ^^T 

And lust and rajtfn (^ragn 

To darken o'er tfl| ^Romain. 

It is as though the "fiends prevail'd 

Against the seraphs they assail'd, 

And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell, 

The freed inheritors of hell ; 

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, 

So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 

Ere the first day of death is fled, 

The first dark day of nothingness, 

The last of danger and distress, 

(Before decay's effacing fingers 

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 

And mark'd the mild angelic air, 

The rapture of repose that's there, 

The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak 

The languor of the placid cheek, 

And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 

"Where cold obstruction's apathy 4 

Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 

As if to him it could impart 

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 

Yes, but for these, and these alone, 

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour 

He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 

So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 

The first, last look by death reveal'd ! ■ 

Such is the aspect of this shore ; 

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 

We start, for soul is wanting there. 

Hers is the loveliness in death, 

That parts not quite with parting breath ; 

But beauty with that fearful bloom, 

That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 

Expression's last receding ray, 

A gilded halo hovering round decay, 

The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished 
earth! 



109 



Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
"Whose land from plain to mountain-cavB 
Was freedom's home or glory's grave ■ 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 
That this is all remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 

Say, is not this Thermopylae \ 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

Oh servile offspring of the free— 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is | 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown. 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 
That tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame 
They too will rather die than shame . 
For freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, 
Though baffled oft, is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command, 
The mountains of their native land ! 
There points thy muse to stranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die ! 
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, 
Each step from splendor to disgrace ; 
Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
Yes ! self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despot sway. 



"What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 

No legend of thine olden time, 
No theme on which the muse might soar 
High, as thine own in days of yore, 

When man was worthy of thy clime ; 
The hearts within thy vallies bred, 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime, 
Now craAvl from cradle to the grave, 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave, 8 

And callous, save to crime ; 
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the brutes ; 
Without even savage virtue blest, 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighboring ports they waft 
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
In this the subtle Greek is found, 
For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
In vain might liberty invoke 
The spirit to its bondage broke, 
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 
No more her sorrows I bewail, 
Yet this will be a mournful tale, 
And they who listen may believe, 
"Who heard it first had cause to grisve. 



110 



BYRON'S 



Far dark, along the blue sea glancing 
The^hadows of the rocks advancmg, 
Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
Of island-pirate or Mamote ; 
And fearful for his light caique, 
He shuns the near, but doubtfu creek . 
Sough worn and weary w th his ; toil, 
And cumbcr'd with his scaly spoil, 
Slowlv, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
Till Port Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an eastern night. 
*♦♦**** 

Who thundering comes on blackest steed. 

With slackened bit, and hoof of speed ? 

Beneath the clattering iron's sound 

The cavern'd echoes wake around 

In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 

The foam that streaks the coursers side 

Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide; 

Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
There's none within his rider's breast ; 
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
I 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour . 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 
But in thy lineaments I trace 
What time shall strengthen, not efface : 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; 
Though bent on earth thine eyil eye, 
it meteor-like thou glidest by, 
KMit well I view and deem the one 
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 

On— on he hastened, and he drew 

My gaze of wonder as he flew: 

Though like a demon of the night 

He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight, 

His aspect and his air impress'd 

A troubled memory on my breast, 

And long upon my startled ear 

Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 

He spurs the steed ; he nears the steep, 

That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 

He winds around ; he hurries by ; 

The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 

For well I ween unwelcome he 

Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 

And not a star but shines too bright 

On him who takes such timeless flight 

He wound along, but, ere he pass'd, 

One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 

A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 

A moment breathed him from his speed, 

A moment on his stirrup stood— 

Why looks he o'er the olive-wood ? 

The cTesent glimmers on the hill, 

The mosque' 8 high lamps are quivering still I 

Though too remote for sound to wake 

In echoes of the far tophaike, s 

The flashes of each joyous peal 

Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeaL 

To-night, set Rhamazani's sun ; 

To-night the Bairam feast's begun ; 

To-night—but who and what art thou, 

Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 

And what are these to thine or thee, 

That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 



WORKS. 
He stood-some dread was on his face, . 
Soon hatred settled in its place; 
It rose not with the reddening flush 
Of transient anger's darkening blush, 
But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed, 
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 
And sternly shook his hand on high, 
As doubting to return or fly : 
Impatient of his flight delay d, 
Here loud his raven charger neigh d— I 

Down glanced that hand, and grasped his bkde 



That sound had burst his waking dream, 
As slumber starts at owlet's scream.- 
The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 
Away, away, for life he rides ; 
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed,** 
Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 
The rock is doj*i|^and the shore 
Shakes with M ||ingtramp no more :„ 

His Christian cr^B ■Pm^ 11 * 

'Twas but an instant r^| f^ 1 ^ 

That fiery barb so sternly rem'd: 

'Twas but a moment that he stood, 

Then sped as if by death pursued; 

But in that instant o'er his soul 

Winters of memory seem'd to roll, 

And gather in that drop of rime 

A life of pain, an age of crime. 

O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 

Such moment pours the grief of years. 

What felt he then, at once opprest 

By all that most distracts the breast ? 

That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 

Oh, who its dreary length shall date ? 

Though in time's record nearly nought, 

It was eternity to thought ! 

For infinite as boundless space 

The thought that conscience must embrace, 

Which in itself can comprehend 

Wo without name, or hope, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ! 

And did he fly or fall alone ? 

Wo to that hour he came or went ! 

The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, 

To turn a palace to a tomb : 

He came, he went, like the simoom, 1 

That harbinger of fate and gloom, 

Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 

The very cypress droops to death — 

Dark tree, still sad when other's grief is fled, 

The only constant mourner o'er the dead! 



The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 

No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; / 

The lonely spider's thin gray pall 

Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 

The bat builds in his haram bower ; 

And in the fortress of his power 

The owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 

The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 

With baffled thirst, and famine grim ; 

For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 

Where the weeds and the' desolate dust are spread: 

'Twas sweet of yore to see it play, 

And chase the sultriness of day, 



i\ 



THE GIAOUR. 



HI 



As, springing high, the silver dew 

In whirls fantastically flew, 

And flung luxurious coolness round 

The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 

'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 

To view the wave of watery light, 

And hear its melody by night, 

And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd 

Around the verge of that cascade ; 

And oft upon his mother's breast 

That sound had harmonized his rest ; 

And oft had Hassan's youth along 

Its bank been soothed by beauty's song ; 

And softer seemed each melting tone 

Of music mingled with its own. 

But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 

Along the brink at twilight' Sfclose : 

The stream that fill'd that font is fled— i 

The blood that warm'd his heart is shed ! 1 

And here no more shall human voice » 

Be heard to rage, regret, yyoice ; 

The last sad note that sw.effjjpnre gale 

Was woman's Avildest funeral wail ; 

That quench'd in silence, all is still, 

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 

Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 

No hand shall close its clasp again. 

On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 

The rudest steps of fellow man- 
So here the very voice of grief 

Might wake an echo like relief; 

At least 'twould say, " all are not gone ; 

There lingers life, though but in one — " 

For many a gilded chamber's there, 

Which solitude might well forbear ; 

Within that dome as yet decay 

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 

But gloom is gathered o'er the gate 

Nor there the fakir's self will wait ; 

Nor there will wandering dervise stay, 

For bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred " bread and salt." M 

Alike must wealth and poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by, 

For courtesy and pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, that refuge unto men, 

Is desolation's hungry den. 
Ihe guest flies the hall, and the vassals from labor, 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre ! )2 



1 hear the sound of coming feet, 

But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 

More near — each turban I can scan, 

And silver-sheathed ataghan ; l3 

The foremost of the band is seen, 

An emir by his garb of green : u 

" Ho ! who art thou ?— this low salam * 

Replies of Moslem faith I am. 

The burden yc so gently bear, 

Seems one that claims your utmost care, 

And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 

My humble bark would gladly wait." 

" Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 



Nay, leave the sail still furl'd and ply, 
The nearest oar that's scatter'd by ; 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channeird waters dark and deep, 
Rest from your task — so — bravely ii 
Our course has been right swiftly run. 
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, 
That one of— . — " 

***** _^JL—~' m ' "s* 

Sullen it plung'd, and slowly sank, 

The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 

I watch'd as it sank, mcthought 

Some motion from the current caught 

Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam 

That checker'd o'er the living stream : 

I gazed, till vanishing from view, 

Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 

Still less and less, a speck of white 

That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight ; 

And all its hidden secrets sleep, 

Known but to genii of the deep, 

Which, trembling in their coral caves 

They dare not whisper to the in 

As rising on its purple wing 
The insect queen 16 of eastern spring, 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near, 
And leads him on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour, 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye : 
So beauty lures the full-grown child, 
With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray'd, 
Wo waits the insect and the maid — 
A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
From infant's play, and man's caprice . 
[The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
lllath lost its charm by being caught. \. 

^For every touch that wooed its stay 
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away. 
Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
Tis left to fly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 
Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? 
Can this with fadod pinion soar 
From rose to tulip as before ? 
Or beauty, blighted in an hour, 
Find joy within her broken bower? 
No ! gayer insects fluttering by 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 
And lovelier things have merey shown 
To every failing but their own, 
And every wo a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame. 
# •♦•**•• 

The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 

Is like the scorpion girt by fire, 
In circle narrowing as it glows, 
The flames around their captive close, 
Till, inly search'd by thousand throes. 

And maddening in her irr, 



112 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



One sad and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain, 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
And darts into her desperate brain : 
So do the dark in soul expire, 
Or live like scorpion girt by tire ; 17 
Bo writhes the mind remorse hath rivea, 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath, 
Around it flame, within it death ! 



Black Hassan from the haram flies, 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
"When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila Acre no longer dwell ? 
That tale can only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumors in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away, 
When Rhamazan's ,8 last sun was set, 
And flashing from each minaret, 
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless east. 
Twas then she went as to the bath, 
Which Hassan vainly search' d in wrath ; 
, For she was flown her master's rage, 
In likeness of a Georgian page, 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaours 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserv'd a grave : 
And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tales his Nubians tell, 
Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
And others say that on that night, 
By pale Phingari's l9 trembling light 
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 

een, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 
• ••****• 

Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly dark, 
But soul beam'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid, 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 20 
Yea, soul, and should our prophet say 
That form was nought but breathing clay, 

■ t ! I would answer nay ; 

■ion Al-Sirat's 2 ' arch I stood 
Which totters o'er the fiery flood. 
With paradise within my view, 
And all his houris beckoning through. 
Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
And keep that portion of his creed =2 
Which saith that woman is but dust, 
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 
On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
That through her ey? the Immortal shone ; 



On her fair cheek's unfading hue 

The young pomegranate's ^ blossoms streir 

Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 

Her hair in hyacinthine 24 flow, 

When left to roll its folds below, 

As 'midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all, 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 

It fell and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 

So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 

The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! 23 

As rears her crest the ruffled swan, 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus armed with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate : 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he ? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 



Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 

With twenty vassals in his train, 

Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 

With arquebuss and ataghan ; 

The chief before as deck'd for war, 

Bears in his belt the scimetar 

Stained with the best of Arnaut blood 

When in the pass the rebels stood, 

And few return'd to tell the tale 

Of what befell in Parne's vale. 

The pistols which his girdle bore 

Were those that once a pasha wore, 

Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold 

Even robbers tremble to behold. 

'Tis said he goes to woo a bride » 

More true than her who left his side ; 

The faithless slave that broke her bower, 

And worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 

The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer ; 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard- 
Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 

The foremost Tartar's in the gap, 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above the mountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's %ht; 



Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray, 
By time, or mountain lightning riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 
*******, 

They reach the grove of pine at last: 
" Bismillah !26 now the peril's past; 
For yonder view the opening plain, 
/ And there we '11 prick our steeds amain." 
/ The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
\ A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 

But three shall never mount again ; 
Unseen the foes thajjgtv e the wound, 

The dying as k^flfr in vain. 
With steel un sjflBl pfrmd carbine bent, 
Some o^gfcraWrarscr's harness leant, 

HaI B B" ,(i by the steed ' 

Some jSHffnd the nearest rock, 
And the™await the coming shock, 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
, Stern Hassan only from his horse 
\ Disdains to light, and keeps his course. 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; 
Then curl'd his very beard 2 ? with ire, 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire: 
" Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
I've scaped a bloodier hour than this. " 
And now the foe their covert quit, 
And call his vassals to submit ; 
But Hassan's fre-wn and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
Nor of his little band a man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! * 
In fuller sight, more near and near, 
The lately ambush'd foes appear, 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Who leads them on with foreign brand, 
Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
" 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! I know him now ; 
I know him by his pallid brow ; 
I know him by the evil eye 29 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him by his jet-black barb : 
Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith, 
It shall not save him from the death : 
'Tis he ! well met in any hour ! 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour ! " 

As rolls the river into the ocean, 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure column proudly gleaming, 
15 



THE GIAOUR. 



Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and mingling flood, 
^Tule eddying whirl, and breaking wave 
Boused by the blast of winter, rave • 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash. 
J he lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar; 
lnus— as the stream and ocean «»reet 
With waves that madden as they mee't- 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong. 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 
And pealing wide or ringing near 
Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The death-shot hissing from afar ;' 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 
Reverberate along that vale, 
More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
Though few the numbers— theirs the strife, 
That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, 
To seize and share the dear caress ; 
But love itself could never pant 
For all that beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervor hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes, 
When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall lose "their hold : 
Friends meet to part ; love laughs at faith ; 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 
******** 
With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt : 
Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
Which quivers round that faithless brand ; 
His turban far behind him roll'd, 
And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 
His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
And crimson as those clouds of morn 
That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
The day shall have a stormy end ; 
A stain on every bush that bore 
A fragment of his palampore, 30 
His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven. 
His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
Fallen Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
Yet lowering on his enemy, 
As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 
And o'er him bends that foe with brow 
As dark as his that bled below. — 
******•• 

11 Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave ; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour : 
He call'd on Alia— but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 
I watched my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
And now I go— but go alone." 



113 



114 



BYRON'S WORKS: 



The browsing camels' bells are tinkling : 
His mother look'd from her lattice high, 

She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye, 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
' 'Tis twilight— sure his train is nigh." 
She could not rest in the garden bower, 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
" Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift ? 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 
Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
And warily the steep descends, 
And now within the valley bends ; 
And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow— 
Hew could I deem his courser slow ? 
Right well my largess shall repay 
His welcome speed, and weary way." 

The Tartar lighted at the gate, 

But scarce upheld his fainting weight ; 

His swarthy visage spake distress, 

But this might be from weariness ; 

His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, 

But these might be from his courser's side ; 

He drew the token, from his vest — 

Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest — 

His calpac 31 rent — his caftan red — 

11 Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed; 

Me, not for mercy, did they spare, 

But this empurpled pledge to bear. 

Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt ; 

Wo to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." 



A turban 32 carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 
Whereon can now be scarcely read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, 
Or prayed with face towards the shrine, 
In orisons resumed anew 
At solemn sound of ** Alia Hu !" M 
Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
And stranger in his native land ; 
Yet died he as in arms he stood, 
And unavenged, at least in blood. 
But him the maids of paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite, 
And the dark heaven of Houri's eyes 

On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave, 34 
And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 

•*•♦**** 

But thou, false infidel ! shalt writhe • 
Beneath avenging Monkir's* scythe; 
And from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost Eblis' =» throne ; 
A fire unquench'd, unquenchable, 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell; 
Nor ear cai» hear nor tongue can tell 



The tortures of that inward hell ! 
But first, on earth as vampire 37 sent, 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire, 
As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 
The youngest, most beloved of all, 
Shall bless thee with a father's name — 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame . 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue : 
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
The tresses of her yeU^Bjfeir, 
Of which in life a locBHJBhorn 
Affection's fondest plec^^B 
But now is borne away by the* 
Memorial of thine agony ! 
Wet with thine own best blood shS^nip • 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 
Go-rand with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they ! 
******** 

/' How name ye yon lone Caloyer ! 

His features I have scann'd before 
In mine own land : 'tis many a year, 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
I could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
As death was stamp'd upon his brow." 

" 'Tis twice three years at summer- tide 
Since first among our freres he came ; 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name. 
But never at our vesper prayer, 
Nor e'er before confession chair 
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies, 
But broods within his cell alone, 
His faith and race alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost, 
And here ascended from the coast ; 
Yet seems he not of Othman race, 
But only Christian in his face : 
I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
Repentant of the change he made, 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these walls he brought, 
And thus our abbot's favor bought ; 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay, 



THE GIAOUR. 



Or pen* within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
"Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On cliff he hath been known to stand, 
And rave as to some bloody hand 
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, 
Invisible to all but him, 
Which beckons onward to his grave, 
And lures to leap into the wave." 
******* 



Dark and unearthly is the scOivl 

That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 

The flash of that dilating eye 

Reveals too much of times gone by ; 

Though varying, indistinct its hue, 

Oft will his glance the gazer rue, 

For in it lurks that nameless spell 

Which speaks, itse^HBeakable, 

A spirit yet unquM Hhigh, 

That claims^nc^HP^^cendancy ; 

And lik^fl ^■rawnose pinions quake, 

But cair^^^^^he gazing snake, 

Will othH^rpiail beneath his look, 

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 

From him the half-affrighted friar 

"When met alone would fain retire, 

As if that eye and bitter smile 

Transferr'd to.others fear and guile : 

Not oft to smile descendeth he, 

And when he doth 'tis sad to see 

That he but mocks at misery. 

How that pale lip will curl and quiver, 

Then fix once more as if for ever : 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e'er to smile again. 

Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 

Fromjoyaunce ne'er derived its birth 
But sadder still it were to trace 
"What once were feelings in that face : 
Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 
But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; 
And there are hues not always faded, 
Which speak a mind not all degraded 
Even by the crimes through which it wicLd : 
The common crowd but see the gloom 
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 
The close observer can espy 
A noble soul, and lineage high : 
Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain, 
"Which grief could change, and guilt could stain. 
It was no vulgar tenement 
To which such lofty gifts were lent, 
And still with little less than dread 
On such the sight is riveted. 
The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 
Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent, 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye ; 
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

1 His floating robe around him folding, 
Slow sweeps he through the colum'd aisle ; 



With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 

The rights that sanctify the pile. 
But when the anthem shakes the choir, 
And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 
By yonder lone and wavering torch 
His aspect glares within the porch ; 
There will he pause till all is done— 
And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
See— by the half-illumined wall 
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 
That pale brow widely wreathing round, 
As if the Gorgon there had bound 
The sablest of the serpent-braid 
That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
For he declines the convent oath, 
And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, 
But wears our garb in all beside : 
And, not from piety but pride, 
Gives wealth to walls that never heard 
Of his one holy vow nor word. 
Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
Peals louder praises to the sky, 
That livid cheek, that stony air 
Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine, 
Else may we dread the wrath divine 
Made manifest by awful sign. 
If ever evil angel bore 
The form of mortal, such he wore : 
By all my hope of sins forgiven, 
Such looks are not of earth nor heaven ! " 

To love the softest hearts are prone, 
But such can ne'er be all his own ; 
Too timid in his woes to share, 
Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 
And sterner hearts alone may feel 
The wound that time can never heal. 
The rugged metal of the mine 
Must burn before its surface shine, 
But plunged within the furnace-flame, 
It bends and melts — though still the same ; 
Then temper 'd to thy want, or will, 
'Twill serve thee to defend or kill ; 
A breastplate for thine hour of need, 
Or blade to bid thy foemen bleed ; 
But if a dagger's form it bear, 
Let those who shape its edge beware ! 
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 
Can turn and tame the sterner heart ; 
From these its form and tone are ta'en, 
And what they make it, must remain, 
But break — before it bend again. 
******** 

If solitude succeed to grief, 
Release from pain is slight relief ; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness 
Might thank the pang that made it less. 
"We loathe what none are left to share ; 
Even bliss — 'twere wo alone to bear ; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease— to hate. 
It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal, 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay ! 



115 



16 



BYKON'S WORKS. 



It is as if the desert-bird, 31 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famish' d nestlings' scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void, 
The leafless desert of the mind, 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more- 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
Unseen to drop by dull decay ;— 
Better to sink beneath the shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 



•' Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 

'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 
To bid the sins of others cease, 

Thyself without a crime or care, 
Save transient ills that all must bear, 
Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd, 
Such as thy penitents unfold, 
Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
My days, though few, have pass'd below 
In much of joy, but more of wo ; 
Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
I've 'scaped the weariness of life ; 
Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 
I loathed the languor of repose. 
Now nothing left to love or hate, 
No more with hope or pride elate, 
I'd rather be the thing that crawls 
Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 
For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. 
Soon shall my fate that wish fujfil ; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, and would be still, 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem ; 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom : 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
My spirits shrunk not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
And in the field it had been sweet, 
Had danger woo'd me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I've braved it— not for honor's boast ; 
I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
To such let others carve their way, 
For high renown, or hireling pay : 
But place again before my eyes 
Aught that I deem a worthy prize, 



^plee:. 
• bnRis 



The maid I love, the man I hate ; 
And I will hunt the steps of fate, 
To save or slay, as these require, 
Through rending steel, and rolling fire ; 
Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one 
Who would but do — what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave, 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 
Then let life go to him who gave : 
I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happy— need I now ? 



" I loved her, friar ! nay adored — 

But these are words that all can use — 
I proved it more in deed than word : 
There's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose ; 
'Twas shed for her, who died for me, 

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd: 
Nay, start not — no-j|^^3end thy knee, 

Nor midst my sinS Ihpt record ; 
Thou wilt absolve rH Khe deed, 
For he was hostile totn^J 
The very name of Nazarene 
Was wormwood to his Payninrl 
Ungrateful fool ! since but for 
Well welded in some hardy hands, 
And wounds by Galileans given, 
The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
For him his Houris still might wait 
Impatient at the prophet's gate : 
I loved her— love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey 
And if it dares enough, 'twere hard 
If passion met not some reward — 
No matter how, or where, or why 
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh ; 
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
I wish she had not loved again. 
She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 
But look — 'tis written on my brow ; 
There read of Cain the curse and crime, 
In characters unworn by time : 
Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 
Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
Yet did he but what I had done 
Had she been false to more than one. 
Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 
But true to me, I laid him low : 
Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 
Her treachery was truth to me ; 
To me she gave her heart, that all 
Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall ; 
And I, alas ! too late to save ! 
Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
'Twas some relief, our foe a grave. 
His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
Has made me— what thou well may'st hate. 

His doom was seal'd— he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 



Deep in whose darkly boding ear* 
The death-shot peal'd of murder near, 
As filed the troop to where they fell ! 
He died 'too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
One prayer to Alia all he made : 



THE GIAOUR. 



He knew and cross'd me in the fray— 
I gazed upon him where he lay. 
And wafcch'd his spirit ebb away ; 
Though pierc'd like pard by hunters' steel, 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind ; 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face ? 
The late repentance of that hour, 
When penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave, 
And will not soothe, and cannot save. 
********* 

" The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 

But mine was like the lava flood 
That boils in JEtna's breast of flame. 

I cannot prate in puling strain 

Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain ; 

If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 

Lips taugh^to writhe, but not complain, 

If burstinfKart, and madd'ning brain, 

And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 

And all that I have felt, and feel, 

Betoken love — that love was mine, 

And shown by many a bitter sign. 

'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 

I knew but to obtain or die. 

I die — but first I have possess'd, 
And, come what may, I have been blest. 
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 
But for the thought of Leila slain, 
Give me the pleasure with the pain, 
So would I live and love again. 
I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
For him who dies, but her who died : 
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave— 
Ah ! had she but an earthly grave, 
This breaking heart and throbbing head 
Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
She was a form of life and light, 
That, seen, became a part of sight ; 
And rose, where'er I turned mine eye, 
The morning-star of memory ! j 

" Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; 

A spark of that immotal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given, 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above, 
But heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
A ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
A glory circling round the soul ! 
I grant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall ; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
She was my life's unerring light : 
That quench'd, what beam shall break my night ? 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 
Although to death or deadliest ill ! 



Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
This present joy, this future hope, 
No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
In frenzy then their fate accuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to wo ? 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath ifbught to dread from outward blow ' 
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
I read abhorrence on thy brow, 

And this too was I born to bear ! 
'Tis true that, like that bird of prey, 
With havoc have I mark'd the way : 
But this was taught me by the dove, 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
The bird that sings within the brake, 
The swan that swims upon the lake, 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 
And let the fool still prone to range, 
And sneer on all who cannot change, 
Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
I envy not his varied joys, 
But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine- 
Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my wo, 
My hope on high— my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee, 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
For worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death— attest my truth ! 
'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 



"And she was lost — and yet I breathed, 

But not the breath of human life ; 
A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 
And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, 
Shuddering I shrunk from nature's face, 
Where every hue that charm'd before 
The blackness of my bosom wore. 
The rest thou dost atreaay know, 
And all my sins, and half my wo. 
But talk no more of penitence; 
Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence, 
And if thy holy tale were true, 
The deed that's done can'st thou undo ? 
Think me not thankless — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief. 41 
My soul's estate in secret t^uess: 
But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
When thou canst bid my Leila live, 
Then will I sue thee to forgive : 
Then plead my cause in that high place 
Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 
From forest-cave her shrieking young, 



117 



118 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And calm the lonely lioness : 

But sooth not— mock not my distress. 

•' In earlier days, and calmer hours, 

When heart with heart delights to blend, 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 

I had— ah ! have I now ?— a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind him of my end : 

Though souls absorbed like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When prudence would his voice assume, 

And warn — I reck'd not what — the while : 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass, 

And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sooth : 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 

Through many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been, 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died \ 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
If guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame, 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame ? 
I do not ask him not to mourn, 
Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier ? 
But bear this ring, his own of old, 
And tell him — what thou dost behold : 
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief ! 



" Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 

No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 

Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 

I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ; 

But could not, for my burning brow 

Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 

I wish'd but for a single tear, 

As something welcome, new, and dear : 

I wish'd it then, I wish it still ; 

Despair is stronger than my will. 

Waste not thine orison, despair 

Is mightier than thy pious prayer 

I would not, if I might, be blest ; 

I want no paradise, but rest. 

'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then 

I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 

And shining in her white symar,* 2 

As through yon pale gray cloud the star 



Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
Dimly I view its trembling spark, 
To-morrow's night shall be more dark 
And I, before its rays appear, 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 
I wander, father ! for my soul 
Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
Forgetful of our former woes ; 
And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 
I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
No breathing form within my grasp, 
No heart that beats reply to mine, 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wish to hold. 
Alas I around a shadow prest, 
They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
Yet still 'tis there ! in silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright-blalterieye— 
I knew 'twas false — she could not 6?e ! 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell ; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
They told me wild waves roll'd above 
The face I view, the form I love ; 
They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! 
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, 
Oh ! pass thy dewy" fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more ; 
Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul, 
Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 
******** 

" Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead, 
And, save the cross above my head, 
Be neither nane nor emblem spread, 
By prying stranger to be read, 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." 

He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace, 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day : 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of her he loved, or him he sleAv .<* 



NOTES TO THE GIAOUR. 



TJiat tomb, ichich, gleaming o'er the cliff". 

Page 108, fine 3. 
A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by 
some supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 



Sultana of the nightingale. 

Page 108, line 16. 
The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is 
a well known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the 
"Bulbul of a thousand tales " is one of his appel- 
lations. 

3. 
Till the gay mariner's gidtar. 

Page 109, line 3. 
The guitar is the constant amusement of the 
Greek sailor by night : with a steady fair wind, and 
during a calm, it is accompanied alwavs by the 
voice, and often by dancing. 



Where cold obstruction's apathy. 

Page 109, line 44. 

" Ay, but to die and go we know not where, 
To lie in cold obstruction." 

Measure /or Measure, Act III. 130, Sc.2. 



The first, last look by death reveal' d. 

Page 109, line 52. 
1 trust that few of my readers have ever had an 
opportunity of witnessing what is here attempted 
in description, but those who have, will probably 
retain a painful remembrance of that singular beauty 
which pervades, with few exceptions, the features 
of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, 
•'after the spirit is not there." It is to be re- 
marked, in cases of violent death by gunshot 
wounds, the expression is always that of languor, 
whatever the natural energy of the sufferer's char- 
acter : but in death from a stab, the countenance 
preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the 
mind its bias to the last. 

6. 
Slaves— nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 

Page 109, line 114. 
Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, (the 
slave of the seraglio and guardian of the women,) 
who appoints the Waywode. A pander and eu- 
nuch — these are not polite, yet true appellations — 
now governs the governor of Athens ! 



S<oift as the hurVd on highjerrevd. 

T . _ Page 110, line 85. 

Jerreed or Djerrid a blunted Turkish javelin, 
Jhich is darted from horseback with great force and 
precision It is a favorite exercise of the Mussul- 
mans ; but I know not if it can be called a manlv 
one, since the most expert in the art are the Black 
Eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next to these, 
a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful that 
came within my observation. 

10. 
He came, he went, like the simoom. 

Page 110, line 116. 
The blast of the desert, fatal to everything living, 
and often alluded to in eastern poetry. 

11. 



To bless the sacred " bread and salt." 

Page 111, line 143. 
To partake of food, to break bread and salt with 
your host, insures the safety of the guest; even 
though an enemy, his person from that moment i« 
sacred. 

12. 

Si?ice his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre. 
Page 111, line 51. 
I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospi 
tality are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet, 
and, to say truth, very generally practised by his 
disciples. The first praise that can be bestowed on 
a chief is a panegyric on his bounty; the next, on 
his valor. 

13. 
And silver-sheathed ataghan. 

Page 111, line 56. 
The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in 
the belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver ; 
and, among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 

14. 
An emir by his garb of qreen. 

'Page 111, line 58. 
Green is the privileged color of the prophet's 
numerous pretended descendants ; with them, as 
here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to 
supersede the necessity of good works : they are the 
worst of a very indifferent brood. 



/. 
' Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour. 
Page 109, line 24. 
Infidel. 

8. 
In echoes of the far tophaike. 

Page 110, line 59. 
" Tophaike," musket. — The Bairam is announced 
by the cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the 
mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, 
loaded with ball, proclaim it during the night. 



15. 



Ho, 



who art thou? — this low salam. 

Page 111, line 59. 
Salam aleikoum salam ! peace be with you ; be 
with you peace — the salutation reserved for the faith- 
ful : — to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good journey; 
or saban hiresem, saban serula ; good morn, good 
even ; and sometimes, "may your end be happy ! " 
are the usual salutes. 

16. 
The insect-queen of eastern spring. 

Page ,111 line 92. 
The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most 
rare and beautiful of the species. 



120 



B K RON'S WORKS. 



17. 



Or Unlike scorpion girt by fire. 

Page 112, line 7. 
Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, 
bo placed^ for experiment by gentle philosophers. 
Some maintain that the position of the sting, when 
turned towards the head, is merely a convulsive 
movement ; but others have actually brought m the 
verdict, " Felo de se." The scorpions are surely 
interested in a speedy decision of the question; as, 
if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will 
probably be allowed to live as long as they think 
proper, without being martyred for the sake of an 
hypothesis. 

When Rhamazan's last sun teas set. 

Page 112, line 23. 
The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See 
»ote8. 

19. 
By pale Phingari's trembling light. 
** Page 112, line 42. 

Phingari, the moon. 

20. 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 

Page 112, line 54. 
The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
the embellisher of Istakhar; from its splendor, 
named Schebgerag, "the torch of night;" also, 
" the cup of the sun," &c— In the first edition, 
" Giamschid " was wiitten as a word of three syl- 
lables, so D'Herbelot has it ; but I am told Rich- 
ardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes " Jam- 
Bhid." I have left in the text the orthography of 
the one with the pronunciation of the other. 

21. 
Though on Al-SiraVs arch I stood. 

Page 112, line 58. 
Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth less than the 
thread of a famished spider, over which the Mus 
sulmans must skate into paradise, to which it is the 
only entrance ; but this is not the worst, the river 
beneath being hell itself, into which, as may be ex 
pected, the unskilful and tender of foot contrive to 
tumble with a " facilis descensus Averni," not very 
pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There 
is a shorter cut downwards for the Jews and Chris- 
tians. 

22. 
And keep that portion of his creed. 

Page 112, line 63. 
A vulgar error : the Koran allots at least a third 
paradise to well-behaved women; but by far the 
greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text 
their own way, and exclude their moieties from 
heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot 
discern " any fitness of things " in the souls of the 
other sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the 
Houris. 

23. 
The young pomegranate's blossoms strew. 

Page 112, line 69. 
An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though 
fairly stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Arabic" 

24. 
Her hair in hyacinthine fiow. 

Page 112, line 71. 
Hyacinthine, in Arabic, " Sunbul ; " as common 
a thought in the eastern poets, as it was among the 
Greeks. 

25. 
The loveliest bird of Franguestan. 

„ «. Page 112, line 81. 

'Franguestan," Curcassia. 

26. 
BumtllaM note the periVs past. 

Fage 113, line 92. 



Bismillah— " In the name of God ; " the com- 
mencement of all the chapters of the Koran but 
te, and of prayer and thanksgiving. 

27. 
Then curVd his very beard with ire. 

Page 113, line 37. 
A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry 
Mussulman. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whis- 
kers, at a diplomatic audience, were no less lively 
with indignation than a tiger cat's, to the horror of 
all the dragomans ; the portentous mustachios 
twisted, they stood erect of their own accord, and 
were expected every moment to change their color, 
but at last condescended to subside, which, proba- 
bly, saved more heads than they contained hairs 

28. 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun. 

Page 113, line 47. 
"Amaun," quarter, pardon. 

29. 
/ know him by the evil eye. 

Page 113, line 56. 
The " evil eye," a common superstition in the 
Levant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet 
ery singular, on those who conceive themselves af- 



fected. 



30. 



A fragment of his palampore. 

Page 113, line 111. 
The flowered shawls, generally worn by persons 
of rank. 

31. 
His calpac rent — his caftan red. 

Page 114, line 29. 
The "calpac" is the solid cap or centre part of 
the head-dress ; the shawl is wound round it, and 
forms the turban. 

32. 
A turban carved in coarsest stone. 

Page 114, line 36. 
The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate 
the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the ceme- 
tery or the wilderness. In the mountains you fre- 
quently pass similar mementos ; and, on inquiry, 
you are informed, that they record some victim of 
rebellion, plunder, or revenge. 

33. 

At solemn sound of " Alia Hu I " 

Page 114, line 47. 
" Alia Hu ! " the concluding words of the Muez- 
zin's call to prayer from the highest gallery on the 
exterior of the minaret. On a still evening, when 
the Muezzin has a fine voice, which is frequently 
the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond 
all the bells in Christendom. 

34. 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave. 
Page 114, line 56. 
The following is part of a battle-song of the 
Turks : — " I see — I see a dark-eyed girl of paradise, 
and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; 
and cries aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee," 
etc. 

35. 
Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe. 

Page 114, line 62. 
Monkir and Nekir are the inqvisitors of the dead, 
before whom the corpse undergoes a slight novitiate 
and preparatory training for damnation. If the an- 
swers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a 
scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace till 
properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary pro- 
bations. The office of the^e angels is no sinecure ; 
there are but two, and the number of orthodox de- 
ceased being in a small proportion to the remainder, 
their hands are always full. 



NOTES TO THE GIAOUR 



36. 



121 



To wander round lost Eblis' throne. 

Page 114, line 61. 
Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 

37. 
But first, on earthy as vampire sent. 

Page 114, line 69. 
The Vampire superstition is still general in the 
Levant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which 
Mr. Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about 
these "Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Ro- 
maic term is " Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole 
family being terrified by the scream of a child, 
which they imagined must proceed from such a visi- 
tation. The Greeks never mention the word with- 
out horror. I find that " Broucolokas " is an old 
legitimate Hellenic appellation— at least is so ap- 
plied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, 
was after his death animated by the Devil.— The 
moderns, however, use the word I mention. 

38. 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. 

Page 114, line 95. 
The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the 
lip with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vam- 
pire. The stories told in Hungary and Greece of 
these foul feeders are singular, and some of them 
most incredibly attested. 



It is as if the desert-bird. 

Page 116, line 7. 
The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by 
the imputation of feeding her chickens with her 
blood. . 

40. 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear. 

Page 116, line 129. 
This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never 
met with downright second-sight in the east) fell 
once under my own observation. — On my third 
journey to Cape Colonna early in 1811, as we passed 
through the defile that leads from the hamlet be- 
tween Keratiar and Colonna, I observed Dervish 
Tahiri riding rather out of the path, and leaning 
his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode up 
and inquired. " We are in peril," he answered. 
" What peril ? we are not now in Albania, nor in 
the passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto ; 
there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates 
have not courage to be thieves."—" True, Affendi, 
but nevertheless the shot is ringing in my ears." 
"The shot! not a tophaike has been fired this 
morning." — " I hear it notwithstanding— Bom — 
Bom — as plainly as I hear your voice." — "Pshaw." 
" As you please, Affendi ; if it is written, so will it 
be." — I left this quick-eared predestinarian, and 
rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot, whose 
ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means rel- 
ished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, 
remained some hours, and returned leisurely, say- 
ing a variety of brilliant things, in more languages 
than spoiled the building of Babel, upon the mis- 
taken seer; Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, 
and English were all exercised, in various conceits, 
upon the unfortunate Mussulman. While we were 
contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was 
occupied about the columns. I thought he was de- 
ranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had 
become a ' Palaocastro ' man : " No," said he, " but 
these pillars will be useful in making a stand;" 
and added other remarks, which at least evinced his 
own belief in his troublesome faculty of fore-hearing. 
On our return to Athens, we heard from Leone (a 
prisoner set ashore some days after) of the intended 
attack of the Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause 
•f its not taking place, in the notes to Childe 
16 



Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some pains to question 
the man and he described the dresses, arms, and 
m -^ 1 • horses of our party so accurately, that, 
with other circumstances, we could not doubt of Aw 
having been in " villainous company," and our- 
selves m a bad neighborhood. Dervish became a 
soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearin* 
more musketry than ever will be fired, to the mat 
refreshment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his na- 
tive mountains.— I shall mention one trait more of 
this singular race In March, 1811, a remarkably 
stout and active Arnaout came (I believe the tenth 
on the same errand) to offer himself as an attend- 
ant which was declined: « Well, Affendi," quoth 
he "may you live !-you would have found me use- 
ful I shall leave the town for the hills to-morrow, 
in the winter I return, perhaps you will then receive 
me. —Dervish, who was present, remarked, as a 
tning of course, and of no consequence, " In the 
mean time he will ioin the Klephtes," (robbers,) 
which was true to the letter.— If not cut off, they 
come down in the winter, and pass it unmolested 
in some town, where they are often as well known 
as then- exploits. 

41. 
Looks not to priesthood for relief. 

Page 117, line 126. 
The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have 
had so little effect upon the patient, that it could 
have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient 
to say, that it was of a customary length (as may 
be perceived) from the interruptions and uneasiness 
of the penitent,) and was delivered in the nasal 
tone of all orthodox preachers. 

42. 
And shifting in her tchite symar. 

Page 118, line 59. 
"Symar" — shroud. 

43. 
Page 118, line 121. 
The circumstance to which the above story re- 
lates was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few 
years ago the wife of_ Much tar Pacha complained to 
his father of his son's .supposed infidelity; he asked 
with whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a 
list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. 
They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drown- 
ed in the lake the same night ! One of the guards 
who was present informed me, that not one of the 
victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of ter- 
ror at so sudden a " wrench from all we know, from 
all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of 
this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and 
Arnaout ditty\ The story in the text is one told 
of a young Venetian many years ago, and now 
nearly forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by 
one of the coffee-house story-tellers who abound in 
the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. 
The additions and interpolations by the translator 
will be easily distinguished from the rest by the 
wan! of Eastern imagery ; and I regret that my 
memory has retained so few fragments of the origi- 
nal. 

For the contents of some the notes I am indebted 
partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most east- 
ern, and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, " sublime 
tale," the " Caliph Vathek.' 5 I do not know from 
what source the author of that singular volume 
may have drawn his materials; some of his inci- 
dents are to be found in the " Bibliotheque Oricn- 
tale; but for correctness of costume, beauty of 
description, and power of imagination, it far sur- 
passes all European imitations ; and bears such 
marks of originality, that those who have visited 
the East, will find some difficulty in believing it to 
be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, 
even Rasselas must bow before it; his "Happy 
Valley " will not bear a comparison with the " Hall 
of Eblis." 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS; 

A TURKISH TALE. 



Had we never loved »o kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

BURNS. 



TO 

THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD HOLLAND, 

THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGE© 
AND SINCERE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



;< CANTO I. 



I. 



Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, > 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever 

shine ; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with 

perfume, 

Wn faint o'er the gardens of Gul l in her bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
WheTe the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the sun- 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have 

done ? 2 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts whfch they bear, and the tales which 
| they tell. 

II. 
Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
Awaiting eacluhis lord's behest y 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 



Old Giaffir sat in his Divan : 
Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 

And though the face of Mussulman 
Not oft betrays to standers by 

The mind within, well skill'd to hide 

All but unconquerable pride, 

His pensive cheek and pondering brow 

Did more than he was wont avow. 

III. 
"Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train disap- 
pear'd — 

"Now call me the chief of the Haram guard."; 
With Giaffir is none but his only son, / 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 

" Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 

Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 

(Wo to the head whose eye beheld 

My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) 

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 

Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 

Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 

By me alone be duty taught !" 

" Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way, 
But here young Selim silence brake, 
First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



And downcast look'd and gently spake 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 

" Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide 

My sister, or her sable guide, 

Know— for the fault, if fault there be, 

Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me— 

So lovelily the morning shone, 
That — let the old and weary sleep — 

I could not ; and to view alone 
The fairest scenes of land and deep, 

With none to listen and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart beat high 
Were irksome — for whate'er'my mood, 
In sooth I love not solitude ; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 
And, as thou knowest that for me 
Soon turns the Haram's grating key, 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown, 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own. 
There linger 'd we, beguiled too long 
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ; 3 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour 4 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
To thee, and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower." 

IV. f 

" Son of a slave ! " — the Pacha said— 
"From unbelieving mother bred, 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire, 
Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
Assume the distaff— not the brand. 
But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
Thou seest yon bow— it hath a string ! " 

V. 

No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 

At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

" Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear ! 

Those gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire ? " 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career ; 



And glances even of more than ire 
Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 

Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
And started ; for within his eye 

He read how much his wrath hath done ; 

He saw rebellion there begun : 
" Come hither, boy— what, no reply ? 

I mark thee— and I know thee too ; 

But there be deeds thou dar'st not do . 

But if thy beard had manlier length, 

And if thy hand had skill and strength, 

I'd joy to see thee break a lance, 

Albeit against my own perchance " 

As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 

That eye return'd him glance for glance, 
And proudly to his sire's was raised, 

Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance— 
And why— he felt, but durst not tell. 
" Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy : 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And-^but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life— 
I would not trust that look or tone ; 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no more— 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab 5 to my sight, 
Or Christian crouching in the fight- 
But hark !— I hear Zuleika's voice : 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear, 
With all to hope, and nought to fear— 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet as the desert-fountain's wave 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now ! 



VI. 

Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 

But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendant vision 

To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 

And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven ; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above ; 
Was she — the daughter of this rude old chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of loveliness ? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 



123 



124 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The lieht of love, the purity of grace. 
The mind, the music breathing from her face 
The Ear*, whose softness harmomzed the whole- 
And, oh! that eye was in itself a soul! 

Her jrraceful arms in meekness bending 

Across her gently bndding breast ; 
At one kind word those arms extending 

To clasp the neck of him who blest 

His child caressing and carest, 

Zuleika came— and Giaffir felt 

His purpose half within him melt : 

N3t that against her fancied weal 

His heart though stern could ever feel ; 

Affection chain'd her to that heart j 

Ambition tore the links apart. 

VII. 
« Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress, 
In losing what I love so well, 
To bid thee with another dwell : 
Another ! and a braver man 
Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet the line of Carasman 7 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan. 
And teach the messenger 8 what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou know'st thy father's will ; 

All that thy sex hath need to know : 
'Twas mine to teach obedience still — 
The way to love thy lord may show." 

VIII. 
In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was fill'd with tears, 
That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, 

And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped, 

What could such be but maiden fears ? 
So bright the tear in beauty's eye, 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So sweet the blush of bashfulness, 
Even pity scarce can wish it less ! 
Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
Or if remember'd, mark'd it not : 
Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed, 9 

Resign' d his gem-adorn'd Chibouke, 10 
And mounting featly for the mead, 
With Maugrabee " and Mamalukc, 
His way amid his Delis took, 12 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, and blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch'd well the Haram's massy doors. 



IX. 



His head was leant upon his hand, 
His eye look'd o'er the dark-blue water 

That swiftly glides and gently swells 

Between the winding Dardanelles ; 

But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 

Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 
Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 

Careering cleave the folded felt 13 

With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 

Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 

Nor heard their Ollahs 14 wild and loud- 
He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter . 

X. 

No word from Selim's bosom broke ; j 

One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : I 

Still gazed he through the lattice grato 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
But little from his aspect learn'du 
Equal her grief, yet not the same\ 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame, 
But yet that heart alarm' d or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak 
Yet speak she must— but when essay ? 
" How strange he thus should turn away ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 
And watch'd his eye— it still was fix'd ; 
She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's 15 perfume, 
And sprinkled al>its odors o'er 
The pictured roof 16 and marble floor : 
The drops, that through his glittering vest 
The playful girl's appeal addrest, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
" What, sullen yet ? it must not be— 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of Eastern land— 
" He loved them once ; may touch them yet, 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breath'd 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed: 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul 17 bears ; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

XI. 

" What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 

And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? 
Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest? 
Come, lay thy head upon«my breast, 
And I will kiss thee into rest, 
Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 
Even from my fabled nigtingale. 



THE BRIDE/OF Ah 



125 



1 knew our sire at times was stern, 
But this from thee had yet to learn : 
Too well I know he loves thee not ; 
But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan — 
This kinsman Bey of Caiasman 
I'erhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step admit her vow, 
Without thy free consent, command, 
The Sultan should not have my hand ! 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 
Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side, 
Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 
Years have not seen, time shall not see 
The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
Even Azrael 13 from his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom for ever 

Our hearts to undivided dust ! " 



XII. 

He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt ; 
He raised the maid from where she knelt ; 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
As the stream late conceal'd 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes reveal'd 

In the light of its billows ; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

From lie black cloud that bound it, 
Flash'd the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife, 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, 
And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
" Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
That vow hath saved more heads than one : 
But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
That cluster round thy forehead fair, 
For all the treasures buried far 
Within the caves of Istakar. 19 
This morning clouds upon me lower'd, 
Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
And Giaffir almost called me coward ! 
Now I have motive to be brave ; 
The son of his neglected slave, 
Nay, start not 'twas the term he gave, 
May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee, 
Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
But let our plighted secret vow 
Be only known te cs as now 



I know the wretch who dares demand 
From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 
More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
Holds not a Musselims 2° control : 
Was he not bred in Egripo ? ■ 
A viler race let Israel show ! 
But let that pass — to none be told 
Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 
To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
I've partisans for peril's day : 
Think not I am what I appear ; 
I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near 

XIII. 

" Think not thou art what thou appearest , 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. 
My love thou surely knew'st before, 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 

And hate the night I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but by day ; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
Like this — and this — no more than thi* ; 
For, Alia ! sure thy lips are flame :V, 

What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 
My own have nearly caught the same, 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 



ooth thy sickness, watch thy health, 
Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
nd lighten half thy poverty ; 
o all but close thy dying eye, 
For that I could not live to try ; 
To these alone my thoughts aspire : 
More can I do ? or thou require ? 
But, Selim, thou must answer why 
We see so much of mystery ? 
The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
But be it, since thou say'st 'tis well ; 
Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms ' and ' friendi 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee ; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : 
But surely he would leave me free. 
Can this fond wish seem strange in mc, 
To be what I have ever been ? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour ? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy ? 
These cherish'd thoughts with life begun, 

Say, why must I no more avow ? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth ; my pride, and thine till now ? 
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will repine : 
No ! happier made by that decree ! 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compeH'c' 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 



126 

This therefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
I know the Tacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good : 
\nd he so often storms at nought, 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And whv, I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime, 

And such it feels while lurking here ; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar, 22 
My father leaves the mimic war ; 
I tremble now to meet his eye- 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " 

XIV. 

" Zuleika! to thy tower's retreat 

Betake thee— Giaffir I can greet ; 

And now with him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 

There's fearful news from Danube's bank, 

Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 

For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 

Our Sultan hath a shorter way 

Such costly triumph to repay. 

But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selim come ; 
Then softly from the Haram creep 
Where we may wander by the deep : 
Our garden-battlements are steep ; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
Trust me, Zuleika— fear not me ! 
Thou know'st I hold a Haram key." 

" Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
Did word like this — " 

"Delay not thou; 
I keep the key— and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
I am not, love ! what I appear." 



CANTO II. 



The winds arc high on Helle's wave, 

As on that night of stormy water, 

When Love, who sent, forgot to save 

The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret- torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
With signs »ud sounds, forbade to go, 



byron\ works. 



He could not see, he would not hear 

Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 

His eye but saw that light of love, 

The only star it hail'd above ; 

His ear but rang with Hero's song, 

" Ye waves, divide not lovers long ! " — 

That tale is old, but love anew 

May nerve young hearts to prove as true 

II. 

The winds are high, and Helle's tide 

Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
And night's descending shadows hide 

That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
The desert of old Priam's pride ; 

The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
All— save immortal dreams that could beguile 
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle : 

III. 

Oh ! yet— for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore ; 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne- 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes, 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own "broad Hellespont "* 3 still dashet, 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

IV. 

The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 

But conscious shepherds bless it still.-— 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound -— - * 
Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow i — - 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground . — > 
Which Amnion's 24 son ran proudly round — , 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd,-— 
Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 
Within— thy dwelling-place how nairew-;- 
Without— can only strangers breathe_ 
The name of him that was beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone , 
But thou — thy very dust is gone ! 

V. 

Late, late to-night will Dian cheer ' 
The swain, and chase the boatman's fear ; 
Till then no beacon on the cliff ' 
May shape the course of struggling skiff; 
The scatter' d lights that skirt the bay. 
All, one by one, have died away ;. 
The only lamp of this lone hour 
Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower ; 
Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran j 25 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget ?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet, 56 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
And by her comboloio *? lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



127 



And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould ; 
The richest work of Iran's loom, 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 

VI. 

Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 
Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 

To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
As heaven itself to Selim dear, 

With cautious steps the thicket threading, 
And starting oft, as through the glade 
The gust its hollow moanings made, 

Till on the smoother pathway treading, 

More free her timid bosom beat, 
The maid pursued her silent guide ; 

And though her terror urged retreat 
How could she quit her Selim's side 
How teach her tender lips to chide 



VII. 



% 



They reach' d at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature but enlarged by art, 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream' d what Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her prophet had disdained to show ; 
But Selim's mansion was secure, 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss, 
Without her, most beloved in this ! 
Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell ? 
What Houri sonth him half so well ? 

VIII. 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within the grot : 

It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light : 

That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue ; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were piled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 

And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 

Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 

What may this mean ? she turn'd to see 

Her Selim — " Oh ! can this be he ? " 

IX. 

His robe of pride was thrown aside, 
His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 

But in its stead a shawl of red, 
Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore : 



That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem, 
No longer glitter'd at his waist, 
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced ; 
And from his belt a sabre swung, 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote : 
Beneath — his golden-plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee. 58 



" I said I was not what I seem'd : 

And now thou seest my words were true 
I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 'twere vain to hide ; 
I must not see thee Osman's bride; 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove : 
But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika ! I am not thy brother !" 

XI. 

u Oh ! not my brother !— yet unsay— 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
But know me all I was before, 

Thy sister — friend— Zuleika still. 
Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou has cause for vengeance, see 
My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe ; 
And I alas ! am Giaffir's child, 
For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. 
If not thy sister— wouldst thou save 
My life, Oh ! bid me be thy slave !" 

XII. 
" My slave, Zuleika !— nay, I'm thine: 

But, gentle love, this transport caln^ 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
I 6wear it by our Prophet's shrine, 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran M verse display'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widen'd, not divided, 

Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 



128 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



My father was to Giaffir all 

That Sclim late was deem d to thee , 
That brother wrought a brother s fall, 

But spared, at least, my infancy, 
And lull'd me with a vain deceit 

That yet a like return may meet 
He rcar'd me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain; 
He watched me like a lion's whelp. 

That gi.aws and yet may break his chain. 

Mv father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take . 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, belov'd Zuleika ! hear 
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII. 

« How hist their strife to rancor grew, 

If love or envy made them foes, 
It matters little if I knew ; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remembcr'd yet in Bosniac song, 
And Paswan's 3l rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest ; 
His death is all I need relate, 
The stern effect of Giaffir's hate; 
And how my birth disclqsed to me, 
Whatc'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 

XIV. 

" When Paswan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life, 
In Widin's walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
Nor last nor least in high command 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
They gave their horsetails ■ to the wind, 

And, mustering in Sophia's plain, 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd ; 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
What need of words ? the deadly bowl, 
By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath, 

He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught, a nor needed more ! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
Call Haroun— he can tell it out. 

XV. 

" Tl^fjAced once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalick was gain'd : — 
Thou know'stnot what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah'o honors were obtain' d 
By him a brother's murdev otain'd; 
"Tis true, the purchase nearly drain' d 

..-i^ot treasure, soon replaced. 
Would' st question whence ? Survey the waste, 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broiling brow '. — 



Why me the stern usurper spared, 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant's force ; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 
Preserved me thus ; but not in peace 
He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XVI. 

« Within thy father's house are foes ; 
Not all who break his bread are true 
To these should I my birth disclose, 
His days, his very hours were few : 
They only want a neart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
He in Abdallah's palace grew, 
And held that post in his Serai 
Which holds he here— he saw him die I 
But what could single slavery do ? 
Avenge his lord ? alas! too late ;^ 
Or save his son from such a fate r 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 
PrSid Giaffir in high triumph sate, 
He led me helpless to his gate, 
And not in vain it seems essay'd 
To save the life for which he pray'd. 
The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from me ; 
Thus Giaffir's safety was insured. 
Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side, 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge— and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains, 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals : 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends— 
Slaves, tools, accomplices— no friends ! 

XVII. 

" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds; 
But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er, my tongue thy softness wounds, 
Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 
I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn, 

And long must wear : this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 
Is leader of those pirate hordes, 
Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale ; 
Those arms thou see'st my band have brought ; 
The hands that w r ield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fill' d— once quaff'd, they ne'er repme ; 
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 
They're only infidels in wine. 

XVlII. 
" What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 
And taunted to a wish to roam ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



And listless left -for Giaffir's fear 

Denied the courser and the spear — 

Though oft — Oh, Mahomet ! how oft ! — 

In full Divan the despot scoff'd, 

As if my weak unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or the brand : 

He ever went to war alone, 

And pent me here untried, Unknown ; 

To Haroun's care with women left, 

By hope unblest, of fame bereft, 

"While thou — whose softness long endear'd, 

Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer'd — 

To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 

Awaited'st there the field's event. 

Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
His captive, though with dread resigning. 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
'Tis vain — my tongue cannot impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 
"When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling— I was Free ! f 

E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
The World — nay — Heaven itself was mine ! 

XIX. 

41 The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 
I long'd to see the isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
I sought by turns, and saw them all ; ** 

But when and » v ere I join'd the crew 
With wnom I'm pledged to rise or fall, 

"When all that we design to do 
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 

XX. 

" 'Tis true, they are a lawless brood, 
But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
And every creed, and every race, 
With them hath found — may find a place . 
But open speech, and ready hand, 
Obedience to their chief's command ; 
A soul for every enterprise, 
That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vow'd for those who full, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than even my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar r. 
But chiefly to my counsel call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts a 

The last of Lambro's^ pat: 

Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the caver. 
On visionary schemes debate, 
To snatch the llayahs 36 from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew: 
I have a love for freedom too. 

17 



121 



Ah ! let me like the ocean p»tr*rj«A*1 roamN 

Or only know on land the Tartar's home ! * 

My tent on shore, my galley oi 

Are more than cities and sends to me : 

Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 

Across the desert, or before the 

Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my pro*' 

But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou ! 

Thou, my Zuleika, share and ;k ; 

The dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 

Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 

Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 

The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 

And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 

Blest— as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 

To pilgrim's pure and prostrate at his call : 

Soft— as the melody of youthful days, 

That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 

Dear — as his native song to exile's ears, 

Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 

For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 

Blooming as Aden 39 in its earliest hour. 

A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand 

Wait— wave— defend — destroy— at thy command ! 

Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 

The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 

The Haram's languid years of listless ease 

Are well resign'd for cares— for joys like these: 

Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 

Unnumber'd perils — but one only love ! 

Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 

Though fortune frowns, or falser friends betray. 

How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 

Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still 

Be but thy soul like Selim's, firmly shown • 

To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 

To sooth each sorrow, share in each delight, 

Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 

Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide , 

Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 

Yet there we follow but the bent assitrn'd 

By fatal nature to man's warring kind : 

Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease . |7 

He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 

I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, J 

But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 

Power sways but by division — her resource 

The blest alternative of fraud or force ; 

Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come, 

When cities cage us in a social home : 

There even thy soul might err — how oft the heart 

Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 

And woman, more than man, when death or wo, 

Or even disyee would lay her lover low, 

Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — 

Away suspicion ! not Zuleika's name : 

But life is hazard at the best: and here 

No more remains to win, and much to fear ; 

Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee. 

By Osman's power and Oiafhr's stern decree. 

That dread shall vanish with the favoring gale, 

Which love to-night hath promised to my sail : 

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 

Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms ; 

—sea alike — our world within our arms ! 
Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 
So that those arms cling closer round my neck, 
The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 



130 

No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
The war of denwatl no fears impart 
fo love, whose deadliest bane is human art : 
There lie the onlv rocks our course can check , 

• !ucntsmenacc _^ are years of wreck! 
But hence ve thoughts that rise in Horror s shape 
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
Few words remain of mine my tale to close : 
Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 
Yea-foes-to me will Giaffir's hate decline ? 
And is not Osman, who would part us, thine . 



XXI. 

« His head and faith from doubt and death 
Return'd in time my guard to save ; 
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while : 
And since, though parted from my band, 
Too seldom now I leave the land, 
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, 
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'Tis fit I oftcner share the toil. 
But now too long I've held thine ear ; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives—to-night must break thy chain ; 
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 
Perchance hit life who gave thee thine, 
With me this hour away— away ! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine 
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
Here rest I— not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head 1 " 



XXII. 

Zuleika, mute and motionless, 

Stood like that statue of distress, 

When, her last hope for ever gone, 

The mother harden'd into stone ; 

All in the maid that eye could see 

Was but a younger Niobe. 

But ere her lip, or even her eye, 

Essay'd to speak, or look reply, 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far flashed on high a blazing torch ! 

Another — and another — and another — 

"Oh! fly — no more; — yet now my more than] 
brother ! " 

Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 

The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 

Nor these alone — for each right hand 

<ly with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
And Inst of all, his sabre waving, 
Stern GifRar in his fury raving : 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 

XXIII. 
Dauntless he stood—-" 'tis come; — soon past — 
One kiss, Zulcika— 'tis my last : 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash : 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash : 

No matter— yet one effort more." 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

Forth to the cavern mouth he stept , 

His pistol's echo rang on high ; 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye !— 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 'tis but to see me die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar ; 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
Farewell, Zuleika !— Sweet ! retire: 

Yet stay within— here linger safe, 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not— lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
Fear'st thou for him ?— may I expire, 
If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
No— though by him that poison pour'd ; 
Nc— though again he call me coward! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No— as each crest save his may feel ! " 



XXIV. 

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls— but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 

His boat appears— not five oars' length — 
His comrades strain with desperate strength— 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bay, 
Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
Wet— wild— unwearied to the strand 
They struggle— now they touch the land ! 
They come !— 'tis but to add to slaughter— 
His heart's best blood is on the water. 

XXV. 

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 
Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, 
To where the strand and billows met : 
There as his last step left the land, 
And the last death-blow dealt his hand— 
jAh ! wherefore did he turn to look 
f For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray : 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball— 
" So may the foes of Giaffir fall ! " 
Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang ? 
Whose hullet through the night-air sang, 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
'Tis thine — Abdallah's murderer ! 
The father slowly rued thy hate, 
The son hath found a quicker fate : 
Fast from his breast ths blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling— 
If aught his lips essay'd to groan, 
The rushing billows chok'd the tone ! 



THE BRIDE OF ABTDOS. 



XXVI. 

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; 

Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear, 
And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; 
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 
May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 
A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
'Tis rent in twain — one dark red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 

But where is he who wore ? 
Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep, 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burden round Sigarum's steep, 

And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 
That hand, whose motion is not life, 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 

Then levell'd with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 

"Within a living grave ? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
And mourned above his turban-stone, 40 
That heart hath burst — that eye was closed — 
Yea — closed before his own ! 



131 



1 



XXVII. 

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 

And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale 

Zulieka ! last of Giaffir's race, 
Thy destined lord is come too late ; 

He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 
Can he not hear 

The loud Wul-wulleh 41 warn his distant ear ? 
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
The Koran-chaunters of the hymn of fate, 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 

Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 
Tell him thy tale ! 

Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 

That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 

He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — 
And that last thought on him thou couldst not save 
Sufficed to kill ; 

Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still- 
Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 

Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 

That grief— though deep — though fatal — was thy 
first! 

Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 

OF absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 

And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies ! 

The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 



Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night. 
That dreads the darkness, and 3 | he light, 

That winds around and tears the quivering heart ! 
Ah ! wherefore not consume it— and depart '. 
Wo to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread : 
By that same hand Ahdallah— Selim bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief; 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 

Thy daughter's dead ! \ 

Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, ' 
The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. 
What quench'd its ray ?— the blood that thou haat 

shed! 
Hark ! to the hurried question of despair : 
" Where is my child?"— an echo answers — 
"Where?" 42 

XXVIII. 
Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms, 
And withers not, though branch and leaf 
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Even in that deadly grove; — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale . 
It looks as planted by despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than winter sky 
May wring it from the stem — in vain — 
To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 

Xot woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entrancing note ! 
It were the bulbul ; but his throat, 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve, 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'Tis sorrow so unmix 'd with dread, 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholy spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 

He sings so wild and well ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high 
Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 
And harsh be they that blame) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable its sound 
Into Zuleika's name. 43 



132 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tis from her cypress' summit heard, 
That molts in air the liquid word ; 
'Tis from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone ; 
Eve saw it placed— the morrow gone ! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore : 
For there, as Helle's legends tell, 
Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell, 



Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 

Denied his bones a holier grave : 
And there by night, reclined, 'tis said, 
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
And hence extended by the billow, 
'Tis named the " Pirate phantom's pillow ! 
Where first it lay that mourning flower 
Hath flourish'd ; flourisheth this hour, 

Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 

As weeping beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale ! 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



i. 

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom. 
Page 122, line 8. 
" Gul," the rose. 

2. 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 
Page 122, line 17. 

"Souli made of fire, and cliildren of the sun, 
Willi whom revenge is virtue. — Young's Revenge. 

3. 

With Mejnowi's tale, or Sadi's song. 

Page 123, line 23. 
^ Mcjnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the 
East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 



Till I, who heard t/te deep tambour. 

Page 123, line 24. 
Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, 
noon, and twilight 

5. 
He is an Arab to my sight. 

Page 123, line 95. 
The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the com- 
pliment a hundred fold), even more than they hate 
the Christians. 

6. 
The ?nind, the music breathing from her face. 
Tags 124, line 2. 
This expression has" met with objections. I will 
not refer to " him who hath not music in his soul," 
butm( ] r the reader to recollect, for ten 

seconds, the features of the woman whom he be- 
lieves to be the most beautiful ; and if he then 
f«°?», n °t com F e H nd full >- »a»t w fceblv expressed 
an <*Lt°Z e C ' * S ^ a11 bn sorr y for ™' ho ^ For 
fanat? wnt ^ f ktest WOrk ° f the first 

T?m\> ' P r rhaps of an y a S*> on the 

• Und the immediate companion excited by 

o iii ;t g> li' D^' " PainUn ^ «** ™^c," see 
-vol. m. cap. 1 ) De l Allkm.vgnk. And is notthis 

S^With 1 he??^ Wm , Uhe ^in^Cntl 
copy | With the coloring of nature than of art ? 



After all, this is rather to be felt than described ; 
still I think there are some who will understand it, 
at least they would have done, had they beheld the 
countenance whose speaking harmony suggested the 
idea ; for this passage is not drawn from imagina- 
tion, but memory, that mirror which affliction 
dashes to the earth, and looking down upon the 
fragments, only beholds the reflection multiplied. 

7. 
But get the line of Carasman. 

Page 124, line 24. 
Carasman Oglou, or Cara Osman Oglou, is the 
principal landholder in Turkey : he governs Mag- 
nesia : those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, pos- 
sess land on condition of service, are called Tima- 
riots : they serve as Spahis, according to the extent 
of territory, and bring a certain number into the 
field, generally cavalry. 

8. 
And teach the messenger what fate. 

Page 124, line 36. 
t When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the 
single messenger, who is always the first bearer of 
the order for his death, is strangled instead, and 
sometimes five or six, one after the other, on the 
same errand, by command of the refractory patient ; 
if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, 
kisses the Sultan's respectable signature, and is 
bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, seve- 
ral of these presents were exhibited in the niche of 
the Seragho gate ; among others, the head of the 
1 acha ot Bagdat, a brave young man, cut off by 
treachery, after a desperate resistance. 

9. 
Thrice clajjp'd his hands, andcalVd his steed. 
Page 124, line 55. 
Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The 
lurks hate a superfluous -expenditure of voice, and 
they have no bells. 

10 " 
Resign' d his gem-adorn 'd chiboxique. 

Page 124, line 56. 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber 
mouth-piece and sometimes the ball which contains 
the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in pos- 
session of the wealthier orders. 

11. 
With Maugrabee and Mamaluke. 

Page 124, line 58. 
Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. 

12. 

His way amid his Delis took. 

Page 124, line 59. 
Deli, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the 
cavalry, and always begin the action. 



133 



Pacha; a Waywode is the thud; and then come 
the Agas. 



21. 



13. 

Careering cleave the folded felt. 

Page 124, line 71. 
A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice 
by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut 
through it at a single stroke : sometimes a tough 
turban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed 
is a game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. 

14. 
Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud. 

Page 124, line 74. 
"Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the "Leilies," as the 
Spanish poets call them, the sound is Ollah ; a cry 
of which the Turks, for a silent people, are some- 
what profu*, particularly during the jerreed, or in 
the chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation 
in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their 
pipes and comboloios form an amusing contrast. 

15. 

The Persian Atar-guVs perfume. 

Page 124, line 93. 
" Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the 
finest. 

16. 
The pictured roof and marble floor. 

Page 124, line 95. 
The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the 
Mussulman apartments are generally painted, in 
great houses, with one eternal and highly colored 
view of Constantinople, wherein the principal 
feature is a noble contempt of perspective ; below, 
arms, scimitars, &c, are in general fancifully and 
not inelegantly disposed. 

17. 

A message from the Bulbul beats. 

Page 124, line 111. 
It has been much doubted whether the notes of 
this " Lover of the rose," are sad or merry ; and 
Mr. Fox's remarks on the subject have provoked 
some learned controversy as to the opinions of th? 
ancients on the subject. I dare not venture a con- 
jecture on the point, though a little inclined to the 
"errare mallem," &c, if Mr. Fox was mistaken. 

18. 
Even Azrael,from hisHleadly quiver. - 

Page 125, line 19. 
M Azrael " — the angel of death. 

19. 
Within the caves of Istakar. 

Page 125, line 54. 
The treasures of the Pre- Adamite Sultans. See 
D'Herbelot, article Iskatar. 

20. 
Holds not a Musselim's control. 

Page 125, line 70. 
Musselim, a governor, the next in rank after a 



Was he not bred in Bmipa / 
_, . ?»$■ 125, line 71. 

pvH t S h" P T~V ie ^ ro P ont >- Accordin S to the prov- 
eib the Turks of Egnpo, the Jews of Salonica and 
the Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their respec- 
tive races. * 
22. 
Ah ! yoiuler see the Tchocadar. 

Page 12(3, line 13. 
"Ichocadar"— one of the attendants who pre- 
cedes a man of authority." 

23. 
Thine oicn " broad Hellespont " still dashes. 
Page 126, line 83. 
The wrangling about this epithet "the broad 
H , e llespont" or the "boundless Hellespont," 
whether it means one or the other, or what it means 
at all, has been beyond all possibility of detail. I 
have even heard it disputed on the spot ; and, not 
foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the controversy, 
amused myself with swimming across it in the mean- 
time, and probably may again before the point is 
settled. Indeed, the question as to the truth of 
"the tale of Troy divine" still continues, much of 
it resting upon the talismanic word " aircipos ■ " 
probably Homer had the same notion of distance 
that a coquette has of time, and when he talks of 
boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by a 
like figure, when she says eternal attachment, sim- 
ply specifies three weeks. 

24. 
Which Aynmon's son ran proudly round. 

Page 125, line 94. 
Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the al- 
tar with laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated 
by Caracalla in his race. It is believed that the last 
also poisoned a friend, named Festus, for the sake 
of new Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep 
feeding on the tombs of iEsietes and Antilochus; 
the first is in the centre of the plain. 

25. 
O'er which her fairy fingers ran. 

o 126, line 113. 
When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a per- 
fume, which is slight but not disagreeable. 

26. 
Her mother" s sainted amulet. 

Page 12G, line 11G. 
The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or en- 
closed in gold boxes, containing scraps from the Ko- 
ran worn round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still uni- 
versal in the East. T^ife' Koorscc (throne) verse in 
the second chapter of the Koran^d B at- 

tributes of the Most High, and is engraved in this 
manner, and worn by the piou ru- 

ed and sublime of all sent' 

27. 
And by her Comboloio I 

Page 126, line 119. 
" Comboloio " — a Turkish rosary. The MSS. par 
ticularly those of the Pi ned 

and illuminated. The Greek females are kept in 
utter ignorance; but many of the Turkish girls ara 
highly accomplished, though *ot actually qualified 
for a Christian coterie ; perhaps some of our own 
blues " might not be the worse for bleaching. 

28. 
In him was some youna Galionqee 

"Page 127, line 77- 
" Galiongee "— or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a 



134 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Turkish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks 
work the suns. Their dress is picturesque ; and I 
have seen the Capita:! Pacha more than once wear- 
ing it as a kind of incog. Their legs, however, are 
eenerallv naked. The buskins described in the 
sheathed behind with silver, are those of an 
Arnaut robber, who was my host, Hie had quitted 
the profession,) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the 
Morea; they were plated in scales one over the 
other, like the back of an armadillo. 

29. 
So may the Koran verse display' d. 

Page 127, line 116. 
The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain 
sometimes the name of the place of their man- 
ufacture, but more generally a text from the Ko- 
ran, in letters of gold. Among those in my pos- 
session, is one with a blade of singular construction ; 
it is very broad, and the edge notched into serpen- 
tine curves like the ripple of water, or the wavering 
of rlame. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what 

fossible use stub a figure could add : he said, in 
talian, that he did not Know; but the Mussulmans 
had an idea that those of this form gave a severer 
wound; and liked it because it was " piu feroce." 
I did not much admire the reason, but bought it for 
its peculiarity. 

30. 
But like the nepliew of a Cain. 

Page 128, line 8. 
It is to be observed, that every allusion to any- 
thing or personage in the Old Testament, such as 
the Ark, or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mus- 
sulman and Jew: indeed, the former profess to be 
much better acquainted with the lives, true and fab- 
ulous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted by our 
own sacred writ, and not content with Adam, they 
have a biography of Pre- Adamites. Solomon is the 
monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet 
inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is 
the Persian name of Potiphar's wife, and her 
amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest 
poems in the language. It is therefore no violation 
of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, into 
the mouth of a Moslem. 

31. 
Paswan's rebel hordes attest. 

Page 128, line 2-1 
Pvwan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the 
last years of his life, set the whole power of the 
Porte at defiance. 

32. 
They gave their horsetails to the wind. 

Page 128, line 36. 
Horsetail, the standard of a Pacha. 

33. 

He drank one draught, nor needed more. 

Page 128, line 49. 
Gi-ifrir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am 
*ot sure which, was actually taken off by the Alba- 
nian Ali, in the manner described in the text. Ali 
Pacha, while I was in the country, married the 
daughter of his victim, some years after the event 
a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. 
•d in the cup of coffee, which is 
presented before the sherbet by the bath-kecper, after 

34. 

I sought by turns and saw them all. 

T , T ... . Page 129, line 3-5. 

fint5 e < ?aT T l T s of almost all islands arc con- 
fined to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 

_ , 3-5. 

The last of Lambro' s patriots there. 
T.^wn • „ Page 129, Une 58. 

Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts 



in 1789-90 for the independence of his country; 
abandoned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and 
the Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises 
He is said to be still alive at Petersburg!*. He and 
Riga are the two most celebrated of the Greek 
revolutionists. 

36. 
To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. 

Page 129, line 62. 
Rayahs " all who pay the capitation tax, called 
the " Haratch." 

37. 
A>/. let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. 

Page 129, line 66. 
The first of voyages is one of the few with which 
the Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 

38. 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home. 

Page 129, line 67. 
The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and 
Turkomans, will be found well detailed in any' book 
of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm pe- 
culiar to itself cannot be denied. A young French 
renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that he never 
found himself alone, galloping in the desert, with- 
out a sensation approaching to rapture, which was 
indescribable. 

39. 
Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 

Page 129, line 87- 
"Jannat al Aden," the perpetual, abode, the 
Mussulman Paradise. 

40. 
And mourn 'd above his turban-stone. 

Page 131, line 36. 
A turban is carved in stone above the graves of * \ 
men only. 

41. 
The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear. 
Page 131, line 45. 
The death-song of the Turkish women. The 
" silent slaves " are tne men whose notions of de- 
corum forbid complaint in public. 

42. 
' ' I Vhcre is my child t ' ' — an ech o ansicers — ' ' Where ? ' ' 
Page 131, line 81. 

" I came to the place of my birth and cried, ' the 
friends of my youth, Avhere are they ? ' and an Echo 
answered, ' Where are they ? ' " — From an Arabic 
MS. 

The above quotation (from which the idea in the 
text is taken) must be already familiar to every 
reader — it is given in the first annotation, page 67, 
of " The Pleasures of Memory " a poem so well 
known as to render a reference Vim ost superfluous ; 
but to whose pages all will be delighted to recur. 

43. 
Into Zxdeika's name. 

Page 131, line 129 

" And airy tongues that syllable men's names." 

MUton. 

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the 
form of birds, we need not travel to the east. Lord 
Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Dutchess 
of Kendal that George I. frew into her window in 
the shape of a raven, (see Orford's Reminiscences,) 
and many other instances, bring this superstition 
nearer home. The most singular was the whim of 
a Worcester lady, who, believing her daughter to 
exist m the shape of a singing bird, literally fur- 
n v bl \ C< ^ J er pew m the Cathedral with cages-full of 
the kind ; and as she was rich, and a benefactress 
in beautifying the church, no objection was made to 
her harmless folly. For this anecdote see Orford'g 



Letters. 



THE CORSAIR; 

A TALE. 



■ I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno." 

TASSO, Canto decimo , Geruscdemme Liberate. 



■ T\X 



THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 



MtHdeae Moore, — 

I dedicate to you the last production with which 
I shall trespass on public patience, and your indul- 
gence, for some years ; and I own that I feel anx- 
ious to avail myself of this latest and only opportu- 
nity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated 
by unshaken public principle, and the most un- 
doubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks 
you among the firmest of her patriots ; while you 
stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation 
and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit 
one, whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, 
has been the years he had lost before it commenced, 
to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, 
to the voice of more than one nation. It will at 
least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the 
gratification derived from your society, nor aban- 
doned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your 
leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your 
friends for too long an absence. It is said, among 
those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in 
the composition of a poem whose scene will be laid 
in the East; none can do those scenes so much 
justice. The wrongs of your own country, the mag- 
nificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and 
feeling of her daughters, may there be found ; and 
Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish 
Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a 
part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a 
warmer sun, and less clouded sky ; but wildness, 
tenderness, and originality are part of your national 
claim of oriental descent, to which you have already 
thus far proved your title more clearly than the most 
zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all 
men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable ? 
— Self. I have written much, and published more 
than enough to demand a longer silence than I now 
meditate ; but for some years to come, it is my in- 



tention to tempt no further the award of "gods, 
men, nor columns." In the present composition I 
have attempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, 
the best adapted measure to our language, the good 
old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza 
of Spenser is, perhaps, too slow and dignified for 
narrative ; though, I confess, it is the measure most 
after my own heart ; Scott alone, of the present 
generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over 
the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this 
is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty gen- 
ius : in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our 
dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the 
deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock 
on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is 
not the most popular measure certainly ; but as I 
did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without 
further apology, and take my chance once more with 
that versification, in which I have hitherto published 
nothing but compositions whose former circulation is 
part of my present, and will be of my future regret. 
With regard to my story, and stories in general, 
I should have been glad to have rendered my per- 
sonages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inas- 
much as I have been sometimes criticised, and con- 
sidered no less responsible for their deed-; and qual- 
ities than if all had been personal. Be it so— 
have deviated into the gloomy vanity of " drr.\ 
from self," the pictures are probably like, since they 
are unfavorable ; and if not, those who knov, 
are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little 
interest in undeceiving. I haVe no particular desire 
that any but my acquaintance should think the 
author better than the beings of his imagining ; but 
I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amuse- 
ment, at some odd critical exceptions in I 
instance, when I see several bards, (far more de- 
serving, I allow,) in very reputable plight, and 
quite exempted from all participation in the faults 
of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found 
with little more morality than " The Giaour," and 
perhaps —but no — I must admit Ciiilde Harold to 



13G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



be a very repulsive personage ; and as to his iden- 
tity, those who like it must give him whatever 
" alias " they please. 

If however, it were worth while to remove the 
impression, it might be of some service to me, that 
the man who is alike the delight of his readers and 
his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of 
his own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe 

myself, 

Most truly, 

And affectionately, 

His obedient servant, 

BYRON. 
January 2, 1814. 



CANTO I. 



1 nessun maggior dolore, 

Che rkordan>i del tempo felice 

NelU nw.-rh, " 

Dante. 



I. 

" O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home \ 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours tin wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell ! not thou, luxurious slave ! 

-oul would sicken o'er the heaving wave : 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 

lumber soothes not, pleasure cannot please — 
i can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 

■siting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only -feel — 

-fo the rising bosom's inmost core, 
Its hope awaken and its spirits soar ? 
No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 

it it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it will— we snatch the life of life— 
When lost— what recks it— by disease or strife ? 
Lot him who crawls enamor'd of decay 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 

-the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
Whr tsp he falters forth his soul, 

Onrs with one pang— one bound— escapes control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave : 
re the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
in shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In th - crowns our memory ; 

And the brief epitaph in danger's day" ' 
When win at lcngth divide ' the 

£ V* T T' ,ranCe 8addeni *g o'er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now ' " 



II. 



Such were the notes that from the pirate's isle 
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while ; 
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 
They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand ; 
Select the arms— to each his blade assign, 
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 
While others straggling muse along the shore ; 
For the wild bird the busy springes set, 
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 
Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 
With all the thirsting eye of enterprize ; 
Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 
And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 
No matter where — their chief's allotment this ; 
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 
But who that Chief ? His name on every shore I 
Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 
With these he mingles not but to command ; 
Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 
But they forgive his silence for success. 
Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 
That goblet passes him untasted still — 
And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 
Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too ; 
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roota 
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 
His short repast in humbleness supply 
With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 
But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
His mind seems nourished by that abstinence. 
" Steer to that shore ! "—they sail. " Do this ! "- 
'tis done : 
Now form and follow me ! " — the spoil is won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

III. 

A sail ! — a sail ! " — a promised prize to hope ; 
Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 
No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 
Already doubled is the cape — our bay 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray 
How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
She walks the waters like a thing of life, ' 
And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck — 
To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 

IV. 

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings, 
And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 
'Tis mann'd— the oars keep concert to the strand, 
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
Hail to the welcome shout !*— the friendly speech 1 
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 
The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 
And the heart's promise of festivity ! 




* 



THE CORSAIR. 



137 



The tidh gs spread, and gathering grows the crowd ; 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear 

word : 
M Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless ? 
From where the battle roars — the bilows chafe — 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe ? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes." 

VI. 

" Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 
And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short ; 
Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief; 
| But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief : 
'Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return, 
And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 
And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 
Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, 
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 
From crag to cliff they mount — Near yonder cave, 
What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 
Not oft a resting-stafT to that red hand ? 
" 'Tis he — 'tis Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 
On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 
The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 
We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, 
When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 

VII. 

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — 

He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 

These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 

He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 

" These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy 

Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 

Whate'er his tidings we can well report, 

Much that " — " Peace, peace ! " — he cuts their 

prating short. 
Wondering they turn, abashed, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech: 
They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo ? " 

" In the anchor'd bark." 

" There let him stay — to him this order bear — 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 

41 To night, Lord Conrad ? " 

" Ay ! at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding brand, 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
18 



This let the Aran rer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fiivd, 
To tell us when the hour of stay's expired." 

VIII. 

They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not— so that Conrad guides, 
And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
What should it be, that thus their fate can bind ? 
The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill. 
That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
Wields with their Sands, but, still to these unknown, 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun, 
The many still must labor for the one ! 
'Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, . 
In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire : 
Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 
They gaze and marvel how — and still con: 
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
Sunburnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 
The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; * 
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 
Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien. 
Still Menu there something he would not have seen j 
His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the | 
As if within that murkincss of mind 
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 
Such might it be— that none could truly tell- 
Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 
There breathe but few whose aspect might 
The full encounter of his scan 

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek- 
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
At once the observer's purpose to ee] 
Ind on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
Some secret thought, than drag that chiefs to day 
There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 
That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell ! 

X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
Within— within— 'twas there the spirit wrought I 



138 

Love shows all changes— Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 
Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien, 
He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 
Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow- 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not. 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself— the secret spirit free ? 

XI. 

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — 
His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 
Nor dcem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 
Had left him joy, and means to live again. 
Fear'd— shunn'd— belied— ere youth had lost her 

force, 
He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain— but he dcem'd 
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds (he bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loathed him, crouch'd and dreaded 

too. 
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all affection and from all contempt : 
His name could sadden, and kis acts surprise ; 
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
The first may turn— but not avenge the blow ; 
The last expires— but leaves no living foe ; 
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 
And he may crush— not conquer— still it stings ! 

XII. 
None arc all •ftt-q U i cke aing round his heart, 
^!£?J****«<«**« 7^ depart; 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Oft could he sne 



er at others as beguiled 



•"rthy of a fool or chr 

Yet gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 

And even in hnn it asks the name of Love ! 

Ye. it was love-unehangeable-unchanged, 

So, "w T fr ° m Wh ° m hc n ™ ranged 
Though fairest captives daily met his a 

H e shunn d nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by : 



Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 
Tried in temptation, strengthened by distress, 
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 
And yet — Oh more than all ! — untired by time ; 
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness par^ 
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove— 
If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 
He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
On him — but not the passion, nor its power. 
Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 



XIII. 

He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
" Strange tidings !— many a peril have I past, 
Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
'Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 
We'll furnish mourners for our funeral-pile. 
Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 
Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze !) 
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
Now to Medora— Oh ! my sinking heart, \ 

Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! ' 

Yet was I brave— mean boast where all are brave r 
Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
This common courage which with brutes we share 
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 
Small merit claims— but 'twas my nobler hope 
To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
Long have I led them— uot to vainly bleed: 
No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 
So let it be— it irks not me to die ; 
But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
My lot hath long had little of my care, 
But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 
Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 
accuse thy folly, not thy fate— 
nor yet too late." 



Oh, Fate !- 

She may redeem thee still- 



XIV 



Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill : 
There at the portal paused— for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Ihrough the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung: 



1 Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 

Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
I hen trembles into silence as before. 



THE CORSAIR. 



u* 



There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 
Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
Though vain its ray as it had never been. 



M Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there recline : 

The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 

4. 
" My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear — 

Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove ; 
Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 

The first — last — sole reward of so much love ! " 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore, 
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er ; 
M My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 

1 In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 
Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute ! 
Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind, 
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
That mourn' d thee floating on the savage surge ; 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
At length — 'twas noon — I hail'd and bless the mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it past ! 
Another came — Oh God ! 'twas thine at last ! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam ; 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will ! " 

Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been 
changed ; 
, Worm-like 'twas trampled — adder-like avenged, 
■/Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
My very love to thee is hate to them, 
So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
I cease to love thee when I love mankind : 
Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
Assures the future that my love will last ; 
But — Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentle heart, 
This hour again — but not for long — we part." 



" This hour we part !— my heart foreboded this ; 

Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 

This hour — it cannot be — this hour awav ! 

Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay : 

Her consort still is absent, and her crew 

Have need of rest before they toil anew : 

My love ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldsl 

steel 
My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
But trifle now no more with my distress, 
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness 
Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and share 
The feast these hands delighted to prepare , 
Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
See, I have pluck' d the fruit that promised best, 
And where not « e, perplexed, butpleas'd, I guess'd 
At such as seemff the fairest : thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears : 
Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
Is trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp : 
Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
Shall sooth or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 
We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 1 
Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile. 
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 
And thus half sportive, half in fear, I said, 
Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than 

dread, 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 
And he deceived me — for — he came again ! " 

" Again — again — and oft again — my love ! 

If there be life below, and hope above, 

He will return — but now, the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wing : 

The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 

Since all must end in that wild won! — farewell ! 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 

Nor be thou lonely— though thy lord's a* 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee 

And this thy comfort— that, when next we meet, 

Security shall make repose more IK 

Li gt i — 'tis the bugle— Juan shrilly blew— 

One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu ! " 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace. 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt ! 



/40 

mill link the thunder of tne signal-gun ! 
It told 'twas sunsc t-and he cursed that sun. 
Again-again-that form he madly press d, 
Which mutually clasp'd, imploringly caress d. 
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
One moment gazcd-as if to gaze no more ; 
Felt— that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead— turn'd— is Conrad gone ? 

XV. 

» And is he gone ? "—on sudden solitude 
How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 
« 'Twas but an instant past— and here he stood I 
And now "—without the portal's porch she rush'd, 
And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
Big— bright— and fast,unknown tpier they fell ; 
But still her lips refused to send— " Farewell ! " 
For in that word— that fatal word— howe'er 
We promise— hope— believe— there breathes despair 
O'er every feature of that still, pale face, 
Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase: 
The tender blue of that large loving eye 
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 
Till— Oh, how far !— it caught a glimpse of hnn, 
And then it flow'd— and frenzied seem'd to swim 
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes 
dew'd 

With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 

"He's gone ! "—against her heart that hand is 
driven, 

Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven ; 

She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 

The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 

But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 

u It is no dream — and I am desolate ! " 



XVI. 

From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; 
But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 
His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 
That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep 
And she — the dim and melancholy star, 
Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 
On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 
There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink ; 
Yet, once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 
His fate to chance, his projects to the wave ; 
But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
Way melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 
\.nd sternly gathers all his might of mind : 
Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 
The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 
As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, 
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 

: vcll'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
He feels of all his former self possest ; 
He bounds— he flies— until his footsteps reach 
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, 
There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 
For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 
That seems to shun the sight— and awes if seen 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 
That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
All these he wielded to command assent : 
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent, 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 
And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
When echo'd to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; 
The evil passions of his youth had made 
Him value less who loved— than what obey'd. 



XVII. 

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard, 
Before him Juan stands—" Are all prepared ? " 



They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 

Waits but my chief " 

" My sword, and my capote." 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
" Call Pedro here ! " He comes— and Conrad bends, 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
" Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shin* 
On our return— till then all peace be thine ! " 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung. 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung 
Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the »■ ofce, 
Around the waves' phosporic 2 brightness broke ; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, 
Shrieks the shrill whistle— ply the busy hands- 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
How gallant all her crew— and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
She— his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
And fast and falcon-lrke the vessel flew ; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 
To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile : 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail— and mark how there supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; 



THE CORSAIR. 



Screcn'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 

Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep 

Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
And calmly talked— and yet he talk'd of blood ! 



CANTO II. 



' Conosceste i Jubiosi deairi : 



In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
I For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night ■ 
l A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
| When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home ; 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word, 
His summon'd prows collect along the coast, 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast ; 
Already shared the captives and the prize, 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valor on the Greek ; 
How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave- 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay, 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 

II. 

High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff, 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice 3 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; 
The long Chibouque's 4 dissolving cloud supply, 
While dance the Almas 5 to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark : 
And revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep ; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 



141 



Bows his bent head— his hand salutes the floor, 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
" A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 6 
Escaped, is here— himself would tell the rest." j 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, ( 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark -green vest, \ 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
Vow'd to his God— his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone ; 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 



IV. 
Dervise ? 



III. 

With cautious reverence from the outer gate, 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 



" Whence com'st thou, 

" From the outlaw's den, 

A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when ? " 

" From Scalanovo's poit to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course— the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight : 
I seized the hour and find my safety here — 
With thee — most mighty Pacha ! who can fear ? " 

" How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared 
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard r 
Dream they of tkis our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed ? " 

" Pacha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, 

That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 

I only heard the reckless waters roar, 

Those waves that would not bear me from the shore 

I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 

Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 

And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 

Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 

This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 

They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 

Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 

That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 

The careless guard that did no; 

May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 

Pacha ! — my limbs are Aunt — and nature crave* 

Food for my hunger, rest from tossing wares : 

Permit rav absence — peace be with thee ! P 

With all around !— now grant reposi — 

" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring : 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting: 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery.'" 



'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
Nor show'd high relish for the banquet prest 
And less respect for every fellow guest. 



142 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Twas but a moment's peevish hectic past 
Along his click, and tranquillized as fast: 
■ ■ him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Metliinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 

" What ails thee, Dervise ? eat — dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge, 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 

.vcn contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight ! " 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest loot, my drink the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order's 7 laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
Iu fringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

" Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
What star— what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 
Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 
The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 
Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 
Some villian spy— seize — cleave him— slay him now!' 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 

I his high cap, and tore his robe away- 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high and torches from below; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell— 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell, 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 

that Dervise !— seize on Zatanai ' 8 

• their terror— check'd the first despair 
lhat urged him but to stand and perish there, 
Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 
their terror-from his baldric drew 
His bugle-brief the blast-but shrilly blew; 

whVSiTr; "t;^ u ye si)ccd ' m - v z^ ™ « 

At. i rf ? ?* ****<** of career ? 
Sw ( . rl7 f 81gn hath kft mc sin S le here r » 

; bis long arm-that sahre'. whirling sway 

Sheds fast atonement for its first delav 
Completes his fury, what their fear begun. 
And makes the many basely quail to one 



) 



The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
And scarce an arm dare raise to guard its head ! 
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, with rage, 

prise, 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight; 9 
For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 
And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 
Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling throws 
The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
" 'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must dip ^ 
Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 
Their galleys blaze— why not their city too ? ,: i 

V. 

Quick at the word — they seized him each a torcn, 
And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 
But sudden sunk— for on his ear the cry 
Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 
" Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 
One female form — remember — ice have wives. 
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 
But still we spared— must spare the weaker prey. 
Oh ! I forgot— but Heaven will not forgive 
If at my word the helpless cease to live : 
Follow who will — I go— we yet have time 
Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
He climbs the crackling stair— he bursts the door, 
Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 
His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke, 
But still from room to room his way he broke. 
They search— they find— they save : with lusty arms, 
Each bear "a prize of unregarded charms ; 
Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking framef 
With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 
So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 
And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 
From reeking pile and combat's wreck— away— 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed r | 
The Haram queen— but still the slave of Seyd ! 



VI. 

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,-° 

* ew words to reassure the trembling fair ; 

t or in that pause compassion snatch'd from war, 

The foe before retiring, fast and far, 

With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 

First slowher fled-then rallied-then withstood. 

This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few 

Compared with his the Corsair's roving crew, 

And blushes o'er his error,»as he eyes 

The rum wrought by panic and surprise. 

Alia I Alia ! Vengeance swells the crv— 

Shame mounts to rage that must atone or diet 






THE CORSAIR. 



143 



And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell. 
The tide of triumphs ebbs that flow'd too well — 
When wrath returns to renovated strife, 
And those who fought for conquest strike for life- 
Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 
" One effort — one — to break the circling host ! " 
They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost ! 
"Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 
Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 
Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled o'er ; 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 
Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 

VII. 

But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed, 
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 
And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 
Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
That smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 
'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 
Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright, 
As if his homage were a woman's right. 
M The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain : 
Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
The life — my loving lord remember'd not! " 

VIII. 

And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 
Far from his band, and battling with a host 
That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, 
And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
While Vengeance pondcr'd o'er new plans of pain, 
And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 
But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die : 
Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw, 
When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 
'Tis he indeed — disarm'd but undepress'd, 
His sole regret the life he still possess'd; 
His wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 
Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could 

kill. 
Oh were there none, of all the many given, 
To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 
Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
Who more than all had striven and struck for death ? 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 
For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 
He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 



Still in his stern and self-collected mien 

A conqueror's more than ir is seen, 

Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, 

But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 

Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 

Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 

The better warriors who beheld him I 

Insulted not the foe who taught them 

And the grim guards that to his durance led, / 

In silence eyed him with a secret C[, ' 

IX. 

The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there, 
To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
While famished vultures flit around the stake. 
" Oh ! water — water ! " — smiling Hate denies 
The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 
This was his doom :— the Leech, the guard, were 

gone, 
And left proud Conrad fetter' d and alone. 



'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 

It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 

There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 

When all its elements convulsed — combined — 

Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 

And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 

That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 

But cries " I warn'd thee ! " when the deed is o'er. 

Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 

May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 

Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 

And, to itself, all — all that self reve.ds, 

No single passion, and no ruling thought 

That leaves the rest at once unseen, unsought ; 

But the wild prospect when the soul review- — 

All rushing through their thousand avenues, 

Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 

Endanger'd glory, life itself b< 

The joy untastcd, the contempt or hate 

'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate ; 

The hopeless past, the hasting future 

Too quickly on to guess if hell 

Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd nol 

So keenly till that hour, but m 

Things light or lovely in their acted I 

But now to stern reflection each a O* M ; 

The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 

Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 

All, in a word, from which all 

That ope ning s^ pulchri — t he naked hu ait 

Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 

To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 

Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 

All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 

Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 

The only hypocrite i raise : 

Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and ilics 

But he who looks on death — and silent dies 



144 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 

He half-way meets him should he menace near ! 

XI. 

In the high chamber of his highest tower 
Sate Conrad, fcttcr'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish'd in the flame— this fort 
Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same :— 
Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 
One thought alone he could not— dared not meet— 
" Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ? " 
Then — only then— his clanking hands he raised, 
And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed ; 
But soon he found— or feign'd— or dream'd relief, 
And smiled in self-derision of his grief, 
" And now come torture when it will — or may, 
More need of rest to nerve me for the day ! " 
This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done ; 
And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd— 
Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — con 

demn'd — 
A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 

XII. 

He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 
Was hush'd so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 
He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends : 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 

" r is an earthly form with heavenly face! 
Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 
With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, 
That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 
Through guards and dunnest night how came it 

there ? 
Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 
Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 
She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 
And with it, scarcely qucstion'd, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door, 

* retch their listless limbs, and watch no more : 
then heads to hail the signet-ring, 
r what or who the sign may bring/ 

XIII. 



True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe, 
And me and mine he spared from worse than wo : 
'Tis late to think— but soft— his slumber breaks — 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes ! " 

He raised his head— and dazzled with the light, 
His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright: 
He moved his hand— the grating of his chain 
Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
" What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
Methinks, my jailor's face shows wond'rous fair ! " 

" Pirate ! thou know'st me not— but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 
I come through darkness — and I scarce know why- 
Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 

"If so kind lady ! thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight : 

Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 

But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! " 

Strange though it seem — yet with extremest griet 
Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 
And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 
Till even the scaffold 11 echoes with their jest ! 
Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 
A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 
And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 
As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, 
Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife 

XIV. 
" Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power 
To sooth the Pacha in his weaker hour. 
Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee 

now, 
But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow 
But all I can, I will : at least delay 
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 
The vain attempt should bring but doom to both 



1 






She gazed in wonder, « Can he calmly sleep, 



While oth.T eves his fall 



or ravage weep ? 



And mine ir 8 nre M - anf ] r , ring here— 

What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 



" Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 

Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 

Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope 

Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 

Unfit to vanquish— shall I meanlv fly, 

The one of all my band that would not die ? 

Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 

Till to these eyes her own -wild softness springs. 

My sole resources in the path I trod 

Were these— my bark— mv sword— my love— inj 

God! 
The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 
And man but works his will to lay me low. 
I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; 
It is enough— I breathe — and I can bear. 
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
That might have better kept so true a brand : 



THE CORSAIR. 



H5 



My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
And blight a form — till thine, appear 'd, Gulnare ! 
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 

" Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose. * 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions such as mine hath wrought." 

" Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

" My love stern Seyd's ! Oh— No— No— not my 

love- 
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once 

strove 
To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 
I am a slave, a favor'd slave at best, 
To share his splendor, and seem very blest ! 
Oft must my soul the question undergo, 
Of — ' Dost thou love ? ' and burn to answer, ' No ! ' 
Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
Its pulse not check'd — nor quick en'd — calmly cold : 
And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate. 
No warmth these lips return by his impress'd, 
And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought 
And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
Or when reflection comes — and come it must — 
I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust ; 
I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 
Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
Or seek another and give mine release, 
But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 
Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, 
Remember — captive ! 'tis to break thy chain ; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
To give thee back to all endear'd below, 
Who share such love as I can never know. 
Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 
'Twill cost me dear — but dread no death to-dav ! 



XV. 

She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 

A.nd noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here ? and is he now alone ? 

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain ? 

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, 

That starts at once; — bright — pure — from Pity's mine, 

Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 

Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear— 
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
19 



That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 

To save, subdue— at once her spear and shield : 

Avoid it— Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 

Too fondly ga/.ing on that grief of hers ! 

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 

The timid tear in Cleopatra's 

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven, 

By this— how many lose not earth— but heaven ! 

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 

And seal their own to spare some wanton's wo. 

XVI. 

'Tis morn — and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thing 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing : 
By his closed eye, unheeded and unfelt, 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill— wet — and misty round each stiffen'd limb 
Refreshing earth— reviving all but him ! — 



CANTO III. 



1 Come veJi — nncor non m'aUnodooa. 



I. 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 

Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 

Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 

But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throwt 

Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows 

On old JEgina's rock, and Idra's isle, 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 

O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine. 

Though there his altars are no more divine ; 

Descending fast, the mountain shadows k 

Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 

Their azure arches through the long expanse 

More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance. 

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven 

Till, darkly shaded from the land and 

Behind his Delphian clitf he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he i 

When— Athens I here thy Wisest look'd his lasL 

How wateh'd thy better sons his farewell ; 

That closed their murder'd sage's '-• latest dar ! 

Xot vet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 

The precious hour of par' 

But sad his light to agonizing 

And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 

Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 

The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 

But ere he sank below (i iad, 

The cup of wo was quaff 'd — the spirit fled ; 

The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fl\ — 

AVho liv'd and died, as none can live or die ! 

But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign." 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



146 



'd them heedless by. 



wm§mt 

Tad bright around with quivenng beams beset, 

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret 

?h groves of olive scattered dark fed wide 

Where meek Cephisus pours Ins scanty tide 

The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 

The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk, 

And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 

Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 

All tinged with varied hues arrest the eyj 

And dull were his that pass' 

Again the JEgean, heard no more afar, 

Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war : 

Again his waves in milder tints unfoid 

Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 

Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle, 

That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile. 



II. 

Not now my theme-why turn my thoughts to thee ? 
Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, 
Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget . 
Not he— whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain- 
Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 



III. 



Hope— they soften' d— flutter' 4— 



The Sun hath sunk— and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height, 
Medora's heart— the third day's come and gone— 
With it he comes not— sends not— faithless one ! 
The wind was fair though light ; and storms were 

none. 
Last I ve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale, 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 
The night-breeze freshens— she that day had past 
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
Sadly she sate — on high— Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she wander' d heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and wam'd away ; 
She saw not— felt not this— nor dared depart, 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense I 

It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought 
Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 
To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
She saw at once, yet sunk not— trembled not— 
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot ; 
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 
That deem'd not till they found their energy. 



While yet was 

wept — 
All lost— that softness died not— but it slept ; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, 
"With nothing left to love— there's nought to 

dread." 
'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

" Silent you stand— nor would I hear you tell 
What— speak not— breathe not— for I know it well- 
Yet would I ask— almost my lip denies 
The— quick your answer— tell me where he lies " 

" Lady ! we know not— scarce with life we fled ; 

But here is one denies that he is dead : 

He saw him bound ; and bleeding— but alive." 

She heard no further— 'twas in vain to strive— 
So throbb'd each vein— each thought— till then with- 
stood ; 
Her own dark soul— these words at once subdued : 
She totters— falls— and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave : 
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes. 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise— fan— sustain— till life returns anew ; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave ^ 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve; 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious— when the triumph short. 

IV. 

In that wild council words wax'dwarm and strange, 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
Whate'er his fate— the breasts he form'd and led 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Wo to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 



Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate ; I 

His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 

Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; 

Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 

Surveys his brow— would sooth his gloom of mind 

While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 

Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 

His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, 16 

But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 

" Pacha I the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits triumph— Conrad taken— fall'n the rest ! 
His doom is fix'd— he dies : and well his fate 
Was earn'd— yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord I 
While baffled, weaken' d by this fatal fray— 
Watch'd— follow'd— he were then an easier prey; 
But once cut off— the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, ai»d seek a safer strand." 

" Gulnare !— if for each drop of blood a gem 
[Were ofl'cr'd rich as Stamboul's diadem; 



THE CORSAIR 



!47 



If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 

It had not now redecm'd a single hour ; 

But that I know him fetter'd in my power ; 

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

11 Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free : 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

"His capture could? — and shall I then resign 

One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 

Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — thine 

Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 

"Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 

My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 

I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 

I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 

Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 

Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 

Say — wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 

Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, 

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 

Then lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 

'Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! 

Another word and — nay — I need no more. 

Accursed was the moment when he bore 

Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no — 

I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's wo — 

Now 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! 

Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? 

In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 

Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
Rage in his eye, and threats in his adieu : 
Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare ! 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare 
His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 
She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 
Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes 



VI. 

Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 
Roll'd day and night — his soul could never tame — 
This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 
When every step that echo'd by the gate 
Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 
When every voice that grated on his ear 
Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 



Twas worn — perhaps dccay'd — yet silent bore 
That conflict deadlier far than all be. 
The heat of fight, the hurry of the g 
Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 
But bound and iix'd in fottar'4 sulit 
To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 
Irrevocable faults, and coining fate — 
Too late the last to shun— the first to mend- 
To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 
With not a friend to animate, and tell 
To other ears that death became thee well ' 
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 
And blot life's latest .scene with calumny j 
Before the tortures, which the soul can dare, 
Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear ; 
But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 
To valor.'s praise thy last and dearest claim ; 
The life thou leav'st below, denied above 
By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
Of earthly hope->— thy loved one from thee riven. 
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill ? 
Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 

VII. 

The nrst day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare— 

The second — third — and still she came not there ; 

But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done, 

Or else he had not seen another sun. 

The fourth day roll'd along and with the night, 

Came storm and darkness in their mingling might : 

Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 

That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 

And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 

Roused by the roar of his own element ! 

Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 

And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 

And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 

A long known voice; — alas ! too vainly near ! 

Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 

Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 

And flashed the lightning by the latticed bar, 

To him more genial than the midnight star : 

Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chaia 

And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 

He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 

One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 

His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 

The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 

Its peal wax'd fainter— ceased— he felt alone, 

As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! 

VIII. 

The midnight pass'd — and to the massy door 
A light step came— it paused— it moved once more ; 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
'Tis as his heart foreboded— that fair she ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; 
Yet changed sinee last within that cell she came, 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
Which spoke before her accents — " thou must die 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last— the worst— if torture were not worse." 



148 

« Lady ! I look to none-my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim* they-Conrad still he same 
my should'* thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear ? 
Well have I carn'd-nor here alone-the need 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many 



a lawless deed." 



"Why should I seek ? because-Oh ! didst thou not 
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot . 
Why should I seek ?-hath misery made thee blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind. 
4nd must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell— 
Because-despite thy crimes-that heart is moved : 
It fear'd thee— thank'd thee— pitied— madden d— 

loved : 
Reply nqt, tell not now thy tale again, 
Thou lov'st another— and I love in vain ; 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
Were I thine own— thou wert not lonely here : 
An outlaw's spouse— and leave her lord to roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
But speak not now— o'er thine and o'er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If thou hast courage still, and would' st be free, 
Receive this poniard— rise— and follow me ! " 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife 

I still had saved thee— but the Paciia spared. 

Now I am all thine* own— for all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not— nor know'st— or but the worst. 

Alas ! this love— that hatred are the first— 

Oh ! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would'st 

not start, 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 
'Tis now the beacon of thy safety— now 
It points within the port a Maniote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
There sleeps— he must not wake— the oppressor 

Seyd ! " / 

Gulnare— Gulnare— I never felt till now 
My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low. 
Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band \ 

From earth with ruthless but with open hand, \ 
And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 
To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 
Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this— 
Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
Now fare thee well— more peace be with thy breast ! 
Night wears apace— my last of earthly rest ! " 



Ay— in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, 



"Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 
And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 
I heard the order— saw— I will not see— 



With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head ! If thou wilt per i s h, I will fall with thee 



Thou hast forgot— is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ? " 

" Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, 
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for; reward. 
A single word of mine remotes that chain : 
Without some aid how here could I remain ? 
Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 
If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 
The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 
That hated tyrant, Conrad— he must bleed ! 
I see thee shudder— but my soul is changed— 
Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled— and it shall be avenged— 
Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 
Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 

-mile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 
But he has said it — and the jealous well, 
Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 
Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
I never loved — he bought mc — somewhat high — 
Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said, 
But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

t'.ilse thou know'st — but let such augurs rue 

Their words are omens Insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 
fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens j but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will ; 

When wearier of tbesc fleeting charms and me, 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! 

What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee— loved thee— owe thee all— would save. 

If. but to show how grateful is a slave. 



My life— my love— my hatred— all below 

Are on this cast— Corsair ! 'tis but a blow ! 

Without it flight were idle— how evade 

His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 

My youth disgraced— the long, long wasted years, 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, / 

I'll try the firmness of a female hand ; ^ / 

The guards are gain'd— one moment all were o'er|- 

Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 

IX. 

She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 

But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; 

And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 

His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 

Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 

He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 

'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 

That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 

He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 

Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 

Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 

Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 

He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 

Gleamed the last star of night, the clearing sky : 

Yet scarcely heeded these; — another light 

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 

Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 

Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 

With hasty step a figure outward past, 

Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'tis She at 

last! 
No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — [kill ! '* 
"Thanks to that softening heart— she could not 



THE CORSAIR. 



Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She stopp'd— threw back her dark far-floating hair, 

That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 

As if she late had bent her leaning head 

Above some object of her doubt or dread. 

They meet— upon her brow— unknown— forgot— 

Her hurrying hand had left— 'twas but a spot— 

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood— 

Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime— 'tis blood ! 

X. 

He had seen battle— he had brooded lone 
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 
He had been tempted— chastened— and the chain 
Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 
But ne'er from strife — captivity— remorse — 
From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 
As now they froze before that purple stain. 
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved— but then 
It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men. 

XI. 
,. " 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair ! he perish'd— thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
Our bark is tossing— 'tis already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 

XII. 

She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals— Greek and Mocr ; 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ; 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 

4 Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd : 

' Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 



149 



XIII. 

Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew — 

How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 

Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 

Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 

Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the time, 

Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 

As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 

He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past ; 

He thought of all— Gonsalvo and his band, 

His fleeting triumph, and his failing hand ; 

He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 

He turn'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide ! 

XIV. 

She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Fell qaench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 



She knelt beside him, and his hand she prest : 
" Thou may'st forgive though Alla's self detest 
But for that deed of darkness, what wert thou > ' 
Reproach me— but not yet— Oh I spare me now / 
I am not what I seem— this fearful night 
My brain bcwilder'd— do not madden quite ! 
If I had never loved— though less my guilt, 
Thou hadst not lived to— hate me— if thou wilt * 

XV. 

She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made i 
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 
They bleed within that silent cell— his ta 
Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the 
The blue waves sport around the stern the] 
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
A spot— a mast— a sail— an armed deck ! 
Their little bark her men of watch descry, 
And ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; 
She bears her down majestically near, 
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier. 
A flash is seen— the ball beyond their bow- 
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
" 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again — 
I am not all deserted on the main ! " 
They own the signal, answer to the hail, 
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
" 'Tis Conrad ! Conrad ! " shouting from the deck, 
Command nor duty could their transport check ! 
With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 
They view him mount once more his vessel's side, 
A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
Wrings with a cordial grasp Ansclmo's hand, 
And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 



XVI. 

These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 

Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 

They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had tney 

known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own. 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, and wonderim: 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare : 
And her, at once above — beneath her 
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
To Conrad turns her faint fanplorinf 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that 1 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resitrn'd the . 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 

XVII. 
This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ?— 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distr. 
What she has done no tears can wash away, 
And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 
But it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, 
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt , 



150 



BYRON'S WORKS 



And he was free !— and she for him had given 
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
And now he tum'd him to that dark-cy'd slave 
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 
Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and 

meek, 
But varying oft the color of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
He clasped that hand — it trembled — and his own 
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
" Gulnare ! " — but she replied not — " dear Gulnare !' 
She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
If he had driven her from that resting-place, 
His had been more or less than mortal heart, 
But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith— 
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath, 
To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling, 
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing I 

XVIII. 
They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle : 
To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 
The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 
The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 
And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; 
Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 
Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 
Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 
Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 
Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? 



XIX. 

The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
And midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : 
He looks in vain— 'tis strange— and all remark, 
Amid so many, her's alone is dark. 
'Tis strange— of yore its welcome never fail'd, 
Nor now, perchance, extinguished, onlv veil'd'. 
With the first boat descends he for the" shore, 
And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 
Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 
With the first pause the resting rowers gave, 
He waits not— looks not— leaps into the wave 
Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and 

high 
Aeccnds the path familiar to his eye. 

^Tf^ hiS v lrret d001 -^ paused-no sound 
lull im WUh r ! and a11 was ni S ht Jlro ™ d - 
LnT ,' T d loud Wootstep nor reply 

^ wIm SfVS heard or deem ' d him ^ ; 

Refused to'^v ""V* his tremblin § h - d 
ThT^l ? 9 hCaVy heart ' s dem ^d. 

But IZtl T n8 T tlS a ******** face- 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
An* ? 8 , a ^ sil ; nt -twice his own essav'd, 
And fail d to frame the question they delay'd i 



He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ' 



lie 



XX. 

not — spoke not — sunk 



not— fix'd hig 



turn'd 
look, 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
He gazed— how long we gaze despite of pain, 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
In life itself she was so still and fail-, 
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
And the cold flowers tf her colder hand contain'd, 
In the last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 
And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 
And veil'd— thought shrinks from all that lurk'd 

below — 
Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips- 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
Long— fair— but spread in utter lifelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 
These— and the pale pure cheek, became the bier— 
But she is nothing— wherefore is he here ? 



XXI. , 

He ask'ct no question— all were answer'd now 
By the first glance on that still marble brow. 
It was enough— she died— what reck'd it how ? 
The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
The only living thing he couid not hate, 
Was reft at once— and he deserved his fate, 
But did not feel it less ;— the good explore, 
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar. 
The proud— the wayward— who have fix'd below 
Their joy, and find this earth enough* for wo, 
Lose in that one their all— perchance a mite— 
But who in patience parts with all delight ? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; 
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

XXII. 
By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast; 
mere thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
J hich seeks for all the refuge found in none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
t or Truth denies all eloquence to Wo. 
; On Conrad's stricken sojil exhaustion prest, 
j And stupor almost lulled it into rest : 
i So feeble now-his mother's softness crept 
I To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept; 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



151 



It was the very weakness of his brain, 
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim : 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
On Griefs vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 

XXIII. 

s; His heart was formed for softness — warp'd to wrong ; 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
Within the grot ; like that had harden' d too ; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
I Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, 

[f such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 

?here grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 

"hough dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved till now. 

[Tie thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
te Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth : 



The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell, 
And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! 

XXIV. 
'Tis morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : 
Another morn — another bids them seek, 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
'Tis idle all — moons roll on moons away, 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn 

beside ; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
For him they raise not the recording stone— 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 

fie left a Corsair's name to other times, 
ink'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes •• 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



The time in this poem may seem too short for 
the occurrences, but the whole of the ^Egean isles 
are within a few hours' sail of the continent, and 
the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as 
I have often found it. 

1. 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 
JJ ~ Page 139, line 90. 

Orlando, Canto 10. 

2. 
Arou?id the waves phosphoric brightness broke. 
Page 140, line 100. 

By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every 
stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, 
is followed by a slight flash like sheet lightning 
from the water. 

3. 

Though to the rest the sober berri/'s juice. 

Page 141, line 39. 



The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply. 
Page 141, line 41. 

Pipe. 



5. 

While dance the Almas to wild mbistretsy. 

Page 141, line 42. 
Dancing twirls. 

6. 
A captive Dervise, from the Pirate's nest. 

Page 141, line 55. 
It has been objected that Conrad's entering dis- 
guised as a spy is out of nature.— Perhaps so. I 
find something not unlike it in history. 

" Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state 
of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising 
the color of his hair, to visit Carthage in the char- 
acter of his own ambassador; and Genseric was 
afterwards mortified by the discovery, that he had 
entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Ro- 
mans. Such an anecdote may be rejected as an 
improbable fiction ; but it is a fiction which would 
not have been imagined unless in the life of a 
hero."— Gibbon, D. and F., vol. vi. p. 180. 

That Conrad is a character not altogether out of 

nature I shall attempt to prove by some historical 

coincidences which 1 have met with since writing 

" The Corsair." 

"Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandini, "s'enfer- 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



152 

moit dans un silence menacant.il fixoit sur la terre 
son visage fcroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa 
profonde indiguation.-De toutes parts cependant 
Fes soldats et les peuples accouroient ; lis vouloient 
voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie umver- 
sclle ecUtoit de toutes parts. 

"Eccelin t-toit d'une petite taillie ; mais tout l'as- 
pect de sa personne, tous ses mouvemens, mdiquoi- 
ent un soldat.— Son langage etoit amer, son deporte- 
ment superbe— et par son seul ogard, ll laisoit 
trembler les plus hardis." Sismondi, tome in. page 
°19 220. 

~ "'Gizericus (Genscric, king of the Vandals, the 
conqueror of both Carthage and Rome) statura 
mediocris, et equi casu claudicans, ammo profundus, 
scrmone rarus, luxuriae contemptor, ira turbidus, 
habendi cupidus, ad solicitandas gentes providen- 
tksJmus," &c, &c. Jomandes de Rebus Geticis, 
c. 33. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep 
in countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 

7. 

And my stem vow and order's law oppose. 

Page 142, line 17. 

The dervises are in colleges, and of different or- 
ders, as the monks. 

8. 

They seize that Dervise .'—seize on Zatanai ! 
Page 142, line 52. 
Satan. 

9. 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight. 
Page 142, line 73. 
A common and not verv novel effect of Mussul- 
man anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 
24. " The Scraskier received a wound in the thigh ; 
he plucked up his beard by the roots, because he 
was obliged to quit the field." 

10. 
Brief time Jiad Conrad now to greet Gulnare. 
Page 142, line 117. 
Gulnare, a female name ; it means, literally, the 
fiower of the pomegranate. 

11. 

Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest! 
Page 144, line 87. 
In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, 
and Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when grasping her 
neck, she remarked that it " was too slender to 
trouble the headsman much." During one part of 
the French Revolution, it became a fashion to leave 
some "mot" as a legacy ; and the quantity of fa- 
cetious last words spoken during that period would 
form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size. 

12. 
That closed their murder 'd sage's latest dag. 
Page 145, line 100. 
Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before 
sunset, (the hour of execution,) notwithstanding 
the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun 
went down. 

13. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 

Page 145, line 112. 
The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
ewn country : the days in winter are longer, but in 
summer of shorter duration. 

14. 
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk. 

Page 146, line 10. 



The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house : the palm 
is without the present walls of Athens, not far from 
the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree 
the wall intervenes.— Cephisus' stream is indeed 
scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all. 

15. 

That frown * — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 
J Page 146, line 20. 

The opening lines as far as Section II. have, per- 
haps, little business here, and were annexed to an 
unpublished (though printed) poem ; but they were 
written on the spot in the spring of 1811, and— 1 
scarce know why— the reader must excuse their ap- 
pearance here if he can. 

16. 
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads. 

Page 146, line 104. 

The Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads 
are in number ninety-nine. 

17. 

And the cold flowers her colder hand contained. % 

Page 150, line 75. 
In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on 
the bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young 
\ persons to place a nosegay. 

18. * 

Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 
Page 151, line 43. 

That the point of honor which is represented in 
one instance of Conrad's character has not been 
carried beyond the bounds of probability may per- 
haps be in some degree confirmed by the following 
anecdote of a brother Buccaneer in the year 1814*. 

Our readers have all seen the account of the en- 
terprise against the pirates of Barrataria ; but few, 
we believe, were informed of the situation, history, 
or nature of that establishment. For the informa- 
tion of such as were unacquainted with it, we have 
procured from a friend the following interesting 
narrative of the main facts, of which he has per- 
sonal knowledge, and which cannot fail to interest 
some of our readers. * 

Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the Gulf of 
Mexico : it runs through a rich but very flat country 
until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi 
River fifteen miles below the city of New Orleans. 
The bay has branches almost innumerable, in which 
persons can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. 
It communicates with three lakes which lie on the 
southwest side, and these, with the lake of the 
same name, and which lies contiguous to the sea, 
Avhere there is an island formed by the two arms of 
this lake and the sea. The east and west points of 
this island were fortified, in the year 1811, bya band 
of pirates under the command of one Monsieur La 
Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws are of 
that class of the population of the State of Louisi- 
ana who fled from the Island of St. Domingo dur- 
ing the troubles there, and took refuge in the 
Island of Cuba: and when the last war between 
France and Spain commenced, they were com- 
pelled to leave that island with the short notice 
of a few days. Without ceremony, they entered 
the United States, the most of them the State 
of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had pos- 
sessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Gover- 
nor of that State of the clause in the constitution 
which forbade the importation of slaves ; but, at the 
same time, received the assurance of the Governor 
that he would obtain, if possible, the approbation 
of the General Government for their retaining this 
property. * 

The Island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 



See " Curse of Minerra. ' 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



153 



29 deg. 15 min. Ion. 92. 30. and is as remarkable for 
its health, as for the superior scale and shell-fish 
with which its waters abound. The chief of this 
horde, like Charles de Moor, had mixed with his 
many vices some virtues. In the year 1813, this 
party had from its turpitude and boldness, claimed 
the attention of the Governor of Louisiana ; and to 
break up the establishment, he thought proper to 
strike at th$ head. He therefore offered a reward 
of five hundred dollars for the head of Monsieur La 
Fitte who was well known to the inhabitants of the 
city of New Orleans, from his immediate connexion, 
and his once having been a fencing-master in that 
city of great reputation, which art he learnt in 
Bonaparte's army, where he was captain. The re- 
ward which was offered by the Governor for the 
head of La Fitte was answered by the offer of a re- 
ward from the latter of fifteen thousand for the head 
of the Governor. The Governor ordered out a com- 
pany to march from the city to La Fitte's island, 
and to burn and destroy all the property, and to 
bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. 
This company, under the command of a man who 
had been the intimate associate of this bold Cap- 
tain, approached very near to the fortified island, 
be/ore he saw a man, or heard a sound, until he 
heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. 
Then it was he found himself surrounded by asmed 
men who had emerged from the secret avenues 
which led into Bayou. Here it was that the mod- 
ern Charles de Moor developed his few noble traits ; 
for to this man, who had come to destroy his life 
and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his 
life, but offered him that which would have made 
the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his 
days, which was indignantly refused. He then, 
with the approbation of his captor, returned to the 
city. This circumstance, and some concomitant 
events, proved that this band of pirates was not to 
be taken by land. Our naval force having always 
been small in that quarter, exertions for the destruc- 
tion of this illicit establishment could not be ex- 
pected from them until augmented ; for an officer 
of the navy, with most of the gunboats on that 
that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming 
force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation 
of the navy authorized an attack, one was made ; 
the overthrow of this banditti has been the result ; 
and now this almost invulnerable point and key to 
New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped 
vhe government will hold it by a strong military 
force. — From an American Newsjyaper. 

In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographi- 
cal History, there is a singular passage in his ac- 
count of Archbishop Blac.ibourne, and as in some 
20 



measure connected with the profession of the hero 
of the foregoing poem, I cannot resist the tempta- 
tion of extracting it. 

" There is something mysterious in the history 
and character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is 
but imperfectly known ; and report has even as- 
serted he was a buccaneer ; and that one of his 
brethren in that profession having asked, on his ar- 
rival in England, what had become of his old chum, 
Blackbourne, was answered, he is archbishop of 
York. We are informed, that Blackbourne was in- 
stalled sub-dean of Exeter, in 1694, -which office he 
resigned in 1702 ; but after his successor Lewis Bar- 
net's death, in 1704, he regained it. In the follow- 
ing year he became dean: and, in 1714, held with it 
the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was consecrated 
bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716 ; and translated 
to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, accord- 
ing to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the 
Duchess of Munster. This, however, appeal's to 
have been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop 
he behaved with great prudence, and was equally 
respectable as the guardian of the revenues of the 
see. Rumor whispered he retained the vices of his 
youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed an 
item in the list of his weaknesses ; but so far from 
being convicted by seventy witnesses, he does not 
appear to have been directly criminated by one. In 
short, I look upon these aspersions as the effects of 
mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should 
have been so good a scholar as Blackbourne cer- 
tainly was ? he who had so perfect a knowledge of 
the classics, (particularly of the Greek tragedians,) 
as to be able to read them with the same ease as he 
could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains to 
acquire the learned languages ; and have had both 
leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly 
educated at Christchurch College, Oxford. He is 
allowed to have been a pleasant man : this, how- 
ever, was turned against him, by its being said, ' he 
gained more hearts than souls.' " 



" The only voice that could soothe the passions 
of the savage, (Alphonso III.) was that of an amia- 
ble and virtuous wife, the sole object of his love ; 
the voice of Donna Isabella, the daughter of the 
Duke of Savoy, and the grand-daughter of Philip II. 
King of Spain.— Her dying words sunk deep into 
his memory ; his fierce spirit melted into tears ; and 
after the last embrace, Alphonso retired into his 
chamber to bewail his irreparable loss, and to medi- 
tate on the vanitv of human life.— Miscellaneous 
Works of Gibbon, 'New Edition. 8vo. vol. iii. page 
473. 



LARA; 

A TALE. 



CANTO 1. 



The Serfs arc glad through Lara's wide domain, 

And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain : 

He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 

The long self-exiled chieftain is restored ; 

There be bright faces in the busy hall, 

Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 

Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 

The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; 

And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 

With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth 

II. 
The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself ;— that heritage of wo, 
That fearful empire whicrt the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
"With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
Then, when he most required commandment, then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 

III. 

And Lara left in youth his father-land ; 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
Hi* sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 

I all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 

.all scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame, 
Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 
" Yet doth he live ! " exclaims the impatient heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 



A hundred scutcheons deck with -gloomy grace* 
The Lara's last and longest dwelling-place : 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 

He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 

And whence they know not, why they need not guess , 

They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er, 

Not that he came, but came not long before : 

No train is his beyond a single page, 

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 

Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away 

To those that wander as to those that stay ; 

But lack of tidings from another clime 

Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 

They see, they recognize, yet almost deem 

The present dubious, or the past a dream 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, 
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd bj 

time ; 
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins , 
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 



And they indeed were changed— 'tis quickly seen 
"Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been s 
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 
And spake of passions, but of passion past : 
The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 
A high demeanor, and a glance that took 
Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 
And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 



LARA. 



155 






That darts in seeming playfulness around, 

A.nd makes those feel that will not own the wound ; 

Vll these seem'd his, and something more beneath, 

Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 

•Imbition, glory, love, the common aim, 

fhat some can conquer, and that all would claim, 

Within his breast appear'd no more to strive, 

j^^eem'd as lately they had been alive ; 

ffl^some deep feeling it were vain to trace 

At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 

VI. 

Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And — as himself would have it seem — unknown : 
Yet thlse in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man : 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to^snw, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 

VII. 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command, 
He mingled with the Magnates of his land, 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away ; 
But still he only saw, and did not share 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued 
With hope still baffled still to be renew'd : 
Nor shadowy honor, nor substantial gain, 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
Upon his eye sate something of reproof, 
That kept at least frivolity aloof ; 
And things more timid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear ; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confest 
They deem'd him better than his air exprest. 

VIII. 
*Twas strange — in youth all action and all life, 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman— the field— the ocean— all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
In turn he tried— he ransack'd all below, 
And found his recompense in joy or wo, 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart hath look'd on high, 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 

IX. 

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day 
From all communion he wouk start away ; 



And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, 
Through night's long hours would sound his hurried 

tread 

O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
In rude but antique portraiture around : 
They heard, but whisper'd — " that must not be 

known — 

The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should have 

been. 
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead. 
That still beside his open'd volume lay, 
As if to startle all save him away ? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest : 
Why heard no music, and receive no guest ? 
All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong ? 
Some knew perchance; — but 'twere a tale too long : 
And such besides were too discreetly wise, 
To more than hint their knowledge in sumise ; 
But if they would — they could " — around the board 
Thus Lara's vassals prattled to their Lord. 

X. 

It was the night— and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars are studding, each with imaged beam ; 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 

And yet they glide like happiness away ; 

Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky , 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 

And Innocence would offer to her love : 

These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there; 

Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 

But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now— 

No— no— the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt— unsparing— but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his 

XI. 
He turn'd within his solitary hall, 
And his high shadow shot along the wall ; 
There were the painted forms of other times, 
'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults . 
And half a column of the pompous page, 
That speeds the specious tale from age to age, 
Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 



156 

His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 
And the wide waving of his shaken plume, 
Glauc'd like ■ spectre's attributes, and gave 
Hi* aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

XII. 
•Twas midnight— all was slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall— 
A sound— a voice— a shriek— a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek— and silence— did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping car ? 
They heard and rose, and tremulously brave, 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 

XIII. 
Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 
Was Lara stretch'd : his half-drawn sabre near, 
Dropp'd as it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
And still defiance knit his gather'd broAV ; 
Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 
Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died, 
Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 
His eye was almost scal'd, but not forsook, 
Even in its trance the gladiator's look, 
That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 
And now was fixed in horrible repose. 
They raise him— bear him;— hush! he breathes, he 

speaks, 
The swarthy blush recolers in his cheeks, 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land, 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear ! 

XIV. 
His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
To know the import of the words they heard ; 
And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
They were not such as Lara should avow, 
Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes. 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 
And in that tongue that seem'd his own replied, 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To soothe away the horrors of his dream ; 
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
A breast that needed not ideal wo. 

XV. 

Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld, 

If yet remember' d ne'er to be rcveal'd, 

Rests at his heart : the custom'd morning came, 

And breathed new vigor in his shaken frame ; 

And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 

And soon the same in movement and in speech 

As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, 

Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers. 

Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 

Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze :^ 
a„~v + fhotr Kphnbl nv bear their thought appall^ 



Aught they behold or hear their thought appal 
As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 

XVI. 

Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 
A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid- 
Had memory vanish' d then with sense restored ? 
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
Betray'd^feeling that recall'd to these 
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 
Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 
Their slumber ? his the oppressed, o'erlabor'd heart 
That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ? 
Could he who thus had suffer'd, so forget, 
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet ? 
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
Too deep for words, indellible, unmix'd 
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 
Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told : 
They choke the feeble words that would unfold 

XVII. 

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot : 

His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 

They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would kno* 

his fate. 
What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
But own'd, that smile if oft observed and near, 
Waned in its mirth, and wdther'd to a sneer ; 
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by * 
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
But once perceived, his spirit seemed to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem, 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest; 
In vigilance of grief that would compel 
The soul to hate for having loved too well. 

XVIII. 

There was in him a vital scorn of all : 

As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 

He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 

An erring spirit from another hurFd ; 

A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 

By choice the perils he by chance escaped; 



'. 



LARA. 



157 



But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
His mind would half exult and half regret : 
With more capacity for love than earth 
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 
With thought of years in phantom chase misspent, 
And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
And left the better feelings all at strife 
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 
Till he at last confounded good and ill, 
And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 
Too high for common selfishness, he could 
At times resign his own for others' good, 
But not in pity, not because he ought, 
But in some strange perversity of thought, 
That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 
To do what few or none would do beside ; 
And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 
Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 
So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath 
^The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe ; 
And long'd by good or ill to separate 
Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 
His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 
Far from the world, in regions of her own : 
/ Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 

His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 
Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 
But ever in that icy smoothness flowed ! 
Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd, 
Vnd like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 
!"sor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 
His madness was not of the head, but heart ; 
^.nd rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 



XIX. , 

With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen, | 
He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
It was not love perchance^— nor hate — nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought ; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain, 
And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake remembcr'd well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 
If greeted once ; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all unwilling interest : 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 

XX. 
There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims, 



Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest, 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest, 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well-according bands ; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to Youth, 
And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth- 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXI. 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, 

His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 

And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair 

Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there 

He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, 

With folded arms and long attentive eye, 

Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 

111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 

At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknow 

But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 

Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 

Who still till now had gazed on him unseen ; 

At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 

Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 

On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 

As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 

Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern, 

Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 

XXII. 

" 'Tis he ! " the stranger cried, and those that heard, 

Reechoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 

" *Tis he ! "— " Tis who ? " they question far and 

near, 
Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
The general marvel, or that single look ; 
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised, 
Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger 

gazed ; 
And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
" 'Tis he !— how came he thence ?— what doth h« 

here ? " 

XXIII. 
It were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such questions, so repeated fierce and high , 
With look collected, but with accent cold, 
More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone— 
« Mv name is Lai a !— when thine own is known, 
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 
'Tis Lara !— further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 
I slum no question, and I wear no mask." 

" Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there nona 
:rt must answer, though thine car would 
shun ? 

And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again 

At least thy memory was not given in vain. 

Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt 

Eternity forbids thee to forget." 



158 

With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
They knew, or chose to know-with dubious look 
Tic deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
« A word !— I charge thee stay, and answer here 
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, 
But as thou wast and art— nay, frown not, lord, 
If false, 'tis ease to disprove the word- 
But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown 
Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 



" Whate'er I be, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee 
I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous talc no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be exprest 
And here their wondering host hath interposed— 
" Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
Though like Count Lara now return'd alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth, 
I augur right of courage and of worth, 
He will not that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 

4 To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 
" And here our several worth and truth be tried. 
I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
My words, so may I mingle with the blest ' " 
, What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 
iHis soul in dee p abstra ction sudden sunk ; 
f Trro wordo rrTmany, anatlie tffeToTlflT 
1 That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall 
But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
In far forgetfulness away — away — 
Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 
Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 
For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 
From deeds, and deeds alone may he discern, 
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to leam 

L^ 

XXV. 

And Lara call'd his page, and went his way— . 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
His only follower from those climes afar, 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. Jy 

Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come. 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home 
Those accents as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear, 
Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all: 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 



XXYI. 

Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 
But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone 

through ; 
Yet not sixch blush as mounts when health would 

show 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
Qr if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share ; 

nd pleased not him the sports that please his age, 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone* 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
iH e see m'd like, him he served^ to live ap jirt 
( From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
\ To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
1 No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 



XXIV. 

" To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow ! " further word 

Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 

Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 

From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 

Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone, 

Which show'dresolve, determined, though unknown 

He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 

And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 

And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 

With which that chieftain's brow would bear him 'Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 

down ; / A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 

it was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride / His zeal, though more than that of servile hands 
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; [ In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 
But that of one in his own heart secure « As if 'twas Lara's less th»n Jiis desire 

Of all that he would do, or could endure. That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 

Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the good ? Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 
Oi gunt grown old in desperate hardihood ? To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 



XXVII. 

If aught be loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown 

His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 

In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 



LARA. 



159 



To tune his lute, or if he will'd it more, 
On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 
But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 
To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 
But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 
No sympathy with that familiar crew : 
His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 
Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 
Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 
Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 
So femininely white it might bespeak 
Ajwither sex, when match'dwith that smooth cheek, 
Butffor his garb, and something in his gaze, 
Mofe wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 
A/atent fierceness that far more became 
LRs fiery climate than his tender frame : 
True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 
But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 
Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore 
{ ''Xnother ere he left his mountain-shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 

That name repeated loud without reply, 

As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 

Start to the sound as but remember' d then ; 

Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake, 

For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

XXVIII. 
He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 

J And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 
And when the crowd around and near him told 
Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, 
Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 
The color of young Kaled went and came, 
The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 
And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 
The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 
That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
"With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
Yes — there be things which we must dream and dare, 
And execute ere thought be half aware : 
Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
To seal his lip, but agonize his brow. 

He gazed on Ezzelin, till Lara cast ^ 

That sidelong smile upon the knight he past ; 

"When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 

As if from something recognized right well ; 

His memory read in such a meaning more 

Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 

Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 

And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 

Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 

All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, 

That when his long dark shadow through the porch 

No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 

Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 

To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 

Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 

Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 

And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 

With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 

But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired 

He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
The courteous host, and all-approving guest ; 



Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to 
And man, o'erlabor'd with his being's strife, 
Shrinks to that sweet forgctfulncss of life : 
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, 
Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile; 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
And quench'd existence crouches in a gr:t' 
What better name may slumber's bed become ? 
Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 
Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 
Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath, 
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increast, 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 



CANTO II. 



I. 

vapors 



round the mountajnt 



NiGiiT wanes — the 

curl'd 
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
Man has another day tosweJLthe past, 
And lead him-r^aj^«HtrfTe7but his last ; 
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 
And cry, exulting inly, " they are thine ! " 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; 
A moiTOW comes when they are not for thee ; 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. / 

II. 
'Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 
'Tis now the promised hour, that must proc'aim 
The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
To meet it in the eve of man and heaven. 
Whv comes he not ? Such truths to be divulged, 
Mcthinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

III. 
The hour is past, and Lara too is there 
With self-confiding coldly patient air : 
Whv comes n The hour is past, 

And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow o'ercast. 
.< I know my fri-nd ! his faith I cannot fear, 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
My halls from such a guest had honor gain'd, 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to-day ; 



160 



BYRON'S WORKS 



The word 1 pledged for his I pledge again ■ 
Or will myself redeem his knighthood s stain. 

He ccased-and Lara answer'd "lam here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 

-Whose words already might my heart have wrung, 

But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, 

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

I know him not— but mc it seems he knew 

In lands where— but I must not trifle too : 

Produce this babbler— or redeem the pledge ; 

Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
love on earth, and forth his sabre flew : 
" The last alternative befits me best, 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

However near his own or other's tomb ; 

With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 

Its grasp well used to deal the sabre-stroke : 

With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 

Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 

In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 

For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 

And from his lips those words of insult fell — 

His sword is good who can maintain them well. 

IV. 

Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 
Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound, 
Stretched by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 



He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distrest 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath ; 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne, ; 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
When agonized hands, that cease to guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, l 
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd, 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 

VII. 

Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 

But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd*. 
/'He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 
' The friend of all who sought to work him wo, 

And from his country's justice now demands 

Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 

Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 



Demand thy life ! " He answer'd not : and theri His presence ? who had made him disappear 



' 



From that rod floor he ne'er had risen again, 

For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 

Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 

And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 

Than when his foe's was levcll'd at his brow ; 

Then all was stern collectedness and art, 

Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 

So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 

That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld 

He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those, 

Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 

But to a moment's thought that purpose bent 

Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 

As if to search how far the wound he gave 

Had sent his victim onward to his grave. 



They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
The others met within a neighboring hall, 
And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
Iu haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
He back'd his steed > his homeward path he took 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 

VI. 
Bttt where was he ? that meteor of a night, 
Who monacrd but to disappear with light ? 
Tjberc was this Ezzelin ? -who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 



;e i 

id fK'd ; 



\ If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
\ Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 
1 The general rumor ignorantly loud, 
1 The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 
IThe seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
[To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
I The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, 
The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ? 

or it was not the blind capricious rage 
A word can kindle and a word assuage 
But the deep working of a soul unmix' 
With aught of pity where its wrath had 
Such as long power and overgorged success 
Concentrates into all that's merciless : 
These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
And he must answer for the absent head 
Of one who haunts him still, alive or dead. 



VIII. 
Within that land was many a malcontent, 
Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 
That soil full many a wringing despot saw, 
Who work'd his wantonness in form of law ; 
Long war without and frequent broil within 
Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 
That waited but a signal to begin 
New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 
Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends ; 



LARA. 



161 



Fix d in his feudal fortress each was lord, 
In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 
And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 
But that long absence from his native clime 
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 
And now diverted by his milder sway, 
All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
The menials felt their usual awe alone, 
But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 
They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst, 
And each long restless night, and silent mood, 
Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 
And though his lonely habits threw of late 
Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 
For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 
The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 
Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof, 
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
And they who watch'd might mark that day by day 
Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, 
He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 
Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
Whate'er his view, his favor more obtains 
With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 
If this were policy, so fur 'twas sound, 
The million judged but of him as they found ; 
From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 
By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, 
And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 
With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 
With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 
Youth, present cheer, and promised recompense 
Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence : 
To hate he offer'd, with the coming change, 
The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 
To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 
The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 
His summons found the destined criminal 
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 
Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves 
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 
Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right : 
. Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 
\A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 
That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed ! 



IX. 

Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd; 
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 
The Serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both : 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
21 



By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 
The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 
And is again ; he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 
But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate 
And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd 
IJe raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
But man and destiny beset him there : 
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
And they must kill, they cannot snare the pre} 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
But, dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
A leader not unequal to the feud ; 
In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 



3wd? 7 




What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 

The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 

The varying fortune of each separate field, 

The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? 

The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 

In this the struggle was the same with all ; 

Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 

In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 

None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 

The captive died upon the battle-plain : 

In either cause, one rage alone possest 

The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 

rVnd they that smote for freedom or for sway 

Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay. 

It was too late to check the wasting brand; 

And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spre 

And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 

XL 

Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung, 

The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 

But that vain victory hath ruin'd all, 

They form no longer to their leader's call ; 

In blind confusion on the foe they press, 

And think to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, 

Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 

In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 

To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 

In vain their stubborn ardor he would tame, 

The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame ; 

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, 

And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 



162 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, 
The long privation, and the hoped supply, 
The tcntless rest beneath the humid sky, 
The stubborn wall that marks the leaguer's art, 
And palls the patience of his baffled heart, 
Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 
They could encounter as a veteran may ; 
But 'more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 
And present death, to hourly suffering life : 
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
His numbers melting fast from their array ; 
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, 
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent : 
But few remain to aid his voice and hand ; 
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band 
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 
And thence they may escape from native war ; 
And bear within them to the neighboring state 
i An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 

Itlard is the task their father-land to quit, 
But harder still to perish or submit. 

- XII. 

It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight 1 , 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
Away ! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear ? 
'Tis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 
Are those the b! res upon the height ? 

Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 

XIII. 
A moment's pause, 'tis but to breathe their band, 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 
It matters little— if they charge the foes 
Who by the border-stream their march oppose, 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
However link'd to baffle such design. 
" The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed ; 
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
How many shall but hear the voice of death. 



XIV. 

in him there is an air 



His blade is bared, 
„ As de ep, bul fin ion Ihij muil for de spair ; 
A something of indifference more Tmtrrthen 
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men- 
He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 
Perchance 'twas" but the moon's dim twilight threw 
Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint exprest 
The truth, and not the terror of his breast, 
rk'd and laid his hand on his ; 
abled not m such an hour as this ; 
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
Hu eye alone proclaimed, » We will not part ! 



Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 

Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee ! " 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven. 

Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven, 

Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 

And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 

Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 

Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 

And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 

Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 

XV. 

Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, 
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 
But those that waver turn to smite again, 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly- 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest ? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast ! f 
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, J 

And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
But yet the sword instinctively retains, 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins ; 
These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 

XVI. 

Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd J 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
But yet they reach the stream and bend to taste : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake- 
Why pause ? No further thirst have they to slake— 
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
It was an agony— but now forgot ! 

XVII. 
Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
Where but for him that strife had never been, 
A breathing but devoted warrior lay • / 

'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away : ( 
His follower once, and new his only guide, 
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 
And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush, 
With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 



LARA. 



163 



And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 

In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow ; 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

And clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XVIII. 

The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field, 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain, 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
And that escape to death from livmg hate : 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state ; he answers not, 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
And turns to Kaled ;— each remaining word, 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
They speak of other scenes, but what— is known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone : 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To share between themselves some separate fate, 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 

XIX. 

Their words though faint were many— from the tone 
Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaledfs 

death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near, 
But from his visage little could we guess, 
So unrepentant, dark and passionless, 
Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
And once as kaled's answering accents ceast, 
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
Where (as then the breaking sun from high 
Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
Or that 'twas chance, or some remember'd scene, 
That raised his arm to point where such had been, 
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 
As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day, 
And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 
To look on Lara's brow— where all grew night. 
Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss ; 
For when one near display'd the absolving cross, 
And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
Of which his parting soul might own the need, 
He look'd upon it with an eye profane, 
And smiled— Heaven pardon ! if 'twere with disdain ; 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
j From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 



As if such but disturb'd tbc expiring man, 
Nor seem'd to know his life but thai began, 
That life of Immortality, secure 
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

XX. 

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 

His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd 

o'er 
The weak yet still un tiring knee that bore ; 
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 
For that faint throb which answers not again. 
" It beats ! " — away, thou dreamer ! he is gone- 
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 

XXI. 

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 

And those around have roused him from his trance, 

But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 

And when in raising him from where he bore, 

Within his arms the form that felt no more, 

He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 

Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 

He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 

The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 

But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well, 

Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty love may breathe. 

That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 

The secret long and yet but half-conceal'd ; 

In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 

"d ended, but the sex confest ; 
And life rcturn'd, and Kaled felt no shame— 
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? j 

XXII. 

And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
But where he died his grave was dug as deep, 
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
Though priest nor bless'd nor marble deck'd the 

mound, 
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last; 
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one. who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him ? Curious fool !— be still — 
Is human love the growth of human will ? 
To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links, that form'd the chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain, 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
And scal'd is now each lip that could have told. 

XXIII. 

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 



\ 



164 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life, 
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
Return'd no more— that night appear'd his last. 

XXIV. 

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale, 
"When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
AVrapt round some burden at his saddle-bow ; 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger' course, 
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burden which he bore, 
Heaved up the bank, and dashed it from the shore, 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and scem'd to 

watch, 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
And slung thsm with a more than common care. 
Meantime tt« Serf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this might mc^n 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest, 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
It rose again but indistinct to view, 
And left the waters of a purple hue, 
Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed, 
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised; 



Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 

And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 

His face was mask'd— the features of the dead, 

If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 

But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 

Sufch is the badge that knighthood ever wore, ^ 

And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 

Upon the night that led to such a morn. 

If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul ! 

His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 

And charity upon the hope would dwell, . 

It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. ( 



XXV. 

And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone, 
Alike without their monumental stone ! 
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
But furious would you tear her from the spot 
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not 
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire, 
But left to waste her weary moments there, 
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 
And she would sit beneath the very tree 
"Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
And fold, and press it gently to the ground, 
As if she staunched anew some phantom's wound. 
Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 
Or trace strange characters along the sand — 
This could not last — she lies by him she loved ; 
Her tale untold— her truth too dearly proved. 



NOTE TO LARA. 



Thb event in section xxiv Canto II. was sug- 
gested by the description of the death or rather 
burial of the Duke of Gandia. 

The most interesting and particular account of 
this mysterious event is given by Burchard, and is 
in substance as follows : "On the eighth day of 
June, the Cardinal of Valenza, and the Duke of 
Gandia, sons of the Pope, supped with their mother, 
Vanozza, near the church of S. Pietro ad vinculo, ; 
several other persons being present at the entertain- 
ment. A late hour approaching, and the cardinal 
having reminded his brother, that it was time to 
return to the apostolic palace, they mounted their 
horses or mules, with only a few attendants, and 
proceeded together as far as the palace of the Car- 
dinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the 
cardinal, that before he returned home, he had to 
pay a visit of pleasure. Dismissing therefore all 
his attendants except his stafflero, or footman, and 
a person in a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst 
at supper, and who, during the space of a month or 
thereabouts, previous to this time, had called upon 
him almost daily, at the apostolic palace, he took 
this person behind him on his mule, and proceeded 
to the street of the Jews, where he quitted his ser 
vant, directing him to remain there until a certain 
hour ; when, if he did not return, he might repair 
to the palace. The duke then seated the person in 
the mask behind him, and rode, I know not whither ; 
Dut in that night he was assassinated, and thrown 
into the river. The servant, after having been 
dismissed, was also assaulted and mortally wound- 
ed ; and although he was attended with great care, 
yet such was his situation, that he could give no in- 
telligible account of what had befallen his master. 
In the morning, the duke not having returned to 
the palace, his servants began to be alarmed ; and 
one of them informed the pontiff of the evening 
excursion of his sons, and that the duke had not 
yet made his appearance. This gave the pope no 
small anxiety ; but he conjectured that the duke 
had been attracted by some courtesan to pass the 
night with her, and not choosing to quit the house 
in open day, had waited till the following evening 
to return home. When, however, the evening ar- 
rived, and he found himself disappointed in his ex- 
pectations, he became deeply afflicted, and began to 
make inquiries from different persons, whom he or- 
dered to attend him for that purpose. Among 
these was a man named Giorgio Schiavoni, who, 
having discharged some timber from a bark in the 
river, nad remained on board the vessel to watch it, 
and being interrogated whether he had seen any 
wxe thrown into the river en the night preceding, 



he replied, that he saw two men on fc ot, who came 
down the street, and looked diligently about, to 
observe whether any person was passing. That 
seeing no one, they returned, and a short time af- 
terwards two others came, and looked around in the 
same manner as the former : no person still appear- 
ing, they gave a sign to their companions, when a 
man came, mounted on a white horse, having be- 
hind him a dead body, the head and arms of which 
hung on one side, and the feet on the other side of 
the horse ; the two persons on foot supporting the 
body, to prevent its falling. They thus proceeded 
towards that part where the filth of the city is usu- 
ally discharged into the river, and turning the horse, 
with his tail towards the water, the two persons 
took the dead body by the arms and feet, and Avith 
all their strength flung it into the river. The per- 
son on horseback then asked if they had thrown it 
in, to which they replied, Sit/>ior, si (yes, Sir.) He 
then looked towards the river, and seeing a mantle 
floating on the stream, he inquired what it was that 
appeared black, to which they answered, it was a 
mantle ; and one of them threw stones upon it, in 
consequence of which it sunk. The attendants of 
the pontiff then inquired from Giorgio, why he had 
not revealed this to the governor of the city ; to 
which he replied, that he had seen in his time a 
hundred dead bodies thrown into the river at the 
same place, without any inquiry being made respect- 
ing them, and that he had not therefore, consider- 
ed it as a matter of any importance. Thi 
men and seamen were then collected, and ordered 
to search the river, where, on the following eve- 
ning, thev found the body of the duke, with his 
habit entire, and thirty ducats in his MB 
was pierced with nine wounds, one of which was in 
his throat, the others in his head, body, and limbs. 
No sooner was the pontiff informed of the death of 
his son, and that he had been thrown, like filth, 
into the river, than, giving way to his grief, he 
shut himself up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. 
The Cardinal of Segovia, and other attendants on 
the pope, went to the door, and after many hours 
spent in persuasions and exhortations, prevailed 
upon him to admit them. From the evening ol 
Wednesday, till the following Saturday, the pope 
took no food; nor did he sleep from Thursday morn- 
ing till the same hour on the ensuing day. At 
length, however, giving way to the entreaties of his 
attendants, he began to restrain his sorrow, and to 
consider the injury which his own health might sus- 
tain, by the further indulgence of his grief."— Jfat- 
coe's Leo Tenth, vol. i. page 265. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 



TO 



JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. 



THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, 
BY HIS 



January 22, 1316. 



FRIENF 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The grand army of the Turks, (in 1715,) under 
the Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into 
the heart of the Morca, and to form the siege of 
Napoli di Romania, the most considerable place in 
all that country,* thought it best in the first place 
to attack Corinth, upon which they made several 
storms. The garrison being •weakened, and the 
governor seeing it was impossible to hold out 
against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat 
a parley: but while they were treating about the 
articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, 
wherein they had six hundred barrels of powder, 
blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hundred 
men were killed; which so enraged the infidels, that 
they would not grant any capitulation, but stormed 
the place with so much fury, that they took it, and 
put most of the garrison, with Signior Minotti, the 
governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio 
Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made pris- 
of war." — History of the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 



Many a vanish'd year and age, 
And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 
Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands 
A fortress form'd to Freedom's hand. 



NapoU dl Romania la not now the moat considerable place in the Morea 
*ut TnpoJiua, where the Pacha reaidea, and maintains hU government. 
Wapol.uoa w Argr,. I Tilhed ,„ ^ ,„ mo _ u . ^ , n fte ^^ rf 

J»«W **ou«|> the country from my fim arrtral In 1309, I crossed the 

""■^ U 4* n ? ta m J *** fro «n Attica to the Morea, over the mountaii 

ZJ-Jr °£Z J"** 10 "' Whe " P "" in « from ** G,,lf of Alhcns to that of 
X£pan£ Both the rouv, are pfcture*,,* and beautiful, though very differ- 

lEh'.rf J?i ^ t."*™ " raene «^ bat *• *°7*ge Wng always within 

Wan .. Salami., *#na, Poro, 4c, , , he ^^ 



The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock. 

Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, 

The key-stone of a land, which still, 

Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 

The landmark to the double tide 

That purpling rolls on either side, 

As if their waters chafed to meet, 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timolean's brother bled, 

Or baffled Persian's despot fled, 

Arise from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank, 

That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below : 

Or could the bones of all the slain, 

Who perish'd there, be piled again, 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skieSi 

Than yon tower-capt Acropolis, 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 

II. 

On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears 
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd,* 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 






THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



167 



; 



And there the volleying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
"Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
"Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
And from that wall the foe replies, 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and well 
The summons of the Infidel. 

III. 
But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall, 
With deeper skill in war's black art 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, and deed to deed, 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable, 
Alighting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fire, 
The first and freshest of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
To guide the follower o'er the field, 
To point the tube, the lance to wield, 
Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 
Was. Alp > the Adrian renegade ! 

IV. 

From Venice — once a race of worth 

His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 

But late an exile from her shore, 

Against his countrymen he bore 

The arms they taught to bear ; and now 

The turban girt his shaven brow. 

Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 

With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 

And here, before her walls, with those 

To Greece and Venice equal foes, 

He stood a foe, with all the zeal 

Which young and fiery converts feel, 

Within whose heated bosom throngs 

The memory of a thousand wrongs. 

To him had Venice ceased to be 

Her ancient civic boast — " the Free ; " 

And in the palace of St. Mark 

Unnamed accusers in the dark 

Within the " Lion's mouth " had placed 

A charge against him uneffaced ; 

He fled in time, and saved his life, 

To waste his future years in strife, 

That taught his land how great her loss 

In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 

'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high, 

And battled to avenge or die. 

V. 

Coumourgi * — he whose closing scene 
Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
When on Carlowitz' bloody plain 
The last and mightiest of the slain, 
He sank, regretting not to die, 
But curst the Christian's victory— 



Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 
That latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
A hundred years have roll'd away 
Since he refused the Moslem's sway, 
And now he led the Mussulman, 
And gave the guidance of the van 
To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
By cities levell'd with the dust ; 
And proved, by many a deed of death. 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 

VI. 

The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 

Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 

With unabating fury sent 

From battery to battlement ; 

And thunder-like the pealing din 

Rose from each heated culverin ; 

And here and there some crackling dome 

Was fired before the exploding bomb : 

And as the fabric sank beneath 

The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 

In red and wreathing columns flash'd 

The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 

Or into countless meteors driven, 

Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 

Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 

Impervious to the hidden sun, 

With volumed smoke that slowly grew 

To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 

VII. 
But not for vengeance, long delay'd, 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win without consent 
Of that inexorable sire, 
Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 
Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
In happier mood, and earlier time, 
While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 
Gayest in gondola or hall, 
He glitter'd through the Carnival ; 
And tuned the softest serenade 
That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
At midnight to Italian maid. 

VIII. 
And many deem'd her heart was won . 
For sought by numbers, given to none, 
Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
Still by the church's bonds unchain'd : 
And when the Adriatic bore 
Lanciotto to the Faynim shore, 
Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
And pensive wax'd the maid and pale ; 
More constant at confessional, 
More rare at masque and festival ; 
Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, 
Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prusa : 
With listless look she seems to gaze, 
With humbler care her form arrays ; 
Her voice less lively m the song, 
Her step, though light, less fleet among 



168 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The pairs, on whcm the Morning's glance 
Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 

IX. 

Sent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
While Sobieski tamed his pride 
By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
From Patra to Eubcea's bay,) 
Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
The Doge's delegated powers, 
While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece : 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke. 
With him his gentle daughter came, 
Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love, 
Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 



The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assault. 
The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
The full of hope, misnamed "forlorn," 
Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
And win their way with falchion's force, 
Or pave the path with many a corse, 
O'er which the following brave may rise, 
Their stepping-stone— the last who dies ! 

XI. 
'Tis midnight : on the mountains brown 
The cold round moon shines deeply down ; 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
And turn'd to earth without repining, 
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on cither shore lay' there 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 
But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
The banners droop'd along their staves, 
And, as they fell around them furling, 
Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
And that deep silence was unbroke, 
Save where the watch his signal spoke, 
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 
And echo a.'.« WC r'd from the hill, 
And the wide hum of that wild host 
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 

uZTJ* 1 V ° Wed mou ™™ strain, 
like some lone spirit's o'er the plain • 
I was musical, but sadly c Weet 
Such as when winds and harp- s 'trings meet, 



And take a long unmeasured tone, 
To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
It seem'd to those within the wall 
A cry prophetic of their fall : 
It struck even the besieger's ear 
With something ominous and drear, 
An undefined and sudden thrill, 
Which makes the heart a moment stil'4 
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 
Such as a sudden passing-bell 
Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 

XII. 

The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 

The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er j 

The watch was set, the night-round made, 

All mandates issued and obey'd : 

'Tis but another anxious night, 

His pains the morrow may requite 

With all revenge and love can pay, 

In guerdon of their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 

Of slaughter ; but within his soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters rolL 

He- stood alone among the host ; 

Not his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 

Or risk a life with little loss, 

Secure in paradise to be 

By Houris loved immortally : 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 

The stern exaltedness of zeal, 

Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 

When battling on the parent soil. 

He stood alone — a renegade 

Against the country he betray'd ; 

He stood alone amidst his band, 

Without a trusted heart or hand ; 

They follow' d him, for he was brave, 

And great the spoil he got and gave ; 

They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 

To warp and meld the vulgar will ; 

But still his Christian origin 

With them was little less than sin. 

They envied even the faithless fame 

He earn'd beneath a Moslem name ; 

Since he, their mightiest chief had been 

In youth a bitter Nazarene. 

They did not know how pride can stoop, 

When baffled feelings withering droop ; 

They d.id not know how hate can burn 

In hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 

Nor all the false and fatal zeal 

The convert of revenge can feel. 

He ruled them-— man may rule the worst. 

By ever daring to be first : 

So lions o'er the jackal sway; 

The jackal points, he fells the prey, 

Then on the vulgar yelling press, 

To gorge the relics of success. 

XIII. 

His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
The quick successive thrftbs convulse ; 
In vain from side to side he throws 
His form, in courtship of reriooe ; 



oil. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



169 



Or if lie dozed, a sound, a start 
Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
Without or couch or canopy, 
Except a rougher field and sky 
Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 
Than now along the heaven was spread ; 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day, 
But walk'd him forth along the sand, 
Where thousand sleepers strew' d the strand. 
What pillow' d them ? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be, 
Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

XIV 

He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky though calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto's gulf ; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime ; 
It will not melt, like man, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
In texture like a hovering shroud, 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled, 
And linger'd on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh, still her step at moments falters 
O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token. 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remember'd rays 
Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 

XV. m 

Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 
And through this night, as on he wander'd, 
And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
And thought upon the glorious dead 
Who there in better cause had bled, 
He felt how faint and feebly dim 
The fame that could accrue to him, 
Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 
A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 
22 



And led them to the lawless siege, 

Whose best success were sacrilege. 

Not so had those his fancy numbcr'd, 

The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd ; 

Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 

Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 

They fell devoted, but undying ; 

The very gale their names seem'd sighing : 

The waters murmur'd of their name ; 

The woods were peopled with their fame ; 

The silent pillar, lone and gray, 

Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 

Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 

Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 

The meanest rill, the mightiest river 

Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. 

Despite of every yoke she bears, 

That land is glory's still and theirs ! 

'Tis still a watchword to the earth : 

When man would do a deed of worth, 

He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 

So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head : 

He looks to her, and rushes on 

Where life is lost, or freedom won. 

XVI. 

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 

And woo'd the freshness Night ditfused. 

There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,* 

Which changeless rolls eternally ; 

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, 

Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood; 

And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 

Heedless if she come or go : 

Calm or high, in main nr bay, 

On their course she hath no ^ 

The rock unworn its base doth bare, 

And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 

And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 

On the line that it left long ages ago : 

A smooth short space of yellow sand 

Between it and the greener land. 

He wander'd on, along the beach, 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach 

Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 

Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 

Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd 

cold? 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
That flank'd the seaward gate of the town ; 
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
The sullen words of the sentinel, 
As his measured step on the stone below 
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead their carniva.. 
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
They were too busy to bark at him ! 
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh. 
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
And their white tusks craunch'd o'er the whit«r 

skull,< 
As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edg« 

grew dull, 



170 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
When 'they scarce could rise from the spot where 

they fed ; 
So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
And Alp knew, by thp turbans that roll'd on the 

sand, 
The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair : 5 
All the rest was shaven and bare. 
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 
There sat a vulture napping a wolf, 
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay 
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

XVII. 

Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight : 

Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 

But he better could brook to behold the dying, 

Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 

Scorch'dwith the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 

Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 

There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 

Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; 

For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 

And Honor's eye on daring deeds ! 

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 

O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 

And see worms of the earth and fowls of the air, 

Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 

All regarding man as their prey, 

All rejoicing at his decay, 

XVIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 

Fashion'd by long forgotten hands ; 

Two or three columns, and many a stone, 

Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 

Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 

Of the things to come than the things before ! 

Out upon Time ! who for ever will leave 

But enough of the past for the future to grieve 

O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which 

must be : 
What we have seen our sons shall see ; 
Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 

XIX. 

He sate him down at a pillar's base, 
And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 
Like one in dreary musing mood, 
Declining was his attitude ; 
His head was drooping on his breast, 
Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest ; 

And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 

Oft his beating fingers went, 

Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your own run over the ivory key, 

Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you would awaken. 

There he sate all heavily, 

As he heard the night-wind sigh. 



Was it the wind, through some hollow stone, 6 
Sent than soft and tender moan ? 
He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 
But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 
He look'd on the long grass— it waved not a blade 
How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 
He look'd to the banners— each flag lay still, 
So did the leaves on Cithseron's hill, 
And he felt not a breath come over his cheek 
What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 
fJIe turn'd to the left— is he sure of sight ( 
frhere sate a lady, youthful and bright ? 

XX. 

He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers ! what is here ? 

Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament ? 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem'd no more divine : 

He had resumed it in that hour, 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Francesca by his side, 

'The maid who might have been his bride ! 

The rose was yet upon her cheek, 

But mellow'd with a tenderer streak : 

Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 

Gone was the smile that enliven' d their red. 

The ocean's calm within their view, 

Beside her eye had less of blue ; 

But like that cold wave it stood still, 

And its glance, though clear, was chill ; 

Around her form a thin robe twining, 

Nought conoeal'd her bosom shining ; 

Through the parting of her hair, 

Floating darkly downward there, 

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 

And ere yet she made reply, 

Once she raised her hand on high : 

It was so wan and transparent of hue, 

You might have seen the moon shine through. 

XXI 

" I come from my rest to him I love best, I 

That I may be happy, and he may be blest. ^ 
I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall, 
Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 
From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 
And the Power on high, that can shield the gooB 
Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 
Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
I come — and if I come in vain, 
Never, oh iiever, we meet again ! 
Thou hast done a fearful deed I 

In falling away from thy father's creed : \ 

But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine 
Wring the black drop from thy heart, ^ 

And to-morrow unites us no more to part." \ 
» 

" And where should our bridal couch be spread? 
In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame, 

The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 

None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 

Shall be left upon the morn : 

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 

Where our hands shall be joined, and our sorrow 

forgot. 
There thou yet shalt be my bride, 
When once again I've quell'd the pride 
Of Venice ; and her hated race 
Have felt the arm they would debase, 
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 

And shot a dullness to his heart, 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 

As those thin fingers, long and white, 

Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue 

So deeply changed from what he knew ; 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death, 

And her words came forth without her breath, 

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 

And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell, 

Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 

And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 

With aught of change, as the eyes may seem, 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 

Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 

Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, 

So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come 

down 
From the shadowy wall where their images frown 
Fearfully flitting to and fro, 
A.s the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 



Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are both avenged ; 
Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside 

By deep, interminable pride. 

This first fake passion of his breast 

Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 

By wild words of a timid maid ! 

He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 

No— though that cloud were thunder's woret, 

And charged to crush him— let it burst ! 

He look'd upon it earnestly, 
Without an accent of reply ; 
He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 
Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
And thus he spake — " Whate'er my fate, 
I am no changeling — 'tis too late : 
The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 
Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 
What Venice made me, I must be, 
Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
But thou art safe : oh, fly with me!" 

He turn'd, but she is gone ! 

Nothing is there but the column stone. 

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ! 

He saw not, he knew not ; but nothing is there 



171 



" If not for love of me be given 

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,- 

Again I say— that turban tear 

From off thy faithless brow, and swear 

Thine injured country's sons to spare, 

Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see 

Not earth— that's past— but heaven or me. 

If this thou dost accord, albeit 

A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 

That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 

And mercy's gate may receive thee within 

But pause one moment more, and take 

The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 

And look once more to heaven, and see 

Its love for ever shut from thee. 

There is a light cloud by the moon — 7 

'Tis passing, and will pass full soon — 

If, by the time its vapory sail 

Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 



XXII. 

The night is past, and shines the sun 
As if that morn were a jocund one. 
Lightly and brightly breaks away 
The Morning from her mantle gray, 
And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 
Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
And the flap of the banners that flit as they're borne, 
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
And the clash, and the shout, M they come, they 

come ! " 
The horsetails 8 are pluck 'd from the ground, and 

the sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait foi 

the word. 
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
That the fugitive may flee in vain, 
When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 
And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 
Alp at their head ; hi3 right arm is bare, 
So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 
The vizier himself at the head of the host. 



.72 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 

Leave not in Corinth a living one — 

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 

God and the prophet— Alia Hu ! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 

' ' There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to 

scale ; 
And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye 

fail? 
He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have ! ' 
Tims utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire ; 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 

XXIII. 

As the wolves, that headlong go 

On the stately buffalo, 

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 

He tramples on the earth, or tosses on high 

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die, 

Thus against the wall they went, 

Thus the first were backward bent ; 

Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass, 

Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 

Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 

The ground whereon they moved no more ; 

Even as they fell, in files they lay, 

Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 

When his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 

Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 

XXIV. 
As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 
From the cliffs invading dash 
Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 
Till white and thundering down they go, 
Like the avalanche's snow, 
On the Alpine vales below ; 
Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 
Corinth's sons were downward borne 
By the long and oft renew'd 
Charge of the Moslem multitude. 
In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 
Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, 
Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 
Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 
For quarter, or for victory, 
Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 
Which makes the distant cities wonder 
How the sounding battle goes, 
If with them, or for their foes ; 
H they must mourn, or may rejoice 
~n that annihilating voice, 

Which pierces the deep hills through and through 
\V ith an echo dread and new : 
You might have heard it, on that day, 
O er Salamis and Megara ; 
(We have heard the hearers say,) 
Even unto Piraeus bay. 

XXV. 

SaW^nr^^i <*??"»*** bkdeS *> the hilt, 

Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 



But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 

And all but the after carnage done. 

Shriller shrieks now mingling come 

From within the plunder'd dome : 

Hark to the haste of flying feet, 

That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 

But here and there, where 'vantage ground 

Against the foe may still be found, 

Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 

Make a pause, and turn again — 

With banded backs against the wail. 

Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man — his hairs were white, 

But his veteran arm was full of might : 

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 

The dead before him, on that day, 

In a semicircle lay ; 

Still he combated unwounded, 

Though retreating, unsurrounded. 

Many a scar of former fight 

Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright ; 

But every wound his body bore, 

Each and all had been ta'en before : 

Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 

Few of our youth could cope with him ; 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 

Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver gray. 

From right to left his sabre swept : 

Many an Othman mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 

His weapon first in Moslem gore, 

Ere his years could count a score. 

Of all he might have been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ire : 

For, sonless left long years ago, 

His wrath made many a childless foe ; 

And since the day, when in the strait • 

His only boy had met his fate, 

His parent's iron hand did doom 

More than a human hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
i Than his, Minotti's son who died 
■J Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 

Buried he lay where, thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore ; 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves ; 
But they live in the verse that immortality saves. 



XXVI. 

Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 

Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand ; 

Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 

Swifter to smite, acd never to spare — 

Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them en ; 

Thus in the fight is he ever known ; 

Others a gaudier garb may show, 

To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe •, 

Many a hand's on a richer hilt, 

But none on a steel more ruddily gilt; 

Many a loftier turban may wear, 

Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 

Look through the thidk of the fight, 'tis there ; 

There is not a standard on that shore 

So well advanced the ranks before ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



173 



\ 



There is not a bannei in Moslem war 
Will lure the Delhis half so fur ; 
It glances like a falling star ! 
Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 
The bravest be, or late have been ; 
There the craven cries for quarter 
Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
Or the hero, silent lying, 
Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 
Mustering his last feeble blow 
'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 
Though faint beneath the mutual wound^ 
Grappling on the gory ground. 

XXVII. 

Still the old man stood erect, 
And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
M Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take 
For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 

14 Never, renegado, never ! 

Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 

" Francesca ! — Oh my promised bride ! 
Must she too perish by thy pride ? " 

'< She is safe."—" Where ? where ?"— " In heaven ; 

From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 

Far from thee, and undefiled." 

Grimly then Minotti smiled, 

As he aaw Alp staggering bow 

Before his words, as with a blow. 

" Oh God ! when died she ? "— " Yesternight— 
Nor weep I for her. spirit's flight : 
None of my pure race shall be 
Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 
Come on ! "—That challenge is in vain- 
Alp's already with the slain ! 
While Minotti's words were wreaking 
More revenge in bitter speaking 
Than his falchion's point had found, 
Had the time allow'd to wound, 
From within the neighboring porch 
Of a long defended church, 
Where the last and desperate few 
Would the failing fight renew, 
The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground ; 
Ere an eye could view the wound 
That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 
Round he spun, and down he fell ; 
A flash like fire within his eyes 
Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 
And then eternal darkness sunk 
Through all the palpitating trunk ; 
Nought of life left, save a quivering 
Where his limbs were slightly shivering : 
They turn'd him on his back ; hia breast 
And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 
And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 
From its deep veins lately loosed ; 
But in his pulse there was no throb, 
Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 
Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
Heralded his way to death : 
Ere his very thought could pray, 
Unanell'd he pass'd away, 
Without a hope from mercy's aid,— 
To the last a renegade. 



XXYIII. 



Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers and his foes ; 

These in joy, in fury those ; 

Then again in conflict mixing, 

Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, 

Interchanged the blow and thrust 

Hurling warriors in the dust. 

Street by street, and foot by foot, 

Still Minotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land 

Left beneath his high command ; 

With him, aiding heart and hand, 

The remnant of his gallant band. 

Still the church is tenable, 
Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city's fall, 

When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 

Thither bending sternly back, 

They leave before a bloody track ; 

And, with their faces to the foe, 

Dealing wounds with every blow, 

The chief, and his retreating train, 

Join to those within the fane ; 

There they yet may breathe awhile, 

Shelter'd by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 
Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd host, 
With adding ranks and raging boast, 
Press onwards with such strength and heat, 
Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 
For narrow the way that led to the spot 
Where still the Christians yielded not ; 
And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 
They perforce must do or die. 
They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 
Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 
Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still ; 
And faint the weary Christians wax 
Before the still renew'd attacks : 
And now the Othman's gain the gate ; 
Still resists its iron weight, 
And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 
From every crevice comes the shot ; 
From every shatter'd window pour 
The volleys of the sulphurous shower : 
But the portal wavering grows and weak— 
The iron yields, the hinges creak- 
It bends— it falls— and all is o'er ; 
Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 
Madonna's face upon him shone, 
Painted in heavenly hues above, 
With eyes of light and looks of love ; 
And placed upon that holy shrine 
To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
When pictured there, we kneeling see 
Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 
Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 
Though slaughter streams along her aisle* : 



174 

Minotti lifted his aged eye, 
And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 
\nd still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 
Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 

Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 

Their names were on the graven floor, 

But now illegible with gore ; 

The carved crests, and curious hues, 

The varied marble's veins diffuse, 

"Were smear'd, and slippery— stain'd, and strown 

With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a coffin'd row ; 

You might see them piled in sable state, 

By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 

But War had enter' d their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
I In masses by the fleshless dead : 
f Here, throughout the siege, had been 
: The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 
; To these a late-form' d train now led, 

Minotti's last and stern resource 

Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 

XXXII. 
The foe came on, and few remain 
To strive, and those must strive in vain : 
For lack of further lives, to slake 
The thirst of vengeance now awake, 
With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
And lop the already lifeless head, 
And fell the statues from their niche, 
And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 
And from each other's rude hands wrest 
The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 
To the high altar on they go ; 
Oh, but it made a glorious show ! 
On its table still behold 
The cup of consecrated gold ; 
Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 
Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 
That morn it held the holy wine, 
Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 
Which his worshippers drank at the break of day 
To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 
Still a few drops within it lay ; 
And round the sacred table glow 
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
From the purest metal cast ; 
A spoil — the richest, and the last. 

XXXIII. 
So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touch'd with the torch the train— 

'Tis fired ! 
Epire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 



All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd town— the walls thrown down— 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below : 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
Down the ashes shower like rain; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkle! 
With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
Let their mothers see and say ! 
When in cradled rest they lay, 
And each nursing mother smiled 
On the sweet sleep of her child, 
Little deem'd she such a day 
Would rend those tender limbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more ; 
That one moment left no trace 
More of human form or face, 
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
And down came blazing rafters, strown 
Around, and many a falling stone, 
Deeply dinted in the clay, 
All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd ; 
The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
And howling left the unburied dead ; 
The camels from their keepers broke ; 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
The bullfrog's note, from out the marsh, 
Deepmouth'd arose, and doubly harsh 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill, 
Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry, 10 
Bay'd from afar complainingly, 
With a mix'd and mournful sound, 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 
The eagle left his rocky nest, 
And mounted nearer to the sun, 
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
And made him higher soar and shriek- 
Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 



NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



The Turcoman hath left his herd. 

Page 166, line 38. 

The life of the Turclraans is wandering and pa- 
triarchal : they dwell in tents. 

2. 

Coumourgi — he wJiose closing scene. 

Page 167, line 57. 

Ali Coumourgi, the favorite of three sultaas, and 
Grand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Pelo- 
ponnesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was 
mortally wounded in the next, against the Ger- 
mans, at the battle of Petenvaradin, (in the plain 
of Carlowitz,) in Hungary, endeavoring to rally his 
guards. He died of his wounds, next day. His 
last order was the decapitation of General Breuner, 
and some other German prisoners : and his last 
words, " Oh that I could thus serve all the Chris- 
tian dogs ! " a speech and act not unlike one_ of 
Caligula. He was a young man of great ambition 
and unbounded presumption : on being told that 
Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, "was a great 
general," he said, "I shall become a greater, and 
at his expense." 

3. 
There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. 

Page 169, line 91. 

The reader need hardly be reminded that there 
ire no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 



And their white tusks craunch , d o'er the whiter skidl. 
Page 170, line 8. 

This spectacle I have seen, such as described, be- 
neath the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, 
in the little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the 
rock, a narrow terrace of which projects between 
the wall and the water. I think the fact is also 
mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies 
were probably those of some refractory Janizaries. 



And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair. 
Page 170, line 60. 

This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition 
that Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. 



Was it the wind, through some hollow stone. 
Page 169, line 37. 
I must here acknowledge a close, though unin- 
tentional, resemblance in these twelve lines to a \ 
passage in an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, \\ 
called " Christabel." It was not till after these 1 
lines were written that I heard that wild and singu- ' 
larly original and beautiful poem recited ; and the 
MS. of that production I never saw till very recent- 
ly, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, 
I hope, is convinced that I have" not been a wilful 
plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains 
to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed 
above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope 
that he will not longer delay the publication of a 
production, of which I can only add my mite of ap- 
probation to the applause of far more competent 
judges. 

There is a light cloud by the moon. 

Page 171, line 61. 
I have been told that the idea expressed from 
lines 588 to 603 has been admired by those whose 
approbation is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is 
not orignal— at least not mine ; it may be found 
much better expressed in pa^cs 182-3-4 of the Eng- 
li sh ve rsio n nf " Vithffhi" (f f o rg et the precise page 
of theFrench,) a work to which I have before re- 
ferred, and never recur to, or read, without a re- 
newal of gratification. 

8. 
The horsetails are pluck' d from tin . -the 

sword. Page 171, line 106, 

The horsetail fixed upon a lance, a Pacha's stand- 
ard. 

9. 

And since the day when in the strait. 

Page 172, line 98. 

In the naval battle, at the mouth of the Darda- 
nelles between the Venetians aud the Turks. 

10. 
ThejackaVs troop, in qathcr'd i ry. 

-: 174, line , 

I believe I have taken a poetical license to trans- 
plant the jackal from Asia. In Gtt saw 
nor heard these animals ; but among the ruir.s of 
Ephesus I have heard them by hundreds. They 
haunt ruins, and follow armies. 



PAMSINA. 



TO 
3CROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. 

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED, 
BY ONE ^HO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HJ^FKIEXDSHIP 

January 22, 1816. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

Thb following poem is grounded on a circum- 
stance mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the 
House of Brunswick." — 1 am aware, that in modern 
imes the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader 
may deem such subjects unfit for the purposes of 
ooctry. The Greek dramatists, and some of the 
•est of our old English writers, were of a different 
opinion : as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, 
more recently, Tipon the continent. The following 
extract will explain the facts on which the story is 
founded. The name of Azo is substituted for 
Nicholas, as more metrical. 

M Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was 
polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony 
of an attendant, and his own observation, the Mar- 
quis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his 
wife Parisini, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful 
and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the 
castle by the sentence of a father and husband, who 
published his shame, and survived their execution. 
Ho was unfortunate, if they were guilty ; if they 
were innocent, he was still more unfortunate ; nor 
is there any possible situation in which I can sin- 
cerely approve the last act of justice of a parent." — 

Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470, new 
edition. 



It is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard ; 

It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word : 

And gentle winds, and waters near, 

Make music to the lonely ear. 



Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 

And in the sky the stars are met, 

And on the wave is deeper blue, 

And on the leaf a browner hue, 

And in the heaven that clear obscure, 

So softly dark, and darkly pure, 

Which follows the decline of day, 

As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 



II. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall, 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night 

And if she sits in Este's bower, 

'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower— 

She listens— but not for the nightingale— 

Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 

There glides a step through the foliage thick, 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats 

quick. 
There whispers a voice through the rustling leave* 
And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 
A moment more — and they shall meet— 
'Tis past — her lover's at her feet / 



III. 

And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide ? 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, aoove, beneath ; 
As if all else had passed away, 

They only for each other breathe . 



PARISINA. 



177 



Their very sighs are full of joj 
So deep, that did it not decay, 

That happy madness would destroy 
The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 

Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 

In that tumultuous tender dream ? 

Who that have felt that passion's power, 

Or paused or fear'd in such an hour ? 

Or thought how brief such moments last ? 

But yet — they are already past ! 

Alas ! we must awake before 

"We know such vision comes no more. 



IV. 
With many a lingering look they leave 

The spot of guilty gladness past ; 
And though they hope, and vow, they grieve 

As if that parting were the last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 

The lip that there would cling for ever, 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her. 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place ; 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart, 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 

To covet there another's bride ; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fever'd in her sleep she seems, 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 

And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away : 
And he to that embrace awakes, 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless ; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 

VI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 

And listen'd to each broken word : 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 

As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? ^ 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease : 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
23 



And whose that name ? 'tis Hugo's, — hia 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! — 
'Tis Hugo's,— he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth, 
When he betrayed Bianca's truth, 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 



\ 



VII. 

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 

But sheath'd it ere the point was bare - 
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not smiling — sleeping — there — 
Nay more :— he did not wake her then, 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Which, had she roused her from her trance, 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber'd — 
While, in his thought, her days are number'd. 

VIII. 

And with the morn he sought, and found, 
In many a tale from those around, 
The proof of all he fear'd to know, 
Their present guilt, his future wo : 
The long-conniving damsels seek 
To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her : 
Concealment is no more — they speak 
All circumstance which may compel 
Full credence to the tale they tell : 
And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
Have nothing more to feel or hear. 

IX. 

He was not one who brook'd delay : 
Within the chamber of his state, 

The chief of Este's ancient sway 
Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 

His nobles and his guards are thcre,- 

Before him is the sinful pair ; 

Both young — and one how passing fair ! 

With swordless belt, and fctter'd hand, 

Oh, Christ ! that such a son should stand 
Before a father's face ! 

Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 

And hear the sentence of his ire, 

The tale of his disgrace ! 

And yet lie seems not overcome, 

Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 

X. 

And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her spcakin. 

Glanced gladness round the glittering 
Where high-born men were proud to wait- 
Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 

Her gentle voice; — her lovely mien— 
And gather from her air and gait 
The graces of its queen : 
Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 
And made her quarrel all their own. 



178 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



No w,-what is she ? and what arc they ? 
Can she command, or these obey ? 
All silent and unheeding now, 
With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
And folded arms, and freezing air, 
And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 
Her knights, and dames, her court— is there. 
And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 
Who — were his arm a moment fret? — 
Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 
The minion of his father's bride,— 
He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 
Nor sees her swollen and full eye swim 
Less for her own despair than him : 
Those lids— o'er which the violet vein 
Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 
Shining through the smoothest white 
That e'er did softest kiss invite- 
Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 
To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 
Which glance so heavily, and fill, 
As tear on tear grows gathering still. 



XI. 

And he for her had also wept, 

But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 

Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd, 
He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
But yet he dared not look on her : 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 
His earthly, his eternal fate — 
And her's, oh, her's ! — he dared not throw 
One look upon that deathlike brow ! 
Else had his rising heart betray'd 
Remorse for all the wreck it made. 



XII. 

And Azo spake : — " But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son ; 
That dream this morning pass'd away, 

Ere day delincs, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone ! 
Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 
Who would not do as I have done : 
Those ties are broken — not by me ; 

Let that too pass ; — The doom's prepared ! 
Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 
And then — thy crime's reward ! 
Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 

Before its evening stars are met — 
Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 

Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
But here, upon the earth beneath, 

There is no spot where thou and I 
Together, for an hour, could breathe : 
Farewell ! I will not see thee die — 
But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head- 
Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 
Go ! woman of the wanton breast, 
Not 1, Vut thou his blood dost shed : 
Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
And joy thee in the life I give " 



XIII. 

And here stern Azo hid his face— 
For on his brow the swelling vein 
Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 
The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again ■, 

And therefore bow'd he for a space, 

And pass'd his shaking hand along 

His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 

While Hugo raised his chained hands. 

And for a brief delay demands 

His father's ear : the silent sire 

Forbids not what his words require. 

" It is not that I dread the death- 
For thou hast seen me by thy side 
All redly through the battle ride, 
And that not once a useless brand 
Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, 
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 

Theu gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, 
A gift for which I thank thee not : 
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
Her slighted love and ruin'd name, 
Her offspring's heritage of shame ; 
But she is in the grave, where he, 
Her son, thy rival, soon shall be, 
Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 
Shall witness for thee from the dead 
How trusty and how tender were 
Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
'Tis true, that I have done thee wrong — 
But wrong for wrong : — this, deem'd thy bride^ 
The other -victim of thy pride, 
Thou know'st for me was destined long. 
Thou saw'st, and covetedst her charms— 
And with thy very crime — my birth, 
Thou tauntedst me — as little worth ; 
A match ignoble for her arms, 
Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
The lawful heirship of thy name, 
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 
Yet, were a few short summers mine, 
My name should more than Este's shine 
With honors all my own. 
I had a sword — and have a breast 
That should have won as haught* a crest 

As ever waved along the line 

Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 

Not always knightly spurs are worn 

The brightest by the better born ; 

And mine have lanced my courser's flank 

Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 

When charging to the cheering cry 

Of ' Este and of Victory ! ' 

I will not plead the cause of crime, 

Nor sue thee to redeem from time 

A few brief hours or days that must 

At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 

Such maddening moments as my past, 

They could not and they did not, last— 

Albeit my birth and name be base, 

And thy nobility of race 

Disdain'd to deck a thing like me — 
Yet in my lineaments they trace 
Some features of my father's face, 

And in my spirit— all of thee. 

From thee — this tamelessness of heart — 

From thee— nay, wherefore dost thou start ?— 



PAItlSINA. 



From thee in all their vigor came 
My arm of strength, my soul of flame; — 
Thou didst not give me life alone, 
But all that made me more thine own. 
See what thy guilty love hath done ! 
Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
I am no bastard in my soul, 
For that, like thine, abhorr'd control ; 
And for my breath, that hasty boon 
Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
I valued it no more than thou, 
"When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
And we, all side by side, have striven, 
And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past ; 
Yet would I that I then had died : 

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father still ; 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die in shame, 
My life begun and ends the same : 
As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worst to human view, 
But God must judge between us too ! " 



XIV. 
He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd, 
When those dull chains in meeting clank'd, 
Till Parisina's fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye — 
"Would she thus hear him doom'd to die ! 
She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
Not once had turn'd to either side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather'd slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
And those who saw, it did surprise, 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling throat, 
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
And to the earth she fell like stone 
Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
More like a thing that ne'er had life — 
A monument of Azo's wife, — 
Than her, that living guilty thing, 
Whose every passion was a sting, 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guilt's detection *ud despair. 



179 



But yet she lived— and ail too soon 
Recover'd from that death-like swoon- 
But scarce to reason — every sense 
Had been o'erstrung by pangi intense ; 
And each frail fibre of her brain 
(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 
The erring arrows launch aside) 
Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide- 
The past a blank, the future black, 
With glimpses of a dreary track, 
Like lightning on the desert path, 
When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 
She fear'd— she felt that something [\\ 
Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 
That there was sin and shame she knew ; 
That some one was to die — but who ? 
She had forgotten ; — did she breathe ? 
Could this be still the earth beneath, 
The sky above, and men around ; 
Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 
On one, before whose eyes each eye 
Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 
All was confused and undefined 
To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 
A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 
And now in laughter, now in tears, 
But madly still in each extreme, 
She strove with that convulsive dream ; 
For so it seem'd on her to break ; 
Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 



XV. 

The Convent bells are ringing, 

But mournfully and slow ; 
In the gray square turret swinging, 

With a deep sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go ! 
Hark ! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below, 

Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
For a departing being's soul 
The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll 
He is near his mortal goal ; 
Kneeling at the Friar's knee ; 
Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 
With the block before and the guards around — 
And the headsman with his bare arm ready, 
That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
Since he set its edge aneAv : 
While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father ! 

XVI. 
It is a lovely hour as yet 
Before the summer sun shall set, 
Which rose upon that heavy day, 
And mock'd it with his steadiest ray ; 
And his evening beams are shed 
Full on Hugo's fated head, 
As his last confession pouring 
To the monk, his doom deploring 
In penitential holiness, 
He bends to hear his accents bless 
With absolution such as may 
Wipe our mortal stains away. 
That high sun on his head did glisten, 
As he there did bow and listen — 



180 

And the rings of chestnut hair 
Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 
But brighter still the beam was thrown 
Upon the axe which near him shone 

With a clear and ghastly glitter 

Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe : 
Dark the crime, and just the law- 
Yet they shuddcr'd as they saw. 

XVII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 
Of that false son— and daring lover ! 
His beads and sins are all recounted, 
His hours to their last minute mounted— 
His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 
His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd : 
Tis done— all closely are they shorn— 
The vest which till this moment worn— 
The scarf which Parisina gave — 
Must not adorn him to the grave. 
Even that must now be thrown aside, 
And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 
But no— that last indignity 
Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 
All feelings seemingly subdued, 
In deep disdain were half renew'd, 
When headsman's hands prepared to bind 
Those eyes which would not brook such blind 
As if they dared not look on death. 
" No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 
These hands are chain'd — but let me die 
At least with an unshackled eye — 
Strike : " — and as the word he said, 
Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 
These the last accents Hugo spoke — 
" Strike " — and flashing fell the stroke — 
Roll'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 
Back the stain'd and heaving trunk 
In the dust, which each deep vein 
Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 
His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 
Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 
He died as erring man should die, 
Without display, without parade ; 
Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 
As not disdaining priestly aid, 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the Prior kneeling, 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling ; 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour ? 
No more reproach — no more despair ; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayer- 
Save the few which from him broke, 
When, bared to meet the headsman's stroke, 
He claim' d to die with eyes unbound, 
Hig sole adieu to those around. 

XVIII. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 
Each gazer's bosom held his breath ; 
But yet, afar, from man to man, 
A cold electric shiver ran, 
Ai down the deadly blow descended 
On him whose life and love thus ended, 
And with a hushing sound comprest, 
A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But no more thrilling noise rose there 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, 

Save one :— what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill, so passing wild ? 

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow, 

To the sky these accents go, 

Like a soul's in endless wo. 

Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 

But sound and sight alike are gone ! 

It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 

In madlier accents rose despair ; 

And those who heard it, as it past, 

In mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 

Like words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azo's voice by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son ; 

No tomb — no memory had they ; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day, 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 

Whether in convent she abode, 

And won to heaven her dreary road, 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 

For that dark love she dared to feel ; 

Or if, upon the moment smote, 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block, 

With heart that shared the headsman's shock, 

In quicken'd brokenness that came, 

In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 

None knew — and none can ever know : 

But whatsoe'er its end below, 

Her life began and closed in wo ! 3 

XX. 

And Azo found another bride, 

And goodly sons grew by his side ; 

But none so lovely and so brave 

As him who wither' d in the grave ; 

Or if they were — on his cold eye 

Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 

Or noticed with a smother' d sigh. 

But never tear his cheek descended, 

And never smile his brow unbended, 

And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 

The intersected lines of thought ; 

Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was pass'd all mirth «or wo : 

Nothing more remain' d below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 



NOTES TO PARISINA. 



A heart which shunn'd itself—and yet 
That would not yield— nor could forget, 
Which when it least appear'd to melt, 
Intensely thought— intensely felt : 
The deepest ice which ever froze 
Can only o'er the surface close — 
The living stream lies quick below, 
And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 
Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 
By thoughts which Nature hath implanted ; 
Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
Howe'er our stifled tears we banish : 
When, struggling as they rise to start, 
We check those waters of the heart, 
They are not dried— those tears unshed 
But flow back to the fountain head, 
And resting in their spring more pure, 
For ever in its depth endure, 
Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd, 



And cherish'd most where least rcvcal'd. 
With inward starts of feeling left, 
To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 
Without the power to fill again 
The desert gap which made his pain ; 
Without the hope to meet them where 
United souls shall gladness share, 
With all the consciousness that he 
Had only pass'd a just decree ; 
That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 
Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
The tainted branches of the tree, 
If lopp'd with care a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and liva 
All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveals. 



181 



NOTES TO PARISINA. 



i. 

As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 

Page 176, line 14. 

The lines contained in Section I. were printed 
as set to music some time since ; but belonged to 
the poem where they now appear, the greater part 
of which was composed prior to " Lara," and other 
compositions since published. 



That should have won as haught a crest. 

Page 178, line 108. 

Haught — haughty — " Away, haitght man, thou 
art insulting me " — Shakspeare, Richard II. 



Her life began and closed in tco. 

Page 180, line 109. 

" This turned out a calamitous year for the people 
of Ferrara, for there occurred a very tragical event 
in the court of their sovereign. Our annals, both 
printed and in manuscript, with the exception of 
the unpolished and negligent work of Sardi, and 
one other, have given the following relation of it, 
from which, however, are rejected many details, andj 
especially the narrative of Bandelli, "who wrote a 
century afterwards, and who does not accord with 
the contemporary historians. 

" By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, 
the Marquis in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, 



a beautiful and ingenious youth. Parisina Malatet 
ta, second wife of Niccolo, like the generality of 
step-mothers, treated him with little kindness, to 
the infinite regret of the Marquis, who regarded 
him with fond partiality. One day she askea leave 
of her husband to undertake a certain journey, to 
which he consented, but upon condition that Ugo 
should bear her company ; for he hoped by these . 
means to induce her, in "the end, to lay aside the 
obstinate aversion which she had conceived ■gainst 
him. And indeed his intent was accomplished but 
too well, since, during the journey, she not only di- 
vested herself of all "her hatred," but fell into the 
opposite extreme. After their return, the Marquis 
had no longer any occasion to renew his former re- 
proofs. It happened one day that a servant of the 
Marquis, named Zoese, or, as some call him, Gior- 
gio, passing before the apartments of Parisina, saw 
gOinff out from them one of her chambermaids, all 
terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, she told 
him that her mistress, for some slight offence, had 
been beating her; and, giving vent to her rage, she 
added, that she could easily be revenged, if she 
chose to make known the criminal familiarity which 
subsisted between Parisina and her step-6on. The 
servant took note of the words, and related them to 
his master. He was astounded thereat, but scarce- 
ly believing his ears, he assured himself .of the 
fact, alas ! too clearly, on the 18th of May, by 
looking through a hole made in the ceiling of his 
wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into a furious 
rage, and arrested both of them, together with Al- 
dobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, ner gentleman, 
and also, as some say, two of the women of her 



182 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



chamber, as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered 
them to be brought to a hasty trial, desiring the 
iudjrcs to pronounce sentence, m the accustomed 
forms, upon the culprits. This sentence was death. 
Some there wore that bestirred themselves in favor 
of the delinquents, and, among others, Ugoccion 
Contrario, who was all powerful with Niccolo, and 
also his aged and much deserving minister, Alberto 
dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flowing down 
their cheeks, and upon their knees, implored him 
for mercy : adducing whatever reasons they could 
suggest for sparing the offenders, besides those mo- 
tives of honor and decency which might persuade 
him to conceal from the public so scandalous a deed. 
But his rage made him inflexible, and, on the in- 
stant, he commanded that the sentemee should be 
put in execution. 

" It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and 
exactly in those frightful dungeons whieh are seen 
at this day beneath the chamber called the Aurora, 
at the foot of the Lion's tower, at the top of the 
street Giovecca, that on the night of the 21st of 
May were beheaded, first Ugo, and afterwards Pari- 
sina. Zoese, he that accused her, conducted the 
latter under his arm to the place of punishment. 
She, all along, fancied that she was to be thrown 
into a pit, and asked at every step, whether 
she was yet come to the spot? She was told 
that her punishment was the axe. She inquired 
'vhat was become of UyAand received for answer, 
that he was already dfad ; at the which, sighing 
grievously, she exclaimed, ' Now, then, I wish not 
myself to live ; ' and, being come to the block, she 
stripped herself with her own hands of all her orna- 
ments, and wrapping a cloth around her head, sub- 
mitted to the fatal stroke, which terminated the 
cruel scene. The same was done with Rangoni, 
who, together with the others, according to two 
calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was buried 
in the cemetery of that convent. Nothing else is 
known respecting the women. 



"The Marquis kept watch the whole of that 
dreadful night, and, as he was walking backwards 
and forwards, inquired of the captain of the castle 
if Ugo was dead yet ? who answered him, Yes. He 
then gave himself up to the most desperate lamen- 
tations, exclaiming, ' Oh ! that I too were dead, 
since I have been hurried on to resolve thus against 
my own Ugo ! ' And then, gnawing with his teeth 
a cane which he had in his hand, he passed the rest 
of the night in sighs and in tears, calling frequently 
upon his own dear Ugo. On the following day, 
calling to mind that it would be necessary to make 
public his justification, seeing that the transaction 
could not be kept secret, he ordered the narrative 
to be drawn out upon paper, and sent it to all the 
courts of Italy. 

" On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, 
Francesco Foscari, gave orders, but without pub- 
lishing his reasons, that stop should be put to the 
preparations for a tournament, which, under the 
auspices of the Marquis, and at the expense of the 
city of Padua, was about to take place, in the 
square of St. Mark, in order to celebrate his ad- 
vancement to the ducal chair. 

" The Marquis, in addition to what he had already 
done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, 
commanded that as many of the married women as 
were well known to him to be faithless, like his 
Parisina, should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst 
others, Barberina, or, as some call her, Laodamia 
Romei, wife of the court judge, underwent this sen- 
tence, at the usual place of execution, that is to 
say, in the quarter of St. Giacomo, opposite the 
present fortress, beyond St. Paul's. It cannot be 
told how strange appeared this proceeding in a 
prince, who, considering his own disposition, should, 
as it seemed, have been in such cases most indul- 
gent. Some, however, there were, who did not fail 
to commend him." * 



'Frini— History of Ftmn. 



THE P1US0NER OF CHILLON ; 

A FABLE. 



c 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, ' 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard ! ' — May none those marks efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



I. 

My hair is gray, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 5 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For-tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd : 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



There are seven pillars of gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy ani gray, 
Dyn with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
0? the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp ; 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

Fof in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 



III. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight, 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 
A grating sound — not full and fre« 
As they of yore were vont to be ; 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



184 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IV. 



I was the eldest c f the three, 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him— with eyes as blue as heaven, 
For him my &: til was sorely moved ; 
And truly might it be distrest 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun ; 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' ills, 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the wo 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind, 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls ; 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement 3 

Which round about the wave enthralls ; 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made -rand like a living ; pravo 
Below the surfaee"6f the lake ' 
The dark vault lies wherein we lav, 
-;rd it ripple night and day"; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the ! ids were high, 

And wanton in the happy 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
JJjOMwe I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 
I said my nearer brother pined, 
I sajd his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude 



For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den : 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb, 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
But ivhy rlehiy t.hp truth ?— frajK»;» 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd— and laid him there : 
_* The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant, 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 



VIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
His mother's image in fair face, 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
He, too, who yet had held untircd 
A spirit natural and inspired — 
j He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 
To see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood :— 
I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
But these were horrors— this was wo 
Unmix'd with such— but sure and slow ; 
He faded, and so calm and meek, 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
So tearless, yet so tender— kind, 
And grieved for those he left behind : 
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow*s ray 

An eye of most transparent light, 
That almost made the dungeon bright, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



185 



And not a word of murmur — not 
A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
A little talk of bettor days, 
A little hope my own to raise, 
For I was sunk in silence — lost 
In this last loss, of all the most ; 
And then the sighs he would suppress 
Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
More slowly drawn, grew less and less: 
I listen'd, but I could not hear — 
1 eall'd, for I was wild with fear: 
I knew 'twas hopeless, bnt my dread 
Would not be thus admonished ; 
I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
And rush'd to him ; — I found him not, 
J only stirr'd in this black spot, 
J only lived— / only dr ew 
The npYMir^fl p|c ath oTTIungcon-dcw : 
, The last — the sole^ttte d emist litt k 
Betwe en m e and the e ternal "b rink, 
Which bound rnG W my lading race, 
Was broken in this fatal place. 
One on the earth, and one beneath — 
My brothers — both had ceased to breathe 
I took that hand which lay so still, 
Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
I had not Bfrpn frtlh tn Hf 'Ti nr strive, 
But foil t,int T WQn gf;11 alive — 
A frantic feelin g, when we J tnow 
That what wTrtove shall ne'er be »o. 

I know not why 

I could not d ie, 
I had no earthlyhope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befel me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew — 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Amo ng the stones I stood a sto ne, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray : 
It was not night— it was not day, 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vac ancy abs orbing space, 
An d fixedness — vvUhuul'a place ; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no crime — 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless mute, and motionless ! 

X. 

[ A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
* ' It ceased, and then it came again, 
The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
\tf\it then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track ; 
24 



6" 

I 



I saw the dungeon walls and floor 

Close slowly round rne as before, 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Cr— ping as it before had done, 

But through the crevice where it came 

That bird was pen h'd, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And scem'd to say them all for ■ 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall .< <• its likeness more : 
It secra'd like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
/J And it was come to lew W when 
J None lived to love me so again, 
I And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
> ^Jlad brought me hack to feel and think. 
I know not if it late MN I 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for tl 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Par. 

For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
Which mode me both to weep and smile ; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brothers soul come down to me : 
JJut then at lastjiway it flew, 
AncTth mi 'twasmortal — well I knew, 
For he would 1 never t hus have 'flown, 
And le u me twice SA ioirnTlrtT 1nnc. — 
Lone — as tlic corse within it:; ihrOttd, 
Lone — as a solitary c loud) 

K single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rent <,f heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath i 

When skies are blue, and earth i* gay. 



XI. 

A kind of ch in my fate, 

My k' ssionate, 

I know not what had made them so, 
They in I tO sights of WO, 

But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to 
And up and down, and then athwart, 
And tread it ©Tl I Wti Tf part ; 
And round the pillars one by one, 

Returning when mj walk begun, 

Avoiding only, as I trod, 

Mjf brothers' graves without a sod ; 

For if I thought with heedless tread 

'heir lowly bod, 
My i gaspingly and thick, 

\Ajid my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 
I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all, 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unt' 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery ; 



J 



186 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



I thought of this, and I was glad, 

For thought of them had made me mad ; 

But I was curious to ascend 

To my barr'd windows, and to bend 

Once more, upon the mountains high, 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII. 
I saw them— and thcywe ro t h e s ame, 
They were not charrggd like me i n frame ; 
t saw their 1 Thousand years of "snow" 
On high — their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isle, 4 
"Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 



The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, 
And yet my glance, too much opprest, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 



XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus when they appear'd at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
"With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
"We were all inmates of one place, 
I And I, the monarch of each race, 
I Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



By Bonnivard '.—may none those marks efface ' 
Page 183, line 13. 

Francois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonni- 
jard, ongmaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, 
naquiten 1496; il fit ses otudes a Turin : en 1510 
PrS,;rF C Q? e £ onnivard ' son oncle > lui r6si S n a le 
J^vo oV^-V Ct ° r ^ ui ab ^tissoit aux muVs de 

rl „ ' *a% l f0rm ?^ un b en<-fice considerable. 

qu une vertu heroique pent encore emouvoir, in Sp T- 



rera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans let 
cceurs des Genevois qui aiment Geneve. Bonnivard 
en fut toujours un des plus fermes appuis : pour as- 
surer la liberte de notre Republique, il ne craignit 
pas de perdre souvent la sienne ; il oublia son repos; 
" mf 'P ris a ses ricness es ; il ne negligea rien pour 
aflcrmir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de son 
choix : des ce moment il la cherit comme le plus 
zelee, de ses citoyens ; il la servit avec l'intrepidite 
a™ £ T -? S ' et S ecrivit son Histoire avec la naYvete 

tt 1 ^ i° SOphe et la cnaleur d ' un patriote. 

II dit dans le commencement de son histoire de 
Geneve, que, des qu'il eutepmmenci delire V histoire 
des nations, il se sentit entraXne par son gout pour les 
Republiques, dont iUpousa toujours les mttrits: 
c est ce gout pour la liberte que lui fit sans doute 
adopter Geneve pour sa patrie. 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 



187 



Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annonca hautement 
comme le defenseur de Geneve contre le Due de 
Savoye et l'Eveque. 

En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa 
patrie. Le Due de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve 
avec cino cent hommes, Bonnivard craint le ressenti- 
ment du Due ; il voulut se retirer a Fribourg pour 
en eviter les suites ; mais il fut trahi par deux hom- 
mes qui l'accompagnoient, et conduit par ordre du 
Prince a Grolee ou il resta prisonnier pendant deux 
ans. Bonnivard etoit malheureux dans ses voyages : 
comme ses malheurs n'avoient point ralenti son zele 
pour Geneve, il etoit toujours un ennemi redoutable 

Sour ceux qui la menacoient, et par consequent il 
evoit etre expose a leurs coups. II fut rencontre 
en 1530 sur le Jura par des voleurs, qui le depouil- 
lerent, et qui le mirent encore entre les mains du 
Due de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer dans le 
Chateau de Chillon, ou il resta sans etre interroge 
jusques en 1536 ; il fut alors delivre par les Ber- 
nois, qui s'emparerent du Pays de Vaud. 

Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, eut le plaisir 
de trouver Geneve libre et reformee ; la Republique 
s'empressa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance et de 
le dedommager des maux qu'il avoit soufTerts ; elle 
le recut Bourgeois de la vilie au mois de Juin 1536 ; 
elle lui donna la maison habitee autrefois par le 
Vicaire-General, et elle lui assigna une pension de 
200 ecus d'or tant qu'il sejourneroit a Geneve. II 
fut admis dans le Conseil de Deux-Cent en 1537. 

Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : appres avoir 
travaille a rendre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre 
tolerante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil a accorder 
aux Ecclesiastiques et aux paysans un terns suffi- 
sant pour examiner les propositions qu'on leur 
faisoit : il reussit par sa douceur : on preche tou- 
jours le Christianisme avec succt-s quand on le 
preche avec charite. > \ 

Bonnivard fut savant; ses manuscrits, qui sont 
dans la Biblotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avoit 
bien lu les auteurs classiques latins, et qu'il avoit 
approfondi la theologie et l'histoire. Ce grand 
homme aimoit les sciences, et il croyoit qu'elles 
pouvoient faire la gloire de Geneve; aussi il ne 
negligea rien pour les fixer dans cette ville nais- 
sante ; en 1551 il donna sa bibliotheque au public ; 
elle fut le commencement de notre bibliotheque pub- 
lique ; et ces livres sont en partie les rares et belles 
editions du quinzieme siecle qu'on voit dans notre 
collection. Enfin, pendant la meme annee, ce bon 
patriote institua la Republique son heritiere a con- 
dition qu'elle employeroit ses biens a entretnir le 
college dont on projettoit la fondation. 

II paroit que Bonnivard mourut en 1570; mais 
on ne peut l'assurer, parce qu'il y a une lacune dans 
le Necrologe depuis le mois de Juillet 1570 jusques 

en 1571. 

2. 

In a single night. 

Page 183, line 17. 



Ludovico Sforza, and others. — Tne same is as- 
serted of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI. 
though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said 
to have the same effect : to such, and not to fear 
this change in hers was to be attributed. 



3. 

From Chilton's snow-white battlement. 

Page 184, line 43. 

The Chateau de Chillon is situated between 
Clar^ns and Villeneuve, which last is at one ex- 
tremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the 
entrances of the Rhone, and opposite are the heights 
of Meillerie and the range of Alps above Boveret 
and St. Gingo. 

Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent ; below it, 
washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to 
the depth of eight hundred feet, (French measure ;) 
within it are a range of dungeons, in which the 
early reformers, iftd subsequently prisoners of state, 
were confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam 
black with age, on which we were informed that 
the condemned were formerly executed. In the 
cells are seven pillars, or rather, eight, one being 
half merged in the wall ; Hn some of these are rings 
for the fetters and the festered: in the pavement 
the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces — he 
was confined here several years. 

It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the 
catastrophe of his Heloise, iff the rescue of one of 
her children by Julie from the water ; the shock of 
which, and the illness produced by the immersion 
is the cause of her death. 

The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for 
a great distance. The walls are white. 



And then there was a little isle. 

Page 186, line 16. 

Between the entrances of the Rhone and Ville 
neuve, not far from Chillon, is a very small island ; 
the only one I could perceive, in my voyage round 
and over the lake, within its circumference. It 
contains a few trees, (I think not above three,) and 
from its singleness and diminutive size has a pecu- 
liar effect upon the view. 

When the foregoing poem was composed I was 
not sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, 
or I should have endeavored to dignify the subject 
by an attempt to celebrate his courage and his vir- 
tues. Some account of his life will be found in a 
note appended to the M Sonnet on Chillon," with 
which I have been furnished by the kindness of a 
citizen of that Republic, which is still proud of the 
memory of a man worthy of the best age of ancient 
freedom." 



BEPPO ; 

4. VENETIAN STORY, 



RosaiM Farewell, Monsieur Traveller ; Look you lisp, and wear strange suits : chsable all the benefiU of y*« 
owVcountry I be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you aie ; or I 
will icarce think that you have swam in a Gomlola.-A* You Like It, Act IV. Sc. I. 
Annotation of the Commentators. 

That is, been at Venice, which was much vbited by the young English gentlemen of those time*, and was then what 
Paris is not*-the seat of all dissoluteness.— S. A. 



Ti8 known, al least it should be, that throughout 
All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 

Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 
The people take their fill of recreation, 

And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
However high their rank, or low their station, 

With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, 

And other things which may be had for asking. 

II. 

The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
The skies, (and the more duskily the better,) 

The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 
Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 

And gayety on restless tiptoe hovers, 

Giggling with all the gallants who beset her ; 

And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, 

Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 

III. 
And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 

Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 
And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 

Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 
All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, 

All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, 
But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, 
Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge ye. 

IV. 

You'd better walk about begirt with briers, 
Instead of coat and small-clothes, than put on 

A single stitch reflecting upon friars, 
Although you swore it only was in fun ; 

They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
Of Phlegethon with every mother's son. 

Nor say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 

That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double 



V. 

But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 

Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair 
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 

And even in Italy such places are, 
With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 

For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 

No place that's call'd " Piazzi" in Great Britain 

VI. 

This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
Interpreted, implies " farewell to flesh : " 

So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing, 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. 

But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
Is more than I can tell, although I guess 

'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting, 

In the stage-coach or packet just at starting. 

VII. 

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts, 

To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes, 
Because they have no sauces to their stews, 

A thing which causes many "poohs" and "pishes, 
And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse) 

From travellers accustomed from a boy 

To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 

VIII. 

And therefore humbly I would recommend 
"The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 

The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, 
Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross, 

(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 
By any means least liable to loss,) 

Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 

Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve ye ; 



\ 



BEPPO. 



IX. 

That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 
And you at Rome would do as Romans do, 

According to the proverb,— although no man, 
If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 

If Protestant, or sickly, or a -woman, 
Would rather dine in sin on a ragout 

Dine and be d— d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 

But that's the penalty, to say no worse. 

X. 

Of all the places where the Carnival 
Was most facetious in the days of yore, 

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, 
And masque, and mine, and mystery, and more 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore, 

And at the moment when I fix my story 

That seaborn city was in all her glory. 

XI. 

They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions 
still ; 

Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill ; 

And like so many Venuses of Titian's, 
(The best's at Florence — see it, if ye will,) 

They look when leaning over the balcony, 

Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 

XII. 
Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 

And when you to Manfrini's palace go, 
That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 

Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; 
It may perhaps be also to your zest, 

And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so ; 
'Tis but the portait of his son, and wife, 
And self; but such a woman ! love in life. 



m 



XIII. 

Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 

But something better still, so very real, 
That the sweet model must have been the same ; 

A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
Wer't not impossible, besides a shame : 

The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain, 

5Tou once have seen but ne'er will see again ; 

XIV. 

One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 

And, Oh ! the loveliness at times we see 
In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 

The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, 
In many a nameless being we retrace, 

Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know, 

Like the lost Pleiad ' seen no more below. 

XV. 

I said that like a picture by Giorgione 
Venetian women were, and so they are, 

Particularly seen from a balcony, 

(For beauty's sometimes best set off afar,) 

And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 

They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar ; 

And truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, 

And rather like to show it, more's the pity ! 



XVI. 

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 
Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter 

V hich flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, ' 
Who do such things because they know no better 

And then, God knows, what mischief may arise 
When love links two young people in one fetter 

V lie assignations, and adulterous beds, 
Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 

XVII. 

Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 
As very fair, but yet suspect in fame, 

And to this day from Venice to Verona 
Such matters may be probably the same, 

Except that since those times was never known a 
Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 

To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 

Because she had a M cavalier servente." ' 

XVIII. 

Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's, 

Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 

When weary of the matrimonial tether, 
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
But takes at once another, or another's 

XIX. 

Didst ever see a gondola ? For fear 
^ You should not, I'll describe it you exactly : 
'Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here, 

Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly 
Row'd by two rowers, each call'd " Gondolier," 

It glides along the water looking blackly, 
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 
Where none can make out what you say or do. 

XX. 

And up and down the long canals they go, 

And under the Rialto shoot along, 
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, 

And round the theatres, a sable throng, 
They wait in their dusk livery of wo, 

But not to them do woful things belong, 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
Like mourning coaches when the funeral's done. 

XXI. 

But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago, 

It may be thirty, forty, more or less, 
The carnival was at its height, and so 

Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress , 
A certain lady went to see the show, 

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 
And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, 
Because it slips into my verse with ease. 



XXII. 
She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 

Which certain people call a " certain age," 
Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 

Because I never heard, nor could engage 
A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 

To name, define by speech, or write on page, 
The period meant precisely by that word, — 
Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 



190 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXIII. 
Laura was blooming still, had made the best 

Of time, and time return'd the compliment, 
And treated her genteelly, so that, drest, 

She look'd extremely well where'er she went : 
A pretty woman is a welcome guest, 

And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent, 
Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to natter 
Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 

XXIV. 

She was a married woman ; 'tis convenient, 
Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 

To view their little slips with eyes more lenient, 
Whereas, if single ladies play the fool, 

(Unless within the period intervenient 
A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 

I don't know how they ever can get over it, 

Except they manage never to discover it. 

XXV. 

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 
And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 

And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 
(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease,) 

His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 
For thence she could discern the ship with ease : 

lie was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 

His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. 2 

XXVI. 

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 

Though color'd, as it were, within a tanyard, 
He was a person both of sense and vigor — 

A better seaman never yet did man yard : 
And slie, although her manners show'd no rigor, 

Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXVII. 

But several years elapsed since they had met ; 

Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
That he had somehow blunder'd into debt, 

And did not like the thought of steering home ; 
And there were several offer'd any bet, 

Or that he would, or that he would not come, 
For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 

XXVIII. 

'Tis said that their last parting was pathetic, 
As partings often are, or ought to be, 

And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
That they should never more each other see, 

(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 
Which I have known occur in two or three,) 

When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 

He left his Adriatic Ariadne. 

XXIX. 

And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 
And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might: 

She almost lost all appetite for victual, 

And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 

She deem d the window-frames and shutters brittle 
Against a danng housebreaker or sprite, 

And so she thought it prudent to connect her 

With a vice-husband, chief y to protect her. 



XXX. 

She chose, (and what is there they will not choose 
If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 

Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, 
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 

A man some women like, and yet abuse — * 

A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; \ 

A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, t 

And in his pleasures of great liberality. 

XXXI. 

And then he was a count, and then he knew 
Music, and dancing, fiddling, French, and Tuscan , 

The last, not easy, be it known to you, 
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too, 
And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatura " 

XXXII. 

His "bravo " was decisive, for that sound 
Hush'd " academie " sigh'd in silent awe ; 

The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 
For fear of some false note's detected flaw ; 

The " prima donna's " tuneful heart would bound, 
Dreading the deep damnation of his " bah ! A 

Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 

Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 

XXXIII. 
He patronized the Improvisatori, 

Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 

Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
Italians can be, though in this their glory [has ; 

Must surely yield the palm to that which France 
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 

XXXIV. 

Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous , 
So that no sort of female could complain, 

Although they're now and then a little clamorous, 
He never put the pretty souls in pain ; 

His heart was one of those which most enamour us 
Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 

He was a lover of the good old school, 

Who still become more constant as they cool. 

XXXV. 

No wonder such an accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady — 

With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
In law he was almost as good as dead, he 

Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
And she had waited several years already ; 

And really if a man won't let us know 

That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous shV 

'Tis, I may say, permitted to have tico men ; 
I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 

But " Cavalier Serventes " are quite common, 
And no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst), 

A second marriage which corrupts the first. 



BEPrO. 



XXXVII. 

The word was formerly a '« Cicisbco," 
But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 

The Spaniards call the person a "Cortcjo," 3 [recent; 
For the same mode subsists in Spain, though 

In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, 
And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 

But Heaven preserve Old England from such 
courses ! 

Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 

XXXVIII. 

However, I still think, with all due deference 
To the fair single part of the creation, 

That married ladies should preserve the preference 
In tete-a-tete or general conversation — 

And this I say without peculiar reference 
To England, France, or any other nation — 

Because they know the world, and are at ease, 

And being natural, naturally please. 

XXXIX. 

'Tis true your budding Miss is very charming, 
But shy and awkward at first coming out, 

So much alarm'd that she is quite alarming, 
All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout; 

And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in 
"What you, she, it, or they may be about, 

The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 

But " Cavalier Servente " is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who stays 

Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only law which he obeys. 

His is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 

XLI. 

With all its sinful doings, I must say, 

That Italy's a pleasant place to me, 
Who love to see the Sun shine every day, 

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, 

Or melodrame, which people flock to see, 
When the first act is ended by a dance 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 



191 



XLII. 

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, 
Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 

My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, 
Because the skies are not the most secure ; 

I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 
Where the green alleys windingly allure, 

Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way, — 

In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 

I also like to dine on becaficas, 

To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow, 
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
But with all Heaven t' himself ; that day will break as 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 



XLIV. 

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
Which mdLs tike kiacea from a female mouth, 

And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 
With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 

And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 
That not a single accent seems uncouth, 

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 
A\ Inch we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all 

XLV. 

Hike the women too, (forgive my folly,) 
From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 

And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
Of rays that say a thousand tilings at once, 

To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 

Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 

XLVI. 

Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 

Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
Raphael,* who died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, 
In what he hath bequeath'd us ?— in what guise, 

Though flashing from the fervor of the lyre, 
Would toords describe thy past and present glow, 
"While yet Canova can create below r * 

XLVII. 

"England ! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 

I like to speak and lucubate my fill ; 
I like the government, (but that is not it ;) 

I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 
I like the Habeas Corpus, (when we've got it ;) 

I like a parliamentary debate, 

Particularly when 'tis not too late ; 

XLVIII. 

I like the taxes, when they're not too many ; 

I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear ; 
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 

That is, I like two months of every year. 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King . 
Which means that I like all and every thing. 



XLIX. 

Our standing r.rmy, and disbanded seamen, 

Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, 

Our little riots just to show we are free men, 
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 

Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, 
All these I can forgive, and those forget, 

And greatly venerate our recent glol 

And wish they were not owing the Tories. 



• mm. 

(In tailing Uiun, llie writer, rrvTe especially 
Of women, would lie understood to say, 

He speaks aa a spectator, not officially, 
Ami always, reader, in a modest way ; 

Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall bt 
Appear lo have offended in this lay, 

Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 

Would seem unfimsh'd like their untri:nm'd 

Prinfr'1 



192 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



L. 



But to ray tale of Laura,— for I find 

Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, 

And, therefore, may the reader too displease— 
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, 

And caring little for the author's ease, 
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 

LI. 

Oh that I had the art of easy writing 
What should be easy reading ! could I scale 

Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
Those pretty poems, never known to fail, 

How quickly would I print, (the world delighting,) 
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale : 

And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, 
j Some samples of the first Orientalism. 

LII. 

But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels,) 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, 

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 

I've a half mind to tumble down to prose, 

But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIII. 

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, 
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, 

For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 
They had their little differences, too ; 

Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant : 
In such affairs there probably are few 

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 

From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

LIV. 

But on the whole, they were a happy pair, 
As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 

The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, 
Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to 
break them : 

The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
The pious only wish'd " the devil take them ! " 

He took them not ; he very often waits, 

And leaves old sinners to be young one's baits. 

LV. 

But they were young ; Oh ! what without our youth 
Would love be ! What would youth be without love ! 

Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigor, truth, 
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 

But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
One of few things experience don't improve, 

Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 

Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LVI. 
It was the Carnival, as I have said 

Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 
Laura the usual preparations made, 

Which you do when your mind's made up to go 
To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 

Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
The only difference known between the cases 
Is -here, we have sLx w< eks of « varnish'd faces." 



LVII. 

Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
With all the fashions which the last month wore, 

Color'd, and silver paper leaved between 
That and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dresa 

LVIII. 

They went to the Ridotto ; — 'tis a hall 
Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 

Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, 
But that's of no importance to my strain ; 

'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 

The company is "mix'd," (the phrase I quote is 

As much as saving, they're below your notice ;) 

LIX. 

For a "mix'd company" implies that, save 
Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 

Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 

Of public places, where they basely brave 
The fashionable stare of twenty score 

Of well-bred persons, call'd "t/ie World; " but 1 

Although I know them, really don't know why. 

LX. 

This is the case in England ; at least was 
During the dynasty of Dandies, now 

Perchance succeeded by some other class 
Of imitated imitators : — how 

Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 
The demagogues of fashion : all below 

Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 

By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 

LXI. 

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 

Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 
A blundering novice in his new French grammar; 

Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 
And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her, 

Because, were I to ponder to infinity, 

The more I should believe in her divinity. 

LXII. 

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 
She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage , 

I cannot say that she's done much for me yet ; 
Nor that I mean her bounties to disparage, 

We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 
How much she'll make amends for past miscar- 
riage; 

Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune, 

Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune. 

LXIII. 

To turn,— and to return ;— the devil take it ! 

This story slips for ever through my fingers, 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 

It needs must be— and so it rather lingers ; 
This form of verse began^ I can't well break it, 

But must keep time and tune like public singers 
But if I once get through my present measure, 
I'll take another when I'm next at leisure. 



BEPPO. 



LXIV. 

They went to the Ridotto, ('tis a place 
To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 

Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 
Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow 

Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 

May lurk beneath each mask, and as my sorrow 

Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find, 

Something shall leave it half an hour behind.) 

LXV. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being drest so ill. 

LXVI. 

One has false curls, another too much paint, 
A third— where did she buy that frightful turban i 

A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, 
A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, 

And lo ! an eighth appears, — u I'll see no more ! " 

For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
Others were levelling their louks at her ; 

She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, 
And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir ; 

The women only thought it quite amazing 
That at her time of life so many were 

Admirers still, — but men are so debased, 

Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 

LXVIII. 
For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 

"Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 
A thing which is a scandal to the land, 

I only don't see why it should be thus ; 
And if I were but in a gown and band, 

Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
I'd preach on this till Wilbcrforce and Romilly 
Should quote in their next speeches from my homily 

LXIX. 

While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 
Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 

So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 

And well drest males still kept before her filing, 
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 

More than the rest one person scem'd to stare 

"With pertinacity that's rather rare. 

LXX. 

He was a Turk, the color of mahogany ; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 

Although their usage of their wives is sad ; 
'Tis said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, 
Four wives bv law, and concubines "ad libitum." 

25 



193 
LXXI. 

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily 
They scarcely can behold their male relations, 

So that their moments do not pass so gaily 
As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 

Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely 
And as the Turks abhor long conversations, 

Their days are either past in doing nothing, 

Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 

LXXII. 
They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism; 

Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism. 

But luckily these beauties arc no "bin. 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'cm 
" That charming passage in the last new poem." 

LXXIII. 

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
Who having angled all his life for fame, 

And getting but a nibble at a time, 
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 

Small " Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
Of mediocrity, the furious tame, 

The echo's echo, usher of the school 

Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool ! 

LXXIV. 
A stalking oracle of awful phrase, [law 

The approving " Good!" (by no means good in 
Humming like flies around the newest blaze, 

The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 

Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, 
Translating tongues he knows not even by lettej, 
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 

LXXV. 

One hates an author that's all author, fellows 
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 

So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, \ 

One don't know what to say to them, or think, \ 

Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; \ 

Of coxcombry's worst coxcombry e'en the pink 

Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 

These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper. 

Lxxvr. 

Of these same we sec several, and of oth- 
Men of the world, who know the world like men, 

Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, 
Who think of something else besides the pen ; j 

But for the children of the "mighty moth. 
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 

I leave them to their daily " tea is re 

Smug coterie, and literary lady. 

LXXVII. 
The poor dear Mussulwimicn whom I mention 

Have none of these instructive pleasant people 
And one would seem to them a new invent 

Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; 
I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill 
•■nary author, just to preach 
Our Chri of speech. 



194 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVIII. 
No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses, 

No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 
No circulating library amasses 

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 
Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 

No exhibition glares -with annual pictures ; 
They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 
Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 

And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 

I fear I have a little turn for satire, 
And yet methinks the older that one grows 

Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter 

Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 

LXXX. 

Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, Milk and Water ! 

Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 

Abominable Man no more allays 
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 

I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 

Which seems to say, "Madam, I do you honor, 
^ And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay.' 

Could staring win a woman, this had won her, 
But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 

She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 

Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

LXXXII. 

The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
A turn of time at which I would advise 

Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
In any other kind of exercise, 

To make their preparations for forsaking 
The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, 

Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 

His blushes make them look a little pale. 

LXXXIII. 
I've seen some balls and revels in my time, 

And stayed them over for some silly reason, 
And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 

To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
And though I've seen some thousands in their prime 

Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on' 
1 never saw but one, (the stars withdrawn,) 
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 

LXXXIV. 

A^C\° f T thiS ^ Ur ° ra PU not m ™tion, 
Mor